THE HAN SOLO TRILOGY [049-5.0]

By: A. C. CRISPIN

Synopsis:

Film-goers know him as the wise-cracking heroe who helped free the
galaxy from the evil empire.  But who was Han Solo before the legendary
events of the Star Wars Movies?  How did he become the galaxy's most
famous con man, smuggler and thief?  How did he get mixed up with Boba
Fett and Jabba the Hutt?  And where in the world did he learn to fly
like that?  In this amazing trilogy, readers will discover Han Solo's
startling coming-of-age story--and much, much more!

In the Paradise Snare, Han is a former Corellian street urchin with
dreams of glory, struggling to survive on a sinister world where
slavery is the chief export.

In the Hutt Gambit, Han is thrust into the middle of a battle between
the might of the empire and the treachery of his outlaw allies.  And In
Rebel Dawn, an old girlfriend, leader of a rebel group, offers Han a
shot at an incredible fortune--but the rebels have an agenda of their
own...

The Paradise Snare

The Hutt Gambit

Rebel Dawn

SCIENCE FICTION

The Paradise Snare This book is dedicated to my friend, Thia Rose.

When we were twelve, we swore we'd always be best friends .  . . · . 
.

and, more years later than we like to count, we still are.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing in the Star Wars universe is like becoming a part of a
community-or, even, a family.  The writers are encouraged to read each
other's books, and there are dozens of nonfiction and technical books
devoted to the characters, hardware, planets, and so forth.  Writers
trade information and tips back and forth, and generally help each
other out.

Thus, many, many people helped me with this book.  With the caveat that
any mistakes readers may find are my own, I would like to thank the
following:

Kevin Anderson, who gave me my first chance to write in the Star Wars
universe.  Kevin and Rebecca Moesta also helped with information about
the Star Wars background and characters, as well as hand-holding,
encouragement, and sage advice.

Michael Capobianco, fellow writer and significant other, for
brainstorming, research help, intelligent advice, and fixing dinner
when I was too busy writing to even realize I was hungry.  Thanks,
dear.

Bill Smith and Peter Schweighofer of West End Games for helping me
figure out answers to such odd and esoteric questions as, "What does
Han wear for underwear?"  They "unstuck" me from quandaries more times
than I can count.

Tom Dupree and Evelyn Cainto of Bantam Books for assistance, advice,
and encouragement.

Sue Rostoni and Lucy Autrey Wilson of Lucasfilm for the "true facts."

Michael A. Stackpole, for help figuring out how to break a tractor
beam, and other advice relating to ships and piloting.

Steve Osmanski, for reading the manuscript and giving sage advice on
"techie" stuff.

As always, Kathy O'Malley, friend and writing buddy, for hand-holding
and an occasional, well-deserved kick in the pants.

And, of course, George Lucas, who started it all.  Star Wars blew me
away the first time I saw it, and it's been an honor to contribute to
the saga in a small way.

Thanks again, and may the Force be with you all.

one

Trader's Luck

The ancient troopship, a relic of the Clone Wars, hung in orbit over
the planet Corellia, silent and seemingly derelict.  Looks were
deceiving, however.  The old Liberator-class vessel, once called
Guardian of the Republic, now had a new life as Trader's Luck.  The
interior had been gutted and refitted with a motley assortment of
living environments, and now contained nearly one hundred sentient
beings, many of them humanoid.  At the moment, however, only a few of
them were awake, since it was the middle of the sleep cycle.

There was a watch on the bridge, of course.  Trader's Luck spent much
of its time in orbit, but it was still capable of hyperspace travel,
even though it was slow by modern standards.  Garris Shrike, the leader
of the loosely allied trading "clan" that lived aboard the Luck, was a
strict taskmaster, who followed formal ship's protocols.  So there was
always a watch on the bridge.

Shrike's orders aboard the Luck were always obeyed; he was not a man to
cross without a good reason and a fully charged blaster.  He ruled the
clan of traders as a less-than-benevolent despot.  A slender man of
medium height, Garris was handsome in a hard-edged way.  Streaks of
silver-white above his temples accentuated his black hair and iceblue
eyes.  His mouth was thin-lipped; he seldom smiled--and never with good
humor.  Garris Shrike was an expert shot and had spent his early years
as a professional bounty hunter.  He'd given it up, though, due to bad
"luck"meaning that his lack of patience had caused him to lose the
richest

bounties reserved for live delivery.  Dead bodies were frequently
worth far less.

Shrike did possess a warped sense of humor, especially if the pain of
others was involved.  When he was gambling and winning, he was subject
to bouts of manic gaiety, especially if he was also drunk.

As he was at the moment.  Sitting around the table in the former
wardroom of the enlisted officers, Shrike was playing sabacc and
drinking tankards of potent Alderaanian ale, his favorite beverage.

Shrike peered at his card-chips, mentally calculating.  Should he hold
pat and hope to complete a pure sabacc?  At any moment the dealer could
push a button and the values of all the card-chips would shift.  If
that happened, he'd be busted, unless he took an additional two and
tossed most of his hand into the interference field in the center of
the table.

One of his fellow players, a hulking Elomin suddenly turned his tusked
head to glance behind him.  A light on one of the auxiliary "status"
panels was blinking.  The huge, shaggy-furred Elomin grunted, then said
in guttural Basic, "Something funny about the lockout sensor on the
weapons cache, Captain."

Shrike insisted on "proper" protocol and chain of command, especially
as it applied to himself.  Unless engaged in some planetside caper, he
always wore a military uniform while aboard the Luck--one he'd designed
himself, patterned on the dress uniform of a high-ranking Moff.  It was
hung about with "medals" and "decorations" Shrike had picked up in
pawnshops across the galaxy.

Now, hearing the Elomin's warning, he glanced up a little blearily,
rubbed his eyes, then straightened up and dropped his card-chips onto
the tabletop.  "What is it, Brafid?"

The giant being wrinkled his tusked snout.  "Not sure, Captain.  It's
reading normal now, but something flickered, as though the lock shorted
out for a second.  Probably just a momentary power flux."

Moving with such unusual grace and coordination that even the foppish
"uniform" couldn't detract from his presence, the captain rose and
walked around the table to study the readouts himself.  All signs of
intoxication had vanished.

"Not a power flux," he decided after a moment.  "Something else."

Turning his head, he addressed the tall, heavyset human on his left.

"Larrad, look at this.  Somebody shorted out the lock and is running a
sim to fool us into thinking it's just a power flux.  We've got a thief
aboard.  Is everyone armed?"

The man addressed, who happened to be Shrike's brother, Larrad Shrike,
nodded, patting the holster that hung on the outside of his thigh.

Brafid the Elomin fingered his "tingler"--an electric prod that was
his weapon of choice--though the hairy alien was large enough to pick
up most humanoids and break them over his knee.

The other person present, a female Sullustan who was the Luck's
navigator, stood up, patting the scaled-down blaster she wore.  "Ready
for action, Captain!"  she squeaked.  Despite her diminutive height,
flapping jowls, and large, appealing bright eyes, Nooni Dalvo appeared
almost as dangerous as the hulking Elomin who was her closest shipboard
friend.

"Good," Shrike grunted.  "Nooni, go post a guard over the weapons
locker, just in case he comes back.  Larrad, activate the biosensors,
see if you can ID the thief and where he's heading."

Shrike's brother nodded and bent over the auxiliary control board.

"Corellian human," he announced after a moment.  "Male.  Young.

Height, 1.8 meters.  Dark hair and eyes.  Slender build.  The
bioscanner says it recognizes him.  He's heading aft, toward the
galley."

Shrike's expression hardened until his eyes were as cold and blue as
the glaciers on Hoth.  "The Solo kid," he said.  "He's the only one
cocky enough to try something like this."  He flexed his fingers, then
hardened them into a fist.  The ring he wore, made from a single gem of
Devaronian blood-poison, flashed dull silver in the bulkhead lights.

"Well, I've gone easy on him so far, 'cause he's a good swoop pilot,
and I never lost when I bet on him, but enough is enough.  Tonight, I'm
going to teach him to respect authority, and he's going to wish he'd
never been born."

Shrike's teeth flashed, much brighter than the gem in his ring.  "Or
that I'd never 'found' him seventeen years ago and brought his
sniveling, pants-wetting little behind home to the Luck.  I'm a
patient, tolerant man .  . ."  he sighed theatrically, "as the galaxy
knows, but even I have my limits."

He glanced over at his brother, who was looking rather uncomfortable.

Garris wondered if Larrad was remembering the Solo kid's last
punishment session a year ago.  The youth hadn't been able to walk for
two days.

Shrike's mouth tightened.  He wouldn't tolerate any softness among his
subordinates.  "Right, Larrad?"  he said too softly.

"Right, Captain!"

Han Solo gripped the stolen blaster as he tiptoed along the narrow
metal corridor.  When he'd wired into the sim and jimmied the lock into
the weapons cache, he'd only had a moment to reach in and grab the
first weapon that came to hand.  There'd been no time to pick and
choose.

Nervously, he pushed strands of damp brown hair back from his
forehead, realizing he was sweating.  The blaster felt heavy and
awkward in his hand as he examined it.  Han had seldom held one before,
and he only knew how to check the charge from the reading he'd done.

He'd never actually fired a weapon.  Garris Shrike didn't permit anyone
but his officers to walk around armed, Squinting in the dim light, the
young swoop pilot flipped open a small panel in the thickest part of
the barrel and peered down at the readouts.  Good.  Fully charged.

Shrike may be a bully and a fool, but he runs a taut ship.

Not even to himself would the youth admit how much he actually feared
and hated the captain of Trader's Luck.  He'd learned long ago that
showing fear of any sort was a swift guarantee of a beating---or
worse.

The only thing bullies and fools respected was courage--or, at least,
bravado.  So Han Solo had learned never to allow fear to surface in his
mind or heart.

There were times when he was dimly aware that it was there, deep down,
buried under layers of street toughness, but anytime he recognized it
for what it was, Han resolutely buried it even deeper.

Experimentally, he swung the blaster up to eye level and awkwardly
closed one brown eye as he sighted along the barrel.  The muzzle of the
weapon wavered slightly, and Han cursed softly under his breath as he
realized his hand was trembling.  Come on, he told himself, show some
backbone, Solo.  Getting off this ship and away from Shrike is worth a
little risk.

Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder, then turned back just in
time to duck under a low-hanging power coupling.  He'd chosen this
route because it avoided all the living quarters and recreation areas,
but it was so narrow and low-ceilinged that he was beginning to feel
claustrophobic as he tiptoed forward, resisting the urge to turn and
look back over his shoulder.

Ahead of him, the near tunnel widened out, and Han realized he was
almost at his destination.  Only a few more minutes, he told himself,
continuing to move with a stealthy grace that made his progress as
soundless as that of a wonat's furred toe-pads.  He was skirting the
hyperdrive modules now, and then a larger corridor intersected.  Han
turned right, relieved that he could now walk without stooping.

He crept up to the door of the big galley and hesitated outside, his
ears and nose busy.  Sounds .  . . yes, only the ones he'd been
expecting to hear.  The soft clatter of metal pans, the splooooch of
dough being punched, and then the faint sounds of it being kneaded.

He could smell the dough, now.  Wastril bread, his favorite.  Han's

mouth tightened.  With any luck, he wouldn't be here to eat any of
this particular batch.

Sticking the blaster into his belt, he opened the door and stepped into
the galley.  "Hey .  . . Dewlanna .  . ."  he said softly.  "It's me.

I've come to say goodbye."

The tall, furred being who had been vigorously kneading the wastril
dough swung around to face him with a soft, inquiring growl.

Dewlanna's real name was Dewlannamapia, and she had been Han's closest
friend since she'd come to live aboard Trader's Luck nearly ten years
ago, when Han had been about nine.  (The young swoop pilot had no idea
of when he'd been born, of course.  Or who his parents had been.  If it
hadn't been for Dewlanna, he wouldn't even have known that his last
name was "Solo.") Han couldn't speak Wookiee--trying to reproduce the
growls, barks, roars, and rumbling grunts made his throat sore, and he
knew he sounded ridiculous--but he understood it very well.  For her
part, Dewlanna couldn't speak Basic, but she understood it as well as
she did her own language.  So communication between the human youth and
the elderly Wookiee widow was fluent, but .  . . different.

Han had gotten used to it years ago and never thought about it
anymore.

He and Dewlanna just .  . . talked.  They understood each other
perfectly.  Now he hefted the stolen blaster, careful not to point it
at his friend.

"Yes," he replied, in response to Dewlanna's comment, "tonight's the
night.  I'm getting off Trader's Luck and I'm never coming back."

Dewlanna rumbled at him worriedly as she automatically resumed kneading
her dough.  Han shook his head, giving her a lopsided grin.  "You worry
too much, Dewlanna.  Of course I've got it all planned.  I've got a
spacesuit stashed in a locker near the robot freighter docks, and
there's a ship docked there now that will be departing as soon as it's
unloaded and refueled.  A robot freighter, and it's headed where I want
to go."

Dewlanna punched her dough, then growled a soft interrogatory.  "I'm
heading for Ylesia," Han told her.  "Remember I told you all about
it?

It's a religious colony near Hutt space, and they offer pilgrims
sanctuary from the outside universe.  I'll be safe from Shrike there.

And"--he held up a small holodisk where the Wookiee cook could see
it--"look at this!  They're advertising for a pilot!  I already used up
the last of my payout credits from that job we pulled, to send a
message, telling them I'm coming to interview for the job."

Dewlanna roared softly.

"Hey, I can't let you do that," Han protested, watching the cook set
the loaves into pans and slide them into the thermal grid to bake.

"I'll be

okay.  I'll lift some credits on my way to the robot ship.  Don't
worry, Oewlanna."

The Wookiee ignored him as she shuffled quickly across the galley, her
hairy, slightly stooped form moving rapidly despite her advanced age.

Dewlanna was nearly six hundred years old, Han knew.  Old even for a
Wookiee.

She disappeared into the door of her private living quarters, and then,
a moment later, reappeared, clutching a pouch woven of some silky
material that might even, from the look of it, be Wookiee fur.

She held it out to him with a soft, insistent whine.

Han shook his head again, and childishly put his hands behind his
back.

"No," he said firmly.  "I'm not taking your savings, Dewlanna.  You'll
need those credits to buy passage to join me."

The Wookiee cocked her head and made a short, questioning sound.  "Of
course you're going to join me!"  Han said.  "You don't think I'm going
to leave you here to rot on this hulk, do you?  Shrike gets crazier
every year.  Nobody's safe aboard the Luck.  When I get to Ylesia and
get settled in, I'm going to send for you to join me.  Ylesia's a
religious retreat, and they offer their pilgrims sanctuary.  Shrike
won't be able to touch us there."

Dewlanna reached inside the pouch, her hairy fingers surprisingly
dexterous as she sifted through the credit vouchers inside.  She handed
several to her young friend.  With a sigh, Han relented and took
them.

"Well .  . . okay.  But this is just a loan, okay?  I'm going to pay
you back.

The salary the Ylesian priests are offering is a good one."

She growled her assent, then, without warning, reached out to ruffle
his hair with her massive paw, leaving it sticking out in wild
disarray.

"Hey!"  Han yelped.  Wookiee head rubs were not to be taken lightly.

"I just combed my hair!"

Dewlanna growled, amused, and Han drew himself up indignantly.  "I do
not look better scruffy.  I keep telling you, the term 'scruffy' ain't
complimentary among humans."

He stared at her, his indignation vanishing as he realized that this
was the last time he'd see her beloved furry face, her gentle blue
eyes, for a long time.  Dewlanna had been his closest--and frequently
only--friend for so long now.  Leaving her was hard, very hard.

Impulsively, the Corellian youth threw himself against her warm, solid
bulk, hugging her fiercely, His head reached only to the middle of her
chest.  Han could remember when he'd barely stood as tall as her
waist.

"I'm going to miss you," he said, his face muffled against her fur, his
eyes stinging.  "You take care of yourself, Dewlanna."

She roared softly, and her long, hairy arms came around him as she
returned the embrace.

"Well, ain't this a touching sight," said a cold, all-too-familiar
voice.

Han and Dewlanna both froze, then wheeled to face the man who'd entered
through the Wookiee's quarters.  Garris Shrike lounged in the doorway,
his handsome features set in a smile that made Han's blood coagulate in
his veins.  Beside him, he could feel Dewlanna shudder, either with
fear or loathing.

Two other crew members--Larrad Shrike and Brafid the Elomin--were
visible over Shrike's shoulder.  Han balled his fists with
frustration.

If it had only been Shrike, he might've chanced jumping the Luck's
Captain.  With Dewlanna to help him, they might have been able to
subdue Garris, but with Larrad and the Elomin also present, they didn't
have a chance.

Han was acutely conscious of the stolen blaster shoved into his belt.

For a moment he considered going for it, but he abandoned that idea.

Shrike was known for being fast on the draw.  There was no way he could
beat him, and that might get both Dewlanna and himself killed.  Shrike
was clearly in a rage.

Han licked dry lips.  "Listen, Captain," he began.  "I can explain--"
Shrike drew himself up, his eyes narrowing.  "You can explain what, you
cowardly little traitor?  Stealing from your family?  Betraying those
who trusted you?  Stabbing your benefactor in the back, you sniveling
little thief?"

"But--" "I've had it with you, Solo.  I've been lenient with you so
far, because you're a blasted good swoop pilot and all that prize money
came in handy, but my patience is ended."  Shrike ceremoniously pushed
up the sleeves of his bedizened uniform, then balled his hands into
fists.  The galley's artificial lighting made the blood-jewel ring
glitter dull silver.  "Let's see what a few days of fighting off
Devaronian blood-poisoning does for your attitude--along with maybe a
few broken bones.  I'm doing this for your own good, boy.  Someday
you'll thank me."

Han gulped with terror as Shrike started toward him.  He'd lashed out
at the trader captain once before, two years ago, when he'd been
feeling cocky after winning the gladitorial Free-For-All on
Jubilar--and had been instantly sorry.  The speed and strength of
Garris's returning blow had snapped his head back and split both lips
so thoroughly that Dewlanna had had to feed him mush for a week until
they healed.

With a snarl, Dewlanna stepped forward.  Shrike's hand dropped to his
blaster.  "You stay out of this, old Wookiee," he snapped in a voice
nearly as harsh as Dewlanna's.  "Your cooking isn't that good."

Han had already grabbed his friend's furry arm and was forcibly
holding her back.  "Dewlanna, no!"

She shook off his hold as easily as she would have waved off an
annoying insect and roared at Shrike.  The captain drew his blaster,
and chaos erupted.

"Noooo!"  Han screamed, and leaped forward, his foot lashing out in an
old street-fighting technique.  His instep impacted solidly with
Shrike's breastbone.  The captain's breath went out in a great whoosh
and he went over backward.  Han hit the deck and rolled.  A tingler
bolt sizzled past his ear.

"Larrad!"  wheezed the captain as Dewlanna started toward him.

Shrike's brother drew his blaster and pointed it at the Wookiee.

"Stop, Dewlanna!"

His words had no more effect than Han's.  Dewlanna's blood was up--she
was in full Wookiee battle rage.  With a roar that deafened the
combatants, she grabbed Larrad's wrist and yanked, spinning him around
and snapping him in a terrible parody of a child's "snap the whip"
game.  Han heard a crunch, mixed with several pops as tendons and
ligaments gave way.  Larrad Shrike shrieked, a high, shrill noise that
carried such pain that the Corellian youth's arm ached in sympathy.

Grabbing the blaster from his belt, Han snapped off a shot at the
Elomin who was leaping forward, tingler ready and aimed at Dewlanna's
midsection.

Brafid howled and dropped to the floor.  Han was amazed that he'd
managed to hit him, but he didn't have long to wonder about the
accuracy of his aim.

Shrike was staggering to his feet, blaster in hand, aimed squarely at
Han's head.  "Larrad?"  he yelled at the writhing heap of agony that
was his brother.  Larrad did not reply.

Shrike cocked the blaster and stepped even closer to Han.  "Stop it,
Dewlanna!"  the captain snarled at the Wookiee.  "Or your buddy Solo
dies!"

Han dropped his blaster and put his hands up in a gesture of
surrender.

Dewlanna stopped in her tracks, growling softly.

Shrike leveled the blaster, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

Pure malevolent hatred was etched upon his features, and then he
smiled, pale blue eyes glittering with ruthless joy.  "For
insubordination and striking your captain," he announced, "I sentence
you to death, Solo.  May you rot in all the hells there ever were."

As Han froze, expecting the bolt to fry him any moment, Dewlanna
roared, shoved Han aside, and leaped for Shrike.  The blaster's
energy

beam caught her full in the chest, and she went down in a heap of
charred fur and burned flesh.

"Dewlanna!"  Han yelled in anguish.  With a quickness he hadn't known
he possessed, he dived at Shrike, hitting the captain in a driving
tackle around his knees.  Shrike went over backward again, and this
time his head impacted solidly with the deck.  He sagged, out cold.

Han crawled back to his friend, turning her over gently, seeing the
great hole the blaster beam had bored into her chest.  He knew
immediately that the wound was mortal.  No medical droid ever
constructed could heal this.

Dewlanna moaned, gasped, and fought with all her great Wookiee strength
to breathe.  Han slid his arms beneath her shoulders and tried to ease
her struggle.  Her blue eyes opened and, after a moment, fixed on
his.

Lucidity returned, and she rumbled softly.

"No, I won't leave you!"  Han replied, clutching her harder.  Tears
blurred his vision, and she swam below him in a sea of brown fur.  "I
don't care if I get away!  Oh, Dewlanna .  . ."

Making a great effort, she raised a huge, furred paw-hand and grasped
his arm.  Han had to struggle to translate her speech.  "I know," he
choked, talking aloud so she'd know he understood her.  "I know you
care about me .

. ."  she rumbled again, "as much as you do your own children."

Han swallowed, his throat tight and aching.  "I .  . . I feel the same
way, Dewlanna.  You're the closest thing to a mother I'll ever have."

A long moan of anguish made her shudder.  She rumbled at him again.

"No," Han insisted.  "I'm not leaving you.  I'll stay with you till .

. . till .  .

." He couldn't finish the sentence.

Dewlanna grabbed his arm with a ghost of her old strength and growled
at him urgently.  "If I .  . ."  Han was having trouble comprehending
her slurred speech, "if I die .  . . nothing?  Oh, you're saying that
if I don't live, you'll have died for nothing?"

She nodded, her eyes in their nest of hair holding his with all the
intensity she could muster.  Han shook his head stubbornly.  How could
he abandon her to die alone?

Dewlanna rumbled softly, faintly.  "Yeah, I'm sure you'll be safe, one
with the life-power," Han said, trying to sound sincere.  He knew some
Wookiees believed in a unifying power that bound all of existence
together.

Personally, he thought this power--he'd never been able to translate
the term accurately, the Wookiee word could have meant "strength," or
"force," too--that Dewlanna believed in so steadfastly was just
superstition.

But if it comforted her to believe in it during her dying moments, Han
wasn't going to argue with her.  He remembered the words she'd said to
him several times.  "Dewlanna, may the life-power be with you .  . ."

For a moment he wished that he, too, could believe .  . .

She moaned with pain.  Han could see she was going fast.  Then Dewlanna
rumbled feebly, and again he automatically translated.  "Your last
request .  . ."  He choked, barely able to get the words out, "You want
me · .  . to go .  . . to live.  And to be .  . . happy."

Han struggled not to break down.  "Okay!"  he agreed.  "I'll go.  I
still have time to get aboard that robot ship before it takes off."

Dewlanna whined faintly.

"I promise," he agreed, his voice ragged.  "I'll go now.  And I swear
I'll always remember you, Dewlanna."

She was beyond speech now, but he was sure she'd heard him.  He laid
her gently on the deck, then rose and picked up the blaster.  Then,
after giving Dewlanna one final look, Han turned and raced out the
door.

His running feet resounded through the corridors of Trader's Luck; the
time was past for stealth.  He had to reach the docking bay, and that
robot Ylesian freighter!  Han had no idea when it was due to blast away
from the Luck, but the loading schedule posted for the space dock
workers had listed it as being ready for blastoff as soon as the droids
finished fueling.  And when he'd swiped the spacesuit and hidden it,
they'd just started that process.

The Ylesian Dream might be leaving any moment!

Gasping, Han sprinted for the lock, his feet thudding along the decks
that had been his playground ever since he was old enough to
remember.

In the distance, he could hear sleepy voices, interspersed with shouts
and orders.

I can't let them catch me.  Shrike will kill me.  The certainty lent
speed to his flying feet.

He skidded around the final turn and grabbed the spacesuit he'd hidden
behind some fueling equipment.  The helmet flopped over his arm,
banging him in the midsection as he hastily keyed in the code he'd
stolen into the airlock door.

Seconds passed· The sounds of pursuit were growing louder.  But surely
they'd think he was headed for the shuttle deck or even the lifepods.

Nobody would guess he'd be crazy enough to try stowing away on a robot
freighter--at least that's what he was counting on .  . .

The lock hissed open.  Han leaped inside, closed the hatch, and began
yanking on the spacesuit.  He checked the air storage.  Full.  Good.

He'd originally planned to bring along some extra air paks, but he
didn't dare venture back out.  The pak on the suit was good for two
days.  That should

be enough, unless the Dream was a really slow vessel.  Since it was a
robot drone, he had no way of discovering what course it would be
following, or how fast it was scheduled to go.

Han grimaced.  Only a desperate man would use this method of escape.

He was desperate, all right.  He just hoped he wouldn't arrive on
Ylesia dead because he'd run out of air.

Let's see .  . . food pellets .  . . full.  Water tank .  . . full.

Good.  That was Captain Shrike again, insisting that all ship's
equipment be maintained in perfect working order.

Han dragged the suit up over the arms of his ship's gray jumpsuit and
closed the seam running up the front.  He picked up the helmet, clumsy
because of the gloves, and settled it over his head.  It was mostly
glassine, and he could see every direction except directly behind
him.

A bank of bolos ran around the bottom rim of the helmet, giving him his
vitals, amount of air remaining, and all the other information he
needed to survive.  Han could "talk" to his suit in a limited fashion
by bumping his chin against the communications lever and giving the
suit instructions concerning his temperature, air mix, and so forth.

Okay, this is it, the young man thought as he clumped over to the
connecting hatch and keyed in the final sequence to equalize pressures
between the lock and the Ylesian Dream.  He could faintly hear a hiss
as the air was pumped out of the lock.  The Dream, being a robot,
didn't need air to operate.  The ship would be filled only with
vacuum.

Finally, the hatch opened, and Han stepped inside.

It was crowded with equipment and cargo, and the corridors were very
narrow.  The Dream wasn't constructed to accommodate a living crew,
only for routine maintenance, and Han had to turn sideways to squeeze
in.  The youth was fleetingly grateful that all standard engineering
was designed to function in gravity.  Otherwise, he might've had to
contend with zero gee, and that would have been a real pain.

He'd been outside the Trader's Luck with the welding crew in spacesuits
several times since he'd been considered old enough for hazardous
ship's duty, hanging in space, tethered to the ship only by a seemingly
fragile umbilical.  It had been kind of exciting the first couple of
times, but Han didn't particularly care for weightlessness, and he'd
soon learned never to look "down."  Seeing nothing but space beneath
his feet for light-years and light-years was enough to make his head
swim.

Han clumped toward the "bridge," figuring that was where the maximum
amount of room would be.  He reached it in only moments--the Dream was
a small ship.  If her cargo list was correct, she'd brought in a
shipment of top-grade glitterstim spice, and would be leaving with a
cargo

of high-quality Corellian electronic components that could be used in
factory maintenance.

Han wondered for a moment whom Garris Shrike had paid off to be able to
receive a shipment of spice.  The substance was rigidly controlled by
most planetary governments and also by the Imperial trade commission.

He turned sideways to enter the bridge--and froze.

What in the name of all the Sons of Barab is an astromech droid doing
on the bridge?  Everyone knew a droid couldn't pilot a ship by itself,
so it couldn't be piloting.  Han grimaced behind the glassine helmet.

This droid must be there as a sort of burglar alarm, a sophisticated
communications device to help deter portside thieves or space
pirates.

Han knew that one of the reasons the Ylesian priests were eager to hire
a pilot--preferably a Corellian, their ad had read--was that they'd
been losing robot ships to piracy.

As he froze, hoping the droid wasn't aware of his presence, the young
man felt the Dream shudder.  We're undocking!  I've got to get braced
for breakaway thrust!

Quickly he edged away from the bridge and headed back toward the cargo
area.  Finally, he found what he was looking for, and just in time.  A
small space that he could sit down in, just the right size to allow him
to brace himself with his arms and legs.

The Dream shuddered again, and then again.  Mentally, Han pictured the
docking clamps falling away, one by one.  One more to go, then-The ship
shuddered one more time, then lurched violently.  Since the Dream
wasn't supposed to be manned, it could utilize acceleration patterns
that were much rougher than those used in a vessel with a living
crew.

Wham!  Han's body jerked, then he braced himself against the thrust of
violent acceleration.  The Dream was undocked and away!

Mentally, Han pictured them thrusting away from Trader's Luck, out of
the embrace of Corellia's gravity field.  Closing his eyes, he pictured
his homeworld turning lazily against the backdrop of stars.  Corellia
was a pretty planet, with narrow blue seas, green-brown forests, tan
deserts, and large cities.  On the nightside it glittered like a battle
remote studded with lights The hardest thrust of acceleration hit then,
and Han was pinned uncomfortably against the cargo container.  We've
made the jump to lightspeed, he realized.

Moments later, as the ship's speed evened out, he was able to move
again.

He flexed his arms and legs, wincing as bruises made themselves

felt.  From the fight in the galley, he realized.  The thought made
him remember Dewlanna with a sudden, visceral sadness.  Tears stung his
eyes, and he fought them back fiercely.  Crying in a spacesuit helmet
was a lousy idea, since you couldn't wipe your face.

Han sniffed, trying to blink back the tears.  Dewlanna... he thought.

His friend had given her life to give him this chance.

Get hold of yourself, Solo, he ordered himself sternly.  His throat
ached, but Han gulped, swallowed hard, then bit his lip until the urge
to cry receded.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried, and
what was the point?  It wouldn't bring Dewlanna back .  . .

Han knew Dewlanna believed in an afterlife of the spirit.  If she was
right about that, then maybe she could hear him now.

"Hey, Dewlanna," Han whispered, "I made it.  I'm on my way.  I'm going
to Ylesia, and I'm going to become the best pilot in the sector.  I'll
learn enough--and earn enough--to apply for the Academy, the way we
always dreamed.  I'm free, Dewlanna."  His voice broke.  We're safe,
Dewlanna.

Shrike can't touch either of us, now .  . .

Wedged into his little crevice, the young pilot smiled with grim
determination.  I'm free, and I owe it all to you.  I'll never forget
it, either.  If I ever get a chance to pay you back by helping one of
your people, I swear to anything that's out there--any god, or
life-power, or force--I won't hesitate.

Han Solo took a long, deep breath of canned spacesuit air.  "Thank you,
Dewlanna," he whispered.

Wherever she was now, he hoped she could hear him.

two

Ylesian Dreams When Han awoke from exhausted sleep, he was completely
disoriented at first.  Where am I?  he wondered groggily.  Memory came
rushing back in swift, violent images: His own hand holding a blaster
.

. . Shrike's face twisted with hatred and rage .  . . Dewlanna,
gasping, dying alone .  . .

He swallowed hard, his throat aching.  Dewlanna had been part of his
life since he was just a little kid, eight, perhaps, or nine.  He
remembered the day she'd come aboard with her mate, Isshaddik.

Isshaddik had been outlawed from the Wookiee homeworld for some crime
that Dewlanna had never referred to.  She'd followed her mate into
exile, leaving behind all that she'd ever known--her home and their
grown cubs.

A year or so later, Isshaddik had been killed during a smuggling run to
Nar Hekka, one of the worlds in the Hutt sector.  Shrike had announced
to Dewlanna that she could remain aboard Trader's Luck as cook, since
he'd grown to like the foods she prepared.  Dewlanna could have gone
back to Kashyyyk--after all, she'd committed no crime--but she'd chosen
to stay aboard the Luck.

Because of me, Han thought as he located the water dispenser nipple
inside his helmet and took a cautious sip.  Then he tongued up a couple
of food pellets and washed them down with another swallow.  It wasn't
the same as food, but they'd keep him going for the day... She stayed
because of me.

She wanted to protect me from Shrike .  . .

He sighed, knowing it to be true.  Wookiees were among the most
steadfast and loyal companions in the galaxy, or so he'd heard.

Wookiee

loyalty and friendship was not lightly given, but once bestowed, it
never wavered.

He leaned back in his alcove, checking the air pak.  Three quarters
left.

Han wondered how far the Dream had traveled while he'd slept.  In a
little while he'd go to the control room, see if he could decipher the
instrumentation on the autopilot.

Han's mind drifted back in time, remembering Dewlanna sadly, then as he
relaxed, his mind wandered to even earlier days.  His earliest "real"
memory---everything else was just meaningless fragments, snatches of
images too old and distorted to have any meaning--was of the day Garris
Shrike had brought him "home" to Trader's Luck .  . .

The child huddled in the mouth of the dank; filthy alley, trying not to
cry.  He was too big to cry, wasn't he?  Even if he was cold and hungry
and alone.  For a moment the child wondered why he was alone, but it
was as if a huge metal door slammed down on that thought, shutting
everything behind it.  Behind the door lay danger, behind that door lay
. . . bad things.

Pain, and ... and...

The boy shook his head, and his lank; filthy hair fell straggling into
his face.  He pushed it back with a hand that was so grimed with dirt
that his natural skin color barely showed.  He wore only a pair of
ragged pants and a torn, sleeveless tunic that was too small.  HIS feet
were bare.  Had he ever had shoes?

The child thought that perhaps he remembered shoes.  Good shoes, nice
ones, shoes that someone had put on his feet and helped him fasten.

Someone who was gentle, who smiled instead of scowled, someone who was
clean and smelled good, who wore pretty clothes-SLAM!!

The door came down again, and little Han (he knew that was his name,
but knew of no other that went with it winced from the pain in his
mind.  He knew better than to let those thoughts fill his mind.

Thoughts and memories like that were bad, they hurt.., better not to
think them.

He sniffled again and wiped futilely at his runny nose.  He realized he
was standing in a puddle of foulness, and that his feet were so cold he
could barely feel them.  It was night now, and it promised to be a cold
one.

Hunger twisted in Han's stomach like a living thing, a creature that
bit painfully.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.  Had it
been this morning when he'd found that kavasa fruit in a garbage dump,
the ripe, juicy one that was only half-eaten?  Or had that been last
night?

He couldn't keep standing here, the little boy decided.  He had to
move.

Han stepped out of the alley, onto.  the pathwalk.  He knew how to
beg...

who was it that had taught him?

SLAM!

Never mind who'd taught him, they had taught him well.  Adjusting his
features to their most pitiful, Han shuffled toward the nearest
passerby.

"Please .  . . lady .  . ."  he whimpered.  "Hungry, I'm so hungry . 
.

." He held out his hand, palm up.  The woman he addressed slowed
fractionally, then suddenly looked down at his dirty palm and recoiled,
holding her skirts back so they wouldn't brush against him.

"Lady .  . ."  Han breathed, turning with more than professional
interest to watch her walk away.  She had on a nice dress, soft and
shiny, sort of...

glowing .  . . in the harsh streetlights of the Corellian harbor
town.

She reminded him of someone, with her big, dark eyes, her smooth skin,
her hair-SLAM!

He began to sob, hopelessly, his small body shaking from cold, hunger,
grief, and loneliness.

"Hey, there!  Han!"  the sharp but not unfriendly voice broke through
his wall of misery.  Sniffling and gulping, Han looked up to see a tall
form bending over him.  Black hair, pale blue eyes.  He smelled of
Alderaanian ale, and the smoke from half a dozen proscribed drugs, but
he was steady on his feet, unlike many of the other passersby.

Seeing that Han was looking up at him, the man squatted down onto his
heels, which brought him to only a little above Han's eye level.

"You're too big to cry in the street, you know that, don't you?"

Han nodded, still sniffling, but trying to control himself.  "Yeth . 
.

.

yes."  At first he lisped a little, the way he had when he'd first
learned to talk.  That was a long, long time ago, Han thought.  He'd
been talking since the cold season, and it was soon going to be cold
season again.  He'd been talking since .  . .

SLAM!

The child shuddered again as his mind resolutely shut away all his
memories of that beforetime.  Something else surfaced, something he'd
overlooked at first in his misery.  Han's eyes widened.  This man had
called him by name!

How does he know my name?

"Whou .  . . who are you?"  Han whispered.  "How do you know my
name?"

The man grinned, showing many teeth.  It was meant to be a friendly
expression, Han could tell, but there was something about it that made
him shudder.  It reminded him of the packs of canoids that hunted prey
in the alleys.  "I know lots of things, kid," the man replied.  "Call
me Captain Shrike.  Can you say that?"

"Y-yes.  Captain Shrike," Han parroted uncertainly.  He hiccuped as
his sobbing died away.  "But... but how did you know my name? 
Please?"

The man put out a hand as if to ruffle his hair, then seemed to take in
the dirt and scritchies inhabiting his young scalp and think better of
it.  "You'd be surprised, Han.  I know almost everything that goes on
here on Corellia.

I know who's lost and who's found, who's for sale and who's sold, and
where all the bodies are buried.  Matter of fact, I've had my eye on
you.

You seem like a smart lad.  Are you smart?"

Han drew himself up, eyed the man levelly.  "Yes, Captain," he said,
forcing his voice to be steady.  "I'm smart."  He knew he was, too.

Anyone who wasn't didn't last for months on the streets, the way he
had.

"Good, that's the lad!  Well, I could use a smart lad to work for me.

Why don't you come with me?  I'll give you a square meal and a warm
place to sleep."  He grinned again.  "And I just bet you'd like to see
my ship."  He pointed up at the darkening sky.

Han nodded eagerly.  Food?  A bed?  And especially .  . . "A
spaceship?

Yes, Captain!  I want to be a pilot when I grow up!"

The man laughed and held out his hand.  "Well come on, then!"

Han let the big hand engulf his, and the two of them walked away
together, toward the spaceport...

Han stirred and shook his head.  I should never have gone with him that
day, he thought.  If I hadn't gone with him, Dewlanna would still be
alive .  . .

But if he hadn't gone with Shrike, he'd probably have awakened some
night in the alley to find that vrelts had chewed his ears and nose
off, the way they had one of the other "alley urchins" that Garris
Shrike had "rescued."

Han smiled grimly.  Captain Shrike didn't have an altruistic bone in
his body.  He collected children and used them to turn a profit.

Almost every planet the Luck visited, Shrike loaded up a group of his
"rescuees" and took them down to the streets in the shuttle.  There he
left them under the supervision of a droid he'd programmed himself,
F8GN.  Eight-Gee-Enn assigned them to their "territories" and kept
track of their proceeds as the children roamed the streets, begging and
pickpocketing.

They used the littlest ones, the skinniest ones, the deformed ones for
begging.  The vrelt-gnawed girl, Danalis, had always done well.  Shrike
kept her working hard for years by promising her that when she'd earned
enough for him, he'd get her face fixed for her, so she'd look human
again.

But he never had.  When she was about fourteen, Danalis evidently
realized that Shrike was never going to make good on his promises.

One

night" she went into the Luck's airlock and cycled it--without first
putting on a suit.

Han had been on the cleanup crew.  He shuddered at the memory.  Poor
Danalis.  He could still picture her in his mind, handing over a day's
begging receipts to Eight-Gee-Enn.  The droid was tall and spindly,
made from coppery-reddish metal.  It had been repaired so many times
that it had patches everywhere, as though the droid were wearing a much
mended garment.  Copper patches, gold-colored patches, steel colored
patches--and one round, silvery one on the top of its head.

Han could still hear the droid's voice in his mind.  Eight-Gee-Enn had
had something wrong with its speakers, and its "voice" had alternated
between sounding deep and unctuous, to shrill, mechanical
squeakiness.

But no matter how the droid sounded, they'd all paid attention to what
Eight-Gee-Enn said .  . .

"Now, dear children, have you all got your territory assignments?"  The
copper-colored droid swiveled its head a little rustily on its
pipe-stem neck, regarding the eight children from Trader's Luck as they
stood ranged before it.

All of the children, including five-year-old Han, affirmed that they
did, indeed, have their territories.  "Very well, then, dear children,"
the droid continued in its deep, then squeaky tones, "let me now give
you your job assignments.  Padra" the droid looked down at a small boy
only a year or so older than Han--"today we're going to give you your
first chance to show us how helpful you can be to these poor citizens
who are burdened with credit vouchers, jewelry, and expensive private
comlinks."  The droid's eyes glittered eerily.  They were different
colors---one had burned out long ago, and Shrike had replaced it with a
lens scavenged from a junked droid, giving F8GN one red "eye" and one
green.

"Are you willing to help out these poor, benighted citizens, Padra?"

Eight-Gee-Enn asked, cocking its metal head inquiringly, its voice
dripping artificial camaraderie.

"Sure am!"  the boy cried.  He gave Han and the other small children a
triumphant glance.  "No more baby begging for me!"  he whispered
excitedly.

Han, who was barely beginning to learn the skills necessary to pick
pockets swiftly and undetectably, felt a stir of envy.  Picking pockets
was easy, once you learned how to do it well.  It was far easier to
meet Eight-Gee-Enn's quota for a day's "work" picking pockets than it
was by begging.  Begging required accosting at least three marks,
roughly, in order to gain one donation.

But pickpocketing .  . . now, that was the best way to earn big
money!

If you chose the right mark; you could gain enough in one grab to give
EightGee-Enn your quota before noon, and then you were free to play.

Han wondered whether Eight-Gee-Enn would give him some practice time if
he hurried and begged his quota for the day before the others
finished.

It was fun to practice with the spindly reddish droid, because
Eight-Gee-Enn looked so funny in clothes!  The droid would put on
street clothes typical to the planet they were on, and then either
stand still or stroll past his student.  Han had learned to relieve the
droid of the concealed chrono, credit vouchers, and even some kinds of
jewelry without Eight-Gee-Enn detecting his fingers in the process.

But he couldn't do it one hundred percent of the time.  Han scowled a
little as he trudged away.  Eight-Gee-Enn demanded perfection from its
little band, especially from the pickpockets.  The droid wouldn't let
him start picking pockets until it was sure that Han could do so
perfectly, every time.

Absently, he picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it into his hands,
then smeared his already sweating face.  What planet was this,
anyway?

He couldn't recall hearing its name.  The native people were greenish
skinned, with small, swively ears and huge dark purple eyes.  Han had
only learned a few words in their language, but he was a quick study,
and he knew that by the time Trader's Luck moved on, he'd be able to
understand it well, and speak it--at least the gutter
argot--passably.

Wherever this was, it was hot.  Hot and humid.  Han glanced up at the
pale, greenish-blue sky, in which blazed a pale orange sun.  The
prospect of spending several hours on his appointed street, whining,
begging, and cajoling passersby for alms wasn't an attractive one.  I
hate begging, Han thought sourly.  When I get a little older, I'm going
to make them let me steal, instead of beg.  I'm sure I'll be a good
thief, and I'm not that good a beggar.

He knew his appearance was all right--he'd gotten taller in the past
couple of years, but he was still underweight enough to be called
skinny.

And he knew how to make his voice servile, his manner cringing and
cowering, as though only desperation were driving him to plead for
alms.

Maybe it was his eyes, Han thought.  Maybe the secret resentment and
shame he felt at having to beg showed in them and potential marks could
see it.

Nobody respected a beggar, and Han, more than almost anything; had an
undeclared desire to be respected.

Not just respected, he wanted to be respectable.  He couldn't recall
much about his life before Garris Shrike had found him begging on
Corellia, but Han somehow knew that once upon a time, things had been
different.

Long ago, he'd been taught to believe that begging was shameful.  And
that stealing.., stealing was worse.  Han bit his lip angrily.  He knew
that

someone, perhaps the parents he couldn't remember, had taught him
these things.  Once, long ago, he'd been taught different ways .  . .

different values.

But now--what could he do?  Aboard Trader's Luck, there was one
cardinal rule.  If you didn't work you begged or stole.  If you refused
to work beg, or steal, you didn't eat.  Han had no other skills to
offer.  He was too little to pilot, not strong enough to load smuggled
cargo.

But I won't always be!  he reminded himself "I'm growing every day!

Soon I'm going to be big, in just five more years I'll be ten, and
then, maybe, I'll be big enough to pilot!"

Han had discovered that when he made up his mind to accomplish
something, he could do it.  He was sure that piloting would be no
exception.

And when I can pilot, that'll be my way off Trader's Luck, he thought,
his mind slipping automatically into an old dream, one that he never
told anyone about.  Once he'd confided it to one of the other children,
and the little vrelt blabbed it to everyone.  Shrike and the others
laughed at Han for weeks, calling him "Captain Han of the Imperial
Navy, "until Han wanted to crawl away, hands over his ears.  It took
all his control to just shrug and pretend not to care...

Yeah, and when I'm the best pilot around, and I've made lots of
credits, I'll apply to the Imperial Academy.  I'll become a Naval
officer.  Then I'll come back and get Shrike, arrest him, and he'll get
sent to the spice mines on Kessel.  He'll die there .  . . The thought
made Han's mouth curl up in a predatory smile.

At the far end of his fantasy, Han pictured himself, successful,
respected, the best pilot in the galaxy, with a ship of his own, lots
of loyal friends, and plenty of credits.  And .  . . a family.  Yeah, a
family of his own.  A beautiful wife who adored him, who'd share
adventures with him, and kids, maybe.  He'd be a good father.  He
wouldn't abandon his children, the way he'd been abandoned .  . .

At least, Han supposed that he'd been abandoned, though he couldn't
remember a thing about it.  He didn't even know his last name, so he
couldn't try to trace his family.  Or maybe .  . . maybe his parents
hadn't abandoned him...

Maybe they'd been killed, or he'd been kidnapped away from them.  Han
decided that he preferred that scenario.  If he thought of his parents
as dead, he wasn't so mad at them, because people couldn't help it if
they died, right?

Han decided that from now on, he'd think of his mother and father as
dead It was easier that way...

He knew he'd probably never know the real truth.  The only person who
knew anything about Han's background was Garris Shrike.  The captain
kept telling Han that if he was good, if he worked and begged hard, if
he earned

enough credits, someday Shrike would tell him the secrets behind how
he'd come to be wandering the streets of Corellia that day.

Han's mouth tightened.  Sure, Captain, he thought.  Just like you were
going to get Danalis's face fixed .  . .

The child glanced up at the street signs.  He couldn't read the ones in
the native language, but there was a Basic translation beneath each.

Yeah, this was his territory, all right.

Han took a deep breath, then rearranged his features.  A green skinned
female clad in a short robe was coming toward him.  "Lady .  . ."  he
whined, cringing his way toward her, little hand held out in appeal,
please, beautiful gracious lady, I beg your help .  . . alms, just one
little credit, I'm so hungreeeeee .  . ."

The little cupped green ears swiveled toward him, then she averted her
head and swept past.

Under his breath, Han muttered an uncomplimentary term in smuggler's
argot, and then turned to wait for the next mark .  . .

Han shook his head and forced himself out of his reverie.  Time to go
and check on the Ylesian Dream's progress.

Hauling himself up out of his cubbyhole, the young pilot made his way
through the cramped passageways until he reached the bridge.  The
astromech droid was still there, its lights flashing away as it
"thought" its own thoughts.  It was a relatively new R2 unit, still
shiny-bright silver and green, with a clear dome atop its head.  Inside
the dome Han could see lights blinking as it worked.  It was hooked
into the ship's robot controls by means of a cable.

The R2 droid must have been equipped with a motion sensor, because it
swiveled its domed "head" toward Han as he clumped boldly onto the
bridge in his spacesuit.

The lights flashed frantically as it "talked," but of course the sound
waves didn't travel in vacuum.  Han turned on his suit's communications
unit, and suddenly his helmet was filled with distressed bleeps,
blurps, and wheeps.

"Whee... bleewheeeep.., wheep-whirr-wheep!"  the R2 astromech announced
in evident surprise.  Han looked around for its counterpart droid and
didn't see one.  He sighed.  His suit's communicator would transmit
what he said to the droid, but how was he supposed to actually talk to
the consarned R2 without an interpreter?  How did whoever had
programmed the droid talk to it?

He activated his suit communicator.  "Hey, you!"

"Blurpp... wheeep, bleep-whirrr!"  the unit replied helpfully.

Han scowled and cursed at the unit in Rodian, trader argot, and,
finally, Basic.  "What am I going to do now?"  he snarled.  "If only
you had a Basic-speech module."

"But I do, sir," announced the droid in a matter-of-fact voice.  Its
words were flat, mechanical, but perfectly understandable.

Han gaped at the machine for a moment, then grinned.  "Hey!  This is a
first!  How come you can talk?"

"Because there was not room aboard this vessel for both an astromech
unit and a counterpart unit, my masters programmed me with a
Basic-speech transmissions module so I could communicate more easily,"
the droid replied.

"All right!"  Han cried, feeling a surge of relief.  He didn't like
droids much, but at least he'd have someone to talk to, and it might
actually prove necessary for the two of them to communicate.  Space
travel was usually routine, and safe .  . . but there were
exceptions.

"I regret, sir," the R2 added, "that you are guilty of unauthorized
entry, sir.  You are not supposed to be here."

"I know that," Han said.  "I hitched a ride on this ship."

"I-beg-your-pardon, this unit does not understand the term used,
sir."

Han called the R2 unit an uncomplimentary name.  "I-beg-your-pardon,
this unit does not understand--" "Shut up!"  Han bellowed.  The R2 unit
was silent.

Han took a very deep breath.  "Okay, R2," he said.  "I am a stowaway.

Is that word in your memory banks?"

"Yes it is, sir."

"Good.  I stowed away aboard this ship because I needed a ride to
Ylesia.

I'm going to take a job piloting for the Ylesian priests,
understand?"

"Yes, sir.  However, I must inform you that in my capacity as a
watchdroid assigned to safeguard this vessel and its contents, I must
seal all the exits when we reach Ylesia, then inform my masters that
you are aboard, thus expediting your capture by their security
staff."

"Hey, little pal," Han said generously, "when we reach Ylesia, you just
go right ahead and do that.  When the priests see that I fit all their
requirements, they won't give a vrelt's ass how I arrived there."

"I-beg-your-pardon, sir, but this unit does not--" "Shut up."

Han glanced down at his air pak readout, then said, "Okay, R2, I'd like
to check on our flight path, speed, and ETA to Ylesia.  Please display
that information."

"I regret, sir, that I am not authorized to give you that
information."

Han was coming to a slow boil; he barely restrained himself from
kicking the recalcitrant droid with his heavy space boot.  "I need to
check our flight path, speed, and ETA because I've got to compute how
my air is holding out, R2," he explained with exaggerated patience.

"I-beg-your-pardon, sir, but this unit--" "SHUT UP!"

Han was starting to sweat now, and the suit's refrigeration unit rebbed
up a little faster.  He struggled to keep his tones calm.  "Listen
carefully, R2," he said.  "Don't you have some kind of operating
systems program that orders you to attempt to preserve the lives of
intelligent beings whenever you can?"

"Yes, sir, that programming is included with all astromech droids.  For
a droid to deliberately harm or fail to prevent harm to a sentient
being, its operating system module must be altered."

"Good," Han said.  That fit in with what he knew about astromech
programming.  "Listen to me, R2.  If you don't show me our flight path,
speed, and ETA, you may be responsible for my death, from lack of
air.

Do you understand me now?"

"Please elaborate, sir."

Han explained, with exaggerated patience, his situation.  When he
finished, the droid was silent for a moment, evidently cogitating.

Finally, it whirred once, then said, "I will comply with your request,
sir, and will display the information requested on the diagnostic
interface screen."

Han breathed a long sigh of relief.  Since the ship was basically a
giant robot drone, it had no controls visible on its control boards,
just assorted blinking lights.  But, in order to service the ship,
there was a screen built into the control board.  Han stepped carefully
around the R2 unit and stared down at the screen.

Information scrolled across it, so rapidly no human could have read
it.

Han turned to the R2 unit.  "Put that data back up, and this time,
leave it there until I can read it!  Get it?"

"Yes, sir."  The droid's artificial voice sounded almost meek.

Han studied the figures and diagram that appeared on the screen for
several minutes, feeling his uneasiness grow into real fear.  He had
nothing to write with, and no way to access the navicomputer, but he
had a bad feeling about what he was seeing.  Biting his lip, he forced
himself to concentrate as he ran the figures in his head, over and
over.

Ylesian Dream's flight path had been set to take it in a circuitous
route to the planet, in order to avoid the worst of the pirate-infested
areas of Hutt space.  And the little freighter's speed was set far
lower than the

ship was capable of, slower than even Trader's Luck normally traveled
through hyperspace.

Not good.  Not good at all.  If their speed and course weren't altered,
Han realized, he'd run out of air about five hours before the Dream set
down on Ylesian soil.  The ship would land with a corpse aboard .  .
.

his.

He turned back to the R2 unit.  "Listen, R2, you've got to help me.  If
I don't alter our course and speed, I won't have sufficient air to make
the trip.  I'll die, and it will be your fault."

The R2 unit's lights flashed as the machine contemplated this
revelation.

Finally, it said: "But I did not know you were on board, sir.  I cannot
be held responsible for your death."

"Oh, no."  Han shook his head inside his helmet.  "It doesn't work that
way, R2.  If you know about this situation and do nothing, then you
will be causing the death of a sentient being.  Is that what you
want?"

"No," the droid said.  Even its artificial tones sounded faintly
strained, and its lights flickered rapidly and erratically.

"Then it follows," Han continued inexorably, "that you must do whatever
you can to prevent my death.  Right?"

"I .  . . I .  . ."  The droid was quivering now in agitation.  "Sir, I
am constrained from assisting you.  My programming is in conflict with
my hardware."

"What do you mean?"  Han was worried now.  If the little droid
overloaded and went dead, he'd never be able to access the manual
"diagnostic'' controls that he knew had to be in these panels
somewhere.  They'd be tiny, something for the techs to use to test the
robot drone's autopilot.  "My programming is constraining me from
informing you .  . ."

Han took one huge stride over to the little droid and knelt in front of
it.  "Blast you!"  He pounded his fist on top of the droid's clear
dome.

"I'll die!  Tell me!"

The droid rocked agitatedly, and Han wondered if it would simply fall
apart with the strain.  But then it said, "I have been fitted with a
restraining bolt, sir!  It prevents me from complying with your
request!"

A restraining bolt?"  Han seized on this bit of information with
alacrity.

Let's see, where is it?

After a moment he spotted it, low down on the droid's metal carapace.

He reached down, grasped it, and tugged.

Nothing.  The bolt didn't move.

Han gripped harder, tried twisting.  He grunted with effort, really
sweating now, imagining he could feel those molecules of oxygen running
out in a steady stream.  He'd heard that hypoxia wasn't an especially
bad

way to die---compared to explosive decompression or being shot, for
example--but he had no desire to find out firsthand.

The bolt didn't move.  Han tried harder, jerking at it, swearing in
half a dozen alien tongues, but the stubborn thing didn't budge.

Got to find something I can hit it with, Han thought, glancing wildly
around the control cabin.  But there was nothing--not a hydrospanner, a
wrench--nothing!

Suddenly he remembered the blaster.  He'd left it on the floor in his
little cubicle.  "Wait right here," Han instructed the R2 unit, and
then he was squeezing back through the narrow corridors.

Shooting a blaster inside a spaceship--even an unpressurized
space-ship--wasn't a good idea, but he was desperate.

Han returned with the weapon, and examined the settings.  Lowest
setting, he thought.  Narrowest beam.  Clumsy in his spacesuit gloves,
he had trouble adjusting the power setting and beam width.

The R2's lights had been flashing frenetically ever since he'd
returned, and now it wheeped plaintively.  "Sir?  Sir, may I ask what
you're doing?"

"I'm getting rid of that restraining bolt," Han told it grimly.  Aiming
and narrowing his eyes, he squeezed delicately.

A flash of energy erupted, and the little droid WHEEEEPPPPED.  so
shrilly it sounded like a scream.  The restraining bolt fell to the
deck, leaving behind a black burn scar on the otherwise shining metal
of the R2 unit.

"Gotcha," Han said with satisfaction.  "Now, R2, be good enough to
point me toward the manual interfaces and controls in your ship
here."

The droid obediently extruded a mobile wheeled "leg" and rolled over to
the control banks, its interface cable trailing behind it.  Han went
over and crouched before the instrument panel, awkward in his suit.

Following the droid's instructions, he wrenched off the top of one
featureless control panel and studied the tiny bank of controls.

Cursing at the awkwardness of trying to manipulate the controls while
wearing spacesuit gloves, Han began using the manual interface mode to
disengage the hyperdrive.  Altering course and speed could only be done
in realspace.

Once they were back in realspace, Han painstakingly computed a new
course, using the R2 unit to perform the more esoteric calculations for
the jump that would send them back into hyperspace.

It took the young Corellian a while to lay in their new course and
speed, but finally Han triggered the HYPERDRIVE ENGAGE switch again.  A
second later he felt the lurch as the drive kicked in.  Han clung
grimly to

the instrument panel as the ship hurtled into hyperspace on its new
course, at a greatly increased rate of speed.

As the ship steadied around him, Han drew a long, long breath and let
it out very slowly.  He slumped to the deck and sat there, his legs
stuck out before him.  "Whew!"

"You realize, sir," said the R2 unit, "that you will now have to land
this craft manually.  Altering our course and speed has invalidated the
existing landing protocols programmed into the ship."

"Yeah, I know," Han said, leaning wearily back against the console.  He
took another sip of water and then ate two tablets.  "But there's no
other way.  I just hope I can work the controls fast enough to land
us."  He glanced around him at the nearly featureless control room.  "I
wish this bucket of bolts came with a viewscreen."

"An autopilot cannot see, sir, so visual data is useless to it," the R2
unit pointed out helpfully.

"No!"  Han said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  "I thought droids
could see just like we can!"

"No, sir, we cannot," R2 told him.  "We recognize our surroundings by
visual relays that translate into electronic data within our--" "Shut
up," Han said, too tired even to enjoy baiting the droid.  Leaning back
against the console, he closed his eyes.  He'd done all that he could
to save his life, by bringing the ship to Ylesia on a much more direct
route, at a faster speed.

Han drifted into sleep and dreamed of Dewlanna, as she had been long
ago, when they'd first known each other .  . .

Han was halfway through the window when he heard the shout behind
him.

"We've been robbed!"

Clutching his small sack of loot, he kicked, wriggling, trying to
squeeze through the narrow enclosure.  In the dark outside lay
safety.

A feminine cry of dismay: "My jewelry!"

Han grunted with effort, realizing he was stuck.  He fought back
panic.

He had to get away!  This was a rich house, and when someone summoned
the authorities, they were certain to come immediately.

Silently he cursed the new vogue in Corellian architecture that had
caused this luxurious home to be built with floor-to-ceiling narrow
windows.  The windows were advertised as being able to thwart
burglars.

Well, there might be some truth to that, he decided grimly.  He'd
sneaked in earlier through one of the doors that led to the gardens,
then hidden out until he'd felt safe in believing that all the
inhabitants were asleep.  Then he'd ventured out to pick and choose
among their treasures.  He'd been confident that he

could wiggle his skinny, nine-year-old self through those windows and
make good his escape.

Han grunted with effort again, kicking frantically.  It was possible he
was wrong about that...

A voice behind him.  The woman.  "There he is!  Get him!"

Han turned a little more sideways, wriggled violently, and then
suddenly he was through the window and falling.  He didn't let go of
his sack, though, as he crashed down onto the manicured bed of
flowering dorva vines.  Breath whooshed out of his lungs, and for a
moment he just lay there, gasping, like a drel out of water.  HIS leg
hurt, and so did his head.

"Call the security patrol!"  The masculine shout came from inside.  Han
knew he had only seconds to make good his escape.  Forcing his leg to
bear his weight, he rolled over and staggered to his feet.

Trees ahead in the moons-light .  . . big ones.  He could lose himself
in them, easy.

Han half limped, half ran to the shelter of the trees.  He resolved not
to let Eight-Gee-Enn know what had happened.  The droid might accuse
him of slowing down now that he was going on ten.

Han grimaced as he ran.  He wasn't slowing down, he just hadn't been
feeling well today.  He'd had a dull headache ever since he'd awakened,
and had been tempted to turn himself in on sick call.

Since Han was almost never ill, he'd probably have been believed, but
he didn't like showing weakness in front of other denizens of Trader's
Luck.

Especially Captain Shrike.  The man never missed an opportunity to ride
him.

He was in the shelter of the trees, now.  What next?  He could hear the
sound of running footsteps, so he didn't have much time to decide.  His
muscles made that decision for him.  Suddenly the sack was clenched in
his teeth, there was bark against his palms, and the soles of his
beat-up boots were braced against branches.  Han climbed, listened,
then climbed again.

Only when he was high in the tree, above the range of a casual glance
by pursuers, did he slow down.  Han settled back on a limb, against the
tree trunk, panting, his head whirling.  He felt dizzy, nauseated, and
for a moment he was afraid he'd be sick and give himself away.  But he
bit his lip and forced himself to stay still, and presently he felt a
little better.

Judging from the star patterns, it was only a few hours until dawn.

Han realized that he was going to have trouble making the rendezvous
with the Luck's shuttle.  Would Shrike just abandon him, or would he
wait?

Far below him, people were searching the wooded area.  Lights strobed
the night, and he huddled close to the tree trunk, eyes closed,
clinging desperately despite his dizziness.  If only his head didn't
throb so .  . .

Han wondered whether they'd bring in bioscanners, and shivered.  His
skin felt hot and tight, even though the night was cool and breezy.

Dark waned on toward dawn.  Han wondered what Dewlanna was doing,
whether she'd miss him if the Luck left orbit without him.  Finally,
the lights went out, and the footsteps faded away.  Han waited another
twenty minutes to make sure his pursuers were truly gone, then, holding
the sack gripped in his teeth, he carefully climbed down, moving with
exaggerated care because his head hurt so much.  Every jar, even
walking, made his head swim, and he had to grit his teeth against the
pain.  He walked .  . . and walked.  Several times he realized he'd
been dozing while he walked, and a couple of times he fell down and was
tempted to just stay there.  But something kept him moving, as dawn
brightened the streets and houses around him.  Corellian dawns were
beautiful, Han noticed dazedly.  He'd never before noticed how pretty
the colors were in the sky.  If only the light didn't hurt his eyes so
. . . Dawn turned to day.  Cool gave way to warmth, then heat.  He was
sweating, and his vision was blurred.  But finally, there it was.  The
spaceport.  By this time Han was moving like an automaton, one foot in
front of the other, wishing he could just lie down and sleep in the
road.

Before him, now .  . . the Luck's shuttle!  With a gasp that was nearly
a sob, the boy drove himself forward.  He was almost to the ramp when a
tall figure emerged.  Shrike.  "Where in the blazes have you been?"

There was nothing friendly in the captain's grasp upon his arm.  Han
held up the sack; and Shrike grabbed it.  "Well, at least you didn't
come back empty-handed," the captain grumbled.  Quickly he sifted
through the contents, nodding his satisfaction.  Only when he was
finished did Shrike seem to notice that Han was swaying on his feet.

"What's wrong with you?"

Now beyond coherent speech, Han could only shake his head.

Consciousness was fading in and out on him like a jammed
transmission.

Shrike shook him a little, then put a hand on the boy's forehead.  When
he felt the heat, he cursed.  "Fever... should I leave you here?  What
if it's contagious?"  He frowned, clearly struggling to decide.

Finally he hefted the sack of loot again.  "Guess you've earned a sick
day, kid," he muttered.  "C'mon."  Han tried to make it up the ramp,
but then he stumbled and everything went 	. . . dark.

He swam up into partial consciousness a long time later, to the sound
of voices arguing, one in Wookiee, the other in Basic.  Dewlanna and
Shrike.

The Wookiee growled insistently.  "I can tell he's really sick," Shrike
agreed, "but you can't kill one of my kids with a blaster set on
full.

He'll be

okay after a couple of days rest.  He doesn't need a medical droid,
and I'm not springing for it."

Dewlanna snarled, and Han, automatically translating, was surprised at
how insistent the Wookiee was being.  He felt a furred paw-hand lay
something cold on his forehead.  It felt wonderful against the heat.

"I told you no, Dewlanna, and I meant it!"  Shrike said, and with that,
the captain stomped out, cursing the Wookiee in every language he
knew.

Han opened his eyes to see Dewlanna bending over him.  The Wookiee
rumbled gently at him.  Han struggled to speak.  "Pretty bad ..."  he
conceded, in response to her question.  "Thirsty .  . ."

Dewlanna held him up and gave him water, sip by slow sip.  She told him
that he had a high fever, so high that she was afraid for him.

When Han finished the water, she stooped down and scooped the child up
into her arms.  "Where... where're we.."  She told him to hush, that
she was taking him planetside, to the medical droid.  Han's head was
swimming, but he made a great effort.  "Don't...

Captain Shrike .  . . really mad .  . ."

Her answer was short and to the point.  Han had never heard her curse
before.

He faded in and out as they moved through the corridors, and his next
clear memory was of being strapped into the seat of a shuttle.  Han had
never known Dewlanna could pilot, but she handled the controls
competently with her huge, furred hands.  The shuttle slipped loose
from its moorings, and then accelerated toward Corelia.

The fever was making Han light-headed, and he kept imagining that he
heard Shrike's voice, cursing.  He tried to say something about it to
Dewlanna, but found he didn't have the strength to get the words
out...

He next regained consciousness in the medical droid's waiting room.

Dewlanna was sitting down, with Han's scrawny form still clutched
protectively in her arms.

Suddenly a door opened, and the droid appeared.  It was a large,
elongated droid, equipped with anti-gray units so that it floated
around its patient as Dewlanna placed Han on the examining table.  Han
felt a prick against his skin as the droid took a blood sample.

"Do you understand Basic, madame?"  inquired the droid.

For a moment Han was about to answer that of course he understood
Basic, and who was Madame?--but then Dewlanna rumbled.  Oh, of
course.

The medical unit was talking to her.

"This young patient has contracted Corellian tanamen fever," the droid
told Dewlanna.  "HIS case is quite severe.  It is fortunate that you
did not wait

any longer to bring him to me.  I will need to keep him here and
observe him until tomorrow.  Do you wish to stay with him?"

Dewlanna rumbled her assent.

"Very well, madame.  I am going to use bacta immersion therapy to
restore his metabolic equilibrium.  That will also bring his fever
down."

Han took one look at the waiting bacta tank and feebly tried to make a
run for the door.  Between them, Dewlanna and the medical unit
restrained him easily.  The boy felt another needle prick his arm, and
then the whole universe tilted sideways and slid into blackness .  .

.

Han opened his eyes, realizing his reverie had turned into sleep, then
dreams.  He shook his head, remembering how wobbly he'd been when
Dewlanna and the droid helped him out of the bacta tank.  Then Dewlanna
paid the droid out of her own small store of credits and piloted them
back to Trader's Luck The young pilot grimaced.  Boy, Shrike had been
mad.  Han was worried that he'd space them both.  But Dewlanna never
showed even the slightest sign of fear as she stood between the captain
and Han, insisting that she'd done the right thing, that otherwise the
boy would have died.

In the end, Shrike subsided because one of the pieces of jewelry Han
had stolen that night turned out to be set with a genuine Krayt dragon
pearl.  When the captain discovered what it was worth, he was
mollified.

But he didn't pay Dewlanna back for Han's medical bills .  . .

Han sighed and closed his eyes.  Dewlanna's loss was like a knife
wound--no matter how he tried, he couldn't get away from the pain, and
the memories.

He'd let down his guard and suddenly find himself thinking of her as
still alive, visualize himself talking to her, telling her about his
troubles with the recalcitrant R2 unit-only to be brought up short with
pain nearly as searing and immediate as he'd felt yesterday when he'd
held her dying body.

Han swallowed another sip of water, trying to ease the tightness in his
throat.  He owed Dewlanna .  . . owed her so much.  His life---even his
true identity--he owed Dewlanna for that, too .  . .

Han sighed.  Until he was eleven years old, his only name had been
"Han."

The boy often wondered and worried about whether he had a last name.

One time he mentioned his concern to Dewlanna, along with his
conviction that if anyone knew who he really was, it was Shrike.

Very soon after that, Dewlanna learned to play sabacc .  . .

Han heard the soft scratch on the door to his tiny cubicle and woke
instantly.  Listening, he heard the scratch again, then a soft whine.

"Dewlanna?"  he whispered, sliding out of bed and sticking his bare
feet into his ship's coveralls.  "Is that you?"

She rumbled softly from outside the door.  Han yanked up his jumpsuit,
sealed it, and opened the door.  "What do you mean, you have exciting
news for me?"

Dewlanna came in, her huge, furred body fairly bouncing with
excitement.

Han waved her past him, and she sat on the narrow bunk.  Since there
was no place else to sit, Han settled down beside her.  The Wookiee
cautioned him to keep his voice low, and glancing at the chrono, Han
realized it was the dead of night.

"What are you doing up now?"  he asked, puzzled.  "Don't tell me you
were playing sabacc this late?"

She nodded at him, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement amid her tan
and chestnut hair.

"So what's going on, Dewlanna?  Why did you need to talk to me?"

She rumbled softly at him.  Han sat up straight, suddenly transfixed.

"You found out my last name?  How?"

Her answer was a single name.  "Shrike, "Han muttered.  "Well, if
anyone knows, it's him.  What... how did it happen?  What's my name?"

His name, she told him, was "Solo."  Shrike had gotten very, very
drunk, and he started bragging about how much the Krayt dragon pearl
was worth, what a good deal he'd gotten when he sold it.  Dewlanna
asked Shrike innocently if Han came from a long line of successful
thieves.  Shrike, she reported, exploded into laughter at the
suggestion.  "Maybe some branches of the family, but this Solo?"  he
sputtered, wheezing with merriment, pausing to gulp more Alderaanian
ale, "I'm afraid not, Dewlanna.  This kid's folks were .. ."

And at that point, the captain suddenly halted in midword, fixing the
Wookiee with a suspicious glare.  "So why do you care, anyhow?"  he
demanded, his momentary good humor gone.

Dewlanna answered only by covering Shrike's bet, and raising.

"Solo," Han whispered softly, trying it on for size.  "Han Solo.  My
full name is Han Solo."

He looked up at Dewlanna, and a wide grin spread across his features.

"I like itt It sounds great!"

Dewlanna whined softly and, slinging a long arm around him, gave the
boy a hug .  . .

Han smiled, remembering, but it was a sad smile.  Dewlanna had meant
well, but her discovery that his name was "Solo" had led to one of the
worst episodes of his young life.  The next time the Luck was in orbit
around Corellia, he'd stolen time away from his pickpocketing and
burglary duties and had gone to one of the public archives to do some
research.

Shrike didn't like his "rescuees" to spend any time on furthering
their education.  Each child aboard Trader's Luck was given an
elementary level education via the ship's computer, so he, she, or it
could learn to read and count money.  Beyond that, Shrike discouraged
the children from pursuing higher learning.

It was partly because he automatically wanted to flout Shrike's wishes,
and partly due to Dewlanna's encouragement, that Han had kept up his
studies in secret.  He had a tendency to ignore subjects he didn't
like--such as history--and to spend all his time on subjects he
enjoyed--such as reading adventure stories and solving math
equations.

Han knew how important math was to anyone who wanted to be a pilot, so
he worked hard at mastering as much of it as he could.

Once Dewlanna discovered what he was doing, she monitored his
curriculum, making him study subjects that he would otherwise have
skipped, leaving gaps in his knowledge.  Reluctantly, Han tackled the
physical sciences, and history.

He was surprised to discover that some real historical battles were
just as exciting as anything he'd read in adventure sagas.

That day in the public archives on Corellia, Han applied some of his
newly learned research skills to learning about his new surname.  The
results were surprising.  When Han looked up the last name "Solo" in
the historical records, he was astounded to discover that the name was
well known on Corellia.  A "Berethron Solo" had introduced democracy on
Han's homeworld three centuries ago.  He'd actually been a ruler, a
king!

But there'd been another Solo, more recently, who was equally
famous--or, to put it more accurately, infamous.  About fifty years
ago, a descendant of Berethron, Korol Solo, had fathered a son named
"Dalla Solo."  The young man, taking the alias "Dalla Suul" in an
effort to disguise his identity, had made quite a name for himself as a
murderer, kidnapper, and pirate.

"Dalla the Black" had become a name to make children quake in their
beds on lonely outpost colonies or tramp freighters .  . .

The child Han wondered whether he was related to these men.  Did royal
blood run in his veins?  Or the blood of a pirate and murderer?  He'd
probably never know, unless, somehow, he could persuade Shrike to
divulge what he knew.  He read about Dalla Suul's exploits as a thief,
and smiled grimly, wondering if he was actually following some kind of
family tradition.

Then he began checking the more recent Corellian news files and society
pages in the computer.  A search for the surname "Solo" brought up a
name.

Tiion Sal-Solo.  She was a wealthy but reclusive widow with

one child, a son.  Thrackan Sal-Solo was six or seven years older than
Han, in his late teens.

What if I'm related to this Tiion Solo, or she knew my parents?  Han
wondered.  This could be my best chance yet to get away.

When he went back to Trader's Luck; Han talked it over with Dewlanna.

The Wookiee agreed with him that while it was risky, Han had to take
the chance of contracting the Solo family.

"Of course," Han said, resting his chin on his fist and looking
dejectedly at the table, "once I did that, I couldn't see you again,
Dewlanna."

The Wookiee growled softly, telling Han that of course he'd see her.

Just not aboard Trader's Luck.

"The last time I ran away, Shrike beat me so hard I couldn't sit down
for days," Han said softly.  "If Larrad hadn't reminded him that he had
something else to do, I really think he might've killed me."

Dewlanna rumbled.  "You're right," Han agreed.  "If this Solo family
takes me in, they're powerful enough and rich enough to protect me from
Shrike."

Han even knew something about the rules and manners required of people
living in Corellian high society.  Every so often, Shrike would run a
major scam on rich folks on Corellia.  Han had been part of the
background during several such con operations.

Shrike would rent a wealthy estate on Corellia, and then set up a
"family unit," to provide a respectable backdrop to the scam.  Han and
the other children detailed to such a "family" would be sent to live on
the estate.

He'd go to a rich-kids school, and one of his jobs during the scam was
to make friends with the children of the wealthy and bring them home to
play.

Several times, this had resulted in valuable contacts whose parents had
been duped into "investing" in Garris Shrike's current scam.

Just a few weeks past, Han had been attending such a school--a school
so well known that it had merited a visit from the famous Senator Garm
Bel Iblis.  Han had raised his hand and asked the Senator two questions
that had been insightful and intelligent enough to make the Senator
really notice him.  After class was over, Bel Iblis had stopped Han,
shaken his hand, and asked him his name.  Han had glanced around
quickly, seeing that nobody else was within earshot, and proudly told
the Senator his real name.  It had felt great to be able to do that .

. .

Shrike recruited Han frequently for his scam operations, partly because
of the boy's easygoing charm and winning smile, and partly because
Han's clandestine studies made him fit into his grade level better than
most of the other children.  Han had also gained a small reputation as
an up-and-coming swoop and speeder pilot--a rich man's sport if there
ever

was one.  He'd met lots of kids from wealthy families while swoop
racing, and several times Shrike had managed to lure their parents into
whatever scam he was currently running.

In a year, Han would be eligible to race in Corellia's Junior
Championship division.  That would mean big prize money--if he won.

Han both liked and disliked these assignments.  He liked them because
he got to live in the lap of luxury for weeks, sometimes months.  Swoop
and speeder racing was life and breath to him, and he got to practice
every day.

He disliked these con operations because he always wound up caring
about some of the kids he was ordered to befriend, and all the while he
knew they and their families would be irrevocably injured by Shrike's
scheme.

Mostly, Han managed to stifle any guilt feelings he felt.  He was
becoming good at putting himself first.  Other people--with the sole
exception of Dewlanna--had to come second or not at all.  It was
selfpreservation, and Han was very, very good at that.

I still am, Han thought as he got up from the deck of the Ylesian Dream
and went to check on their course and speed.  The young Corellian
smiled and nodded as he read the instrument readings.  Right in the
groove, he thought.  We're going to make it.

He checked his air pak, seeing it was more than half-gone.

For a moment Han was tempted to explore the Dream further, but he
resisted the impulse.  Moving around would just cause him to use up his
oxygen faster, and he was skirting the edge of safety as it was.

So he settled back down, and the memories came back.  Aunt Tiion.  Poor
woman.  And dear cousin Thrackan.  As he remembered, Han's lips pulled
back from his teeth in a feral grin that was more like a canoid's snarl
. . .

Han swung down off the high stone wall and landed lightly on the balls
of his feet.  Through the trees he could see a large structure built of
the same native stone as the wall, so he headed toward it, staying in
the treeshadow whenever possible.

When he reached the house, he halted, staring at it in amazement.  He'd
seen a lot of rich mansions, even lived in more than a few, but he'd
never seen anything like the Sal-Solo estate.

Towers festooned with creeping vines, four of them, stood at each
corner of a large, squarish stone building.  An ancient gardener droid
moved about arthritically, pruning the bushes that grew down to the
edge of a large trench filled with water.  Han walked around to the
side and saw, to his surprise, that the stretch of water completely
surrounded the house.  There was no way to

enter the place, except to cross a narrow wooden bridge that spanned
the water and led up to the front door.

Han had been interested in military tactics ever since he was small,
and he'd read up on them.  He studied the Sal-Solo mansion, realizing
it was built to almost military fortress standards of impregnability.

Well, that sort of fit in with what he'd read about the Solo family.

They didn't socialize, didn't attend charity events or go to plays or
concerts.

In all the times he'd posed as a rich kid, he'd never heard anyone
mention the Solo family--and the way those rich people talked about
each other, he'd have heard something if they ever mingled with their
peers.

Han walked cautiously toward the house.  He'd exchanged his ship's gray
jumpsuit for a "borrowed" pair of black pants and a pale gray tunic.

He didn't want anyone finding out where he'd come from.

When he was nearly to the beginning of the causeway, he stood behind
one of the large, ornamental bushes and warily peered across the water
to the house.  What should he do now?  Just walk up and activate the
door signal?

He bit his lip, undecided.  What if they called the authorities on him,
reported him as a runaway?  Shrike would descend on him so
fast-"Gotcha!"

Han gasped and jumped as a hand closed over his upper arm, hauling him
around bodily.

The person who'd grabbed him was head and shoulders taller than the
younger boy.  He had darker hair than Han, and was stockier as well.

But it was his face that made Han stand staring at him in blank
amazement.

Han gaped, speechless, at the older boy.  If he'd ever doubted that he
was really related to the Solo family, those doubts died an instant
death.  The face of the youth who was holding his arm looked like an
older version of the face Han saw in the mirror every morning.

Not that they were twins or anything.  But there was too much
resemblance in their features to be coincidence.  The same shape of the
brown eyes, the same kind of lips, the same quirk to the eyebrows . 
.

. the same nose and jawline .  . .

The other boy was gaping back at Han, having evidently noticed the same
thing.  "Hey!"  He shook Han's arm roughly.  "Who are you?"

"My name is Han Solo," Han replied steadily.  "You must be Thrackan
Sal-Solo."

"So what if I am?"  the other said sullenly.  Han was beginning to feel
uneasy about the way the boy was eyeing him.  He'd seen vrelts with
more warmth in their eyes.  "Han Solo, eh?  I never heard of you. 
Where do you come from?  Who's your mother and father?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that," Han said evenly.  "I ran away

from where I was staying, because I wanted to find my family.  I don't
know anything about myself except my name."

"Huh .  . ."  Thrackan was still staring.  "Well, I guess you must be
one of the family .  . ."

"Looks like it," Han agreed, not realizing until he spoke that it was a
pun.  But Thrackan didn't appear to notice.  He seemed mesmerized by
Han and, releasing his grip on the other's arm, walked around him,
studying him from every angle.

"Where did you run away from?"  Thrackan asked.  "Will anyone come
looking for you?"

"No," Han said shortly.  He wasn't about to trust Thrackan with
anything that could come back to haunt him.  "Listen," he said, "we
look alike, so we must be related, right?  Could we .  . . could we be
brothers?"  Funny, but after all his dreaming about finding a family
that would rescue him from Trader's Luck, Han found himself hoping that
wasn't the case.

"Not a chance," Thrackan said with a curl of his lip.  "My dad died a
year after I was born, and my mom shut herself up here ever since.

She's kind of... a loner."

That fit with what Han had read about the Sal-Solo family.  Tiion Solo
had married a man named Randil Sal, some twenty years ago.  The public
records had carried his obituary.

"Maybe she'd know something about me, "Han said.  "Could I see her?"

He took a deep breath.  "Please?"

Thrackan seemed to consider.  "Okay," he said finally, "but if she gets
· .

. upset, you've got to leave, okay?  Mom doesn't like people.  She's
like her grandfather, won't have human servants, just droids.  She says
humans betray and kill each other and droids never do."

Han followed Thrackan into the huge house, through rooms full of
shrouded furniture and paintings draped against dust.  The family,
Thrackan explained, used only a few rooms, to save the cleaning droids
time and effort.

Finally, they came to Thrackan's mother's sitting room.  Tiion Solo was
a pale, dark-haired woman, plump and unhealthy-looking.  She was far
from attractive.  But, looking at her, studying her face, seeing the
bones beneath the puffy flab, Han thought that once, long ago, she
might have been beautiful.  Seeing her features, a memory stirred
within him, so faint .  . .

Once, he'd seen features similar to hers, Han thought.  Long ago, far
away.

The "memory, "if memory it was, was as fleeting and elusive as a drift
of smoke.

"Mother," Thrackan said, "this is Han Solo.  He's related to us, isn't
he?"

Tiion Sal-Solo's gaze traveled to Han's face, and her eyes widened in

distress.  She stared at the boy in horror.  Her mouth worked, and a
thin, shrill mewling sound emerged.  "No .  . . no!"  she cried.  Tears
gathered in her brown eyes, coursed down the flabby cheeks.  "No, it
isn't possible!

He's gone!  They're both gone!"

Burying her face in her hands, she began to weep hysterically.

Thrackan grabbed Han by the arm and dragged him out of the house.  "Now
look what you did, you little idiot," the youth said, glancing uneasily
up at his mother's window.  "She'll be a mess for days, she always is
when she gets like that."

Han shrugged.  "I didn't do anything.  She just looked at me, that's
all.

What's wrong with her?"

With a muffled curse, Thrackan backhanded Han across the face so hard
it split the younger boy's lip.  "Shut up!"  he snarled.  "You've got
no right to talk about her.  There's nothing wrong with her, hear me?

Nothing!"

The blow stung, but Han had been hit often, by experts, and one thing
he knew was how to take a punch and stay on his feet.  For a moment he
was tempted to fly at the older boy's throat, but he made himself
relax.  There had been genuine pain in Thrackan's eyes as he defended
his mother.  Han figured he might have done the same thing, if he'd
ever had a mother.  I have to stay here, he reminded himself.  Anything
is better than Shrike .  . .

"Sorry," he managed to say.

Thrackan looked a little abashed.  'Just watch what you say about my
mom, okay?"

The next six weeks were some of the strangest of Han's life.  Thrackan
allowed Han to stay with him in his rooms (Tiion almost never came into
Thrackan's part of the house), and the two of them spent time talking
and getting to know each other.

Thrackan was a demanding host, Han soon learned.  Han had to agree with
him completely, and rush to do his bidding, or he lost his temper and
cuffed the younger boy.  Thrackan made Han pilot him around the
countryside in an aging landspeeder, and the two of them even went on a
few expeditions to vacant estates Thrackan knew about, whose
inhabitants were away on vacation.  Thrackan would demand that Han pick
the locks and disable the security systems, and then the older boy
would steal whatever took his fancy.

Han began to wonder whether he'd done himself any favor by running away
from Trader's Luck.  Two things kept him at the Solo estate: his fear
that if he displeased Thrackan, the older boy would turn him over to
the authorities--thus allowing Shrike to locate him; and his hope that
Thrackan would break down and tell Han everything he knew about who Han
really was.

He kept hinting that he knew how they might be related.

"All in good time," Thrackan would say when Han tried to pry
information out of him.  "All in good time, Han.  Let's go flying.  I
want you to teach me to pilot the speeder."

Han tried, but Thrackan wasn't very good at it.  The older boy nearly
crashed them several times before he mastered even the rudiments of
flying the small craft.

I have to get out of here, Han kept telling himself.  I'll run away to
some other world, where they'll never find me.  Maybe I can get adopted
or get a job or something.  There's got to be some way .  . .

But he couldn't think of any way to get free of Thrackan.  The older
boy was vindictive, sadistic, and just plain mean.  Several times Han
saw him torture insects or animals, and when he realized that his
actions disturbed the younger boy, he did it frequently.  Han had never
had a pet, but he tended to like furred creatures because of
Dewlanna.

He missed her every day.

The situation became more and more explosive, until one day Thrackan
really lost his temper with Han.  Grabbing the younger boy by the hair,
he dragged him to the kitchen, picked up a knife, and held it before
Han's eyes.  "See this?"  he snarled.  "If you don't apologize, and
don't do exactly what I say, I'm going to cut your ears off.  Now
apologize!"  He shook Han hard.  "And you'd better make me believe
it!"

Han stared at the shining blade of the knife, and wet his lips.  He
tried to force out words of apology, but a huge burst of red rage
welled up in him.

All the insults, all the cuffs and blows and beatings--Shrike's as well
as Thrackan's--seemed to come to a head.

With a bellow as loud as a Wookiee's, Han went berserk.  He slammed his
fist against Thruckan's arm, sending the knife flying, and slammed his
other elbow into Thrackan's stomach.  The breath whooshed out of the
older boy, and before Thrackan could recover himself, Han was all over
him.

Kicking, biting, punching, gouging--Han used every dirty trick he'd
learned on the streets to beat up Thrackan.  Stunned and reeling from
Han's fury, Thrackan never did recover, until the fight ended with Han
sitting astride Thrackan, holding the knife to the older boy's
throat.

"Hey .  . ."  Thrackan's eyes glittered like a trapped vrelt's.  "Hey,
Han, stop kidding around.  This isn't funny."

"Neither is cutting off my ears," Han said.  "Listen, I've had it.  You
tell me what you know, and you tell me right now, or I swear I'll cut
your throat wide open.  And then I'm leaving here.  I've had it with
you."

Thrackan's dark eyes were wide with fear.  Something he'd seen on Han's
face must have convinced the older boy that Han was so angry he would
be wise not to push him.  "Okay, okay!"

"Now," Han said.  "Talk."

Stammering with fear, Thrackan told the story.

Years ago, Thrackan's grandfather, Denn Solo, and his grandmother, Tira
Gama Solo, had lived on the fifth inhabited planet in the Corellian
system, a colony world called Tralus.  Those were perilous times, and
roving bands of raiders and pirates threatened many outlying worlds.

The raiders never reached Corellia, but they reached Tralus.  A fleet
of them landed and devastated the entire colony.

"Grandma Solo was pregnant," Thrackan gasped, because it was hard to
breathe with Han sitting on his chest.  "And the night their town was
attacked, she had her babies.  Twins.  One of them was later named
Tiion.

Grandma Solo took her and ran away from the raiders.  She managed to
hide in a cave in the hills."

"Tiion," Han said.  "Your mother."

"Right.  The other baby was a boy, Grandma Solo said.  Her husband took
him.

There hadn't even been time to name them.  Grandma said it was
terrible.

Fires everywhere, and people running and screaming.  She and Grandpa
Denn got separated in the rush to escape."

"And?"  Han flexed his hand slightly, and the blade moved against
Thrackan's throat.

"Like I said, Grandma Solo and Tiion escaped.  But Grandpa Solo and the
baby boy vanished.  They were never heard from again."

"So who does that make me?"  Han said, completely baffled.

"I don't know," Thrackan said.  "But if I had to guess, I'd guess that
you're my cousin.  That somehow Grandpa Solo and his son got away, and
that you're the son of his son."

"Doesn't anybody know anything but that?"  Han demanded, feeling
desperate.

This was a total dead end--the disappointment was crushing.

"Servants?"

"Grandpa Solo didn't like human servants.  He always had droids.  And
when Grandma Solo made it back to her family on Corellia, Great grandpa
Gama had all the droids' memories erased.  He thought it would be
easier on her that way.  He wanted her to get married again, start a
new life."  Thrackan struggled to take a deep breath.  "But she never
did."

"So what happened to your mom?"

"I don't know.  She's always been afraid to trust people, and she hates
crowds.  After my dad died, she just wanted to shut herself away.  So
she did."

Han's knife hand drooped, and he shook his head.  "Okay," he said.

"I'm go--" With a sudden heave, Thrackan threw him off, and then,
before Han could counter the move, their positions were reversed.  Han
gazed up at his

cousin, knowing that he'd be lucky to live through this.  Thrackan's
dark eyes blazed with hate, rage, and sadistic pleasure.  "You're going
to be very, very sorry, Han," he said quietly.

And Han was.

Thrackan locked him in a bare storeroom for three days, giving him only
bread and water.  On the afternoon of the third day, as Han was sitting
listlessly in a corner, Thrackan unlocked the door.  "I'm afraid this
is goodbye, coz," he said cheerfully.  "Someone's here to take you
home."

Han looked around desperately as Garris and Larrad Shrike followed
Thrackan into the room, but as he already knew, there was nowhere to
run.

Han shook his head and refused to let himself think about the days that
had followed.  Shrike had been held back in his punishment only by the
fact that he hadn't wanted to "damage" Han permanently because of his
growing reputation as an expert speeder and swoop pilot.  But there had
been lots of things he could do that wouldn't cause permanent damage,
and he had done most of them .  . .

The only time Han had been beaten more severely was after the debacle
on Jubilar, when he was seventeen.  Han had already been bruised and
sore from the gladitorial Free-For-All he'd been forced to fight in,
after being caught cheating at cards.  That time, Shrike hadn't
bothered with a strap, he'd just used his fists--battering the boy's
face and body until Larrad and several others had pulled him off Han's
unconscious form.

And now he's killed Dewlanna, Han thought bitterly.  If anyone ever
needed killing, it's Garris Shrike.

For a moment he wondered why it had never occurred to him to kill the
unconscious Shrike before he'd made his getaway aboard the Ylesian
Dream.

He'd have been doing the inhabitants of Trader's Luck a favor.  Why
hadn't he?  He'd had the blaster in his hand .  . .

Han shook his head.  He'd never shot anyone before yesterday, and
killing an unconscious man just wasn't his style.

But Han knew, without being told, that if Garris Shrike ever caught up
with him in the future, he was a dead man.  The captain never forgot
and he never forgave.  He specialized in carrying grudges against
anyone who had ever wronged him.

Han got up again to check their course, and his air pak.  Only a few
hours worth of air left, now.  He did some mental calculations, while
staring at the display.  Close.  It's going to be close.  I'd better be
ready to pop the cargo door on this crate as soon as we land .  . .

It's going to be very, very close .  . .

three

Crash Landing

Although he'd flown hundreds of hours in swoops and speeders, Han's
experience with piloting larger vessels was confined to the times
Garris Shrike had permitted him to pilot the Luck's shuttle on easy
runs.  He'd taken off and landed, but he'd never before tried to land
anything as large as the robot freighter.  Han hoped he'd be able to
handle it.  He had confidence in his ability as a pilot--after all,
hadn't he been the junior speeder champion of all Corellia three years
running?  And, last year, hadn't he won the swoop racing championship
of the entire Corellian system?

Still, compared to the Luck's shuttle, this freighter was huge .  . .

Han dozed again, then when he awoke, roved restlessly around the cabin,
knowing he should be conserving his energy and his air, but unable to
stop himself.

"Sir?"  The R2 unit that had been so quiet for so many hours suddenly
came back to life.  "I must advise you that we have reached the orbit
of Ylesia.

You must stand ready to make your descent and landing."

"Thanks for telling me," Han said.  Going over to the control banks, he
scanned the instruments, mentally calculating their descent.  This
wasn't going to be easy.  He had no way to interface with the
navicomputer, except via the R2 unit.  A pilot had to make split-second
decisions, at times, and in cases like that, Han wouldn't be able to
wait for the R2 unit to reply.

The ship suddenly shivered, then rocked slightly.

They were hitting atmosphere, Han realized.

He took a deep breath and glanced at his air pak reading, realizing it
was going to be close .  . . very, very close.

Here we go, he thought, switching to manual control of the Ylesian
Dream.  "Hey, R2," he said tightly, adjusting his course slightly.

"Yes, sir?"  "Wish me luck."

"I-beg-your-pardon, sir, this unit is not--" Han swore, and the Ylesian
Dream headed down, for the surface of a planet he couldn't even see.

He could see the sensor readouts and the infrared scanners, though, and
he realized that Ylesia was a world of tempestuous air currents, even
in the upper layers of the atmosphere.  Mapping sensors created a
global portrait of the planet: Shallow seas studded with islands, and
three small continents.  One lay nearly at the north pole, but the
other two, the eastern and western continents, lay nearer the equator,
in what must be temperate zones.

"Great," he muttered to himself, locating the ship's home-in beacon.

He could use it as a guide to plan his landing.  The landing field was
on the eastern continent.  That must be where the Ylesian colony of
priests and religious pilgrims was located.

The Dream rocked wildly, swooping through the swirling air currents
like a child on a rope swing.  Han's suit gloves were clumsy on the
undersized diagnostic controls as he used his stabilizers to steady
their descent.

Trying to get the feel of the controls, Han yawed them to port, then
overcompensated, sending them skittering to starboard.

On the infrared image, a huge blob of red suddenly loomed up.  That's a
huge storm--Han thought, using his laterals to even out their
descent.

He allowed the Dream to drift a few degrees north, figuring that he'd
miss the storm, then swing back south later, when he was beneath the
maelstrom.

The ionized particles left in the wake of all that lightning were
playing havoc with his instruments, Han realized.  He gulped air, felt
his chest tighten, and had to fight back panic.  Good pilots couldn't
afford to let their emotions get in the way, or they'd wind up dead and
that would end their trip real quick, wouldn't it?

"R2," Han said tightly, "see if you can chart me those storm areas so I
can avoid the ion trails that lightning is leaving.  Concentrate on the
direct flight path between our present location and the landing field
on that eastern continent."

"Yes, sir," the R2 unit said.

Moments later the electrical storm sites appeared before him.  "Give me
a scaled-down version of that chart in the corner of this screen,
R2,"

Han ordered.  Usually it would be the navicomputer's job to "merge"
the intended flight path with the geographical features and the storm
cells, and to suggest an intended course, which the pilot could then
implement and modify as needed.

Han had never missed having a navicomputer at his disposal more than he
did at this moment.

He slowed their headlong rush fractionally, then was forced to kick in
their thrusters to get them out of the way of yet another wind shear
from a storm cell.

Sweat was dripping down his face now as he fought the tiny controls,
forcing Ylesian Dream into maneuvers only a swoop or a military fighter
could reasonably be expected to tackle.  Han realized he was still
gasping, and wondered for a split second whether it was from stress and
adrenaline or whether his air was running out.

He couldn't spare the second it would take to check the air pak.  They
were now only a kilometer above the surface of the planet, coming in
with a rush.  Too fast!  Han slowed them, using the braking thrusters
roughly.  Gee forces seized him, and he felt as though something were
squeezing his chest in a giant vise.  He was gasping steadily now, and
he dared to look down at his air pak.

Empty!  The status indicator was solidly in the red zone.

Hold together, Han, he counseled himself.  Just keep breathing.

There's got to be enough air in your suit to support you for a couple
of minutes--at least.

He shook his head, feeling light-headed and dizzy.  His breath began to
burn in his chest.

But they were almost slow enough now to land.  He braked again,
lightly, and the ship bucked suddenly.  I've lost my forward
stabilizer!

Han fought to compensate.  Still too fast, but there was nothing more
he could do about that.  He flicked on the repulsorlifts and began to
set her down, feeling the ship's vibration through his knees and legs
as he knelt on the deck.

Hold together, baby!  he thought at the Dream.  Hold together-With a
huge whooooommpppp!  the forward portside repulsor shorted out.  The
Dream yawed wildly to port, hit the ground, then bounced upward.  The
starboard repulsor blew, and then its entire starboard side impacted
with the ground, nearly flipping the vessel over.

Veham!  With a hideous crunch that Han could feel through his entire
body, the Ylesian Dream crashed into the surface of the planet,
shuddered once, and was still.

Han was thrown violently across the cabin.  His helmet impacted with

the bulkhead, and he lay there, arms and legs flung wide, dazed.  He
fought to stay conscious.  If he passed out, he'd never wake up
again.

Trying to pull himself up into a sitting position, Han grunted with
effort.  Waves of blackness threatened.  He triggered his suit
communications channel.  "R2

... R2 ... come in!"

"Yes, sir, I am here, sir."  The droid's mechanical tones sounded a bit
shaken.  "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, that appears to have
been a most unconventional landing.  I am concerned that--" "Shut UP
and OPEN THE CARGO AIRLOCK!"  Han wheezed.  He managed to push himself
up into a sitting position, but he was afraid he wouldn't be able to
stay up.  He was swaying like a drunk in a high wind.

"But, sir, I warned you that in the interests of security, all
entrances would be sealed pending--" Han found the blaster he'd stuck
into the outside pocket on his suit and, drawing it, leveled the weapon
at R2.  "R2, YOU OPEN THAT AIRLOCK NOW, OR I'LL BLAST YOUR METAL HIDE
INTO ATOMS!"

The droid's lights flashed frantically.  Han's finger tightened on the
trigger as he wondered whether he'd have the strength to crawl to the
airlock.  Blackness hovered at the edges of his vision.

"Yes, sir," the R2 said.  "I am doing as you request."

Moments later Han felt the concussion as air whoomped into the Dream
with near-explosive force.  Gasping, he counted to twenty, then, with
the last of his remaining strength, wrenched off his helmet.  He let
himself sink back down onto the deck.

He gasped, found he could breathe, and gulped huge lungfuls of fresh
air.

Warm air, humid air, air laden with smells he couldn't identify.  But
it was rich with oxygen, eminently breathable, and that was all he
cared about at the moment.

Closing his eyes, Han concentrated on simply breathing, and felt
exhaustion overwhelm him.  His head throbbed, and he needed just a
moment to rest.

Just a moment .  . .

When Han swam back up to full consciousness and opened his eyes, he
found he was staring into a face out of a nightmare.  That is the
ugliest critter I've ever seen!  was his first thought.  Only years of
experience in dealing with nonhumans of all varieties made him able to
control his initial reaction.

The face was broad, with two bulbous, protruding eyes, and covered with
leathery grayish-tan skin.  No visible ears, and only slits for
nostrils.

Above the nostril slits was a large, blunt horn that was nearly as
long as Han's forearm.  The mouth was a wide, lipless split in the huge
head.

Han shook his own pounding head and managed to sit up, noting from his
surroundings that he appeared to be in some type of infirmary.  A
medical droid hovered across the room, lights flashing.

His host (if that was who the creature was) was big, Han realized.

Much bigger even than a Wookiee.  It somewhat resembled a Berrite, in
that it walked on four tree-trunklike legs, but it was far larger.

This creature's head was appended to a short, humped neck that was
attached to a massive body.  Han figured its back would reach his
shoulders when he was standing up.  The leathery skin covering its body
hung in creases, wrinkles, and loose folds, especially on its short,
almost nonexistent neck.  The skin shone with an oily gleam.

The four short legs ended in huge, padded feet.  A long, whippy tail
was carried curled over its back.  For a moment Han wondered if the
creature had any manipulatory limbs, but then he noticed two undersized
arms that were folded against its chest, half-hidden by the loose folds
of neck skin.  The being's hands were delicate, almost feminine, with
four long, supple fingers on each hand.

The being opened its mouth and spoke in accented, but understandable
Basic.  "Greetings, Mr.  Draygo.  Allow me to welcome you to Ylesia.

Are you a pilgrim?"

"But I'm not .  . ."  Han muttered, his head spinning.  For a moment
the name didn't connect, then things snapped into place.  Of course.

He clamped his mouth shut, thinking that maybe he'd gotten a worse
knock on the head than he'd realized.  Vykk Draygo was the alias whose
ID he'd currently been carrying.

Han had several alter egos, with proper documentation to back them
up.

Ironically, he had nothing by way of ID under his true name.

"Sorry," he muttered, holding his hand to his head, hoping his slip
would be excused as a result of his head injury.  "I'm still kind of
shaken up, I guess.  No, I'm not a pilgrim.  I came here to answer a
job advertisement for someone--preferably a Corellian--to do the
piloting here."

"I see.  But how did you happen to be aboard our ship when it
crashed?"

the creature inquired.

"I wanted to reach Ylesia as quickly as possible, so I took the
opportunity to stow away on the Ylesian Dream," Han said.  "I'd have
had to wait a week for a commercial flight, and the ad said a pilot was
urgently needed.  Did you get my message?"

"Yes, we did," the being said.  Han watched it intently, wishing he

could read its expression.  "We were expecting you--but not in the
Ylesian Dream."

"See, I brought the ad with me."  Han reached for his jumpsuit that was
hanging over a chair beside the bed and extracted the holo-cube that
featured the Ylesian advertisement he'd replied to.  "It says you need
someone to start right away."

He handed the cube over.  "So .  . . Vykk Draygo here, and I'm applying
for this job.  I'm Corellian, and I fit all your qualifications.  I
just · .  .

well, I wanted to say that I'm sorry about crashing the Dream.  Your
ship's a different model than any I ever piloted, but a couple of hours
on a simulator will fix that.  And I'm afraid that your atmospheric
currents came as a surprise."

The being scanned the cube, then placed it on the table.  The corners
of the massive, lipless mouth turned upward slightly.  "I see.  Mr.
Draygo, I am the Most Exalted High Priest of Ylesia, Teroenza.  Welcome
to our colony.  I am impressed at your initiative, young human.

Traveling aboard a robot ship in order to answer our ad so quickly
speaks well for you."

Han frowned, wishing his head didn't hurt quite so much.  "Well .  .

.

thanks."

"I am impressed that you managed to control and land a robot craft.

Few human pilots have been able to react quickly enough to deal with
this world's challenging weather patterns.  The damage to our ship is
not serious, and repairs are already under way.  You landed on soft
ground, which was fortunate."

"Does that mean I get the job?"  Han asked eagerly.  Great!  They're
not mad!

"Would you be willing to sign a year's contract?"  Teroenza asked.

"Maybe," Han said, leaning back and relaxing, hands behind his head.

"How much?"

The High Priest named a sum that made Han smile inwardly.  Even though
it was more money than he'd hoped for, he was too much of a trader not
to automatically bargain.

"Well, I dunno .  . ."  he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  "I
made more than that in my previous position .  . ."

A lie, but not one they'd be able to disprove.  Vykk Draygo had indeed
made more than that--Han had paid well to make sure his alter ego's job
record showed that he could command the highest wages.  It had taken
all of Han's savings, plus the proceeds from two dangerous heists that
Garris Shrike hadn't known anything about, to finance those alterations
in his alter ego's job record--but Han had wanted Vykk Draygo to be
able to command a high salary.

Teroenza pondered that information, then said, "Very well, I can offer
you thirty thousand for the year, with a bonus of ten at the end of the
first six months, providing you make every assigned flight on
schedule."

"Bonus of fifteen," Han said automatically.  "And you provide the
training sims."

"Twelve," countered Teroenza.  "And you pay for the sims."  "Thirteen,"
Han said.  "You supply the sims."

"Twelve and a half, and we provide the sims," the High Priest said.

"Final offer."

"Okay," Han said, "you got yourself a pilot."

"Excellent!"  Teroenza actually chuckled, a deep, booming, oddly
melodious sound.

Quickly the contracts were produced, and Han signed them, then allowed
a retinal scan as proof of his identity.  Hope they're like everyone
else , he thought, and just do a general, system-wide check of my
retinal patterns.

If the priests ordered a comprehensive--and very expensive--allsystems
search to determine whether "Vykk Draygo's" retinal scan was unique,
they'd eventually discover that it wasn't.  Vykk Draygo, Jenos Idanian,
Tallus Bryne, Janil Andrus, and Keil d'Tana all shared the exact same
retinal patterns--which wasn't surprising, as all of those individuals
were, in fact, Han Solo.

Before Han left Trader's Luck, he'd taken the precaution of stashing a
small hoard of credits and complete ID sets in two lockboxes on
Corellia, in case he ever needed a quick change of identity.  Garris
Shrike had provided the boy with different sets of ID for each scam Han
participated in, and Han had kept each set and updated them as
necessary.

The Corellian knew, however, that none of his forged IDs would stand up
to Imperial scanners.  Before he'd be able to take the Academy entrance
exams, Han was well aware that he'd have to pay out a small fortune in
bribes on Coruscant to gain ID documentation so genuine that it would
pass an Imperial security clearance check.

With all of the business details taken care of, Teroenza then summoned
an Under-Priest, or Sacredot, as they were called, and instructed him
to take Han on a tour of the complex.  Han was left in private to put
on his jumpsuit, after being assured that clothing bearing the Ylesian
symbol--a huge, wide-open eye and mouth--would be furnished to him.

As he donned the clothes and his boots, he realized that he was
sweating heavily.  Hot and humid, he thought.  Wonderful climate.  But
for the money the priests were paying, he was willing to put up with a
year's discomfort.  By taking this job, he'd get lots of practice
flying big ships and

access to training sims.  That ought to ensure that he could pass the
entrance exams to enter the Academy.

The money would mean that he had the proper amount for bribes to make
sure his application was processed quickly and actually reached the
admissions officers.  He knew from his research that without bribes it
frequently took a month or more for a cadet candidate to apply, pass
all relevant exams, be interviewed, and finally accepted for entrance
into the Imperial Academy.

The Sacredot arrived and introduced himself as "Veratil."  Han followed
him down a corridor, past a large amphitheater, and what appeared to be
a registration area.  "Our Welcome Center," the priest explained.

Veratil led him outside.  Han stepped through the door, and even before
he could draw a deep breath, he was immediately bathed in sweat.

Steaming heat and humidity smote him in the face, almost like a
physical blow.  The air was rich with smells--heavy perfume from
flowers, rotting vegetation and another odor, one he'd smelled before
but couldn't quite identify.

Han stood at the top of the short ramp that led down from the building
and looked up at the sky, seeing that it was a translucent blue gray
The sun overhead was an orangey-red, and looked larger than he was used
to.  This star must be closer to its planet than Corel was to
Corellia.

Han glanced at the shadows, seeing it was far past noon, and then
glanced at his wrist-chrono.  "How long is the day here?"  he asked
Veratil.

"Ten Standard hours, sir," the Sacredot replied.

No wonder the weather is so stormy, Han thought.  We've got a hot, wet
world with a really rapid rotation.

Han looked out across the cleared area.  The permacrete ended abruptly,
giving way to the natural ground and vegetation.  Pools of water
attested to recent torrential rain.  Reddish mud made an arresting
contrast to lush, blue-green vegetation.  The flowers hanging from the
vines and trees in the encroaching jungle were huge and
multicolored--scarlet, deep purple, and vivid yellow.

"This is Colony One," Veratil explained.  "We have also established two
new colonies for our pilgrims.  Two years ago we founded Colony Two,
and last winter we built Colony Three, which is still very small.

Colony Two lies about one hundred fifty kilometers north, and Colony
Three about seventy kilometers south of here."

"How long has Colony One been here?"  Han asked.

"Nearly five Standard years."

Han looked out across Colony One.  Directly across from the Welcome
Center lay the landing pad.  A little freighter lay there, listing on
her repulsors.  That must be the Dream, Han thought, realizing he'd
never seen the ship from the outside.

The Ylesian Dream was a small vessel, shaped like a fat, somewhat
irregular teardrop.  On her underside was a bulge where there was a gun
well, proving that the ship hadn't always been a robot freighter.

Another, larger bulge denoted the location of the primary cargo hold.

She was a graceful ship, small enough to be agile.  Corellian-built,
almost certainly.

Han could see massive ship dock droids working on the Dream, beginning
to repair her repulsors.  The ship, droids, and everything nearby was
splashed with reddish mud from the crash landing.

Off to the northeast, high above even the jungle giant trees, Han could
make out a glimpse of snowcapped heights.  He pointed.  "What mountains
are those?"

"The Mountains of the Exalted," Veratil told him.  "The Altar of
Promises where the faithful gather each night to be Exulted lies before
them.  You shall see it tonight, when you attend devotions."

Oh, great, Han thought.  Do I have to attend services, too?  Then he
remembered how much the Ylesians were paying him.  Han nodded.  "I'll
bet it's something to see."

To the pilot's left, he could make out a large expanse of the reddish
mud.

Several beings of Teroenza's and Veratil's race lolled in mudholes,
tended by droids and servants of assorted species.  Han recognized a
couple of Rodians, several Gamorreans, and at least one human.  "Those
are the mudflats," Veratil said, waving a dainty hand at the mudbathers
and their attendants.  "My people relish our mudbaths."

"What are your people?"  Han asked.  "Are you native to Ylesia?"

"No, we are native---or as native as our distant cousins, the Hutts--to
Nal Hutta," Veratil replied.  "We are the t'landa Til."

Han resolved to learn the t'landa Til's language as soon as he could.

Knowing a language that people didn't know you knew could often prove
an asset...

The Sacredot led Han around to the rear of the Welcome Center.  Han's
eyes widened as he took in the huge cleared area before him.  Clearing
that much jungle must have been quite a chore.  The cleared area was
roughly rectangular, and at least a kilometer on each side.  The
mountains were now behind and to his left, and he could see, on his
extreme right, the blue-gray glitter of water.  "Lake?"  he asked,
indicating it.

"No, that is Zoma Gawanga, the Western Ocean," Veratil informed him.

Han counted the huge buildings that lay before the mudflats.  There

were nine of them.  Five were three stories high, the other four were
only one story.  Each was easily the size of a Corellian city block.

"Homes for the pilgrims?"  he asked, waving at the buildings.

"No, the dormitory for our pilgrims is over there," Veratil said.  The
priest waved at a massive two-story building on the far left.  "The
multistory buildings are where we process ryll, andris, and carsunum.

The sin-glestory buildings you see extend far underground, a necessity
for processing glitterstim, which must be handled in complete
darkness."

Andris, ryll, carsunum, and glitterstim .  . . Han's nostrils flared.

Of course, that explains the odor!  These are factories for processing
spice!

He remembered that the Ylesian Dream had originally carried a cargo of
high-grade glitterstim, the most expensive and exotic variety of
spice.

The other types were usually cheaper--though they were still one of the
most profitable cargoes a smuggler could take on.

"We receive shipments of raw materials from worlds such as Kessel,
Ryloth, and Nal Hutta several times a month," Veratil went on.  "In the
beginning, the robot freighters which supplied us landed here at Colony
One, but that practice soon had to be discontinued."

"Why?"  Han asked, wondering if he really wanted to know.

"Two ships--most unfortunately---could not negotiate our tricky
atmosphere, and crashed.  So we built a space station and decided to
use living pilots to ferry the raw spice material down to the
factories.  We used to have three pilots, but now we are down to one,
and the unfortunate Sullustan who is currently serving as our pilot has
been .  . . ill.  That is why we need you, Pilot Draygo."

It's so nice to be needed, Han thought sarcastically.  "Uh .  . .

Veratil · .

. what happened to those other guys?"

"One crashed, the other simply .  . . disappeared.  We have also lost a
number of robot vessels, which has cut down on our profit margin most
grievously," Veratil said sadly.  "Spice is a high-credit export, but
spaceships are very expensive."

"Yeah," Han agreed sourly.  "All those crashes would tend to put a
crimp in your business."  No wonder they didn't have pilots beating
down their doors, he thought.  Most of the experienced pilots have
probably spread the word about how dangerous this planet is for pilots
. . .

Han knew a little bit about the various kinds of spice, mostly from
hearing Shrike and the other smugglers discuss their properties.

Glitterstim, mined on Kessel, was by far the most valuable.  When
exposed to light, then quickly ingested, it gave the user a temporary
telepathic ability to sense surface thoughts and emotions.  Spies used
it, lovers used it, and the Empire used it when interrogating
prisoners.  Matter of

fact, the Empire claimed all the glitterstim mined on Kessel as its
rightful property, which was why it was so rare and so lucrative to
smuggle.

Ryll came from the Twi'lek world, Ryloth, where it was perfectly legal
to mine, and was used for analgesic purposes.  There were illegal
applications, however, and it could be used to produce several
intoxicants and hallucinogens.

Carsunum was a black spice that came from Sevarcos, and it was quite
rare and very valuable.  Users experienced euphoria, and an increase in
their abilities--while under the influence they became stronger,
faster, and more intelligent.  There was a downside, of course.  After
the effects wore off, users frequently became listless, depressed, and
some even died when the substance had a toxic effect on their
metabolisms.

Sevarcos also supplied the galaxy with andris, a white powder that was
added to foods to enhance flavor and preserve them.  Some users claimed
that the drug caused a mild euphoria and increase in sensation.

They're not mining it here, Han thought.  These factories process the
raw material to turn it into the finished product.

"Factories?"  Han echoed.  "They're huge .  . ."

"Yes, and Ylesia has admirable production rates, enabling us to
favorably compete with the cost of the spice shipped directly from
Kessel, Ryloth, or Sevarcos," Veratil explained.  "And we are the only
facility that offers such variety of spice.  Buyers frequently wish to
purchase several different kinds of spice for their customers, and we
provide that."

Han saw figures entering and leaving the factory buildings.  Many
humans, some nonhumans.  He recognized Twi'leks, Rodians, Gamorreans,
Devaronians, Sullustans .  . . and there were others that were unknown
to him.  All the humans and bipedal aliens wore tan-colored robes that
came down below their knees and tan-colored caps that covered their
hair.

He gestured at the people.  "Factory workers?"

The Sacredot hesitated, then said, "They are the pilgrims that have
chosen to serve the Oneness, the All, in our factories."

"Oh," Han murmured.  "I see."

He saw a lot of things, now, more and more clearly each instant.  And
he had a bad feeling about what he was seeing, These pilgrims come here
to attain religious sanctuary, and wind up working in spice
factories.

I smell a vrelt---a dead one.

The Ylesian sun was far down in the sky by now, almost to the
horizon.

Han noticed that throngs of tan-clad workers were streaming northeast,
toward the mountains.  Veratil beckoned Han with one undersized hand.

"It is time for the blessed pilgrims to attend devotions and to be

Exulted in the One, render their prayers to the All.  Let us take the
Path of Oneness to reach the Altar of Promises.  Come, Pilot Draygo."

Han obediently followed the priest up a well-worn paved path.  Even
though they were surrounded by pilgrims, Han noticed that no one
ventured very close to them.  All of the pilgrims gave Veratil deep
bows, hands folded over their hearts.  "They offer thanks for the
Exultation they are about to receive," Veratil explained to Han as they
walked along.

As they moved away from the buildings, the jungle around them closed
in, until the path they were walking on was shadowed and overhung with
giant branches.  Han almost felt as though he were walking in a
tunnel.

They passed a huge open area that was evidently some kind of swamp,
because it was completely covered in huge blooms that were so beautiful
and exotic that Han had never seen anything like them.  "The Flowered
Plains," Veratil, still playing tour guide, pointed out.  "And this is
the Forest of Faithfulness."

Han nodded.  I wonder how much more of this I can take, he thought.  I
hope they don't expect me to become a convert, because they've got the
wrong guy.

After a twenty-minute walk, the group reached a large, paved area that
was fronted with a partially roofed area supported by three monstrous
pillars.

Veratil indicated that Han should stay with the crowd of pilgrims, then
the Sacredot moved on, heading for the pillars.  Han saw several of the
t'landa Til assembled beneath the pillars, including one that he
tentatively identified as Teroenza.  They were ranged around a low
altar carved from some translucent white stone that seemed to glow with
an inner light.

The high, snowcapped mountains made an impressive backdrop to the
scene, as they towered high above the jungle.  Han craned his neck,
looking up .  .

. up .  . . the tops of the highest peaks were hidden by drifting
clouds, stained red from the sunset.  The snows on the western sides of
the peaks glowed crimson and rose.

Impressive, Han was forced to admit.  The simplicity of the natural
amphitheater, with its paved floor and pillared altar, made it seem
like some vast natural cathedral.

The faithful filed into ranks and stood waiting.

Han stood at the back, shifting impatiently, hoping whatever religious
service was about to take place wouldn't last long.  He was hungry, his
head was throbbing, and the heat was making him sleepy.

The High Priest raised his tiny arms and intoned a phrase in his native
language.  The Sacredots, including Veratil, echoed him.  Then the

assembled throng (Han estimated four or five hundred in the crowd)
echoed the High Priest's phrase.  Han leaned closer to the nearest
pilgrim, a Twil'lek.  "What are they saying?"

"They said, 'The One is All,'" the Twi'lek, who spoke excellent Basic,
translated.  "Would you like me to interpret the service for you?"

Since Han was determined to begin learning the t'landa Til's language,
he nodded.  "If you wouldn't mind."

The High Priest intoned again.  Han listened to the ritual phrases
repeated by the Sacredots, then droned forth by the faithful pilgrims:
"The All is One."

"We are One.  We belong to the All."

"In service to the All, every One is Exulted."

"We sacrifice to achieve the All.  We serve the One."

"In work and sacrifice we are All fulfilled.  If every One has worked
hard, we are All Exulted."

Han stifled a yawn.  This was awfully repetitious.

Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes of chanting, Teroenza and all the
priests stepped forward.  "You have worked well," the High Priest
pronounced.  "Prepare for the blessing of Exultation!"

The crowd gave forth a sound of such greedy anticipation that Han was
taken aback.  Moving in a great wave, as though they were truly One,
they dropped to the pavement and lay there, arms and legs huddled
beneath their bodies, in an attitude of breathless hope and yearning.

All of the priests raised their arms.  Han watched as the loose,
wrinkled skin that hung below their throats inflated with air and began
to pulse.  A low, throbbing hum--or was it a vibration?--gradually
filled the air.

Han's eyes widened as he felt something invade his mind and body.  Part
vibration, part sound?  He wasn't sure.  Was it empathy, or telepathy,
or did that vibration trigger something in his brain?  He couldn't
tell.  He only knew that it was strong...

It rolled across him in a great wave.  Emotional warmth, physical
pleasure, it was all of that and more.  Han staggered back, off the
permacrete, until he was brought up short by the trunk of one of the
forest giants.  He braced himself against the tree, his head
swimming.

He dug his fingernails into the bark, hanging on to the tree.  His
hands against the bark seemed to be the only thing keeping him from
being swept away by that wave of warm feeling and ecstatic pleasure .

. .

Han hung on to the tree physically, and himself mentally, refusing to
let himself be sucked under with that wave.  He wasn't sure where he
found the strength, but he fought as hard as he ever had.  All his
life, he'd

been his own person, master of his own mind and body, and nothing was
going to change that.  He was Han Solo, and he didn't need aliens
invading his mind or his body to make him feel good.

No!  he thought.  I'm a free man, not some pilgrim, not your puppet!

Free, do you hear?

Gritting his teeth, Han fought that invasion as he would have fought a
physical opponent, and then, as quickly as it had started, the
sensation was gone--he was free.

But it was obvious the pilgrims weren't.  Their bodies writhed on the
stone, and muffled moans of happiness and pleasure made a soft swell of
sound.

Sickened, Han looked over at the priests.  They obviously weren't
affected as the pilgrims were.  So this is why these poor dupes stay,
once they find out they're expected to work in the spice factories, Han
thought, feeling a surge of bitter resentment on behalf of the
pilgrims.  They slave all day, then they hike up here and get a jolt of
feel-good vibrations that makes even the best spice pale by
comparison.

Han wondered whether he'd be expected to attend these "evening
devotionals" every night, and hoped that he wouldn't.  It had been hard
enough to push away that rush of warmth and pleasure tonight.  He was
afraid that if he had to be exposed to it every night, he wouldn't have
the strength, the resolution, to reject the Ylesian priests' "happy
pill."

By this time, the pilgrims were beginning to get up, some of them
weaving unsteadily.  All of their eyes were glazed, and many looked
like addicts Han had seen in spice and oobalah dens on Corellia and
other worlds.

"Do they do this every night?"  he muttered to the Twi'lek.

The alien's reddish eyes were shining with joy.  "Oh, yes.  Wasn't it
wonderful?"

"Great," Han said, but the Twi'lek was so enraptured he missed the
sarcasm.

"Do they ever not hold these 'devotions'?"  Han asked, curious.  "They
are only canceled if there has been trouble in the factories.  One time
a worker went mad and took a foreman hostage, then he demanded passage
off-planet.  Evening devotions and the Exultation were canceled--it was
horrible."

"So what happened to the mad worker?"  Han asked, reflecting that the
"madman" sounded completely sane to him.

"Before morning, we managed to overpower him and turn him over to the
guards, thank the One," the Twi'lek said.

Yeah, I'll bet, Han thought.  They couldn't stand being without their
little nightly charge.

The service was evidently over.

Veratil joined Han for the walk back to the central compound.  Han was
disinclined to talk, and truthfully pleaded fatigue.  The Sacredot,
saying that he understood perfectly, showed the Corellian pilot back to
the infirmary.

"You may eat and sleep here tonight," he said, "and tomorrow we will
take you to your permanent quarters in our Administration Building."

"Where's that?"  Han asked, pausing halfway through a bite of
indifferent--but filling--reedoxstew.

The Sacredot waved his arm roughly northeast.  "Not visible from here,
but there is a path through the trees.  I will meet you back here in,
say, six Standard hours?  Will that provide you with sufficient
sleep?"

Han nodded.  He could always try to snatch a nap later.  "Fine."  When
the priest was gone, Han dragged off his clothes and boots, realizing
that he had to get something clean to wear by tomorrow, or he wouldn't
be fit for polite society.  He considered taking a shower before bed,
but he was just too tired.

Han had always been able to set himself to wake up whenever he wished
to, so he mentally programmed himself to wake up in five and a half
hours.

Then, his mind whirling with images and impressions, he lay down on the
narrow infirmary bunk and was instantly asleep.

It took him a few minutes the next morning to remember just who he was
(Vykk Draygo, and don't forget it!) and what he was doing in this
sticky-hot place.  Han ventured into the shower and was pleased to find
the refresher unit contained everything necessary for a human being.

He hummed tunelessly as he soaped himself, but when he lifted a foot to
wash it, Han froze in surprise and dismay.  Fuzzy, bluegreen, mossy
stuff was growing between his toes!

Alarmed, Han checked further and was disgusted to find patches starting
in his armpits, at the back of his neck, and other, even more personal
areas.

Cursing, he scrubbed the disgusting fungus away, leaving raw skin
behind, and then, realizing he was running late, he bolted out of the
shower.  What kind of place is this, anyway?

When he walked back into the sleeping area, he found the medical droid
waiting for him, with a new pilot's uniform draped over one arm.

The droid held a jar of slimy gray stuff in its other hand.  "Pardon
me, sir," the droid said.  "But may I ask whether you are experiencing
any .  .

. outbreaks of fungus growing on your skin?"

"Yeah," Han snarled.  "The climate in this place is miserable.  Nobody
deserves to live in this dump."

"I quite understand, sir," the droid said, actually managing to sound
sympathetic.  "May I offer the contents of this jar?  It should prevent
fungal growths with regular application."

"Thanks," Han said shortly, and retired to treat the affected areas.

The stuff smelled horrible, but it soothed the irritation.  Then he got
dressed, admiring himself in his first real pilot's uniform.  The
colorful patches looked quite spiffy.

Han refused to let himself worry about the pilgrims he'd seen last
night.

Nobody had forced the weak-minded fools to come here, so he wasn't
going to waste any time imagining their fate.  He was going to take
care of Han Solo--or, more accurately, he was going to take care of
Vykk Draygo.

Besides, Han told himself, I'm going to be piloting for these
Ylesians.

I'll have access to a ship.  If I decide I don't like it, I'll just
take my money and · .  . vanish.  What can they do to stop me, after
all?

Feeling cocky, Han smiled at his reflection in the mirror and gave
himself a snappy salute.  "Cadet Han Solo reporting for duty, sir!"  he
whispered, trying it on for size.  His dream of the Academy had never
seemed so close, so attainable.

When Han stepped out of the infirmary, the first person he saw was
Teroenza.  Han nodded pleasantly to his employer.  "Good morning,
sir!"

The High Priest inclined his massive head.  "And to you, Pilot
Draygo.

Allow me to present someone you are going to be spending a lot of time
with, during your employment with us."  The High Priest beckoned, and
Han heard someone behind him.  He whirled around, and couldn't stop
himself from taking a quick step back.

His first impression was of height, and the second was of sharp teeth
and knifelike claws.  This being stood nearly three meters tall, taller
even than a Wookiee.  The creature had a mouthful of needle like fangs,
and claws that looked like they could rip through durasteel.  It was
furred, but it wore a pair of breeches.  A curved knife hung on its
belt, and a holstered blaster was strapped to its thigh.  Sleek muscles
rippled everywhere.

The newcomer grinned, baring even more of those teeth.  "Greetings . 
.

." it said, speaking Basic with a pronounced lisp.  "This is Muuurgh,"
Teroenza introduced the being.  "He's a Togorian, one of the most
honorable sentients in this galaxy.  The Togorian reputation for
honesty and loyalty is unparalleled, did you know that?"

Han looked up at the huge being and swallowed.  "Uh, no .  . ."  he
managed.

"We've assigned Muuurgh to be your .  . . bodyguard, Pilot Draygo.  On
planet or off, Muuurgh will accompany you everywhere .  . . isn't that
correct, Muuurgh?"

"Muuurgh has given word of honor," the Togorian affirmed.

The High Priest folded his undersized arms across his massive body, and
his mouth curved up in what almost appeared to be a mocking smile.

"Muuurgh is going to make very sure, Pilot Draygo, that no matter where
you go, or what you do .  . . you will be .  . . safe."

Four

Muuurgh

Han stared at the huge, black-furred creature, realizing that the jig
was definitely up.  Teroenza's meaning was unmistakable--step out of
line, and Muuurgh will rip you in two.  Han eyed the Togorian,
realizing that the alien could easily do just that.

He managed to pull himself together and smiled up at the Togorian.

"Pleased to meet you, Muuurgh," he said.  "It'll be nice to have real
company on those long flights."

"Yess .  . ."  the bodyguard said, stepping closer.  Han realized with
dismay that the top of his head barely reached the Togorian's
breastbone.  The alien appeared so feline that Han was surprised to
realize he didn't have a tail.  "Muuurgh enjoys space travel .  . ."

the bodyguard said in his strongly accented, lisping Basic.  His facial
fur was black, but his whiskers and chest fur were white.  His eyes
were a startling light blue, with brilliant green slitted pupils.

"Muuurgh goesss many spaceports, the more the better."

Han had a little trouble understanding the Togorian's Basic, but he
could make it out.  The young Corellian wondered just how smart this
being was.

Have to get to know him, Han decided.  Just because he can't speak good
Basic doesn't mean he's dumb.  But if he is .  . .

Han smiled.

"We'd thought we'd give you a day to settle in, Pilot Draygo," Teroenza
said.  "Move into the quarters we've assigned you, in the
Administration Building.  Muuurgh will show you where it is.  Then,
tomorrow, we'd like you to begin ferrying goods and personnel back and
forth between the colonies.  By the time our next shipment of spice is
delivered to our space station, you will be ready to ferry that down
for us.  After today, I am going to order Jalus Nebl, our other pilot,
to take a rest.  He has been working too hard."

Han nodded.  I've got to meet up with this Sullustan and compare
notes.

"That will be fine.  Can I .  . . look around a bit?  I'd like to check
out the lay of the land."

Teroenza inclined his massive head.  "Certainly, as long as Muuurgh
accompanies you, and you follow all safety regulations while touring
the factories."

"Of course," Han agreed.

Teroenza bowed slightly.  "If you will excuse me, we are expecting a
shipment of pilgrims to come down from our orbiting space station this
morning.  I have much to do as I prepare to welcome them."

Han nodded, thinking about what lay ahead for those pilgrims.  He knew
that mining spice was considered dangerous, an extremely unpleasant
duty--matter of fact, being sent to the spice mines of Kessel was a
common punishment for felons--but he knew very little about what
happened to the spice once it was mined.

Well, he intended to find out.  Maybe there was some way he could turn
this situation even more to his advantage.  You never knew .  . . and
it never paid to leave stones unturned.  In Han Solo's book, knowledge
frequently led to power---or at least to a faster escape .  . .

Muuurgh led Han up a paved path through the jungle, until they reached
a large, very modern building.  "Administration Center," the Togorian
said, indicating the building.

The "bodyguard" led Han around to a side entrance, and then down a
corridor until he reached a door.  "You, Muuurgh, sleep here," he said,
opening the door.

Inside was a small suite consisting of a bedroom, refresher unit, and a
small sitting room.  Han was pleased to see that Teroenza had been
mindful of the terms of the contract.  In one corner of the bedroom was
a fully equipped sim unit.  Muuurgh walked to the door of the bedroom
and waved a clawed hand at it.  "Yours.  Pilot sleep here."

"But where will you sleep?"  Han asked.

As expected, Muuurgh indicated the sitting room.  "Muuurgh here."

Great, Han said.  These priests don't trust me any more than I trust
them.  With Muuurgh sleeping between me and the door to the outside,
I'd be taking a big chance trying to sneak out at night.  Just great.

"That doesn't look very comfortable to me," Han said, doing his best

imitation of wide-eyed innocence.  Inwardly, he was wondering whether
Muuurgh was a sound sleeper.  "Maybe you should get a room of your own,
so you could sleep comfortably."

"Muuurgh most comfortable when he is keeping word of honor," the
Togorian said.  Han stared at the catlike being.  Had he glimpsed a
flash of humor in those blue-green eyes with their slitted pupils?

"Muuurgh give word of honor to watch Pilot always, so Muuurgh most
comfortable here."  Han nodded.  "Right."

He stared for a moment at the blaster in the Togorian's holster.  "I
had a blaster when I came here, but I don't know where it is, now," he
commented.  "I guess I'll need to ask about getting it back."

"Pilot not need blaster."  Muuurgh flexed his fingers and the
retractable claws popped out.  "High Priest say Pilot not need
blaster."

"But what if I get attacked by some kind of .  . . predator?"  Han
waved at the omnipresent jungle outside the building.  There were
probably dozens of predators who might enjoy hunting an off-worlder,
either for food or fun.

The giant alien shook his whiskered head.  "Never happen.  Pilot have
Muuurgh, who has blaster."

"Uh .  . . that's true," Han said.  Mentally, he made a note to ask
Teroenza for some kind of weapon.  He felt naked without one, even
after only having had one for a couple of days.

"So, Muuurgh, shall we go exploring?"  Han asked.  "I don't have any
baggage to unpack, as you can see."

"Explore where?"  the Togorian asked.

"I'd like to tour the factories," Han said.  "And this Administration
Center."

"Fine," the Togorian said.  "Come, Pilot."

"Right behind you," Han said, suiting his action to his words.

They walked the corridors of the Administration Center, glanced in at
the mess hall, toured the guards' wing, and peeked at the priests'
quarters.

When Han caught a glimpse of the Armory, he realized that the Ylesian
priests must be afraid of a pilgrim uprising, because the percentage of
guards to workers was high.  The Armory boasted a lot of heavyduty riot
control armament--force pikes and stun gas.  The guards they met came
from many different worlds.  Besides humans, Han saw Rodians,
Sullustans, Twi'leks, and porcine Gamorreans.

"So let me get this straight," he said to Muuurgh as they skirted an
area in the Administration Center that signs in many languages
identified as RESTRICTED ACCESS.  "The guards all sleep here most of
the time?  But

why don't they sleep near the pilgrims' dormitory if the priests want
to make sure the workers stay under control?"

"Sleep-time not the problem," the Togorian said in his halting Basic.

"After pilgrims are Exulted, can barely walk back, go sleep right
away.

Only time pilgrims get mad, angry at bosses, is before Exultation."

Makes sense, Han thought dourly.  Give the addicts their fix, and then
they just sleep it off until the next day.  "Then the guard patro--"
The pilot stopped in midword when he glimpsed something large and
grayish gliding far down the corridor in the off-limits area.  Han
squinted into the dimness.  "Hey .  . . what was that?"  he muttered.

"That looked just like a--" Han broke off as the object turned the
corner.  He started after it at a good clip.

Muuurgh made a futile grab for his charge, but Han was quicker than the
big alien and dodged.  He jogged down the "forbidden" hallway,
listening hard for the sound of footsteps, but none came.

When he reached the junction of the corridors, Han turned to stare up
the one where he'd glimpsed that flicker of gliding motion.  His eyes
widened.

Hey, it is a Hutt!  What's a Hutt doing here?  There was no mistaking
the identity of that huge, sluglike form reclining on its repulsorlift
sled.

As he hesitated, Muuurgh pounced on him as though he were a vrelt, and
picked up the Corellian bodily.  Han repressed a yelp of dismay as the
Togorian tucked him under one muscled arm and ran back down the
corridor, until they were back in the UNRESTRICTED ACCESS section of
the Center.

Muuurgh set Han back on his feet and flexed a hand under the
Corellian's nose.  "My people teach, everyone entitled to ONE mistake,"
the bodyguard said.  "Pilot just have his.  No more mistakes, or
Muuurgh have to teach Pilot like little cub.  Muuurgh has given word of
honor, remember.

Understood?"

Han eyed the claws that gleamed under his nose, sharp and shiny as
razors.

"Uh .  . . yeah," he managed to say.  "I understand, Muuurgh.  Humans
just get .  . . curious, you know?"

"Curiosity fatal sometimes," Muuurgh growled.

"I can see your point," Han said dryly.  "Or, rather, your points."

Muuurgh stared at the sharp, shining tips of his claws, then his muzzle
lifted back from his fangs, and he made a low, mewling sound.  For a
moment Han froze, then he looked at the Togorian and realized this was
the alien's form of laughter.  Evidently Muuurgh had caught the joke.

Han managed a weak chuckle.  "So, how about we get some food, then
check out those factories, eh, pal?"  he asked.

"Muuurgh always hungry," the Togorian agreed, leading the way toward
the mess hall.  "What means this word 'pal'?"

"Oh, a pal is a friend, a buddy, you know.  Someone you spend time with
that you like," Han explained.

"Yessss .  . ."  the Togorian said, nodding.  "Pilot means 'packmate.""
"Right."

"Good," the bodyguard said.  "Muuurgh misses his packmates."

Han recalled Teroenza saying that his people came from Nal Hutta, the
Hutt homeworld, but Han hadn't realized that that meant there were
Hutts living on Ylesia.  When questioned, Muuurgh confirmed that he had
seen several of the "slug masters who ride on air" as he called them.

There's only one reason Hutts are here, Han thought.  They're the real
masters of Ylesia.  After all, they dominate the contraband spice trade
. .

.

Lunch was good, if unimaginative and (to Han's taste) lacking in
seasoning.  Still, the cook was no slouch.  His or her bread was very
good, Han thought as he chewed on a bite of Alderaanian flatbread.  He
realized suddenly, with a pang, that it had been nearly a day since
he'd thought of Dewlanna.  The thought made him feel vaguely disloyal,
but then he took himself in hand.  Dewlanna wouldn't want him to mope
and grieve over her.

She'd always enjoyed life, and she wouldn't expect Han not to, just
because she was gone .  . .

He came back out of his reverie to find Muuurgh watching him
curiously.

"Pilot is thinking of someone far away," the Togorian observed, waving
the bone he had just finished gnawing.  Tiny fragments of raw meat
still clung to it, but Muuurgh had cleaned it impressively, Han
thought.  He had to get every little bit.  It required a lot of raw
meat to keep that massive body going.

"Yeah," Han agreed with a sigh.  "Someone about as far away as anyone
can be."

"Pilot have sweetheart?"

Han shook his head.  "Well, there've been a few girls here and there,"
he admitted, "but nobody special.  No, I was thinking of the person who
more or less raised me."

Muuurgh took a huge gulp of some foamy stuff from a tankard.  "Humans
raise young much differently than my people do," he said.  "Really?

Tell me about your world."

Muuurgh obediently launched into a description of Togoria, a world
where males and females, though equal, did not mix their societies.

Males

lived a nomadic hunting existence, flying over the plains on their
huge, domesticated flying reptiles, called "mosgoths."  They hunted in
packs.

The females, on the other hand, had domesticated animals for meat, so
they did not need to hunt.  They lived in cities and villages, and it
was the female Togorians who had developed all of the planet's
technology.

"Well, if your people don't live together, how do you"--Han searched
for a polite term--"uh .  . . get together, you know, to .  . . uh
...

reproduce?"

"We travel to city to stay with our mates once each year," Muuurgh
said.

"Betweentimes, we think often of each other.  Togorians very emotional
people, capable of great love," he added earnestly.  "Especially
males.

Great love is why Muuurgh is here.  Males of my species rarely leave
our world, does Pilot know that?"

"I do now," Han said.  "So .  . . Muuurgh .  . . when you say great
love made you come to Ylesia, what do you mean?  Do you have a mate?"

The Togorian nodded.  "Promised mate.  Someday be mated for life, if
Muuurgh can but find her."  The huge alien sighed, looking so woeful
that Han felt sorry for him.

"What's her name?"

"Mrrov.  Beautiful, beautiful Mrrov.  As Togorian females do, she
decided to take look at big galaxy.  Muuurgh begged her not to go, but
females very stubborn."

The alien looked at Han, who nodded.  "Yeah, I've run into that
myself."

"Mrrov gone long time, years.  When she not come home to be mated,
Muuurgh so sad that he cannot stay on Togoria.  Must discover what
happened to her."

"So .  . . did you?"  Han took a sip of his Polanis ale.  "Muuurgh
traced her, from world to world to world."  "And?"  Han prompted when
the Togorian paused.

"And Muuurgh lost her.  Someone on Ord Mantell said he saw her board
ship at spaceport.  Muuurgh check schedules, find out ship had many
pilgrims on board.  Several ports of call for ship.  Muuurgh take
chance, come here, because so many pilgrims come here."  The big
felinoid sighed heavily and nibbled on a meat-dripping bone.  "Gamble
no good.  Muuurgh ask, priests say no Togorians here.  Muuurgh not know
where else to go.  Muuurgh need credits to continue search .  . ."  The
alien swallowed a last bite, and his whiskers actually drooped.

"So you decided to take a job as a guard here, while you got enough
money to go on searching," Han said, guessing at the logical end of the
story.

"Yessss .  . ."

Han shook his head.  "That's sad, pal.  I hope you find her, I really
do.

It's tough to lose people that you love."

The bodyguard nodded.

After lunch, they headed down to the factories and walked around the
huge buildings.  Han sniffed the air, smelling the odor of the
different spices mingling.  His nose tingled slightly, and he wondered
if just smelling the spice could be intoxicating.  He waved at the
glitterstim building.  "Let's go inside.  I've heard about how they
process this spice, and I'd like to see it for myself."

When they walked into the cavernous building, a guard stopped them and
conferred with Muuurgh, who explained who Han was.  The Rodian guard on
duty gave them badges and infrared goggles, then waved them on in.

"Goggles?"  Han said in Rodian.  He understood the language perfectly,
but his pronunciation was a bit laborious.  "We have to wear them?"

The guard's purple eyes sparkled at hearing a human speak his
language.

"Yes, Pilot Draygo," he said.  "Below the ground floor, there are no
visible lights permitted.  You take the turbolift down.  Each level
down represents a one-grade increase in the quality of the spice.  The
longest and best fibers are processed far below ground, to eliminate
any possibility of their being ruined by light."

"Okay," Han said, beckoning to Muuurgh.  The two walked between aisles
of supplies, to reach the platform turbolift in the center of the
facility.

"Let's go all the way down and see the really good stuff," he said to
the Togorian.  Privately, Han was wondering whether he might be able to
light-finger some of those tiny black vials.  Selling a little
glitterstim on the side in a port city would increase his credit
account by leaps and bounds .  . .

Han pushed the button for the bottom floor, and the platform, swaying
slightly, started down.

Cool air wafted up from the depths as the turbolift went down in
pitch-darkness.  The draft felt wonderful after the humid heat of the
Ylesian jungle.

Within one floor, all light was gone.  Han fumbled for his goggles,
pulled them up over his eyes.  Immediately he could see, though
everything was in shades of black and white.  The illumination came
from small light inserts in the walls.  The turbolift plunged downward,
and Han could see the workers as they crouched over their
workstations.

Piles of raw, fibrous threads studded with minuscule crystals lay piled
before them.

Finally, six floors down, the turbolift ground to a halt.  Han and
Muuurgh got off.  "Have you ever been here before?"  he asked the
bodyguard softly.

Muuurgh's neck fur was standing on end, and his white whiskers bristled
beneath his goggled eyes.

"No .  . ."  the Togorian whispered back.  "My people are
plainsdwellers.  Not like caves.  Not like dark.  Muuurgh will be happy
when Pilot wishes to leave this place.  Only Muuurgh's word of honor
keeps him here in wretched darkness."

"Steady," Han said.  "We won't be here that long.  I just want to get a
look around."

He led the way into the factory.  The cavernous area was filled with
soft swishings, but was otherwise silent.  Long tables lined the walls
and were ranged in the isleways.  Each table was a workstation, and a
worker sat or crouched, according to his, her, or its individual
anatomy, before the table.  There were many humans, Han realized,
sitting on tall stools, hunched over their work.

Few looked up as Han and Muuurgh went up to the level supervisor, a
furred Devaronian female, and identified themselves.  The supervisor
waved a reddish, sharp-nailed hand at the floor.  "My workers are the
most skilled," she said proudly.  "It takes skill to measure and trim
the number of fibrous strands so each dose will contain the correct
amount of spice.

It is essential--but very difficult--to line up the fibers so precisely
that they will all activate at the same moment when exposed to visible
light."

"Is it a mineral?"  Han asked.  "I know it's mined."

"It is naturally occurring, but we don't know how it's formed, Pilot.

We believe it may have a biological origin, but we're not sure.  It's
found deep in the tunnels on Kessel, and it must be mined in total
darkness, just as you see here."

"And the strands have gotta be put into these casings just right."

"Correct.  Improper alignment can cause the tiny crystals to fracture
against each other.  If that happens, they grind each other into a far
less potent--and valuable--powder.  It can take a skilled worker an
hour to properly align just one or two cylinders of glitterstim."

"I see," Han said, fascinated.  "Do you mind if we just wander
around?

I promise we won't touch anything."

"You may.  However, please avoid distracting any of the workers while
they are aligning the spice.  One inadvertent twist, as I said, could
ruin an entire thread."

"I understand," Han said.

The raw glitterstim threads were all black, but Han knew from hearing
about it that they would shine blue when they ignited in visible
light.

Han stopped behind one of the human workers and watched in fascination
as the worker separated out threads of ebony-colored spice, aligning
them with the utmost care.  The threads curled around the worker's
fingers, some of them as fine-spun as silk, but the tiny crystals made
them incredibly sharp.

The worker positioned one group of incredibly tangled threads in the
jaws of a tiny vise, then proceeded to painstakingly separate out the
threads, until the crystalline structures were aligned.  The worker's
fingers moved almost too fast to watch, and Han realized that he was
watching a highly skilled craftsman--no, woman.  He was amazed that
these pilgrims could actually accomplish something requiring this much
dexterity.  After seeing them last night following the "Exultation,"
he'd more or less assumed that they were dull-witted cretins.  They'd
certainly looked like it...

The glitterstim worker took out a minuscule set of pliers to untangle a
particularly bad snarl.  She wormed the narrow-nosed pliers into the
tangle, peering intently to find the place where the sharp little
crystals were caught together.  The fibrous glitterstim curled around
her hands like tiny, living tentacles, the sharp little crystal
glimmering.  The worker abruptly brought her hand back, tugging, and
suddenly the snarl straightened out until all the fibers aligned
perfectly.

Except one.

Han watched in distress as one sharp-studded strand cut between the
woman's forefinger and thumb.  A thin line of blood welled from the
deep gash.  Han sucked in a breath.  A few centimeters deeper, and the
tendon in her thumb would have been severed.  She hissed with pain,
then muttered something in Basic and, freeing her hand, held it to stop
the bleeding.

Han froze as he heard her accent.  This pilgrim was Corellian!

He hadn't even looked at her before, hidden as she was by the shapeless
tan robe, her cap pulled down tightly over her goggled head.  But now
he realized she was young, not old.  She grimaced slightly as she
examined the cut.  Turning her hand over, she twisted in her seat and
held her hand over the floor, so the blood wouldn't drip onto her
workstation.

Han knew he wasn't supposed to speak to the worker, but she wasn't
working at the moment, and he was concerned.  She was bleeding
profusely.  "You're hurt," he said.  "Let me call the supervisor so she
can fix you up."

The girl--she was his age, possibly younger--started slightly, then
looked up at him.  Her face was a whitish-green blur beneath her
goggles

and cap, and seemed deathly pale in the infrared light.  No wonder,
Han thought, cooped up down here all day long, no exposure to
sunlight.

"No, please don't," she said, speaking Basic with that soft accent that
placed her as being from Corellia's southern continent.  "If she sends
me to the infirmary, I'll miss the Exultation."  She shivered at the
thought--though it might also have been from the cold.  Han himself was
beginning to feel chilly, and he hadn't been down here for hours.  How
did these pilgrims stand it, working down here in the cold darkness all
day?  "But that cut looks nasty," Han protested.  She shrugged.  "The
bleeding is stopping."

Han could see that was true.  "But what about--" She shook her head,
halting him in midsentence.  "I appreciate your concern, but it's
nothing.  Happens all the time."  With a wry smile, she held out her
hands.  Han sucked in a breath.  Her fingers, wrists, and forearms were
crisscrossed with tiny slashes.  Some were old and white and healed,
but many were dark weals, still fresh and painful.

Han saw small, phosphorescent spots between her fingers and realized
they must be the fungus he'd discovered on himself that morning.  As he
watched, a phosphorescent tendril of the stuff suddenly spread, growing
toward the cut between her finger and thumb.  She uttered a soft
exclamation and pulled it free.

"The fungus loves fresh blood," she said, evidently noticing his
distaste.

"It can infect a cut and make you sick very easily."

"Disgusting stuff," Han said.  "Are you sure you don't need to get that
treated?"

She shook her head.  "As you can see, it happens all the time.  Excuse
me, but .  . . you're Corellian, aren't you?"

"So are you," Han said.  "I'm Vykk Draygo, the new pilot.  And you
are?"

Her mouth tightened slightly.  "I'm .  . . not really supposed to be
talking.  I'd better get back to work."

Muuurgh, who had been watching in silence, suddenly spoke up.  "Worker
is correct.  Pilot must let worker return to work now."

"Okay, pal.  I understand," Han said to the Togorian, but then he added
to the Corellian woman, "But maybe we could talk some other time.  Over
supper, maybe."

She shook her head silently and turned back to her work.  Muuurgh
motioned for Han to move on.

The Corellian moved one step away, but continued talking.  "Okay, but
.

. .

you never know.  We're bound to run into each other, this place ain't
all that big.  So .  . . what's your name?"

She shook her head again, not speaking.  Muuurgh growled, Low in his
throat, but Han just stood there, stubbornly.

The woman seemed disturbed by Muuurgh's implied threat.  As she
fastened a bandage over her cut, she said, "We give up our names when
we leave all worldly things for the spiritual sanctuary of Ylesia."

Han was feeling increasingly frustrated.  Here was someone who knew
this place intimately, and she was the first person from his homeworld
he'd discovered here.  "Please," he said as Muuurgh pushed him
slightly.  "There must be some kind of way they refer to you," he said,
smiling his most reassuring, charming smile.  Muuurgh growled again,
more loudly.  He showed his fangs.

The woman's eyes opened wide at the display of teeth.  "I am Pilgrim
921," she said hastily.  Han got the impression that she had spoken up
to save him from Muuurgh's are.

Muuurgh grabbed Han's arm and began walking away, effortlessly dragging
the Corellian.  "Thank you, Pilgrim 921," Han called back to her,
waving jauntily, as though being half carried away by the Togorian was
a normal occurrence.  "Good luck with those fibers.  I'll be seeing
you."

She didn't respond.  When Muuurgh finally let him go, at the end of the
aisle, Han followed the Togorian obediently, half expecting a lecture
from the giant being.  But Muuurgh seemed satisfied that Han would now
obey him, and had relapsed into his former wary silence.

Han glanced back once and saw that the Corellian woman was again intent
on her work, as though she'd already forgotten him.

Pilgrim 921, he thought.  I wonder if I'd even be able to recognize her
· .

. Between the goggles, the cap, and his impaired vision, he had no real
idea of what she looked like, except for the fact that she was young.

Han walked all the way around the facility, watching several other
workers as they aligned threads and crystals so they were entirely
symmetrical.  He didn't attempt to speak to any of them.  Finally he
came back to the Devaronian supervisor.  "So, when they've finished
their work, who encases the threads and crystals in the vials?"  he
asked.

"That is done on the fifth floor," the supervisor told him.

"Maybe I'll just head up there," Han said.  "This is fascinating, you
know."

"Certainly," she said.

Okay, so they finish up the processing of the really high-grade stuff
up here, Han thought as he and Muuurgh ascended into the darkness.  The
Togorian let out a low yowl of protest when Han only took them up one
floor.

"Take it easy, Muuurgh," Han said.  "I just want to take a quick look
around here."

He wandered the aisles, trying unobtrusively to spot the place where
the high-grade glitterstim was enclosed in the tiny black vials that
all glitterstim users would recognize.  When he reached that area,
however, his heart sank.  Four armed guards stood by the conveyor belt,
watching the little vials as the workers brought their full baskets
over and dumped them.  Han felt an air current waft past him, realizing
that there was a small heating unit down there, warming the chill,
evidently for the comfort of the guards.

Four guards?  Han peered harder into the dimness.  No, hold on a
second.  He saw a blur of movement, but couldn't discern anything for a
long second.

Then, as he focused his eyes, he slowly made out oily, pebbled
blackness barely visible against the black stone wall.  But there were
eyes in the midst of that blackness--beady reddish-orange eyes.  Four
of them.  Han squinted, holding still, straining his vision.  Then he
saw two blasters, each strapped to a warty black thigh.

Aar'aa!  he realized.  Skinchangers!

The Aar'aa were an alien species from a planet on the other side of the
galaxy.  Denizens of Aar could gradually change color to match the
color of the background behind them.  This ability made them very
difficult to see, especially in darkness.

Han had heard of the Aar'aa before, but he'd never run into any until
now.

They were reptilian creatures, which explained why this section of the
belowground factory was heated.  Many reptiles became sluggish and
dull-witted when it was cold.

Han peered into the dimness, and slowly, gradually, made out the
outlines of the two Aar'aa guards.  They had pebbly-textured skin,
clawed hands and feet, and a small frill of skin running down their
backs.  Their heads were large, with overhanging brow ridges, beneath
which their eyes seemed doubly small.  Their faces had short muzzles,
and when one of the creatures opened its mouth, Han glimpsed a narrow,
sticky red tongue and sharp white teeth.  An upstanding frill of skin
ran from between their eyes, back over the tops of their heads, to
connect with the frill running down their backs.

Despite their clumsy appearance, they seemed fast on their feet.  Han
decided that he didn't want to tangle with them.  Although shorter than
he was, they were broad in the shoulders, and certainly outweighed him
by a considerable margin.

Han sighed.  Scratch Plan A.

The Aar'aa aside, the other guards--two Rodians, a Devaronian

male, and a Twi'lek--looked mean, and obviously meant business.  They
weren't Gamorreans, so there wasn't much chance of being able to
bewilder, confuse, distract, or otherwise fast-talk any of them into
handing over a fortune in spice.  Han grimaced and started back for
Muuurgh and the turbolift.  And there is no Plan B, he thought
glumly.

Guess I'll just have to earn all my credits the honest way.

It never even occurred to him that ferrying spice around the galaxy
was, in itself, highly illegal .  . .

Pilgrim 921 nibbled on a stale grain-cake and tried to forget the young
Corellian she had seen earlier.  She was a pilgrim after all, part of
the All, one with the One, and worldly concerns such as goodlooking
young men were behind her forever.  She was here to work, so that she
might be Exulted and offer her prayers for the blessing of the One as
part of the All--and conversations with young men named Vykk had no
part in that.

Still, she wondered what he looked like beneath those goggles.  What
color was his hair?  His eyes?  That smile of his had made warmth
blossom inside her, despite the cold .  . .

Shaking her head, Pilgrim 921--I miss my name!--tried to exorcise the
memory of Vykk Draygo's lopsided, heart-stopping smile.  She needed to
pray, to offer proper devotion.  She must do penance for separating
herself from the One, lest she be cast out from the All.

Still those sacrilegious thoughts kept intruding.  Thoughts .  . .

memories, too.  He was Corellian .  . . and so was she.

Pilgrim 921 thought of her homeworld, and for just an instant allowed
herself to remember it, to remember her family.  Were her parents still
alive?  Her brother?

How long had she been here?  921 tried to remember, but the days here
were all the same .  . . work, a few morsels of unappetizing food,
Exultation and prayers, then exhausted sleep.  One day flowed into each
other, and Ylesia had almost no seasons .  . .

For a moment she wondered just how long she'd been here.  Months?

Years?

How old was she?  Did she have wrinkles?  Gray hair?

921's scarred hands flew to her forehead, her cheeks.  Bones beneath
flesh, prominent bones.  Much more prominent than they had ever been
before.

But no wrinkles.  She was not old.  She might have been here months,
but not years.  How old had she been when she'd heard of Ylesia and
sold all her

jewelry to buy passage on a pilgrim ship?  Seventeen .  . . she'd just
finished the last of her undergraduate schooling and had been looking
forward to going off-world to attend the university on Coruscant.

She'd been going to study .  . . archaeology.  With an emphasis on
ancient art.

Yes, that was it.  She'd even spent a couple of summers working on a
dig, learning to preserve ancient treasures.

She'd wanted to become a museum curator.

As a child, history had always been her favorite subject.  She loved
learning about the Jedi Knights, and was fascinated by their
adventures.

She'd grown up in the aftermath of the Clone Wars, and had been
interested in that, too.  And the birth of the Republic, so very, very
long ago .  . .

921 sighed as she swallowed a bite of dusty grain-cake.  Sometimes it
bothered her when she realized that her memories were fading, that her
intelligence seemed to be fading, along with her ability to perceive
the world outside.  She knew that as a pilgrim, she was supposed to
eschew all worldly things, to expunge from her mind and body the
appreciation of fleshly pleasures.

In the old days, pleasure and having fun had been the focus of her
life.

In those days, her life had had little purpose, compared to now.  In
the old days, she'd drifted from place to place, subject to subject,
party to party .  . .

And it had all been so meaningless.

Life now had meaning.  Now she was Exulted.  Every night, the One
conferred blessing upon her, through the priests.  Exultation was the
way the All communicated with the pilgrims.  It was a deeply spiritual
experience--and it felt so good...

921 thought that she'd successfully managed to expunge all memory of
Vykk Draygo and his smile from her mind, so she went back to work on
her glitterstim pile--only to find herself wondering, minutes later,
whether he'd really look for her, try to talk to her again .  . .

921 shivered in the ever-present dank chill and tried very hard to
forget Vykk Draygo and all he stood for .  . .

That night, Han skipped devotionals in favor of spending time with
several of the sims.  This was his first opportunity to earn an
"honest" living, and he didn't want to mess up.  Han knew that citizens
complained about how hard they had to Work, and he figured that was
essential for success.  It was true that begging, pickpocketing,
burglary, and scamming

citizens frequently required considerable time and effort, but Han
knew that somehow it just wasn't comparable.

Heading for the sim station in his bedroom, Han began skimming through
the system, accessing what was available to him.  Teroenza had been as
good as his promise, and the simulations were there.  He scanned what
was available, chose the sims he wanted to work on, and ordered the
system to prepare several sequences.  He was careful to specify
"atmospheric turbulence" to be included in each training exercise.

He looked up at Muuurgh, who was standing there, watching him.  "I've
got to work for a while," he said.  "Why don't you take some time for
yourself?"

Muuurgh shook his head slowly.  "Muuurgh not leave Pilot alone.

Against orders."

"Okay."  Han shrugged.  "Your choice."

Muuurgh watched nervously as Han put on the visi-hood, cutting himself
off from contact with his real surroundings and plunging himself into a
training flight that felt exactly like the real thing.  The Togorian
was uncomfortable with technology.

Han let himself sink into the sim, and within minutes the sim had
accomplished one of its primary purposes--Han quite forgot that it was
a sim.  He was convinced that he was really piloting--really
negotiating asteroid fields at high speeds, really piloting through the
Ylesian atmosphere, really landing the craft under all sorts of adverse
conditions.

The Corellian emerged from the sim two hours later, having successfully
landed, flown, taken off, and performed the full range of maneuvers
possible with the shuttle he'd be flying to Colony 2 and Colony 3 on
the morrow.  He'd also reviewed the controls on the transport vessels
he'd be flying--the Ylesian Dream was being converted to manual
piloting--as well as those on Teroenza's private yacht.

By this time, the short Ylesian day was far spent.  Muuurgh was dozing
on the chair, but awoke instantly when Han stretched.  Han eyed the
Togorian, regretting that the alien was so alert.  It was going to be
very difficult to do the nighttime prowling that he had in mind .  .

.

Muuurgh walked along behind Pilot, pleased that his charge had
suggested heading over to the mess hall for a late supper.  The
Togorian was always hungry.  His people were used to hunting and
killing, then sharing their kill, so fresh meat was a constant part of
their diets.  Here, he had to make do with raw meat that had been
frozen.

Before Pilot had come into his life, he'd been free at times to enter

the jungle and hunt, so he could keep his claws--and his
skills--sharpened.

He missed his mosgoth, missed flying through the air on her back,
feeling her powerful wing muscles propelling them through the skies of
Togoria.

Muuurgh sighed.  The skies on Togoria were a vivid blue-green, much
different from the washed-out blue-gray color of Ylesia's skies.  He
missed them.  Would he ever see them again, would he ever fly his
mosgoth toward a crimson sunset in those vivid skies?

The priests had made him sign a six-month contract for his services as
a guard.  He'd given his word of honor to fulfill that contract.  It
would be many ten-days before he could return to his search for
Mrrov.

Muuurgh pictured her in his mind, her cream-colored fur, her orange
stripes, her vivid yellow eyes.  Lovely Mrrov.  She'd been part of his
life for so long now that not knowing her whereabouts was like an
aching wound inside him.  Could she have gone back to Togoria?  Was she
back on their world, waiting for him?

Muuurgh wished he could send a message to his homeworld, ask whether
Mrrov had returned, but messages sent over interstellar distances were
very expensive, and sending one would add nearly two months to his time
here on Ylesia.

Still .  . . Muuurgh considered, then thought that perhaps on one of
their trips to fly spice to Nal Hutta, Pilot would not mind if Muuurgh
sent a message.  The Togorian didn't really trust the Ylesian priests
enough to send a message from this world.

Pilot seemed like a decent fellow, for a human, Muuurgh mused.  Sly,
quick, always looking for a way to get around things, but humans were
frequently like that.  At least Pilot had accepted Muuurgh's dominance
as pack leader.

That was smart of him.  He'd live much longer that way .  . .

Muuurgh really hoped that Pilot would continue to be smart.  He liked
him, and didn't want to have to hurt him.

But if Pilot tried to break the rules, Muuurgh would not hesitate to
hurt---even kill--the Corellian.  Teroenza had given Muuurgh specific
orders, and the Togorian would carry them out to the best of his
ability.

He'd given his word of honor, and that was the most important thing in
the universe to his people.

The Togorian absently groomed his whiskers and facial fur, reflecting
that as long as Pilot didn't step out of line, everything was going to
be just fine .  . .

five

Spice Wars The next day Han took the Ylesian shuttle to Colony Two and
Colony Three.

He discovered that he really enjoyed piloting bigger ships, and his
piloting was perfect.  He managed to find a few extra minutes on his
return run to Colony One to practice low altitude flying, swooping the
shuttle so low that the belly nearly brushed the tops of the jungle
trees.  Beside him in the copilot's seat, Muuurgh alternated between
exhilaration and terror as the Togorian experienced swoops, barrel
rolls, and even upside-down high-speed flying.  Han was in his element,
putting the shuttle through maneuvers he'd only done previously during
sims.  The Corellian found himself whooping joyously at the sheer
thrill of it all.

For his last, best bit of precision flying, Han sent the shuttle
hurtling down a river-cut canyon, skimming between the rock walls with
so little room to spare that Muuurgh yowled, shut his eyes, and refused
to open them.  Once they were soaring through open skies again, Han had
to shake the Togorian's arm and repeatedly reassure the big alien that
he was finished practicing for the day.

"Muuurgh certain that Pilot is crazy," the Togorian said, cautiously
opening his eyes and straightening up in his seat.  "Muuurgh flies on
his mosgoth at home, but not like that.  Mosgoths have more sense than
to fly like that.  Muuurgh have more sense, too.  Pilot"--the Togorian
gave Han a plaintive glance--"promise Muuurgh not to fly crazy
again."

"But, Muuurgh," Han said, carefully setting them down on the landing
field at Colony One, "I've got to practice every chance I get!  You

see .  . ."  he hesitated, then decided to trust Muuurgh with part of
the truth, "I sort of stretched the facts a little when I told Teroenza
about my flying experience.  I really am a champion pilot, that's the
truth, but .  . . I need to practice with this shuttle.  And with the
bigger ships.  Sims are fine, but they can't beat the real thing."

Muuurgh gave Han a long level look, then nodded.  "Muuurgh
understands.

Pilot trusts Muuurgh not to say this to Teroenza?"

"Yeah, something like that," Han said.  "Can I?  Trust you, I mean?"

The Togorian groomed his white whiskers thoughtfully.  "As long as
Pilot does not crash, Muuurgh does not talk."

"Fair enough, pal," Han said with a grin.

When he and Muuurgh came down the ramp from the ship, Veratil was there
waiting for them in the pouring rain.  By this time Han was growing
used to the daily downpours, though the steamy heat still exhausted
him.  "The High Priest wishes to see you at once, Pilot Draygo,"
Veratil said.

The Sacredot led the Corellian and his bodyguard to the High Priest's
personal quarters, which occupied a large part of the underground level
of the Administration Center.  When Veratil keyed in the security
bypass codes and they walked through the huge double doors into the
High Priest's personal sanctum, Han couldn't repress a low whistle of
amazement.  "Nice place!"

"This is the High Priest's display room," Veratil said.  "He is an avid
collector, and very proud of his collection of rarities."

"He deserves to be," Han said sincerely.

The room was easily ten times the size of Han's little apartment on the
first floor.  Display tables, shelves, and racks showcased treasures
and antiquities from around the galaxy.  Sculpture from a dozen worlds,
paintings, and other art objects were scattered amid ornate antique
weapons.  Tapestries hung from the walls.  Rugs of exquisite beauty
were covered by protective force fields that felt squishy underfoot as
Han walked on them.

Semiprecious gems adorned the collection of pipes and other musical
instruments.  Bottles of the rarest liquors in the entire galaxy were
suspended in a gold-embossed rack.

Han's fingers literally itched for the whole time it took him to
traverse the display room.  If I could have five minutes alone in here,
I'd be set for life--he thought wistfully as he slowed down to peer at
a drreelb carved from living ice.  The tiny statue was covered with a
layer of dust, which was disturbed by Han's breath.  It wafted up into
the air, and the pilot sneezed thunderously.

Dust or no dust, this place is worth several fortunes.  If only .  .

.

Sternly, Han reminded himself that he had turned over a new leaf, and
was an honest, hardworking citizen these days.

Veratil led them through another security door into the High Priest's
personal living quarters.  The visitors were ushered into the room by
an ancient Zisian majordomo, whom Teroenza addressed as "Ganar Tos."

The Zisian was humanoid, but he had wrinkly green skin that hung in
flaccid wattles from his receding chinline.  His orange eyes were
rheumy, and he snuffled constantly, as though he had a sinus
infection.

Probably allergic to all that dust, Han thought.

The High Priest waved Han and Muuurgh to seats and addressed them.  "So
good of you to come, Pilot Draygo.  I hear good things about your
piloting from Colony Two and Three.  Today our medical droid placed our
other pilot, Jalus Nebl, on indefinite sick leave, so you will be
taking his place on interstellar flights from now on."

Han nodded, trying not to betray his excitement.  "Fine, sir.  I'll
keep on schedule.  When do I go?"

"The day after tomorrow," Teroenza said.  "Muuurgh will, of course,
accompany you."

"What's the cargo and destination, sir?"  Han asked.

"You will rendezvous with a ship from Nal Hutta at coordinates we will
provide you with at the last minute.  Security is vital, as I'm sure
you can understand.  You know that we have had trouble with pirates in
the past."  Teroenza accepted a small, limp creature from a tray the
majordomo held out to him and paused to gulp it.  "Have you trained
Muuurgh as a gunner, Pilot?"

"Uh, no, not yet, sir."

"See that you do.  A good pilot is prepared for all eventualities,
correct?"

"Yessir," Han said.  "I'll see to it.  Uh, sir?  What's the cargo?"

"You'll be carrying a load of processed carsunum, and picking up a load
of raw ryll transshipped from Ryloth."

"But the ship I'm meeting is from Nal Hutta?"

"Yes."  Teroenza did not expand upon this, so Han dropped the subject,
resolving to keep his ears open.  He sensed that there was more that
the High Priest wasn't telling him, but he was hardly in a position to
demand to know all the ins and outs.

Teroenza sat back on his massive haunches, small arms waving at the
portal through which Muuurgh and Han had entered.  "I gather you liked
my display room?"

"Liked?"  Han was able to speak with complete honesty.  "It was great,
sir!  I never saw so many treasures gathered together outside of a
museum!"

"My species is long-lived, as are our cousins, the Hutts," Teroenza
said.

"I have been collecting for hundreds of Standard years--longer than
you, in your youth, can imagine, Pilot."

"I'd really like to get a grand tour sometime," Han said.

"I wish my collection were in condition to be viewed," Teroenza said
regretfully.  "Ganar Tos, though an excellent cook and an efficient
houseboy, hasn't the training to maintain it, much less catalog and
arrange everything properly.  And I am too busy to indulge myself that
way."  The giant being gave them a dismissive wave of a tiny hand.

"That will be all for now.  I shall see you upon your return, Pilot."

"Yessir."  Han stood and beckoned to Muuurgh.  They left, escorted by
Veratil.

Once outside, the Sacredot went off on an errand, leaving them to
themselves.  Han glanced at his chrono and then at the westering sun.

"Tonight I'm going to start training you on gunner's duties," he told
the Togorian, "but right now, I think we're owed a break.  Matter of
fact, we're just in time to visit the refectory where the pilgrims
eat.

Let's go."

"Why?"  Muuurgh asked.  "Pilot not want pilgrim food.  Pilot and
Muuurgh eat in mess hall .  . . get decent food, not garbage."

Han shook his head and started walking down the path that led through
the jungle to the pilgrims area.  "I don't wanna eat with the pilgrims,
pal," he explained.  "I just want to talk to some of them.  I figure at
dinner, they'll all be together, and I can find .  . . them .  . .

easier."

"Them?"  Muuurgh echoed.  "How many is 'them'?"

"Uh .  . . well, you see .  . ."  Han started, then he stopped,
grimacing.

"Just one," he admitted.  "Pilgrim 921, the one I saw the other day.

I'd like to see what she really looks like."

Muuurgh nodded.  "Ah, yessss .  . . Muuurgh understand very well what
Pilot wants."

Han felt his face grow hot, and was glad that the Togorian wouldn't
recognize that giveaway as a sign of embarrassment.

"You know, Muuurgh, old pal," he said, deliberately changing the
subject, "you speak pretty good Basic for someone who's been speaking
it for less than a year.  But there's one part of speech you ain't
mastered yet, and that's the pronoun.  Never thought I'd find myself
playing schoolteacher, but, here goes .  . ."

The two walked on down the path together, as Han laboriously covered
the grammatical rules governing the use of pronouns .  . .

Once in the refectory, Han and Muuurgh roamed the huge dining area.

Han glanced from face to face, wondering if he'd manage to recognize
her without the goggles, in normal light.  Her hair had been covered by
the cap, so he didn't even know if it was dark or light.

He walked faster, realizing the meal was nearly over, and he still
hadn't found 921.  Maybe she wasn't here.  Maybe she ate during another
shift, the way he heard some of the pilgrims did.  But he'd thought
most of the humanoids ate during this shift-There she is.  That's
her!

Han wasn't even sure how he knew .  . . but he was as positive as if
she'd had a sign around her neck that read PILGRIM 921.

Seen in normal light, he could tell that she was tall, and slender--too
slender, really.  Her cheekbones stood out prominently, and her eyes
seemed even larger than they were in her thin, excessively pale,
face.

But too thin or not, she was, quite simply, lovely.  Not classically
beautiful.  Her jaw was a little too wide and squarish, her nose a bit
too long, for classic beauty.  But lovely .  . . oh, yes .  . .

921 had big blue-green eyes, long, dark lashes, and poreless white
skin.

Several locks of short, curly hair had escaped from beneath her
pilgrim's cap, and Han saw that it was reddish-gold--the color of a
Corellian sunset on a clear day.

The refectory hall was usually pretty quiet.  The pilgrims didn't talk
much, tired as they were from a long day's work in the factories, and
the approaching Exultation.  But they usually ate in groups.

921 was all alone.

Han saw that she was poking at her dinner, and after one look at the
unappetizing mess of gruellike porridge, limp greens, and flatbread on
her plate, he didn't blame her.  The food smelled bad--almost
spoiled.

Han's nose wrinkled as he pulled out the seat opposite her and sat
down.  He was dimly aware of Muuurgh, leaning against the wall,
watching him.

921--I've GOT to get her to tell me her real name!--looked up, and her
turquoise eyes widened as she recognized him.  Han was inordinately
pleased about that and grinned at her.  "Hello.  Found you again,
see?"

She stared at him, eyes wide, then she looked down at her plate.  Han
leaned toward her.  "So, what's for dinner?  Doesn't look great, I
gotta admit.  But you've got to do more than just push it around your
plate, you knOW."

She shook her head.  "Please .  . . go away."  Her voice was barely

above a whisper.  "I'm not supposed to be talking to you.  You're not
of the One."

"Sure I am," Han said.  "I'm just a little bit more of an individual
One, I guess you'd say."

921's mouth quirked, very slightly.  Han found himself wishing he could
make her really smile.  "You don't know what you're talking about,
Pilot Draygo," she said softly.  "I'm afraid that's obvious."

"Well, proselytize to me, then," Han said.  "I've got an open mind.

Maybe you can convert me."  He smiled, happy that he'd found her, and
that she was, at least, talking to him.

921 shook her head.  "I'm afraid you're much too much of an unbeliever,
Pilot," she said.

Han reached out across the table and took her hand, the one she'd
injured.

"It's 'Vykk,'" he told her, having to fight a crazy impulse to tell her
his real name.  But he managed to resist.  "So, how is your hand?  Any
ill effects from the other day?"

When he'd first touched her, she'd stiffened, as though to pull away,
then when he inquired about the cut, she relaxed.  "It's healing," she
told him, confirming what his eyes told him.  "It will just take a
little time."

"It's a tough job, working down there in the dark and the cold all day
long," Han said.  "Wouldn't you rather do something a little .  . .

easier?"

"Like what?"  she asked.

"I don't know," he said.  "What are you good at?  What have you
studied?"

"Well .  . . at one time I wanted to be a curator in a museum," she
said, sounding faintly wistful.  "I was going to study archaeology.  I
know quite a bit about that."

"But you came here instead of going on with your studies," Han
guessed.

"Yes," 921 answered.  "This life is spiritually fulfilling.  My old
life was empty and meaningless."

Han hesitated.  "How do you know that the doctrine they teach here is
the right one?  There are a lot of religions in the galaxy."

She considered his question carefully, then, finally, replied, "Because
when we are Exulted, I feel very close to the One.  It's a mystical
moment.

I feel One with the All.  I'm sure the priests must be Divinely Gifted
to be able to offer the pilgrims the chance to be Exulted."

"Hmmmm," Han said.  "Sounds like maybe I should give it a try."  Over
my dead body, he thought, but was careful to conceal his true
feelings.

"Perhaps you should," she said.  "It's time to head for the Altar of

Promises, now.  Perhaps you'll be blessed by receiving the Exultation,
too."

"You never know," Han said.  "Can I walk you there?"

She smiled a little, eyes downcast.  "All right."

They walked together up the jungle path, side by side amid the
pilgrims, with Muuurgh trailing behind.  Han tried to make
conversation, but 921 was silent and unresponsive.  When they reached
the Altar, Han did not withdraw to the back, but instead stood beside
921 in the midst of the group of believers.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.  "It's obvious you're not a
pilgrim."

"If anyone complains, just tell them I'm a pilgrim candidate," Han
said, trying to gently tease her, but 921 wasn't having it.  She
scowled and turned away from him, concentrating on the ceremony.

Teroenza and the other priests treated the crowd of faithful to a
devotion that was identical to the one Han had attended before.  This
time, Han had little trouble resisting the effects of the
Exultation--he remained clearheaded throughout.  Instead, he watched
921, saw her rapt face, and inwardly shook his head.  How can she be
taken in by this ridiculous bilge?

he wondered.  She's obviously intelligent.  Why can't she see that
however these priests do what they do, it's some kind of trick, not a
Divine Gift?

Han watched in distress as 921 sank to the ground to receive the
Exultation, then he crouched beside her as she writhed on the ground.

It's a miracle their hearts don't just stop, he thought.  Later, when
the moment of Exultation was over, and the priests were gone, he helped
her to sit up.

She was smiling, though very weak.

"You okay?"  he asked, concerned.  The Exultation, whatever its other
physical and emotional effects, seemed to leave the pilgrims drained.

"You don't look so good."

"I'm fine," she said, still trembling, and tried to get up.  Han was
quick to catch her and offer a steadying hand.

"Thank you," she whispered, her breath still ragged.  "I'll be fine,
now."

"I'll walk you back to the dorm," he said.  "Just in case.  You look
kinda shaky."

She didn't argue as he took her arm, and they started back along the
path.

It was growing quite dark by now, and Ylesia had no moon.  Han could
barely make out the path ahead, but 921 produced her goggles from the
pocket of her robe and put them on.  She led the way, but he kept hold
of her arm to steady her.

"So, do you ever miss Corellia?"  he asked.

"No," she said, but he could tell it was a lie.  "Do you?"

"I don't miss the people, but I miss the planet," Han said honestly.

"Corellia's a nice place.  I always wanted to go to the ocean, but I
never got the chance.  Ever been to the ocean?"

"Yes .  . ."  she said slowly, as if his question brought back memories
she'd rather not think about.

"You got a family there?"

"Yes .  . ."  she hesitated, then added, "at least, I think so.  I
haven't talked with them in almost a year."

"Is that how long you've been here?"  Han asked.

"Yes."

They picked their way through the hot, wet darkness in silence.  Han
was very conscious of holding her arm beneath the wide sleeve of her
robe.  Her bones were too close to the skin, but her flesh itself was
warm and soft and very female.

"So, you planning to stay here for good?"  Han asked as a small clot of
shambling pilgrims passed them in the darkness.  "Or is this just kind
of temporary?"

"Temporary?"  He could barely see the light blur of her face, with the
dark line of the goggles running across it, as she turned toward him.

"How could it be temporary?  I want to serve the One, be part of the
All, forever."

"Oh," Han said.  "Well, uh .  . . what about stuff like .  . . falling
in love, traveling, maybe settling down someday and having kids?"

"We give up those kinds of attachments when we become part of the All,"
she said, but there was a hint of regret in her voice.

"Too bad," he said.

Without warning, it began to rain steadily.  Han could feel 921 shiver
slightly, despite the warmth.  He pulled a rain poncho out of his
pocket and spread it over both their heads.  They walked along, huddled
beneath it, bodies touching.  Han was conscious of Muuurgh following at
a discreet distance.  Poor guy.  He hates to get wet...

The pilot raised his voice to be heard above the spatter of the rain.

"You know, I can't just go on calling you 921.  If we're gonna be
friends, you've gotta tell me your name."

"Who says we're going to be friends?"  she asked.

"I just know it," Han told her.  He grinned, knowing she could see him
in the darkness.  "I'm irresistible when I put my mind to it."

"You're conceited, that's what you are," she said, sounding halfvexed,
half-amused.  "Conceited, cocky, arrogant .  . . insufferable .  . ."

she broke off, chuckling.  Han realized it was the first time he'd
heard her laugh.

"Oh, go on, please!"  the pilot mock-protested, laughing himself.  "I
love it when women compliment me.  Music to my ears."  He was delighted
to hear her sounding so alive.

"I'm tired," she said, her momentary good humor vanishing like morning
mist.  "And here we are at the dorm.  Thanks for walking me back · . 
.

Pilot Draygo."

There was a faint circle of light emanating from the windows in the
dormitory, and Han stopped them right on the edge of it, so he could
see her, but they wouldn't be fully illuminated to any onlooker.

"Not 'Pilot,'" he reminded her.  "It's Vykk."

She tried to step back, away from him, but Han tightened his grip on
her arm, careful to be gentle, but not letting her pull away.  "Vykk,
okay?"

"Vykk .  . . right," she said.  "Now, please .  . . let me go.  And .

. .

don't come back.  Please."

"Why not?"  Han was hurt.

"Because .  . . you're not good for me.  For my spiritual essence."  He
smiled in the hot darkness.  "Admit it.  You like me."  "No, I
don't."

"Yes, you do.  Admit it."  He stepped closer to her, looking down into
her face.  She was tall, only half a head shorter than he was.  Gently
Han reached up to push the concealing goggles up, off her eyes.  His
fingers lingered on her cheek as he did it.  "There," he said softly,
"that's better.  It's wrong .  . . totally wrong .  . . to cover this
face, these eyes .  . ."

"You're .  . . you're being blasphemous," she said, sounding
breathless, but she didn't jerk away.

"No, I'm not," he said.  "Tell me your name."

She shook her head miserably, and her eyes were haunted.  "Vykk · . 
.

I can't..."

"All right."  I can wait, Han thought.  "But I will see you again,
right?"

She hesitated for so long that he found himself holding his breath.

Then she ducked her head, mumbled, "Yes," and pulled away.  This time,
Han let her go.

921 ran away, into the dormitory, without looking back.

Han leaned forward in the pilot's seat, glancing at the figures rolling
by on the screen of the navicomputer.  "Ready to enter realspace, at
rendezvous coordinates," he said aloud.  "Three .  . . two .  . . one
.

. ."

He pulled back the lever, and the stars around the Ylesian Dream

suddenly elongated into thin streaks of light all reaching toward a
central point--a point toward which the ship plunged.  The engines
roared, then throttled down, and then--with a suddenness that took some
getting used to---they were back in realspace.

"Right on course, Muuurgh," Han said triumphantly.  "I'm getting this
interstellar flying stuff down pat lately, ain't I?"

"Aren't," the Togorian corrected.  "I have been reading book Pilot gave
Muur--" he stopped himself, "uh, me, and 'ain't' is not correct way to
talk Basic."

"Remind me to teach you about articles sometime," Han muttered.  "Don't
I even get a gold star for bringing us to the rendezvous right on the
money?"

"Much better than first time," Muuurgh commented, referring to their
first interstellar trip, three weeks ago.  Han had made a tiny error in
programming the navicomputer on exactly where to bring them out of
hyperspace, and the Dream had wound up three parsecs from where they
were supposed to emerge.

Han had had to make an extra hyperspace jump to bring them into correct
position.

"Hey," Han protested, "that was just my first time!  And it wasn't my
fault that screen is so old that an eight looked like a six."

"Pilot has done better since then," Muuurgh acknowledged.  "Second and
third trips went okay."

"You bet they did," Han muttered.  "I'm good, Muuurgh .  . . I really
am.

I'll bet that I could almost pass the exams to get into the Imperial
Academy now.  A few more months practice, and I'll really be set."

"Muuurgh will miss .  . ."  the Togorian paused.  "Correction.  I will
miss Pilot when he goes."

"I'll miss you, too, pal," Han said, meaning it.  "But don't worry, we
can--" The Ylesian Dream shuddered violently as a loud whang!

reverberated through her hull.  "What the--" Han pushed buttons,
turning on the rear viewscreen.  "Muuurgh, something hit us!"

"Asteroid?"  the Togorian suggested.  Whanggggg!

"No!"  Han yelled, staring incredulously at the viewscreen.  "Two
ships!

They've gotta be pirates!  Get to the gunner's well!"

As he stared at the screen, the rightmost vessel launched another
shot.

"Brace yourself!"

Muuurgh, who had unstrapped himself and gotten up to head for the

gunner's mount, yowled as another shot whanged against the hull,
sending him back into his seat with bruising force.

Cursing, Han yanked the Dream hard to port.  Who were these guys?

Pirates usually fired warning shots and demanded that the attacked
vessel surrender.  Their goal was to steal the cargo, commandeer the
ship, and keep the crew alive so they could be sold as slaves.

Destroying or crippling the ship and killing the crew wasn't
cost-effective "Muuurgh!  Get below!  They're gonna blast us into
atoms!  We've lost a shield!"

As the Togorian propelled himself out of the copilot's seat and lurched
out of the control room, two more shots grazed the Ylesian Dream.

They're aiming at the hyperdrive engines!  They're out to cripple us!

Han sent the ship into a desperate roll, flipping her up on her side,
just in time to avoid another blast that nearly singed his underside
and would have blown out his Quadex power core.

He put on a burst of speed, trying to get far enough ahead of the
pursuing pirates to double back and shoot at them.  He had little
confidence in Muuurgh's ability to actually hit anything while manning
the gun well.  The Togorian was quick and able, but he'd never actually
shot at a live--much less moving--target.

As he sent the ship hurtling recklessly along, straining her speed to
the utmost, Han flipped open his communications channel.  He had to let
someone know what was happening, in case the Dream was crippled and
they got a chance to get to a lifepod.

"Ylesia Colony One, this is Ylesian Dream.  Colony One, this is the
Dream.

We are under attack, repeat, under attack.  Two vessels jumped us just
after we emerged from hyperspace!"  Han's voice cracked from the
strain.

"Honest, it wasn't my fault!  They're chasing us, and I'm taking
evasive maneuvers--Pilot Draygo out!"

Han glanced at the viewscreen with the sensor readouts below, saw that
they'd gained on their pursuers--he still hadn't gotten a good look at
the pirate ships--and then sent the Dream spiraling down, beneath the
oncoming ships.  As they whooshed by overhead, he flipped his vessel up
into a tight turn.  "Muuurgh!  Now!"  he yelled into the intercom.

A Togorian roar and a splat of energy rewarded his command--but Muuurgh
missed his quarry completely.  One of the pirates had turned, and 	was
firing again-Wham!!

The Ylesian Dream shook violently as the ship sustained a major hit.

Han's stomach lurched as he heard a yowl of sheer agony float up from

the gun well.  "Muuurgh?  Muuurgh?  Are you hit?"  he yelled, but
there was no answer.

A quick status check told him that they'd suffered a tiny drop in
pressure, but that the leak had been automatically sealed by the ship's
systems.

"All right, you creeps ..."  Han muttered, homing in with his Arakyd
concussion missiles, centering the rightmost pirate in the cross-sights
.

. . "take that!"

The Dream lurched violently as the missile shot away.  Han grimaced as
the pirate managed to evade at the last second.  He tried again .  .
.

if he could just get him moving more to his portside .  . .

"Yes!"  Han muttered savagely as he launched another missile right into
the path of the pirate, anticipating his evasive maneuver.  "Gotcha!"

A second later a bright yellow-white light splashed out in all
directions, expanding into a fireball of incandescent beauty.  Han had
to look away, and when he looked back, the other pirate was hightailing
it in the opposite direction at full throttle.

"No you don't," Han growled.  "I'll get you, too--" With a fierce stab
of his finger, he tracked and launched again.

The concussion missile followed its target, but then the pirate ship
vanished in a burst of striated light.  They had jumped to hyperspace
and safety.  Han cursed under his breath as he put the Dream on
autopilot and bolted for the gun well.  Was Muuurgh okay?

Seconds later Han was standing in the ruins of the gun mount, seeing
the pressure sealant that the Dream's systems had automatically
triggered to squirt out and mend the pressure leak.  There was a strong
ozone smell and scorch marks where the blast had hit them.

Muuurgh was still strapped in the movable seat, but the Togorian was
slumped, unconscious, and he didn't stir as Han unstrapped him and
managed to half carry, half drag him up the ladder to the control
room.

The Togorian was breathing, but there was a burn mark along one side of
his head, just below his right ear.  Han looked further, running his
fingers through the black fur, and discovered a swelling lump just back
of the ear.  The Togorian had obviously taken a nasty blow to the
head.

Han wasn't sure what to do---he knew first aid for humans, and a few
species of aliens, but Muuurgh's people were rare in the galaxy.

Got to get him to a medical facility, he thought, covering the
unconscious alien with a blanket and going forward to check his
navicomputer.  Where's the nearest system?

Han scanned star charts, then his finger stabbed down.  "Okay," he

whispered.  "Here we go."  He glanced over at the Togorian.  "Hang on,
Muuurgh!"

Han programmed the ship for the short hyperspace hop, then, before
giving the command, went to check the engines.  The nose-wrinkling
smell of a burned connection made him grimace.  Wonder whether I should
use the backup hyperdrive unit instead?

But the backup was much slower, and he had no way of knowing how
serious Muuurgh's condition was.  Han decided to chance using the main
hyperdrive engine.  He held his breath as he initiated the jump to
hyperspace.  From the way the ship hesitated, and the laboring sound of
the engine, he started to sweat.

The Dream strained, shuddered, but the stars suddenly blazed at him in
streaks, and they jumped.

Han came out of hyperspace a short time later, thanking his lucky stars
that the Ylesian Dream had held together for that hop.  The ship's
lightspeed engines definitely needed repairs .  . .

The Corellian headed into the star system he'd chosen, toward the sole
inhabited world.  While he was still fairly far out, he placed the
Dream on autopilot and went back to check the box of glitterstim.  The
world he'd chosen was known to have customs and spice checks, so he
opened up the secret compartment the priests had had built into the
cargo deck and removed the boxes of Doreenian ambergris perfume that he
carried as a "cover" cargo.  Grunting with effort, Han lugged the heavy
containers of perfume into the cargo bay and put them down.  Then he
placed the much smaller container of glitterstim vials in the concealed
compartment, making sure it sealed shut.  Unless someone knew it was
there, he'd never spot it, and the hatch was designed to be
scannerproof.

By the time Han returned to his pilot's seat, the world he'd chosen was
growing in his viewscreens.  As he approached, he saw it was a lovely
world, hanging blue and white and tan against the night-blackness of
space.

As he swooped toward it, Han suddenly remembered that he'd shut down
his communications system after sending off the message to Ylesia.

Better turn it back on, he thought, check in with the spaceport
authority and get clearance to land.  He glanced back at Muuurgh, who
hadn't stirred or made a sound.  And arrange for transport to the
nearest hospital...

AS his fingers clicked on the comm unit, the vid-screen filled with an
image of a kindly looking man with a little, dark haired girl sitting
on his lap.  Han was startled, then realized that this message was
prerecorded, and played to every ship on an approach vector.

A voice-over identified the man: "His Majesty, Bail Prestor Organa,
Viceroy and First Chairman."

The man smiled into the screen.  "Greetings.  On behalf of myself and
my people, I bid you welcome to Alderaan."

six

Alderaan and Back Again

Han listened with half his attention as the man--King somebody or
other, did they say?---continued with the vid-message.  "As many of our
visitors are already aware, Alderaan is a peaceful world, a world where
we have eschewed weapons and their use.  While you are our guest, we
ask that you respect our traditions and our laws, by leaving your
weapons with the Port Authority during your stay here.

"You will find that Alderaan has much to offer a visitor.  We have
almost no crime 		" 	...

Right, Han thought.  I'll just bet .  . .

"And no pollution.  Our lakes are clear, our air is pure, and our
people are happy.  We have wonderful museums, and we invite you to
visit them.  Be sure not to miss our grass paintings as you fly over
them on your landing approach.  Our grass painters are among the
greatest artists in the galaxy.

We welcome visitors to our beautiful world, and we ask only that you
come in peace, and that you obey our--" With a muttered curse, Han
leaned over and snapped the audio portion of the broadcast off.  He
made a rude gesture at the screen.  A whole planet full of honest
citizens?  I'll believe it when I see it .  . .

Minutes later, Bail Organa's canned message was replaced by a live
traffic controller from the Port Authority.  Han snapped the audio back
on.

"Captain Draygo, piloting the Ylesian Dream," he said crisply.

"Request permission to land.  I was attacked by pirates, my ship is
damaged, and I've got an injured gunner.  Can you arrange for med-lift
to meet my ship as soon as I land?"

"Certainly, Captain Draygo.  I've assigned you a priority approach
vector.

We're slotting you in at Docking Bay 422.  Just follow the landing
beacon to your site.  We'll have a transport and med droid standing
by."  "Thanks."

Han's approach vector did indeed take him over the grass paintings, and
distracted as he was, he couldn't help but be impressed.  The huge
plain of windblown, flowing grass boasted a kilometers-wide abstract
design picked out in multicolored wildflowers.  Neat trick, he
thought.

Wonder how they do it?  And why they bother?  It's not like you could
sell art like that and make money off it...

The capital city of Alderaan, Aldera, was located on an island in the
middle of a lake.  The site of the lake was actually a meteor crater
that had filled with water from underground springs.  The remains of
the huge, relatively "recent" (in geological terms, at least) crater
surrounded the lake in a series of low, jagged foothills whose sides
were splashed with green fields and forests.  The water filling the
millennia-old crater sparkled brilliant ice-blue in the early morning
rays of the sun.

The spaceport was on the far side of the island, and Han swooped low
over the city on his assigned approach vector.  In just minutes he was
bringing the Ylesian Dream down for a perfect landing.  He'd now had so
much experience landing despite massive storms and vicious air currents
that landing a ship on a normal planet seemed like child's play.

The medical unit was waiting, as promised.  Han quickly unbuckled
Muuurgh's blaster and stowed it away, then he brought the med droid
with the anti-grav stretcher on board, and helped load Muuurgh onto
it.

"Do you think he'll be okay?"  he asked the attending droid.

"My preliminary scan indicates that there is no lifethreatening trauma
as a result of the head injury," the droid replied.  "However, we will
need to run further tests.  I would anticipate that your crew member
will require an overnight stay in our facility."

"Okay," Han said.  I've got to figure out some way to pay for Muuurgh's
treatment, he thought as he watched the stretcher bearing the Togorian
vanish inside the transport, which promptly lifted off and headed
south.

Seeing a technician going by, Han waved the woman over.  "Listen, I've
sustained some damage," he said.  "Can I get a repair crew in here
right away?"

"Let me see how bad it is," she said.  Han guided her into the gunner's
mount, then into the engine room to check out the hyperdrive.

"Both jobs will require at least six hours work to fix," she told
him.

"But we can start on it today."

"Good," Han said.  He had done minor swoop and speeder repairs while he
was a racer, but he'd never tackled anything as big as this, and he
wanted to make sure the job was done right.

As the repair crew came aboard the Dream, Han wondered what he should
do next.  Call Ylesia, he decided.  The priests were going to have to
arrange for payment for the repairs and Muuurgh's treatment.

Han headed for the control cabin, intending to place the call
immediately.

His hand was actually on the switch when he suddenly froze.

Waaaaiiittt a minute .  . . he thought.  What am I doing?  I'm sitting
here with a load of glitterstim, the most valuable spice of all, and
I'm just going to take it back to Ylesia so they can sell it again?

Han checked back in his automatic log recordings, listened to what he'd
said during his transmission.  He grinned to himself.  This is a piece
of cake.  All I have to do is tell the priests that I was boarded and
the pirates took the glitterstim.  Muuurgh was out cold, he doesn't
know what happened.  I can sell this spice here on Alderaan, stash the
money in an account here, then send for it later.  They'll never know
.

. .

But if he wanted to keep his job as a pilot for the Ylesian priests,
he'd have to make the deal fast.  He'd reported himself at the
rendezvous coordinates, and the priests weren't stupid.  They could
check on how long it would take a ship to get from where he'd been
attacked to Alderaan.  He could account for a few extra hours by
pointing to the damage the Dream had sustained and pleading the
slowness of the journey, the need to nurse the ship along .  . .

Okay, Han thought.  I've got about five hours I can fudge here .  . .

no more.  By that time I've got to call in and let them know I'm alive,
that their ship is damaged, and that they have to arrange for
payment.

Any more time than that, and they'll get suspicious .  . .

Pulling his battered brown lizard-hide jacket out of his locker, Han
straightened his worn pilot's coverall as best he could.  Then he
combed his hair.  Don't want to look scruffy, he thought wryly,
thinking of Dewlanna and how the Wookiee had always told him he looked
good with his hair standing straight up, like one of her own people.

Pulling on the jacket over the gray uniform, he stared regretfully at
Muuurgh's blaster, wishing he could strap it on.  Stupid planet.

Whoever heard of a world with no weapons allowed?  With a sigh and a
shake of his head, Han left the Ylesian Dream to the repair crews.

He walked quickly to the entrance to the spaceport, then caught one of
the free shuttles that led into the capital city of Aldera.  The
metropolis

glittered white in the sunshine, as clean and luxurious as a city in a
dream.  Han stared out the windows of the shuttle, taking in the
ultramodern towers, domes, and layered buildings, their white shapes
interspersed with green terraces.  The island was hilly, and the city
architects had followed the natural lines of the place rather than
leveling it.  The result was pleasant and varied to the eyes .  . .

beautiful and modern, without seeming harsh or artificial.

The automated shuttle's canned program indicated points of interest as
they passed.  Han saw museums, gigantic enclosed gallerias, office and
government buildings, and finally, as they approached the heart of the
city, he saw the tall, sharp spires and shallow domes of the royal
palace gleaming white and gold in the sun.  Han smiled wryly, wondering
if the child princess he'd seen was somewhere on those grounds, living
her rich, perfect life.  With any luck, I'll soon be rich, too .  . .

Han stayed aboard the transport as it glided along its route, and he
continued scoping out the city.  They were out of the big buildings,
now, and heading through the residential suburbs.

Han had to admit that it looked like a nice place to live, as he gazed
at the many fountained plazas and courtyards, the affluent homes, clean
streets, and the well-dressed people they passed.  But this isn't the
area I want... I'd better do some exploring on my own.  They don't want
tourists to see the places I want to go...

After the shuttle let him off, Han walked around the central part of
the city, checking out the lay of the land.  Instinctively, he headed
for an area where the houses were smaller and not as well maintained.

Finally, in a neighborhood that was definitely lower-income, and
boasted more than one tavern and hock shop, he realized he'd come to
the right place.

Han scanned the streets as he walked, looking for a particular type of
individual.  Finally, he spotted what he was looking for.  A boy
dressed in clothes that were borderline too small, ragged, and not very
clean was sauntering along the street, glancing oh-so-casually at each
passerby.  Han recognized the child, though he'd never seen him
before.

A pickpocket.  Ten years ago, he'd been that child.

Han increased the length of his strides until he caught up with the
boy.

As expected, the lad shifted his weight and altered stride to brush
against Han as the Corellian walked past him.  Also expected were the
lightning-fast fingers that delved deep into the pilot's jacket
pocket.

The fingers came away empty; Han's ID and the few credits he was
carrying were sealed into the inside pocket of his coverall.

Han lengthened his strides until he was ahead of the boy, then, without
warning, he spun on his heel and confronted the child.  "Hey, there,"

he said, smiling pleasantly and holding up the boy's identdisk and
money.

"Lose something?"

The boy's mouth dropped open in amazement, then he recovered himself
and glared at Han, his black eyes smoldering.

Han leaned casually against a storefront.  "Careless of you to lose
these things .  . ."

The boy swelled up like a poisoned mrelfa lizard, then launched into a
furious and detailed description of Han's ancestry, personal habits,
and probable destination.  Han listened patiently until the urchin
began to sputter and repeat himself, then he waved for silence.  "I'll
give 'em back," he said genially, "in exchange for some information."

The boy glared sullenly, tossing his overlong hair back out of his
eyes.

"What kind of information, you son of a diseased pervert?"

Han tossed one of the credit coins into the air, caught it
effortlessly, without looking.  "Watch your mouth, junior.  I just want
to know where in this town people go to make deals."

"What kind of deals?"

"You know what kind of deals.  Deals they don't want the law to know
about.  Deals for substances you can't buy legally."  "Spice?"  the boy
frowned.  "What kind?"  "Glitterstim."

The boy's brow creased even farther.  "What's that?"

Just my luck; Han thought.  I run into the only dumb pickpocket in
Aldera.

Great.

"Glitterstim," Han said.  "It's .  . . well, it's really valuable.

Even more so than carsunum or andris."

The boy shook his head again.  "Never heard of them, either."

I don't believe this!  "What about andris?  You got andris here?  Used
to flavor food, preserve it?"

The kid nodded.  "Yeah.  Andris.  We got that.  Expensive stuff."

"Right," Han said.  "When you buy andris, who do you buy it from?"

"I don't buy it, creep," the boy said.  "Now gimmee back my money and
ID."

"Just a second, be patient," Han said, holding the items up, safely out
of the boy's reach.  "So, okay, you don't buy andris personally.  But
if you or your friends wanted some, how would they get it?  Buy it in a
store?  Or a government agency?"

The boy's expression was eloquent as he shook his head.  "No, man.

We'd buy it from Darak Lyll."

At last!  A name!  "That's what I wanted.  Darak Lyll.  What's he look
like?"

"Taller than you.  Long hair, beard.  Fat around his middle."  "Old or
young?"  "Old.  Gray hair."

"Where's he hang out?"  Han asked.

"Do I look like his keeper?"  the pickpocket demanded scornfully.  Han
took a deep breath.  "Just tell me the names of any places where he
might go on a typical day.  Don't lie, or I'll swear out a complaint
that you tried to rob me."

The boy named six taverns, telling Han that they were all within a
five-minute walk.  Han straightened up and flipped the boy his ID and
money.  "Next time keep it inside your clothes, junior," he said.

"Next to your skin."  He patted his own money and gave the lad a smug
smile.  The lad snarled at Han and walked away, cursing.

Alderaanian taverns were much too clean and well lit, Han decided, an
hour later.  He'd been to three of the six so far, and none of them
appeared seamy enough for his purposes.  No sign of Darak Lyll,
either.

At one place he'd glimpsed a man in the back slide something to another
under cover of his arm, and then receive a credit disk slipped to him
just as clandestinely.  Han had waited until the first man had gotten
up to use the refresher unit, then he'd followed him.  When the man
came out, Han was waiting for him in the dim hallway.

"Like a word with you, pal," he said.

The dealer, a small, sharp-faced man who reminded Han of a Ranat, eyed
the Corellian suspiciously, then evidently decided Han offered no
threat.  "Yeah?  What about?"

"You deal in spice?"

The man hesitated for a long moment.  "How much you want?"  "No, pal,
I'm selling, not buying.  You interested?"  "What you got?"

"Glitterstim.  A hundred vials."

"Glitterstim!"  The man's voice scaled up, then he hastily lowered it
and stepped closer.  "Where'd you get that, son?"

"I'm not your son, and it's none of your business where I got it.  You
interested?"

"On any other world than this one, better believe I'd be interested,
but .

. ."  The man shook his head.  "No.  No channels to unload it.  I'd
have to try and smuggle it off-world, and that's too risky.  They'd
send me to the mines on Kessel to dig out the infernal stuff.

Glitterstim can be dangerous, y'know.  Make you blind, if you take too
much.  Drives Biths mad, y'know."

"I know all that," Han said impatiently.  "Thanks for nothing, pal."

Scowling, he stalked out of the tavern.

He finally ran down Darak Lyll in the fifth tavern he visited.  Han
recognized the man from the pickpocket's description.  Lyll was playing
sabacc, and when he saw Han standing there, watching the game, he
cordially waved the young Corellian over.  "Care to sit in for a
hand?"

Han had played sabacc before, but that wasn't what he'd come here
for.

He stared directly at Darak Lyll and raised his eyebrows.  "All depends
on what you'll accept for a stake, Lyll."

The man's expression didn't change a whit as he glanced casually up.

"You got something good, Pilot?"

"Might."

"Well, the ante is twenty credits."

Han shook his head.  "Changed my mind.  Going out to get some fresh
air."

He stood outside, leaning against the alley wall, for about five
minutes.

When he heard someone approaching, Han said, without looking, "Took you
long enough.  Must've been winning."

"Idiot's array," Lyll said, using the sabacc player's term for a
topnotch winning hand.  "So, what've you got?"

Han turned to look at the man.  "Glitterstim.  One hundred vials."

"Whooo!"  Darak Lyll whistled in amazement.  "Where'd you come by
that?"

"None of your business," Han said.  "Want it?  Give you a good price
.

. ."

"Wish I could, young fellow, wish I could," Lyll said, sounding
regretful.

"But I'd be a fool to take it.  Just no market here on Alderaan."

Han cursed under his breath and turned away.  What am Igoing to do?  he
wondered.  His time was definitely running out.  Maybe he should hop an
intercontinental shuttle to some other city.  Maybe it was only Aldera
that was so preternaturally clean on this world .  . .

Han sighed.  I don't have time.  I either sell that stuff in an hour,
or I A hand fell on his shoulder.  It took every bit of self-control
Han possessed not to yell and bolt, he was so keyed up.  Instead he
just turned and glared at the middle-aged, dark-skinned man who'd
fallen into step with him.  "I think you've mistaken me for someone
else," he said evenly.

"I don't think so, Vykk," the man said.  "Pilot Vykk Draygo, out of
Ylesia, right?"

"So what?"  Han said.  "I don't know you."

"Marsden Latham," the man said, flashing a holo-ID badge under Han's
nose.

"Alderaanian internal security force."

Oh, no .

"We've been keeping an eye on you, Pilot Draygo, ever since you limped
in here this morning.  We're happy we can help you out with repairs and
fix up your partner.  You saw that message when you first came within
frequency range of Alderaan?"

"I saw it."

"Well, it's meant to be taken seriously.  We don't like trouble
here."

The man smiled suddenly, showing very even, very white teeth.  "You
wouldn't be out to cause us any trouble, would you, Pilot?"

Han strove to keep his face impassive.  They know that I've been trying
to cut a deal.., must've been watching me all morning... Silently, he
cursed the official.  Aloud, he said, "Course not, sir.  I'm a peace
loving kinda guy."

"I told my chief that, and I'm glad to have my impression confirmed.

Nice talking to you, Pilot Draygo.  Enjoy your stay on Alderaan."

The man's strides came faster and longer, then, and he walked away from
Han, up the street.

The Corellian forced himself to keep walking slowly, forced himself not
to glance behind him.  They were there, no doubt, shadowing him.  The
game was over, and he was busted.  Scowling, Han shook his head, half
in disgust, half in admiration.  Those security operatives must be
good.  He'd had no idea they'd been tailing him.

Obviously, the man's "talk" had been a not-so-veiled warning to stop
trying to sell his cargo.  He'd have to take it back to Ylesia.  There
weren't any other planets close enough to reach so he could make the
sale.

He checked the time, discovered he just had time to get out to check on
Muuurgh before he'd have to call back to Ylesia.  Han's strides came
faster as he headed for the nearest public transport station.

The University medical facility where the Togorian had been taken was
attached to the University of Alderaan campus.  Han swung down from the
repulsorlift public transport and stood looking around for a moment.

Nice .  . . he thought, real nice .  . . For a moment he wondered if
the Academy would look anything like this.  Probably not, he
concluded.

It's a military establishment.  It'll look more like a base, I'll bet ·
. . but this .  . .

this is real classy .  . .

Green and blue lawns stretched across the central quadrangle.  Flower
beds made bright splashes of color and surrounded the huge central
fountain.  At the center of the fountain was a massive sculpture carved
from living ice of a young Alderaanian man and woman standing with
linked hands, reaching for the skies.  Hey, that's got to be worth a
barrel of credits, Han thought, eyeing the sculpture and realizing it
must be a priceless work of art.

Definitely a classy joint, Han decided as he walked past the huge
fountain and continued up the impressive white-stone stairs to the
medical facility.

The info-droid at the front desk gave him the number of the Togorian's
room.  Han hurried down the corridors, then, outside, paused to speak
to the medical droid.  "Your friend sustained a severe blow to the
cranium," the droid said.  "It would probably have killed a humanoid.

Fortunately, Togorians have very dense bone matter, and so he is
relatively uninjured.

We have been quick-healing him since he came here, and he should be
ready to leave by tomorrow morning."

"Thanks," Han said, opening the door and going in.

Muuurgh lay curled on a large, round pallet.  The Togorian was covered
with tiny sensor units that reported on his condition.  As Han entered,
the blue eyes opened.  Muuurgh raised himself partly up.  "Pilot!"

"Hey, how're you doing, pal?"  Han was surprised to feel a huge wash of
relief when he saw the Togorian conscious and lucid again.  He hadn't
realized he'd gotten so fond of the big felinoid.  "They treating you
all right?"

"Pilot .  . ."  Muuurgh seemed utterly amazed to find Han here.

"You look surprised to see me," Han said.  That was a huge
understatement.

Muuurgh didn't look surprised--he looked flabbergasted.

"Muuurgh is .  . ."  The big alien shook his furry head a little
dizzily.  "I mean, I am.  I never thought I would see you again."

Han drew himself up.  "Why not?  Did you think I'd just dump you here
and swipe the cargo?"

"Yes," replied Muuurgh simply.

"Well, I'm here, ain't I?  If it wasn't for me hauling us into
Alderaanian space by the skin of our noses, you'd be dead meat by
now.

I suggest you remember that, pal.  You owe me."

Muuurgh nodded dazedly.  "Yes, Pilot I owe you."

Han scowled at him and sat down on the edge of the pallet.  "And skip
that 'pilot' formality.  I'm Vykk from now on, okay?"

Muuurgh put out a paw, laid it gently over Han's arm, the huge clawed
fingers with their now-retracted claws dwarfing the human's limb.

"Okay, Vykk ..."

After Han left Muuurgh to the tender ministrations of the medical
droids, he went back to the Dream and called Ylesia.  Teroenza was not
available, so he asked to speak to Veratil.  When the Ylesian's horned,
bloated visage appeared on the screen, Han gave him an abbreviated

account of their adventures, promising to start back to Ylesia the
following day.  Veratil, in his turn, promised to arrange payment for
the ship repairs and Muuurgh's treatment.

When he'd finished with his call, Han found that he was hungry, so
after checking his small hoard of credits, he headed over to a
combination tavern and eatery on the campus of the University of
Alderaan.  It was set into a secluded courtyard, and a rainbow-colored
fountain sent showers of crystal drops into the air before the
entrance.

Han pulled the door open and went in.

The tavern was filled with fashionably dressed young people .  . .

talking, laughing, drinking, and eating.  Han hesitated, feeling
suddenly self-conscious, but his natural bravado came to his rescue.

I'm just as good as they are, he thought defiantly, following the
serving droid to a small table.  Despite his brave front, the young
Corellian was uncomfortably conscious of the way his sweat-stained
coverall and battered jacket contrasted with the elegant, trendy garb
of the students who chattered and laughed at the tables.

Once seated, Han ordered an Alderaanian ale.  Studying the menu, he
noticed that the place featured "nerf cubes and tubers in wine sauce"
for a special.  It was a little pricey, but he ordered it anyway,
knowing that nerf was said to be a delicacy.  The stew came with a
plate of flatbread, which made him think of Pilgrim 921.  Wish she were
here, he thought.  It'd be nice to have someone to talk to .  . .

Dipping a square of flatbread into the dish, he tasted, chewed, then
smiled.  This is really good!  It had been a long, long time since he'd
had really good food .  . . denizens of Trader's Luck frequently
existed on space rations during their voyages.

The only times Han had really eaten well was when he'd been playing his
part in one of Garris Shrike's scams.  He remembered one barbecue he'd
gone to on Corellia.  Traladon ribs with special sauce .  . .

But even barbecued traladon ribs couldn't equal nerf, he decided.

Hungrily, Han dug into his meal.  When he was about halfway through, a
pretty girl with long, curly chestnut hair and bright blue eyes walked
up onto the tiny stage, carrying a mandoviol.  Seating herself on a
stool, she began to strum it, then, a moment later, her voice rang out,
clear and true, in what was evidently a traditional Alderaanian
ballad.

It was the usual stuff, about a girl who lost her lover to the lure of
the space lanes, and how she waited but he never came home--but the
singer's voice was so pure, so unaffected, that she lent the cliched
words true emotion and dignity.

When she'd finished, Han, along with the other patrons, clapped
enthusiastically.  The girl sang another song, then stepped down off
the stage

and walked straight toward Han.  For a moment he thought--hoped!--that
she was coming over to sit with him, but no such luck.  She slid into a
seat at the next table.

Since the tavern was evidently a popular hangout, the tables were
crowded close together; the girl wound up sitting within arm's length
of Han.  The other person at the table was a round-faced young man a
year or two older than the pilot.  Probably her boyfriend, Han thought,
covertly eyeing the young man.  He had light brown hair and pale,
hazel-green eyes.  Unlike the girl, who wore a simple, ankle-length
blue dress and sandals, her escort was a tribute to modern fashion.

His purple tunic was belted with a wide, orange belt that clashed with
his knee-high red boots.  His yellow britches clung to his legs like a
second skin.  Han, in his worn, gray coverall, felt like a
house-warbler next to a paradise bird.

As the singer shook back her hair and smiled triumphantly, Han managed
to catch her eye.  He mimed clapping, and she grinned and bowed.  "You
were great?  he told her.

"Thank you!"  she said.  "That was the first time I've gotten up my
nerve to sing in front of a crowd!"  The girl was flushed, breathless,
and very charming.  Han smiled back at her.  I wouldn't mind spending
the evening--and the night--with her...

Aloud, he said, "We're a very lucky audience, then.  Witnessing the
beginning of a great career."

"Thank you!"  She held out her hand.  "I'm Aryn Dro, and this is Bornan
Thul."

Han took her hand and, instead of shaking it, bowed over it, as though
she were Corellian nobility.  His lips didn't touch the back of her
hand, but he came close enough so she could feel the warmth of his
breath on her skin.  "I'm honored, Aryn," he said.  "Vykk Draygo."

When he released her hand and turned to greet her escort, Han could
tell the young man was irked, and making no effort to hide it.

"Greetings .  .

." Han said, since he wasn't sure what honorific, if any, was proper on
Alderaan.

"Greetings," Thul said.  "Aryn, you were magnificent.  Would you care
to go somewhere else to celebrate your triumph?"

Can't stand competition .  . .Han thought, smothering a mischievous
grin.

He, too, had seen Aryn's blue eyes light up when he'd introduced
himself.

"Listen, I won't intrude," he said, flashing his most charming smile at
the singer.  "I just had to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing.

But I won't take up any more of your time."

Thul looked as though he'd have liked to say "Good!"  but didn't quite
dare.

Aryn shook her head and put a reassuring hand on Han's arm.  "Oh, no!

Of course you're not intruding .  . . Vykk."  She eyed his coverall.

"I was going to ask you if you went to school here, but you don't, do
you?"

Han shook his head.  "No, I'm only here for tonight.  Flew in this
morning for repairs.  Got in a fight with some pirates and damaged my
ship."

The wide blue eyes grew even wider.  "Flew?  Pirates?  Are you a star
pilot?"

Han shrugged modestly.  "Yeah."

Bornan Thul was getting hot under the collar, the Corellian noted.

Doesn't like the idea of his girl talking to a working-class guy like
me, the stuck-up so-and-so .  . . well, tough, brother Bornan .  . .

"Oh, my..."  Aryn breathed.  "That's so .  .. exciting.  Real
pirates?

What happened?"

Han shrugged again.  "Came out of hyperspace, and they were on me
quicker than stink on a Skeeg.  Three of 'em.  Blasted one, but between
them, they damaged my hyperdrive.  So I came on to Alderaan for
repairs."

"You blasted one?"  Bornan demanded sharply, raising a skeptical
eyebrow.

"With what?"

"With an Arakyd missile, pal," Han said evenly.  "I blew his butt into
little bitty pieces."

Aryn shivered, half with excitement, half with distress.  "That sounds
· .

. really scary."

Han took a swallow of ale.  "All in a day's work," he said,
deliberately laconic.

By this time Bornan had had just about enough.  His face reddened, and
he grabbed Aryn's arm.  "Sweetheart, let's go.  I'm taking you out to
the best place in town.  If you'll excuse us .  . . Pilot Draygo."

The girl hesitated for a long moment.  I could get her, Han thought.  I
know I could.  That'd really stick in this upper-class jerk's craw,
too, to have me walk out of here with his girl .  . .

For a moment Han was tempted, then he made himself relax and relinquish
the contest.  He sensed that Aryn was a really nice girl, someone who
didn't deserve to be treated like a gaming piece so he could score
points off her snotty boyfriend.  One of the reasons he found her
attractive, Han realized, was that she reminded him a little of 921,
with her wide blue eyes and sweet smile.

Besides, he thought, those security guys are probably still tailing
me.

Old

Bornan here might just be man enough to pick a fight, and if they're
still around, that could get messy .  . .

So Han stood, respectfully, and gave Aryn a formal bow.  "Been a real
pleasure," he said.  "Enjoy your celebration."

"Thank you .  . ."  she said, and gave him a last, quick smile before
she allowed Bornan to lead her out.

Han sat back down to his cooling food, reflecting that this incident
had reminded him of just how much he detested stuck-up rich people.

He'd encountered lots of them on Corellia, while working Shrike's
scams, and the fact that most of them weren't worth a blaster bolt to
blow them to atoms was the only thing that had made him able to act his
part during the swindles.

By the time Han returned to the Ylesian Dream, and the tiny bunk that
had been installed in part of the cargo area for him, he was slightly
the worse for the Alderaanian ale.  Thoughts of 921 kept running
through his mind, and he cursed aloud in the silence, wishing he could
stop thinking about her.  Han had never before encountered a woman that
he'd spent time thinking about when she wasn't with him .  . .

The knowledge that 921 had wormed her way that deep into his mind
unsettled Han, made him uncomfortable.  She's just a girl, Solo.  You
don't even know her blasted name.  Quit mooning around like this.  You
going soft in the head or something?

Han flung himself down on his bunk and groaned aloud, remembering the
events of the day.  What a world, he thought muzzily.  So goody-goody
that a guy can't even sell a perfectly good cargo of spice .  . .

The trip back to Ylesia was uneventful.  Han piloted the Dream down
through the clouds without a single mishap, and hardly even shook the
ship as he did it.  Even Muuurgh, who was still nursing a headache,
couldn't complain.

It was becoming second nature to Han to see, analyze, and avoid the
paths of the planet's massive storm systems.

The moment the ship was down on the landing pad, Han's communicator
came to life, summoning him to meet with Teroenza immediately.  Han had
been expecting this.  He sent Muuurgh off to the infirmary to get some
treatment for his headache, and walked up to the Administration
Building alone.

This time he was met by Ganar Tos and escorted into the High Priest's
inner sanctum, where he'd been before.  Teroenza was resting in a most
unusual piece of furniture--a sort of sling or hammock that allowed the
High Priest to lean back on his massive haunches and take his weight

off his back legs.  His thick forelegs were supported by a movable
padded leg rest that could swing in and out to allow him to get into
the contraption.

The minute the High Priest saw Han, his expression (which Han was
beginning to be able to read) turned positively benevolent.  "Pilot
Draygo!"  he boomed.  "I understand you are a hero!  Your bravery and
courage are beyond price, but I have ordered a bonus to be placed in
your account."

Han blinked, then smiled.  "Thanks, sir."

"We have lost two ships that failed to return from their rendezvous
points over the past year and a half," Teroenza continued.  "You are
the first pilot to get a look at your attackers and return to tell us
who they were.

What did you see?"

Han shrugged.  "Well, it all happened real fast, and I was kinda busy,
sir.

But I'm pretty sure that the ship I destroyed was a Drell-built ship.

Looked like it.  That chisel-shaped prow and stubby stern are pretty
distinctive."

"Did they communicate with you?  Give you a chance to surrender before
attacking?"

"No, they shot first, and just kept on shooting.  They weren't trying
to destroy the Dream, because if they had been, they'd have done it.

But they had no interest in the ship, which was strange--most pirates
would try to disable the ship enough to take it, while leaving it easy
to repair so they could use it or sell it.  These guys were out to
cripple the Dream, and kill me and Muuurgh."

"How did they attack?"

"From behind.  They could've nailed us before we even knew they were
there.

They had at least two clear shots, and the shielding on the Dream isn't
that good."  As he remembered the battle, Han took a deep breath.  "I
think we need to strengthen the shielding, sir."

"I will order that to be done, Pilot," Teroenza agreed.  The huge
t'landa Til folded his tiny arms, and his massive forehead wrinkled as
he considered what Han had told him.  "Interesting that they attacked
first, without engaging a tractor beam and attempting to gain your
surrender."

"Yeah .  . . that's what I thought."

Han had known several traders aboard the Luck that had spent time on
pirate crews, and had listened to them bragging about their
adventures.

A straight-out attack wasn't the usual pirate style; it would have been
more typical for a deep-space pirate to fire a warning shot, then,
after the pilot had surrendered, board the ship.  "It's funny, it's
like they

planned to disable the Dream, probably killing me and Muuurgh in the
process, and then board her when she was dead in space."  "No
communication or demand for surrender at all."  "None," Han affirmed.

Teroenza smoothed the loose folds of flesh beneath his chin
thoughtfully.

"Almost as though they were willing to risk destroying the Dream and
her cargo rather than communicate with you .  . ."

"Yeah, I'd say so."

"How close were you to the rendezvous point when you were attacked?"

"We'd come out of hyperspace less than five minutes before.  No doubt,
sir, they were waiting for us.  They knew we were coming."

"Had you made any transmissions referring to your course or
coordinates, Pilot Draygo?"

"No, sir.  As instructed, I maintained strict silence on all
frequencies."

Teroenza rumbled thoughtfully, deep in his chest, then nodded his
massive horned head.  "Again, I commend your bravery.  How is
Muuurgh?"

"He'll be okay.  Took a hard blow to the head, though."

"I will want to speak to him when he is well enough.  Very well, Pilot,
you are dismissed."

Han stood his ground.  "Sir .  . . I'd like to ask a favor."

"Yes?"

"My blaster was taken from me when I arrived on Ylesia.  I'd like it
returned.  If there's any chance I might be boarded by pirates sometime
in the future, I want to be able to shoot back."

Teroenza considered for a moment, then nodded agreement.  "I will order
your weapon returned to you, Pilot.  You have certainly demonstrated
your loyalty and earned our trust by your actions these last few
days."

The huge being waved a small hand.  "Tell me, Pilot Draygo, did it
never occur to you to attempt to sell your cargo and tell us it had
been stolen by the pirates?"

Han shook his head.  "No ssir, it didn't," he said earnestly.

"Very good.  I am .  . . impressed."  Teroenza's wide, lipless mouth
curved up in what was evidently meant as a smile of approval.  "Most
impressed .  .

."

Han walked out of the Administration Building, thankful that he'd been
able to lie convincingly since he was seven.  He was especially proud
of his ability to fabricate on a moment's notice.

His footsteps took him down the path toward the infirmary.  Time to

check up on Muuurgh, see how the Togorian was doing.  Also .  . . it
was time to meet Jalus Nebl, the Sullustan pilot who'd been placed on
sick leave.

Han had a few questions to ask the Sullustan .  . .

seven

Bria

Muuurgh was lying curled up on one of the large pallets his species
used as beds.  Han walked over to the Togorian and sat down beside
him.

"How's the head?"

"My head still hurts," Muuurgh said.  "The medical droid says I must
stay here tonight.  But I told him no, I could not do that, because
Vykk might need me."

"No, I'm fine," Han assured the big felinoid.  "I'm going to visit the
Sullustan, eat dinner, do a few sims, and engage in a little target
practice.

Then I'm gonna turn in early.  It's been a long day."

"Did Vykk tell Teroenza about the pirates?"

"Yeah, I did.  He's gonna want to talk to you when you're up to it.

And .  .

. good news.  Teroenza's giving me my blaster back."

"Good," Muuurgh said.  "Vykk needs to protect himself from pirates."

"That's what I pointed out, pal."  Han stood up.  "Listen, I'm going
next door, talk to the other pilot.  I'll check back on you tomorrow
morning, okay?"

Muuurgh stretched luxuriously, then curled up on his pallet, looking
almost like a huge black, furry circle.  "Okay, Vykk."

Han walked down the corridor until he found the medical droid, then he
asked to be guided to the Sullustan pilot's room.

Once he reached it, Han signaled the door chime and, a moment later,
heard a voice say in Sullustan, "Enter."

Han opened the door, only to be met by a wall of forced air that
covered the doorway like a curtain.  Han had to step through the
doorway, into cool, refreshing air.  The door sealed shut behind him
with a hiss.  Canned air, Han realized.  They've got the Sullustan on a
recirculating air system, so he's not breathing Ylesian air.  Wonder
why?

Jalus Nebl was sitting before an entertainment vid-unit, where a
galactic news documentary was in progress.  Han walked over and offered
his hand to the big-eyed, droopy-jowled being.  "Hi, I'm Vykk Draygo,
the new pilot.

Pleased to meet you."

He spoke in Basic, hoping the alien understood it.  The jowly alien
nodded at Han and said, in his own rapid-fire shrill language, "Do you
understand the tongue of my people, or shall we require a translator to
converse?"

"I understand it," Han said in extremely halting Sullustan, "but speak
it only bad.  Understand Basic you okay?"

"Yes," the Sullustan said.  "I understand Basic quite well."

"Good," Han said, reverting back to his own tongue.  "Mind if I sit
down?"

"Please, do so," the pilot answered.  "I have been wishing to speak
with you for some time, but I have been quite ill and, as you can see,
confined to these few rooms where the air is specially filtered for
me."

Han sat down on a low bench and looked closely at the alien.  He
couldn't see any outward damage.  "That's too bad, pal.  What
happened?

Overwork?"

The Sullustan's small, wet mouth pursed unhappily.  "Too many missions,
yes.  Too many storms, I flew through.  Too many almost crashes, my
friend.

One day I awoke, and my hands"--the Sullustan held out his small,
delicate hands with their narrow oval claw-nails--"my hands would not
stop trembling.  I could no longer handle the controls of my ship."

The alien's already mournful expression grew even sadder.  Han almost
expected to see tears well up in those big, already wet eyes.

Han looked at the alien's hands and saw that they were, indeed, shaking
uncontrollably.  He felt a mixture of dismay and pity.  Poor guy!

That'd be awful!  "That's a bum deal, pal," he said.  "Was it just,
y'know, your nerve being shot, or what?"

"Pressure, yes," the Sullustan agreed.  "Too many missions, little
rest, over and over.  Too many storms.  But also .  . . too much
hauling of glitterstim.  Medical droid says I have bad reaction to
it.

Makes Jalus Nebl very sick indeed."

Han shifted uncomfortably on the bench.  "You mean you're allergic to
glitterstim?"

"Yes.  Discovered this as soon as I began hauling it, and tried to
stay away from it, but it is in the very air of this world.  Even
locked in those vials, tiny traces escape to the air.  When Jalus Nebl
breathes it in, over days, weeks, more than a planet year .  . . causes
bad effects.  Muscle tremors.  Slowed reflexes.  Stomach is upset,
breathing grows hard .  . ."

"So that's why they've got you confined to the infirmary, with these
filters running," Han said.  "Trying to get it out of your system."

"Correct.  I want to fly again, friend and fellow pilot Draygo.  You
are one of few who can understand this, correct?"

Han thought of how he'd feel if he couldn't fly anymore--if he'd been
so overworked and poisoned by spice exposure that his hands shook all
the time--and he nodded.  "Hey, pal," he said sincerely, "I'm really
sorry.  I hope you'll be better soon."  He lowered his voice, and
switched to trader's argot.  "Understand you trader-talk, friend?"

The Sullustan nodded.  "Not speak," he replied, equally softly, "but
understand fine."

Han glanced up at the ceiling.  Were the Ylesians or their security
monitoring this room?  No way to be sure.  But he hadn't met too many
droids who could translate trader's argot, because it was a bastardized
mix of a dozen or more tongues and several dialects, with no fixed
syntax.  He waved up the volume on the newscast higher .  . . higher,
then mouthed, barely making any sound, "Friend-pilot, when hands grow
steady, then if me you, not say farewell, just fly off bad spice world,
quick quick.  Understand?"

The Sullustan nodded.

Han lowered the volume slightly, then went on, as if nothing had
happened, "I got attacked by pirates the other day."

The Sullustan leaned forward.  "What happened?"

"They shot up my ship, damaged the hyperdrive engines, but I managed to
get one of them with a missile," Han said, gesturing "boom" with his
hands.  "Had to put into Alderaan for repairs.  Ever been there?"

"Nice world," the Sullustan commented dryly.  "Too nice, for some
things."

"Tell me about it," Han said with feeling.  "Anyway, when I came back
here, Teroenza had a hundred questions about what kinds of ships the
pirates were in, why they didn't fire warning shots or try to
commandeer the Dream, stuff like that.  I got the distinct impression
that there was more to this attack than just a random pirate raid.  For
one thing, they were waiting for me at the rendezvous point.  How'd
they find out those coordinates?"

"Ah," said Jalus Nebl.  "There may indeed be much behind this attack,
Pilot."

"Please .  . . call me Vykk.  Us pilots gotta stick together."  "You
call me Nebl, then.  My nestname."  "Thanks.  So what do you think is
going on?"

"I believe that the t'landa Til are worried that these 'pirate' vessels
may instead be from Nal Hutta.  Hutt-dispatched ships, masquerading as
pirates."

Han whistled softly.  "By all the Minions of Xendor .  . . that takes
the cake.  The Hutts are fighting against each other?"

"Is not hard to believe if you have ever spent time among Hutts," Nebl
said dryly.  "Hutt alliances are made and broken on the spin of a
credit-coin.  Hutt loyalty melts away in the face of loss of profit or
power, you know?"

"I'm beginning to see a pattern, here," Han said, shifting uneasily on
the hard bench, thinking of how close he'd come to being cosmic dust.

"There are factions of Hutts on Nal Hutta?"

"Oh, yes.  One family or clan will gain power and wealth, only to fall
when another family plots their demise.  It is no wonder that Hutts are
the most distrustful of sentients--being a food-taster for a Hutt is
most likely a job of short duration, Vykk.  It is very difficult to
poison a Hutt, but that does not stop assassins from trying it--and,
occasionally, succeeding.  And the clans are not above using missiles,
assassins, or ground troops to accomplish their goals."

"But the Hutts are the ones who are really running this place," Han
pointed out.

"Ah!  You saw Zavval, then?"

"If that's the bloated sonofagun who rides around on that repulsor
sled, I sure did.  Haven't had the honor yet of meeting him
face-to-face."

"Pray you never do, Vykk.  Zavval, like most Hutts, is not easy to
please.

The priests can be hard masters to satisfy, but compared to the Hutts,
their masters, they are nothing."

"So, what's going on with this world?  You've got Hutts running this
world, who've clashing with other clans of Hutts on Nal Hutta--why?"

Han thought for a moment, then answered his own question.  "Oh.  Of
course.  For the spice."

"Naturally.  The Hutts and the t'landa Til, their caretakers, profit in
two ways from Ylesia.  First, there is the processed spice.  But the
Ylesian Hutts must buy their spice from other Hutt families who provide
the raw materials.  Have you ever heard of Jiliac or of Jabba?"

"Jabba?"  Han frowned.  "Jabba the Hutt?  I think I've heard of him.

Isn't he supposed to be the guy who pretty much controls Nar Shaddaa,
the smugglers' moon that orbits Nal Hutta?"

"That's right.  He divides his time between his home on Nal Hutta and a
spice transshipping operation he runs through a back-of-beyond planet
called Tatooine."

"Tatooine?  Never heard of it."

Nebl shuddered.  "Trust me, you don't want to go there.  It's a
dump."

"I'll keep that in mind.  So this Jabba and Jiliac get the raw spice
and ship it here for processing, right?"

"Yes.  But lately, I believe, they may be trying to increase their
profit by sending out ships to masquerade as pirates, and having them
hijack the Ylesian spice ships.  That way, Jabba and Jiliac get the
processed spice for nothing--something that would please them
greatly."

Han pursed his lips in a silent whistle.  "Talk about biting the hand
that feeds you .  . ."

"Indeed.  Yet I have no difficulty believing them capable of doing
it."

Han ran a hand through his hair and sighed.  It had been a very long
day.  "Yeah, from what I've heard, a Hutt would sell his own
grand-mother--assuming they have such things for a credit's profit."

"So you must be very, very cautious, young Vykk.  Tell Teroenza you
need increased shielding."

"I have."

"Good.  Greater firepower would not be amiss, either."

"Yeah, you're right."  Han fixed the Sullustan with a steady gaze.

"Nebl, since we're talkin' frankly here, tell me something.  There
ain't nothin' to this religion thing the priests are pushing at these
pilgrims, is there?"

"I do not believe so, Vykk.  But I do not understand exactly what the
Exultation is.  I am not a believer, so I have never felt it, but
judging by the way the pilgrims react, it has a more intoxicating
effect than any dose of spice."

"Yeah, it packs a wallop, all right," Han agreed.  "What I'm figuring
is that this whole setup on Ylesia is just one big scam to get their
lousy spice processed cheap."

"That is not their only motive, Vykk.  Do you remember that I said
there were two ways that the priests and the Hutts profit from these
colonies?"

"Yeah," Han said.  "So go on, what's the second way?"

"Slaves," Nebl said bluntly.  "Trained, compliant slaves.  The Ylesians
export the pilgrims from the spice factories when they consider them
fully trained, all will to resist removed.  They are taken to other
worlds and

sold.  Their places in the factories are taken by fresh shipments of
pilgrims."

"And the slaves are too cowed and brainwashed to complain or tell the
truth about Ylesia and what's waiting for the pilgrims here?"  Han
asked.

"Certainly.  And even if they did talk, who listens to a slave?  And if
the slave gets too noisy .  . ."  Nebl made a sudden, unmistakable hand
across throat gesture.  "Silencing a slave is easy."

Han was thinking about 921.  She said she'd been on Ylesia nearly a
year .

. .

"How long do they keep 'em before they ship the slaves out?  And where
do they send them?"

"A year is standard.  They send many of the strong ones to Kessel, to
work in the spice mines.  Nobody ever gets off Kessel alive, you
know.

And the pretty ones .  . . they are the lucky few.  They go for dancing
girls or boys, or to the barracks pleasure-houses.  An undignified
life, perhaps, but far easier than slaving and dying in the mines."

Nebl was watching Han intently out of his wet, luminous eyes.  "Why do
you ask?  Is there a particular slave that matters to you?"

"Well .  . . kinda," Han admitted.  "She works in the glitterstim
factory, down on the deepest level.  She's been here close to a
year."

"If you care for her, you should get her out of there, Vykk," the
Sullustan said.  "The death rates for the glitterstim workers are very
high.

The spice cuts them, and then the fungi get into their bloodstreams,
and .

. ."  He made a tossing-away gesture with his fingers.  "Get her out of
there.  Being shipped off-world as a slave is her only hope."

"Off-world?"  Han fought back a stab of fear at the thought that he
might never see Pilgrim 921 again.  "What, I'm supposed to hope that
she gets shipped out to some barracks pleasure-house, to be a plaything
for bored Imperial troops?"

"Better that than a miserable death from slow bloodpoisoning."  Han was
thinking fast, and he didn't like what he was thinking.  "Listen, Nebl,
I'm glad we got to talk.  I'll come back and visit again sometime.

Right now .

. . there's something I've gotta do."

The alien nodded kindly.  "I quite understand, Vykk."

Once outside, Han realized that the short Ylesian day was definitely
waning.  The pilgrims would be at evening devotions.  If he hurried, he
might be able to catch up with 921 and have a few words with her.  He
had

to figure out some way to get her out of that factory and yet keep her
here on Ylesia.

Despite the wet heat and the fine drizzle that was falling, Han began
to jog through the jungle, up the familiar path.  His breath burned in
his chest after the first five minutes or so, but he refused to slow
down.  He just had to see 921's face, reassure himself she was still
here, on Ylesia.

What if she'd been shipped off-world?  He'd never find her .  . .

never!  Han felt panic nibble at the edge of his mind and cursed
himself in every language he knew.  What has gotten into you, Solo?

You've got to get hold of yourself!  Things are going good for you here
on Ylesia.  At the end of the year, you'll have a stack of credits
waiting in an account on Coruscant.  Now is no time to lose your head
over some crazy religious fanatic.  Get over it!

But his body and heart would not listen to his mind.  Han's strides
came longer and faster until he was running full tilt.  He rounded a
turn near the Plain of Flowers, and nearly ran headlong into the first
of the pilgrims on their way back from evening devotions.  They were
staggering or shambling along, that drugged, ecstatic look in their
glazed eyes.

Han began elbowing his way through the throng, feeling like a fish
swimming upstream.  He squinted at faces in the gathering darkness,
peered beneath caps, searching, searching .  . .

Where was she?

Increasingly worried, Han began grabbing pilgrims' arms and demanding
to know if anyone had seen Pilgrim 921.  Most ignored him or stared
stupidly, slack-jawed, but finally an old Corellian woman jerked her
thumb behind her.  Han turned to find 921 some distance behind the
others.  Relief flooded through him.  He hurried up to her, still
panting, sweaty, and disheveled from his run.

"Hi," he wheezed, hoping the greeting didn't sound as lame to her as it
did to him.

She looked up at him in the twilight.  "Hi," she said uncertainly.

"You've been gone for a while."

"Off-world," Han said, taking her arm and falling into step with her.

"Had some cargo to transport."

"Oh."

"So, how's it been going?"  he asked.

"Fine," she said.  "The Exultation was wonderful tonight."  "Yeah," he
agreed grimly.  "I'm sure it was."

"How was your voyage, Vykk?"  she asked after a minute or so of
silence.

Han was pleased by her question; it was the first time she'd betrayed
any curiosity about him and his life.

"It turned out okay," he said, picking his way down the muddy path,
trying not to get his boots any worse than they already were.  He was
splashed to the knees with all that running.  "Pirates shot at me,
though."

"Oh, no!"  She looked distressed.  "Pirates!  You could have been
hurt!"

He smiled at her and shifted his grip so they were walking hand in
hand.

"How nice to know you care," he said with a touch of his old
cockiness.

For a moment he thought she might pull away, but she let him hold her
hand.

By the time they'd reached the dorm, it was dark.  Han walked her over
to their same spot, halfway between the light and the darkness.  He
took off her infrared goggles.  "What are you doing?"  she asked
nervously.

"I want to see you," Han said.  "You know those goggles hide your
eyes."  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, then kissed the
back of it.  "I missed you while I was away," he murmured.

"You did?"  He couldn't tell whether the thought pleased or distressed
her.

Maybe both.

"Yeah.  I thought about you," he continued softly.  It occurred to him
that this was the first time he'd ever been this honest about his
feelings with a girl.  For once in his life he wasn't putting on an
act.  "I didn't want to," he added honestly, "but I did.  You do care,
don't you?  Just a little?"

"I .  . . I .  . ."  she stammered.  "I don't know .  . ."  She tried
to pull her hand away, but Han wouldn't let it go.  He began to kiss
her fingers, her scarred, lacerated fingers.  The touch of her skin
against his mouth intoxicated him as much as the Alderaanian ale.  He
rained soft, tender little kisses over her knuckles, her fingertips.

"Stop that .  . ."  she whispered.  "Please .  . ."

"Why?"  he asked, turning her hand over, so he could kiss her wrist.

Han gloried in the jump of her pulse against his mouth.  He pressed his
lips against her palm, feeling the ridges of scars old and new.  "Don't
you like it?"

"Yes .  . . no .  . . I don't know!"  she burst out, sounding on the
verge of tears.  She yanked her hand back, and this time Han let it go,
but stepped forward to catch her sleeve.

"Please .  . ."  he said, holding her with his eyes as much as with his
hand.  "Please .  . . don't go.  Can't you tell that I care about
you?

I worry about you, I think about you .  . . I care about you."  He
swallowed, and it hurt.  "A lot."

She caught her breath, and it sounded like a sob.  "I don't want you to
care," she said, her voice ragged.  "Because I'm not supposed to care
.

.

."

"You won't even tell me your name," Han finished, and he couldn't hide
the touch of bitterness in his voice.

She stood poised for flight, like a bird, her eyes wide and
tormented.

"I care about you, too," she whispered, finally.  Her voice trembled.

"But I shouldn't.  I'm only supposed to care about the One, and the
All!  You want me to break my vows, Vykk!  How can I give up everything
I believe in?"

Hearing her admit that she had feelings for him made Han's heart turn
over.  "Tell me your name," he pleaded.  "Please .  . ."

She stared at him, eyes bright with tears, then she whispered, "It's
Bria.

Bria Tharen."

Then, without another word, she picked up the skirts of her robe and
ran away, through the door, into the dorm.

Han stood in the darkness and felt a slow, wide grin spread across his
face.  All his exhaustion fell away, and his feet felt as though he
were wearing repulsorlift boots.  He walked away from the dorm, still
smiling, and barely noticed when the skies opened up and it began to
pour.

She does care .  . . he thought, slogging through the ubiquitous mud.

Bria .

. . that's nice.  Sounds like music or something.  Bria .  . .

The next day, after long hours of thinking and planning during a mostly
sleepless night, Han went in search of Teroenza.  He found the High
Priest and Veratil relaxing in the mudflats that lay about a kilometer
inland from the shallow Ylesian ocean.  Both priests lounged at their
ease, immersed in warm red mud up to their massive flanks.

Occasionally one or the other would roll over and thrash a bit, to
cover an area that had dried out.

The two Gamorreans on guard duty looked positively envious of their
masters.  Han, on the other hand, came close enough to the mud wallow
to catch a whiff, and grimaced.  Ugh!  Smells like something died last
week!

The Corellian stood balancing precariously on the bank and waved to get
Teroenza's attention.  "Uh, sir?  I'd like a word with you, if
possible."

The High Priest was in a good mood, relaxed from the mud.  He waved an
undersized arm.  "Our heroic pilot!  Please, join us!"

Climb into that muck?  On purpose?  Han thought, repressing a
grimace.

But he understood that the t'landa Til were offering him a great
honor.

He sighed.

When Teroenza beckoned to him again, Han grinned and waved back
genially.

He unfastened his gunbelt, letting his newly reclaimed blaster in its
holster slip to the ground.  After yanking off his boots, he unsealed
his

pilot's coverall and stepped out of it, leaving him clad only in his
shorts.  Carefully, he placed his belt-pouch atop the pile, with the
open end facing the mudhole.

Then, with a grimace that he tried to turn into a smile, the Corellian
stepped off the bank.  Red mud oozed up his legs, and for a second Han
nearly panicked, picturing himself sinking completely out of sight.

But there was solid ground beneath the mud.  Waving and smiling at the
two t'landa Til, Han grimly waded out until he was slithering in mud up
to his thighs.

"Isn't this wonderful?"  Veratil asked, generously catching up a huge
blob of mud and slathering Han's back.  "Nothing in this galaxy beats a
good mud bath!"

Han nodded vigorously.  "Yeah!  Great!"

"I suggest you go for a roll," Teroenza boomed.  "That always refreshes
me after the stresses of everyday life.  Try it!"

"Sure!"  Han agreed, smiling through clenched teeth.  "A good roll
sounds like just the thing!"  Gingerly, he lowered himself into the
mud, and with a great slosh and splat!  he rolled completely over in
the slimy, oozing stuff.  It didn't help his mood to notice that there
were long white worms inhabiting the mud.  Han assumed they weren't
carnivorous, or the priests wouldn't be having such a wonderful time.

Bria, honey, I hope you appreciate this .  . . he thought as he
completed his roll and sat back up, coated now from the neck down.

"Wonderful!"  he said loudly.  "So .  . . squishy!"

"So, Pilot Draygo .  . . why did you wish to speak with me?"  Teroenza
asked as the High Priest languidly settled deeper into the wallow.

"Well, I think I may have solved your problem, sir.  The problem of how
to take care of your collection, that is."

Teroenza's massive head swiveled on his almost nonexistent neck.

"Really?

How?"

"I've made friends with one of the pilgrims, a young woman from my
homeworld.  Before she came here to be a pilgrim, she was studying to
be a museum curator, and she knows a lot about caring for rare
things.

Antiquities, collectibles, stuff like that.  I'll bet she could
properly catalog and care for the stuff in your collection."

Teroenza listened intently, then the High Priest sat back on his
haunches, mud squishing up around him.  "I had no idea any of our
pilgrims had such training.  Perhaps I will interview this one.  What
is her designation?"

"She's Pilgrim 921, sir."

"And where does she work?"

"In the glitterstim factory, sir."

"How long has she been here on Ylesia?"

"Almost a year, sir."

Teroenza turned to Veratil, and the two priests began talking in their
own language.

I gotta learn their lingo for myself, Han thought.  He'd found a
language program to teach elementary Huttese, and been studying that
for the past month.  But he'd been unable to locate any translation
guides or programs for learning the t'landa Til language.  He strained
his ears, hoping to be able to decipher what the priests were saying,
but t'landa Til was apparently sufficiently different from Huttese to
make it impossible for him to understand anything.

Turning back to Han, Veratil said, "This Pilgrim 921 .  . . would you
say she's attractive, as your species measures attractiveness?  For
example, do you find her appealing as a potential sexual partner?"

Deep in the mud, Han crossed his fingers.  "Well.  Oh, no ssir, she's
well, to be frank, sir, she's so ugly that if I had a pet with a face
that homely, I'd make it walk backward."

When they heard Han's words, both priests guffawed and slapped their
arms across their chests, which was apparently their species' way of
paying tribute to a witty turn of phrase.

"Very good, Pilot Draygo," Teroenza boomed.  "You are indeed a sharp
fellow, and I shall investigate this young woman."  He sloshed around a
bit, letting the mud slop up around his huge flanks.  "Ahhhhhhh .  .
."

he sighed with pleasure.

"So, Veratil."  Han squirmed around in the mud until he was facing the
Sacredot.  "I've got something I'm curious about.  Mind if I ask you a
question?"

"Not at all," the younger priest said.

"How do you guys do that thing you do with the pilgrims each night at
the devotion?  What they call the Exultation?  It sure packs a wallop,
whatever it is."

"The Exultation?"  Veratil chuckled, a low, booming sound.  "That
moment of rapture the pilgrims regard as a Divine Gift?"

"Right," Han said.  "I've never been able to experience it," he
admitted.

Because I've fought it as hard as I can, he added silently.  Because
the last thing I want is some critter as ugly as you giving me jolts in
my pleasure

"That is because you are a strong-minded individual, Pilot Draygo,"
Veratil said.  "Our pilgrims come to us because they are not
strongminded, they are weak, and looking for guidance.  And their
diets are designed to make them even more .  . . malleable."

Teroenza spoke up, "The Exultation is a refinement of a ability we
males of the t'landa Til use to attract the females of our species
during mating season.  We create a frequency resonance within the
recipient's brain that stimulates the pleasure centers.  The humming
vibration is produced by air flowing over the cilia in our neck pouches
when we inflate them.  Our females find it irresistible."

"We males also have a low-grade empathic projection ability," Veratil
said.  "By concentrating on feeling good, we can project those feelings
at the crowd of pilgrims.  Both effects, taken together, produce the
Exultation."

"Neat trick!"  Han said admiringly.  "Is it difficult?"

"Not at all," Teroenza said.  "What we find difficult is having to lead
the pilgrims in those endless services and prayers.  At times, I've
been so bored that I nearly fell asleep, waiting for my turn to lead
the devotions."

"Last year, one of the Sacredots did fall asleep," Veratil said,
booming with his species's version of laughter.  "Palazidar fell right
over.  The pilgrims were most upset."

Both priests enjoyed the memory.  Han laughed, too, but inside he was
simmering with anger, thinking of the pilgrims staggering down the
path, religious faith and devotion shining in their eyes.  This place
makes any of Garris Shrike's scams look like nothing, he thought
disgustedly.  Someone should shut these greedy vermin down .  . .

For a moment he wished he could be the one to do it.  Then Han reminded
himself that sticking one's neck out for others was a good way to get
one's head and shoulders permanently separated.  So why are you doing
all this for Bria?  his treacherous mind asked sarcastically.

Because, his heart answered, Bria's safety has become as important to
me as my own.  I can't help it, it's just the way things are .  . .

Now that he'd accomplished what he'd come here to do, Han began to
think about how to gracefully (metaphorically speaking) extract himself
from the mud and the company of the priests.

He was rescued by the arrival of a Hutt, who came gliding over the
mudflat on his repulsorlift sled.  A small squad of guards trotted
vigorously alongside, panting in the humid heat as they struggled to
keep up.

"Zavval!"  Teroenza hailed his Hutt overlord, standing respectfully.

Feeling like a fool, Han did likewise.

This was the Corellian's first close-up encounter with a Hutt, and he
tried not to stare at the creature's huge, recumbent form, the
enormous, pouchy eyes amid the leathery tan skin, and the green slime
that oozed

from the corners of the being's mouth.  Ugh .  . . they're even uglier
than Teroenza and his crew, Han thought.  He reminded himself that
Hutts had been civilized for probably longer than his own species--but
he still couldn't quite eliminate the revulsion their appearance
caused.

Or maybe it was just the knowledge that it was the Hutts who'd dreamed
up the idea of running a religion on Ylesia as a cheap way to enslave
innocent sapients that repulsed him.

The Hutt leaned toward Teroenza and said in Huttese, "I've received a
message from home.  Jabba and Jiliac deny everything, and we have no
proof.

The clan council has refused to .  . ."  Han couldn't catch the word,
"so we have no other way to .  . ."  and he finished with a phrase that
Han couldn't translate.

"Regrettable," replied Teroenza in Huttese.  "What about my requisition
for more troops, armament, and shielding for our ships, Your
Excellency?"

"Approved," Zavval said.  "Should be arriving any day."

"Good."

Teroenza continued, in Basic, "Zavval, I would like you to meet our
brave pilot, Vykk Draygo, who saved our shipment of glitterstim."

The huge Hutt chuckled, a "hell, hell, hell" sound that was so deep and
resonant that Han could feel it as well as hear it.  "Greetings, Pilot
Draygo.  You have our lasting gratitude."

"Thank you, sir .  . ."

Teroenza waved an undersized arm.  "The correct form of address is
'Your Excellency,' Pilot Draygo."

"Okay, then.  Thank you, Your Excellency.  I'm honored to be able to
serve you."

The Hutt chuckled again, and said to Teroenza in Huttese, "A most
polite and perceptive young man--for a human.  Have you arranged for a
bonus?  We want to keep him happy."

"Yes, I have, Your Excellency," Teroenza replied.

Han, of course, did not let on that he'd understood any of the
exchanges in Huttese.

"Good, good," Zawal said.

Han stood watching as the alien turned his repulsorlift sled and glided
away.  Teroenza and Veratil began slogging their way out of the mud
with grunts of effort.  The High Priest addressed Han in Basic.  "His
Excellency is pleased with your performance, Pilot.  Has the factory
foreman informed you as to when the next shipment will be ready for
transport?"

Han, too, was squishing his way toward the bank.  "He said at the end

of the week, sir.  In the meantime, there are two shipments of
pilgrims due in at the space station, one tomorrow, one the day
after."

"Good.  We don't want to be shorthanded in the factories."

Once back on the bank, Han scooped up his clothes, then turned east and
gestured in the direction of the ocean, a kilometer away.  "I think
I'll walk over and rinse off," he said, "before I get dressed."

"Ah, yes," said Veratil, "we use the mud as a cleansing agent, but it
does not cling to our skins the way it appears to cling to yours.  Once
dry, all we need to do is shake"--he gave a pronounced shudder, and
dust rose in clouds--"and it all flakes away, as you can see."

"Yes, I see that," Han said.  "But I'll have to use water to rinse."

"Be careful not to go too far into the ocean, Pilot Draygo," Teroenza
cautioned.  "Some of the denizens of the Ylesian oceans are quite
large, and very hungry."

"Yessir," Han said.

Holding his clothes and boots away from his red, mud-covered body, Han
began picking his way barefoot toward the ocean.  He couldn't see it
yet, because of a ridge of sand dunes, but he could smell the warm,
brackish water.

When he reached it a short time later, he cautiously ventured out,
knee-deep, and then squatted down to let the pounding surf sluice over
him.  Again and again the waves washed over the Corellian, rinsing away
all trace of the red muck.

Then Han went over to the sandy shore, found a smooth patch, and
stretched out to dry.  He felt the dim Ylesian sun beating down on him,
drying him, leaving his hair salt-stiffened and tousled.  But
anything's better than that mud, he thought drowsily.

He was almost asleep when Han jerked awake, remembering something he'd
forgotten.  He got to his feet, walked over to his clothes, then
fumbled with his belt pouch.  Looking carefully around before he did
so, he withdrew the tiny audio-log recording device he'd "borrowed"
from the Ylesian Dream and, seeing that it was still running, turned it
off with a decisive snap.

Satisfied that he'd successfully recorded the entire exchange between
himself and the Ylesian priests, Han walked back to his spot, lay down
on the warm sand, and took a well-deserved nap.

eight

evelations

Han flew many missions for the Ylesians during the next three months.

Several times he was able, with Muuurgh's complicity, to make small
"side runs" to hone his piloting skills and to allow Muuurgh to
practice with the weaponry.  Han successfully landed vessels on airless
moons, on ice moons, even on a small asteroid, barely bigger than his
ship.  He learned to dock with a space station, matching airlocks
perfectly on the first try.

As a result of Han's run-in with the "pirates," the Ylesian Hutts
increased the weaponry and equipped their ships with better
shielding.

They also tightened the security surrounding the dates and locations of
their shipments, and refused to agree to any more off-planet rendezvous
points.  Instead, Han was ordered to fly his cargo to a planet and
exchange the processed spice for the raw materials planetside.  In a
populated area, there was less chance of a double cross that might lead
to an ambush.

Teroenza made it clear to Muuurgh that Vykk Draygo had passed muster as
a trustworthy employee, so Muuurgh no longer felt compelled to spend
every waking moment with the Corellian.  The big Togorian was still
bound by his promise to guard the pilot, however, and Muuurgh never
forgot that.

True to his promise, Teroenza interviewed Bria and gave the Corellian
woman the job of maintaining and cataloging his collection.  Han was
able to see her every day he was on Ylesia.  Once she began getting
better food in the mess hall, and healthy exposure to fresh air and
sunlight, that

pale, wan, too-thin look vanished, and her eyes grew bright, her step
lighter, and her smile came more readily.

She liked her new job, both because she enjoyed caring for the
antiquities and because she felt that serving the High Priest was a
sacred honor.  Bria continued to attend prayer times every morning and
devotions every evening.  When Han was on Ylesia, he usually walked her
to and from the service.

Bria was offered a room in the Administration Center, but told Teroenza
that she preferred to stay in the pilgrims' dormitory.  Not only did
she enjoy the company of her fellow pilgrims at prayer time, but she
found she was uneasy at the thought of occupying an apartment in the
same building as Vykk Draygo.  Bria Tharen was still wary of the
Corellian, still unwilling to respond to the feelings he awakened in
her.  She was a pilgrim, she reminded herself constantly.  Her loyalty,
her duty, her spiritual self, was reserved for the One and the All.

Still, there was no doubt that she enjoyed Vykk's company.  He was so
alive, so full of energy, so charming and attractive .  . . Bria had
never met anyone like him.

During the hour before evening devotions, when her daily work with the
High Priest's collection was done, Bria developed the habit of
searching out Vykk and Muuurgh (they were almost always together) and
then the three of them would go to the mess hall for a cup of stim-tea
together...

Bria walked through the jungle, enjoying the small respite from the
heat that the lowering sun brought.  A breeze was blowing in off the
ocean, which was where she was headed.  She walked quickly, feeling the
skirts of her tan pilgrim's robe brushing the plants that grew along
the edges of the path.  Brilliant flowers hung from drooping vines . 
.

. scarlet, purple, and green-yellow.  Their sharp, slightly astringent
scent made her nostrils flare as she passed them.

The Exalted One, Teroenza, had told Bria that she was free to put on
regular clothing, in place of her bulky pilgrim garb, pointing out that
it would make it easier to tend his collection .  . . but so far the
girl clung to her robes, as she clung to her vows.

The young Corellian woman reached the mudflats and paused to make an
obeisance before the mud wallow where two priests lounged.  Both
ignored her, but Bria was used to that.  Priests paid little attention
to pilgrims, unless they needed to direct them in their work.  That was
natural .  . . their minds were on higher things, soaring on spiritual
planes that humanoids like Bria could not hope to reach .  . .

The first time Bria had seen the priests wallowing in the red stinking
mud, she'd been shocked.  It was unsettling to see them indulging in
such a .  . . secular .  . . activity.  But over the past three months,
ever since she'd come to work for His Exaltedness, Teroenza, Bria had
gotten used to seeing them.

She was glad that she no longer had to work in the darkness of the
glitterstim factory.  Working in the Administration Building was much
nicer.  Climate-controlled, with good lighting and the food .  . . the
food was much better.  It had taken Bria nearly a full month to be able
to eat a regular meal.  At first she'd been so listless, so drained of
energy, she'd just picked at her food, as she'd been doing for
months.

The medical droid had had to treat her for malnutrition, as well as
traces of fungi-induced bloodsickness.

But now she was fine.

Things were much better for her, she had to admit, since Vykk had come
into her life.  If only .  . .

Bria frowned, and sighed.  If only Vykk were a pilgrim, too.  Then they
could worship together, attend prayer times together, and receive the
sacrament of Exultation together.  But Vykk .  . . she couldn't escape
the fact that he was an unbeliever, even though he'd never admitted to
it.

Vykk believed in nothing but himself.

When they attended devotions together, he would hold her arm or her
hand to steady her on the way back to her dorm.  The touch of his hand
made her question her devotion to the One, the All, and Bria didn't
like that.  She wanted nothing to shake her faith or make her question
her VOWS.

By now she'd reached the sand dunes.  As she'd half expected, she heard
the sound of a blaster bolt whine and sizzle.  "Vykk!"  she called, not
wanting to sneak up on a man who was doing target practice.  "Vykk,
it's me!"

As she climbed to the top of the dune, the wind grabbed her robes and
whipped them about her legs.  She had to hold onto her cap, lest it be
blown off by the ocean wind.

Below her, on the beach, she could see Vykk, legs braced in a shooter's
stance, his blaster in its holster, which he wore slung low, far down
his thigh.  Muuurgh was some distance from the Corellian, holding
several black ceramic target pieces.  Without warning, the big Togorian
flung two of the targets into the air, one high and to his left, the
other low and to his right.

Vykk's hand was a blur of motion so fast that Bria's eyes could barely
follow it.  A blaster bolt shattered first the rightmost, then the left
target piece.  Tiny droplets of slagged ceramic rained into the
restless Ylesian surf.

Muuurgh yowled his approval.  Vykk turned, ready to practice distance
shooting at the stationary target they'd set up, then he spotted Bria
at the top of the dune.  With a wave and grin, he holstered his blaster
and loped toward her.

Bria was struck, as she always was, by how good-looking he was, with
his regular features, brown hair and eyes, and lean build.  Taken all
together, he wasn't actually a classically handsome man--but any woman
who'd ever been on the receiving end of his smile wouldn't notice
that.

"Hi!"  he yelled, running up to her.

Before Bria could fend him off, he dropped a kiss on her forehead.

Breathless, she pushed him away.  "No, Vykk.  That's against my
vows."

"I know," he said unrepentantly, "but someday, honey, you're gonna kiss
me back."

"I wondered if you wanted to go for stim-tea before devotions," she
said.

"Not today," he said, suddenly serious, looking down into her face.

"There's something we need to talk about, Bria.  I've waited until you
were .  . . better, because I'm afraid it's gonna be a shock.  But you
gotta find out sometime."

Bria looked up at him, wondering what was going on.  "What are you
talking about, Vykk?"

"Let's go and sit down," he said.  "Over here, on the beach, okay?"  He
led her over to a smooth spot in the sand, and when Muuurgh came up to
see if they were going back, Vykk shook his head.  "Give us a little
privacy for a while, pal, okay?"

The Togorian walked away, up the dune.  Bria watched as his inky form
vanished behind the hill of sand.

Her heart began to race as Vykk took a small device out of his
pocket.

"This is the audio-log recorder I pulled out of the Dream's control
panel," he told her.  "I'm going to play a recording I made a couple of
months ago, before Teroenza asked you to look after his collection.

Just be patient and listen, okay?"

"I don't know .  . . I can tell I'm not going to like this," she
muttered.

"I've got a bad feeling about that recording."

"Please," he said.  "For me.  Just listen."

Bria nodded, her hands twisting in her lap.  Suddenly the ocean

breeze, instead of seeming pleasant, made her shiver despite the sun
dipping toward the west.

Vykk turned on the recorder.  Bria listened to the conference that
ensued .

. . heard Vykk greet the priests and heard them invite him to take a
mud bath.  Bria recognized Exalted Teroenza's and Sacredot Veratil's
voices talking to the pilot.  Mud baths.  They were saying how relaxing
mud baths were.  Bria stirred restlessly, and Vykk held up a warning
finger and mouthed, "Wait."

She forced herself to sit still, though she was becoming increasingly
uncomfortable.  Surely the priests had not known that Vykk was
recording their conversation--his actions were worse than
eavesdropping, more like outright spying!

Then--Bria caught her breath in dismay--she heard Veratil and Teroenza
laughing and talking about the Exultation--they were saying it was not
a Divine Gift, they were saying it had nothing at all to do with the
One or the All!

Bria's eyes widened, then narrowed in fury, and she shot to her feet.

The wind whipped her pilgrim's cap off, allowing her golden-red curls
to spring free, but she paid no attention.  She was trembling with
anger as she faced Vykk.  Seeing her reaction, he shut off the recorder
and stood to face her.

"How could you?"  Bria demanded, her voice low and shaking.  "I thought
you were my friend."

He stepped toward her, hands raised placatingly.  "Bria, sweetheart, I
am your friend.  I did it for you .  . . you need to know the truth.

I'm sorry you're--" Bria's hand and arm seemed to move of their own
volition, coming up in a roundhouse slap!  that connected solidly with
his cheek.  Vykk staggered back, hand pressed to his face.  "You're
lying!"  she cried.  "Lying!  You faked that to make me break my
vows!

Admit it!"

He dropped his hand and stood staring at her, and his eyes were full of
sadness and pity.  Slowly, Vykk shook his head.  "I'm sorry, babe," he
said.

"Sorrier than I can say.  But I didn't fake it.  What you heard is the
truth, and gettin' mad at me won't change that.  Teroenza and his crew
don't have any Divine Gifts.  They invented this whole scam just to get
factory workers and slaves to sell."

The print of her hand was darkening on his cheek, dull red where she'd
struck him.  Bria could see the marks of her fingers.  She fought the
impulse to throw herself at him, babbling apologies.  How could she
have hurt him like that?

At the same time, though, she was angry clear through.  Bria could

feel her face working.  Her chin trembled as she tried to control
herself.

"No!"  She clenched her hands.  "No!  That's not true!  You faked it.

What are you .  . . telepathic?  How did you know about Sacredot
Palazidar?  You weren't even here then!"

He shook his head.  "I didn't know, Bria.  I didn't know, and I didn't
fake this recording.  I'm gonna prove that to you."  Digging into his
pocket, he held out a small black vial.

Bria knew only too well what it was.  "Glitterstim?  Where did you get
it?"

"Light-fingered it during a delivery," Vykk said.  "You know what it
can do, right?"

Slowly Bria nodded.

"This is the only way I can prove to you I'm not lying.  If you open
it, expose it to light, then swallow it, it'll give you temporary
telepathic abilities.  You'll be able to read my mind, and you'll know
that I'm not lying about the Exultation--and that I didn't fake that
recording.

Here"--he reached out and dropped it into her hand--"take it."

Bria looked down at the tube.  "I .  . . I need to think about this,
Vykk.  I need to decide what to do."

"I'm not lyin', honey, I swear."  He came closer to her, reached out to
take her hands.  "Trust me."

She backed away from him.  "Just .  . . leave me alone for now, Vykk.

I'll .

. . see you later.  After the devotion.  Right now, I have to go."

He looked at her.  "You could skip it, this once.  It's not like anyone
takes roll call."

Skip the Exultation?  Bria felt physically sick at the thought, and her
reaction terrified her.  What if Vykk was right?  What if the
Exultation was nothing more than a combination physical and mental
vibration from an alien species?  If no Divine Gift was present, then
the pilgrims were no better than addicts getting a fix.

Bria gazed into Vykk's eyes and had a queasy feeling that he was
telling the truth.  Her fingers tightened over the small black cylinder
of glitterstim.  Here lay her answer.  With this, she could find out
the truth...

She turned and began walking away, leaving him there on the beach.

Bria heard Vykk call out to her, but she waved him away and kept
moving.  She didn't have much time if she was going to make it to the
devotion on schedule.

Half an hour later she stood amid the hordes of pilgrims, watching the
sun set in bloody splendor behind the Altar of Promises.  It was
almost

time for the Exultation.  She glanced around her, thinking that if she
was going to do this, it had better be soon.  Surreptitiously her
fingers withdrew the black cylinder from the pocket of her robe.  Light
. . . she needed light to activate the glitterstim.  And yet .  . .

she couldn't do it while anyone would see .  . .

Finally, the moment came that she was waiting for--the signal to the
faithful that the Exultation was about to begin.

Bria had stationed herself in the crowd so that she had a clear view of
the High Priest and the Sacredots as they led the pilgrims in the
devotion.

But she was far back in the crowd, far enough back that she ought to be
able to shield the glitterstim with her wide sleeve, so its activation
wouldn't be noticed by the t'landa Til.  And the other pilgrims would
be so busy with the Exultation that they'd probably barely notice a
blaster bolt.

All around her, pilgrims were falling to their knees.  Bria let herself
follow them, and as she did so, she flipped open the top of the vial of
glitterstim.  Under the cover of her body as she bent forward from the
waist, she pulled free the fibrous dose of the drug--and wondered, for
an insane second, whether this was a dose she herself had prepared.

As the pilgrims prostrated themselves, the priests' throat pouches
began to distend.  As the beginnings of the vibrating hum resounded
through the air, Bria held the glitterstim before her, full in the last
rays of the setting sun.

Within seconds it activated, sparking blue, but none of the pilgrims
noticed, and the effect was hidden from the High Priest.  Even though
she'd never taken glitterstim before, Bria knew exactly how many
seconds to wait.  A moment later she shoved it into her mouth and
allowed her saliva to quench the sparking substance.

As she mouthed the drug, then swallowed it, the Exultation began.  Bria
shuddered as though she'd been blaster-shot.  The effects of the
glitterstim were immediate.  Blood rushed through her body like a ship
going into hyperspace.  Her head pounded.

ut the physical effects were as nothing to the mental ones.  Her mind
opened in a way she'd never afterward be able to describe.  As the
waves of the Exultation took her, she experienced the pleasure of all
the other pilgrims in the crowd.

The sensation was so overwhelming that she almost passed out.  Only the
anger that had been simmering inside her ever since Vykk had played
that recording kept her sane--and focused.

Got to... open.., my eyes.., she thought.  Focus...

Gagging, gasping, Bria opened her eyes, shuddering as the waves of
pleasure wracked her with such intensity they were nearly transformed

into pain.  She stared at Teroenza, forcing herself not to look away,
to narrow her mind to only encompass his.

Images, alien images, flooded Bria's mind, stamping themselves
indelibly into her consciousness.  No matter how much she wished to
forget, she knew she never, ever would.  Teroenza's mind, like that of
every sentient, was full of surface trivia--wondering what he'd have
for dinner, boredom with the ceremony, thoughts of the new security
measures the Hutts had ordered him to implement, a minor
gastrointestinal churn in his middle .  . .

There was not a hint of divinity in the High Priest's mind.  He did not
believe in the One or the All.  As a matter of fact, Teroenza was proud
of himself for inventing the One and the All, so these credulous
pilgrims could have something to believe in.

Bria gagged, her mouth filled with the bitter aftertaste of the
glitterstim.  It was hard to think with the Exultation going on, but
she forced herself to stay attuned to the High Priest's mind .  . .

sifting, making absolutely certain that what he was doing was purely a
physical and mental trick--something that all males of his species
could do on demand.

Suddenly Teroenza jerked, looking around him wildly.  His mind filled
with suspicion, then certainty--he knew he was being telepathically
probed!

The Exultation wavered, then lessened abruptly as the High Priest
stopped humming.  The Sacredots continued in a ragged chorus, but
without their leader, the Exultation stopped dead.  Pilgrims cried out
with shock, and some even fainted.

Bria pulled her mind free from Teroenza's and joined the crowd of
pilgrims who were moaning in distress, crying, and stumbling back and
forth, disoriented.  Some stood shivering and whining as they gazed
beseechingly at the priests.

Teroenza lumbered off the dais by the Altar and began thrusting his way
into the crowd.  The t'landa Til peered down into faces, distractedly
muttering blessings, as he tried to cover up the fact that he was
desperately searching for the pilgrim who had just scanned his mind.

Luckily, Bria was far back in the crowd, quite near the end of the
amphitheater.  She let herself be shoved backward, off the permacrete,
until her feet encountered gooey jungle loam.  With a single quick,
decisive movement, Bria dug her toe into a lump of trampled leaves and
mud and lifted it.  Her fingers released the glitterstim cylinder, and
it fell, landing in the center of the hole.

Bria turned, and as she did so, her foot pressed the lump of mud back

down into the jungle floor.  The entire sequence of events had taken
only a second.

She began edging her way along the back of the crowd, toward the path,
allowing herself to be carried along with the tide of incoherent,
querulous, confused, and dissatisfied pilgrims.

A cautious glance behind her assured her that Teroenza had abandoned
his search, apparently having realized how hopeless it was, and how
much his atypical behavior was upsetting the pilgrims.  Bria hoped that
he'd put the entire experience down to some relative newcomer deciding
to experiment with a stolen vial of glitterstim.

She moved numbly down the path, her footsteps slow and unsteady.  The
effects of the glitterstim had faded so much that she was barely aware
of the thoughts and emotions of those immediately around her.

She wasn't surprised when Vykk fell into step beside her.  As usual, he
took her arm to help support her.  Bria leaned against him, grateful
for his support, and felt his arm go around her waist, until he was
half holding her up.

The swift equatorial dark was all around them, now.  Bria could barely
see Vykk.  He led her down the path, avoiding the worst of the mud
puddles.

Then, when they reached the dorm, she stopped.  "I'm .  . . not going
in there just yet," she mumbled.  "I need .  . . I need to talk to you,
Vykk."

He nodded, his features barely visible in the light cast from the open
doors.  "Okay.  I don't think anyone will mind if we go up to the mess
hall for a cup of stim-tea.  You look like you could use it."

Together, they turned away, into the darkness.  Bria leaned on Vykk as
they went up the path.  She had never felt so weary.  A droid would
have moved with more animation.

When they reached the mess hall, Vykk sat her down and fetched them
cups of stim-tea, plus a sugared pastry, which he pushed at Bria.

"Here," he said.  "Eat this.  You look like you need it."

Obediently she sipped her tea and nibbled on the pastry.  She hadn't
had dinner, and the food seemed to steady her, bring the world back
into focus.

She leaned toward Vykk, ready to talk, but even as she opened her
mouth, he shook his head warningly.  "Guess I'd better get you back to
your dorm," he said loudly.  "That'll teach you to skip meals, 921.  I
thought you were going to pass out on me back there."

Taking the hint, Bria got to her feet in silence and followed him
out.

When they reached the outside of the Administration Building, Vykk

pulled out a pair of infrared goggles and pulled them on.  "You got
yours?"

Nodding, Bria located them and pulled them into place.  The night
suddenly resolved itself into ghostly black and greenish-white
images.

She could see Vykk's face now, half-hidden as it was by the goggles.

His arm came around her again as they started down the jungle path
together.  "You took the glitterstim," he said quietly.

"Yes," she said, feeling as numb as if she'd been beaten into
unconsciousness.  "You were right.  Forgive me for doubting you .  .

."

"Hey," he said, trying to sound cheerful and failing utterly, "I'd have
wanted to check out my story, too, in your place.  Was it .  . . was it
rough?"

She nodded, and suddenly feeling rushed back, in a black tide, leaving
her shaking and gasping.  "Oh, Vykk!"  she babbled.  "I was in his
mind, Teroenza's mind, and it was terrible!  No Divine Gift, just a
bored, selfish sentient who wants to get richer so he can add to his
collection!"

"Take it easy," he said, holding her shoulders to steady her.  "You've
had an awful shock."

"I feel .  . . I feel .  . . so .  . . betrayed," Bria got out, between
chattering teeth.  "It was .  . . terrible .  . ."

"Hey, there, sweetheart .  . ."  His arms went around her, and the
expression of sympathy was her undoing.  Bria began to sob, huge,
gulping, wracking sobs that hurt.  Vykk helped her take her goggles
off, then he just held her, stroking her hair, patting her back,
murmuring soothing reassurances and endearments.

She held on to the front of his coverall with both hands, twisting and
wringing the fabric, and weeping so hard she scared herself.  Bria had
never cried like this before.  The sense of desolation was terrible.

"I .  . . don't .  . . have anything left," she choked out between
spasms of crying.  "Nothing .  . . nothing .  . ."

"Of course you do," Vykk murmured, kissing her cheek gently.  "You've
got us, right?"

"Uh .  . . us?"  she whispered.

"Sure.  We're gonna be together, sweetheart.  We're gonna get off this
hellish planet, and we're gonna be happy."

She raised her head, staring blindly into the darkness; her nightsight
could barely make out the lighter blur of his face.  "But they never
let pilgrims go," Bria mumbled.  "I read that in Teroenza's mind."  "We
won't ask 'em, honey.  We'll just up and go."

"Escape?"  she whispered.

"You got it," he said.  "As soon as I can figure out a way to do it,
we're

gonna get out of here.  I've already begun thinkin' about it."  He
gave her a quick kiss on her cheek.  "Trust me.  I've had experience at
this kind of thing.  I'll figure it out."

"But .  . . but your money," she said.  "You're under contract, and you
can't break it.  If you run away, you'll lose your money.  You told me
you needed those credits they're paying you to try and get into the
Academy.

How can you give that up?"

He shrugged.  "One credit is as good as another.  I'll just have to get
it outta Teroenza another way."

Bria's mind was fogged with exhaustion and the grief of betrayal.  It
took her a full minute to realize what Vykk was talking about.  "The
collection .  . ."  she whispered.  "You're planning to steal
Teroenza's collection and escape."

"Pretty good," he said approvingly.  "You sure you're not still having
some of those glitterstim insights?"

"I don't think so," Bria said wearily.  "I just know that you've asked
me about it a lot of times, asked me what items are the most
valuable.

You really think you can break the security locks and steal the
collection?"

"Not the whole thing," he said.  "It'd take a bigger cargo ship than
any on Ylesia to haul it all away.  I'm just gonna take the small
stuff--the really valuable small stuff."  He looked at her intently.

"And you're gonna help me, right?"

She hesitated.  Stealing antiquities was contrary to everything she'd
ever believed in.  But Teroenza's antiquities weren't in a museum,
where the public could see them.  They were being hoarded by a greedy
private collector.  If Vykk stole them, they'd be put back into
circulation, and there was a good chance that at least some of them
would wind up on public display in some store or gallery.

"Okay," Bria said.  She drew a long, shaky breath.  "I'll help you,
Vykk."

"Good.  You and me, we're gonna swipe a ship, and we're getting
ourselves off this planet.  I'm sick of the heat, sick of the humidity,
and sick to death of these priests and their hokey religion."

Bria took a deep breath.  Leave here?  Never attend devotion and
receive the Exultation again?  How can I live without it?

Resolutely, she put the question out of her mind.  She'd manage
somehow.

Maybe she could wean herself away from it over the next week or so,
until they left.

"There's just one more thing, Vykk," she said uncertainly.

"What, sweetheart?"

"Muuurgh.  What about Muuurgh?  You told me that he'd given his word
to guard you--that he's as much your guard as your protector.  What
will you do about him?"

Vykk drew a long breath, and she saw the blur of his face move as he
shook his head.  "That's the vrelt in the kitchen," he said, using an
old Corellian phrase for "bad luck" or "disaster."

"I don't know what I'm going to do about him.  I really like the big
guy, but he's told me about this word of honor code of his people.  I'm
afraid he'll be loyal to Teroenza no matter what."

"You mean if he finds out what we're planning, he'll turn us in?"

"Good chance of it."

"Oh, Vykk .  . ."  There was a catch in her voice.  "What are we going
to do?

What if we can't get away?"

"Don't worry, honey.  Leave that to me."  Vykk sighed.  "If I have to,
I'll deal with Muuurgh.  I'm a better shot than he is, and much faster
on the draw."

"You'd shoot him?"

"If it's a choice between you and me, or Muuurgh, yeah, I will.  I just
wish I could convince him to throw in with us.  If he did, I'd take him
wherever he wanted to go.  And give him enough credits to continue his
search."

"Search?"

"Yeah.  He's looking for his mate, and he came here thinking she came
to Ylesia.  But he guessed wrong.  Togorians are rare, so rare that I'd
never even heard of 'em till I got here.  If a female Togorian was
here, she'd stick out like a sore thumb."

Bria drew in her breath, startled.  "But .  . . Vykk!  There was
another Togorian here!  I remember seeing one--oh, six, maybe eight
months back.  I just caught the one glimpse, but I'm sure of the
species."

"Really?  Was it a male or female?  What'd it look like?"

"I have no idea what sex," she said.  "I don't think this Togorian was
as big as Muuurgh.  It was white, with orange stripes .  . . I think.

I saw it one evening, just after devotions, and it was getting dark."

"I'll have to tell Muuurgh," Vykk said.  "Those priests lie for a
living.

It's entirely possible Mrrov--I think that's her name--has been here on
Ylesia the whole time.  Maybe at Colony Two or Three."

He fell silent.  Bria stood there, mulling over what he'd just said,
and finally, she couldn't stand it any longer.  "Please, Vykk," she
pleaded, "tell me you didn't mean that about shooting Muuurgh if he
tries to prevent us from stealing Teroenza's collection!  There's got
to be a way to avoid

that!"  Bria liked Muuurgh.  Over the past couple of months she'd
gotten to know him a little, and she admired the big felinoid.

"I'll take care of him, whatever it takes.  If I have to, I'll shoot
him."

Vykk's voice was grim.  "But maybe I can just .  . . stun him, or give
him a knock on that thick skull of his, leave him tied up, so the
priests won't blame him when we make our getaway."

"Oh, Vykk .  . ."  Bria's eyes filled with tears again.  "Please try to
figure out something, so Muuurgh doesn't get hurt.  You're good at
that."

"I will, sweetheart," he said, "I will .  . ."

He leaned forward to drop a quick kiss on her forehead, and this time
she did not remind him of her vows.  I have no vows, Bria thought dully
as they began walking back toward her dorm.  No vows, no religion . 
.

. nothing at all .  . .

She glanced sideways in the darkness.

Nothing except Vykk .  . .

Muuurgh glided soundlessly out of the jungle and stepped onto the
path.

The Togorian's night-vision was far better than a human's; he could
easily make out the distant pair walking down the path.  They were
almost to the dorm.

The felinoid had been creeping through the jungle with exaggerated care
for the past couple of minutes, determined to get close enough to
overhear their whispered conversation.  The Togorian had only managed
to get close enough to catch the tail end of what they'd been
discussing--but he'd heard enough.

Pilot and Bria were planning to escape.  They were planning to steal
from his masters.  Pilot was planning to "take care" of Muuurgh.

The Togorian shook his massive head unhappily.  Muuurgh had given his
word of honor to his masters--his course should be clear.  But it
wasn't.

He knew well enough what he should do.  He should go to Teroenza
tomorrow morning and tell him what he'd overheard.  Or perhaps he,
Muuurgh, should kill Pilot himself and tell the priest why after the
deed was done.

But he stood there, hesitating.  It was obvious that Pilot was
desperate enough to shoot him to get away.  Muuurgh had given his word
of honor to guard Pilot.

But Pilot was also Vykk .  . . and Muuurgh had come to think of Vykk as
a friend.  Vykk was determined to protect his female.  Muuurgh

could understand that.  He'd do almost anything to protect Mrrov . 
.

. if he could only find her .  . .

Muuurgh growled, low in his throat.  Perhaps he should pretend to be
friendly, so that Pilot would allow him to get close enough to use his
teeth and claws.  Muuurgh was an expert hunter.  Once he'd gotten hold
of his prey, there was no escape.

Could he kill Vykk to keep his word of honor?

Muuurgh growled again and turned back into the jungle.  Tonight he
would hunt, and he would kill.  He would tear open and consume his
fresh prey.

Perhaps that would clear his mind, and then he would be able to decide
what to do .  . .

Muuurgh glided beneath the giant trees, as silent and invisible as a
wraith .  . .

nine

Lost and Found

The next morning Han whistled cheerfully as he showered, and even
rubbing the nasty-smelling anti-fungal gray goo over himself couldn't
depress him.

He and Bria were getting off this world, and they'd have plenty of
credits once they sold the stolen items from Teroenza's collection.

Han would be able to pay for his new ID, food, and lodging while he
took the exams to get into the Academy.

And when we got out, he'd be an officer, a respected man, and Bria
would be waiting for him .  . .

Rubbing his wet hair with a towel, he headed for his clothes, which
were lying across the foot of his bunk.

He had no warning, none at all.  One moment he was walking, the next
something had grabbed him and flung him to the floor so hard it knocked
the wind out of him.  Han gasped like a beached whaladon and spots
danced before his eyes.

But there was something else, there, too .  . . holding him down,
something that had one gigantic hand pressing his chest.

Instinctively, Han lay still, gasping and finding breath, realizing
that hand could crush him like a dilganut.

Blackness swam before his eyes--no, the blackness was real.  Real and
furry, with a white spot in the middle of its chest and bristling white
whiskers.  Han managed to focus his eyes.  "Muuurgh .  . .?"  he gasped
feebly.  "Wha's goin' on .  . .?"

Muuurgh snarled into Han's face, his huge fangs so close that Han

could see them gleam with saliva.  "Pilot planning to escape, take
Bria," he growled.  "Vykk planning to steal from Ylesian masters.  Vykk
planning to take care of Muuurgh .  . ."

"But--" The hand pressed down, slightly, and Han subsided, eyes
bulging.

Muuurgh raised a massive paw-hand and flexed it slightly.  Scimitarlike
claws extruded.  "Now treacherous Pilot will die," the Togorian
snarled.

"No!"  Han put up his hands in a gesture of appeal.  "Please!  Just
listen?

"Muuurgh listened last night.  Muuurgh heard plenty," the Togorian said
grimly.

"Hey, pal!"  Han babbled, imagining what those claws would do to his
exposed throat.  "I thought we were friends!"

"Muuurgh liked Pilot.  Muuurgh is sorry to have to kill Pilot.  But
word of honor was given.  No choice for Muuurgh."

The hand started down.  Han squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the
end.

He felt the breeze of the Togorian's swing graze his cheek, his throat,
but nothing touched him.  After several eternities, Han opened his eyes
again.  Muuurgh was staring down at him, plainly torn.

Finally, he grabbed Han by the shoulder and hair, jerked him to his
feet, and pushed him in the direction of the Corellian's clothes.  "Get
dressed!

Muuurgh not want Pilot's blood on his claws.  We go to tell Teroenza
what Pilot and girl are planning.  Priest will tell other guards to
kill traitors."

Han hastened over to the bunk, and began dragging on his clothes.  At
least he wouldn't die naked and wet.  "Listen, Muuurgh," he said,
"you've gotta listen to me.  Please!  What can it hurt?"

"Pilot lies.  Muuurgh knows he lies.  Muuurgh I will not listen."

That's a good sign that he's regaining his cool, Han thought.  The
grammar I taught him is coming back.

Sealing the front of his coverall, Han sat down on the edge of the bunk
to pull on his boots.  "Your people have a code of honor, right?"  he
said, thinking as fast as he'd ever thought in his life.

"Yes."

"If you give your word of honor to someone who's employing you, you've
got to keep it, right?"

"Yes.  Pilot can move faster than that.  Put on those boots."

Han slowly inserted his right foot, toes pointed down, and began to
pull the boot on.  "Well, pal, suppose you gave your word of honor to

someone and found that everything he told you was a lie on his part of
the contract.  What does that do to your agreement?  Do you have to
keep your word to someone who's lied to you and made a fool out of
you?"

Muuurgh eyed Han suspiciously, but said nothing.

"C'mon, pal, what's your code of honor say about making agreements with
liars, eh?"

Muuurgh shook his massive head, then his ears flattened in anger.  "If
a Togorian makes a word of honor with a liar, contract is void.  There
is no honor to be had dealing with a liar."

"All right," Han said with a surge of satisfaction.  He picked up his
left boot.  "Listen to me, pal.  I think Mrrov is here, on Ylesia.  I
think Teroenza lied to you."

Muuurgh stared at Han, then his blue eyes narrowed.  "You would lie to
stay alive, Vykk."

"Yeah, I would, pal," Han said honestly.  "But I swear to you I ain't
lying about this."

"Swear?  What is this 'swear'?"

"It's .  . . like a word of honor, sort of," Han said.  "My people
swear by the most important thing in the world to them.  It's like . 
.

. sacred, I guess you'd say."

"So what does Vykk swear by?"

Han thought for a moment.  "I swear," he said, slowly and distinctly,
"by 	Bria's life.  You know I care for her .  . . a lot.  Don't you?"

Muuurgh considered for a moment, then nodded.

"Okay, then, I swear to you, on Bria's life, that last night she told
me she saw a Togorian here, six months or more ago.  That would tie in
with the time you were searching for Mrrov, wouldn't it?"

Silently the Togorian nodded again.

"She saw a Togorian, Muuurgh.  Ask her yourself.  Teroenza and his
goons lied to you when they said she never came here.  She's probably
still here, on Ylesia.  Probably not here at Colony One, 'cause that's
too risky.  But there's a good chance she's at Colony Two .  . . or
maybe even Three.  But Colony Two has been there longer, they've got a
lot more pilgrims there than at Colony Three.  So I'm betting she's at
Colony Two.  It's worth checking out, isn't it?"

"what did she look like?"  Muuurgh asked slowly.

For a moment Han was tempted to lie, say he didn't know, because what
if he was wrong about the Togorian being Mrrov, and Muuurgh got mad and
killed him right here and now?  He took a deep breath.  "Bria said she
was white and some other color.  Striped.  She thought they might be
orange stripes, but she said it was almost dark, so she's not sure."

I sure hope Mrrov wasn't solid-colored or spotted!

Muuurgh's ears flattened, and he hissed like a leaky valve, teeth bared
ferociously.  Han desperately looked around for something to brain the
Togorian with, but there wasn't a thing in reach.  Silently he resigned
himself to being ripped in two.

Then Muuurgh's furious hiss mutated into a pain-filled yowl of
anguish.

The big alien sank to the floor, clutching his head and yowling in an
ululating keen.  "You have described her!"  he growled, finally.  "By
all the gods of my fathers, can she have been here all these days,
while I believed those liars?  I will go now to tear their throats out
and eat their hearts!"

"Whew," Han muttered softly.  I'm glad that worked!

Muuurgh leaped to his feet, obviously ready to make good on his
threat.

"Wait!"  Han leaped up and grabbed one huge arm, hung on as he was
dragged across the floor, through the living room, almost to the
door.

He dug his heels in and refused to let go.  "Muuurgh, if you want her
back, stop!"

Muuurgh slowed, then stopped.  "Good," Han said, panting.  "Now let's
talk about this like rational sentients, okay?  Sit down."

Muuurgh sank down onto his pallet.  Han switched on some music, then
pulled his beat-up chair so close to the Togorian that they were nearly
touching.

"Talk low," he whispered, and Muuurgh nodded.

"I've got a plan," Han said.  "I think I know how to get her, if she's
still here on Ylesia."  I just hope they haven't shipped her off to the
spice mines, he thought, but he didn't say it aloud.  Muuurgh knew what
happened to the slaves as well as he did, by now.

"Okay, Vykk," Muuurgh said, equally softly, "tell me the plan."  Han
thought a moment.  "I'm going to need your help for some of this.  I've
got some preparations to make, and I'll try to get everything possible
set up before I leave."

"Leave?  Vykk is leaving?"

"Yes, but I'm not talking about our final escape.  In a couple of days
I've got to deliver a message and a gift from Zavval to a Hutt named
Jiliac on Nal Hutta.  I'm supposed to stay there and wait for a
reply.

I've never been to Nal Hutta, and I don't know the drill there, but
Jalus Nebl has."

Muuurgh nodded to show he was listening, and nervously began to groom
his white whiskers.

"So, okay.  The Dream is really too small for three.  I'm gonna point
that out to Teroenza and tell him Nebl wants to get back into flying
again as my copilot.  I'm pretty sure he'll agree to let me and Nebl
fly this

mission together.  I'm gonna suggest that you stay here, 'cause there
won't be room for you."

Han got up and began pacing back and forth as he thought.  "The priests
know you like to hunt, right?  So when I get permission to take Nebl
with me, you should request to spend a couple of days hunting.  You can
move fast over rough ground, right?"

"Very fast," agreed the Togorian.  "Fast enough to track and kill
prey."

"Do you think you could make it on foot to Colony Two?"

"Yes."  Muuurgh sounded positive.

"Well, it's our best shot.  If Mrrov is still here on Ylesia, there's a
better than fifty-fifty chance that she's at Colony Two.  You should go
there and scout it out, find out if she's there."

"And rescue her!"  Muuurgh leaped to his feet.

"No!"  Han snapped.  "Sit down.  That would be the worst thing to do.

They'd start a planet-wide search for the two of you.  They'd use
sensors tuned to Togorian readings to pinpoint you.  Then you'd be
captured and probably killed.  Or sent to the mines of Kessel, which
amounts to the same thing."

"You want Muuurgh to see Mrrov, and not let her see him?"  "Exactly.

Just find her, scout out where she sleeps, eats, stuff like that.

Then, when we make our getaway, you and me will hop over to Colony Two
and break her outta there.  I've been doing some latenight scouting
around this place, in case you haven't noticed."

"Muuurgh noticed," the Togorian said dryly.  "Everywhere Vykk went,
Muuurgh was behind him, watching.  Why do you think I knew to listen
when you walked Bria back to her dorm?"

"Well, anyway, I've figured out how to create a diversion that'll keep
the guards busy while we get the best stuff out of the collection.  And
I know where the communications center is.  I'll make sure that
communications between the colonies are down by the time we get outta
here.  We'll hop over to Colony Two, and before they know what's
happening, we'll grab Mrrov and be hightailing it off this planet.

Then I'll take you both back to Togoria, okay?"

Muuurgh looked at Han, his blue eyes narrowing, whiskers twitching with
emotion.  "You would do this for Muuurgh and Mrrov?"

"Yes.  I swear it.  If you help me and Bria break into and steal
Teroenza's stuff, I swear to you we won't leave without Mrrov."

The big Togorian thought about that for a long time, then his eyes met
Han's.  "I will do it," he said.  "Word of honor."

Han nodded.  "It's a deal, pal."

That same evening, Han went over to Teroenza's treasure room to find
Bria.

He was wondering if she'd be attending devotions now that she knew they
were faked.  Standing outside, he knocked on the heavy, metal-sheathed
door.  "It's me," he called in response to her voice from inside.

The door opened, and Bria stepped out.  Han's eyes widened.  "Hey!  You
look great!"

For the first time since he'd known her, she'd doffed her bulky tan
robes and concealing cap.  Instead, she was wearing a simple pale blue
tunic and trousers.  Although modest in style, they revealed a figure
that was slender but definitely female.

"Exalted Teroenza told me I could dispense with my pilgrim robes while
I was working on the collection," she told him.  When she saw the
warmth in his eyes, she blushed a little, but smiled.  "He was afraid
that I'd catch my robes on some valuable artifact and knock it off a
shelf."  "Well, I approve," Han said.  "Want to get a cup of tea?"

"Sure."

When they were seated in the mess hall, with cups of stim-tea before
them, Bria smiled shyly at Han.  "So .  . . you really like the way I
look?"

"You bet," he said.  "You're the prettiest girl on this planet, no
kidding."

She smiled, then the smile faded, and she looked troubled.  "You're
apparently not the only one who thinks so, Vykk .  . ."

"What do you mean?"

"I had the strangest exchange with Ganar Tos, Teroenza's majordomo,
this morning.  He'd apparently never seen beyond the pilgrim robes, but
when I put these clothes on, he really noticed me.  He followed me
around for about an hour while I was trying to get some rearranging
done, making conversation---or trying to.  Those orangy-red eyes of his
gave me chills.

He's old, but it's obvious he still has .  . um .  . . plenty of life
in him, if you get my meaning.  Male life."

Han sat back.  "You mean, that old creep was coming on to you?"  She
shivered.  "I'm afraid so.  He wanted to know how old I was, whether I
was ever married, whether I had any children.  He asked me why I'd
wound up coming to Ylesia to be a pilgrim.  Very personal questions!

He had a lot of nerve."

Han leaned forward.  "So why did you come here?  Or do you consider
that too personal to tell me, too?"

She smiled wanly at him.  "Of course not, Vykk.  Why'd I come here?  It
seems so long ago, it's hard to even remember.  I was going through a

bad time.  I'd just finished kid's school, and was kind of scared at
the idea of going to the university.  I'd never been on my own
before.

"My mother always kept a tight rein and made me feel as though I could
never do anything right.  Studying hard and behaving myself weren't
enough for her."  She smiled, but it was not a nice smile.  "My father
encouraged me to have a career, but all Mother could think about was my
making a 'brilliant match."  She thought her dreams had come true when
I started seeing Dael."

Han felt a stab of jealousy, but reminded himself that there had been
other girls in his past.  More than a few, matter of fact .  . .

"We were on the verge of getting engaged when I caught him sneaking
around with another girl.  So I told him it was over.  My mother was
furious with me for breaking up with Dael.  He came from one of the
richest families on Corellia, and she'd already begun planning the
wedding."  She sighed.  "She ordered me to go to him and apologize, get
him to take me back.  For the first time in my life, I told her 'no.""
"She sounds like a very .  . . determined .  . . woman," Han said
cautiously.

"Determined isn't the word.  Mother had pushed me at Dael ever since we
were in school together, and I didn't have the courage to tell her that
I didn't like him that much.  It's funny"--her blue-green eyes grew
misty--"I didn't much want Dael, but when I knew he'd been sneaking
around with someone else, I felt betrayed and heartbroken.  People are
strange, aren't they?"

Han nodded.  "Go on," he said encouragingly.

"Well, just about that time, I heard about a revival that was being
held by a Ylesian missionary.  I was feeling pretty down on myself,
because I just knew I couldn't do anything right.  Uprooted, you
know?

Cut off from everyone.

"So I went to the revival.  The Ylesian priest finished his service
with just a few seconds of Exultation--and it made me feel so good.

Like I belonged with those people.  So I sold my jewelry, ran away, and
caught the next ship for Ylesia."

She smiled wistfully.  "So that's my story.  And to return to the
subject at hand, what do you think I should do to keep poor old Ganar
Tos at arm's length?"

"Well, if he bugs you too much, mention it to Teroenza.  I'm sure he
doesn't want anything to interfere with your work, and if Ganar Tos is
doing that, then he'll put a stop to it."

"Okay," she said, cheering up.  "That's a good idea."

"Are you going to devotions?"  Han asked, giving her a significant
glance.

She shook her head.  "No.  I don't want to."

"Won't they notice when you don't go?"

"I can always say I had a headache or was working late.  Most of the
pilgrims can't wait to go, so they don't keep tabs on who's there."

"That's true.  How about a walk, then?"  "Sure."

When they were outside, Han walked them clear to the Flowered Plains
before he broached the subject on his mind.  Quickly he summarized that
morning's interaction with Muuurgh.  Bria was alarmed to realize that
the Togorian had been listening to them last night, and said so.

"Yeah, me, too," Han replied.  "That big guy can be real quiet when he
wants to be.  No wonder he says he's the best hunter on this planet.

He's apparently been following me the whole time I was scouting out the
lay of this place, and figuring out the best way to get us out of
here."

"We'd better be careful where we are when we're discussing escape
plans," she said, glancing nervously around.

"Why do you think I walked us clear out here before I even brought up
the subject?  The trees have ears around here.  We've gotta be real
careful.

Last night it was only Muuurgh, so we're okay, but it coulda been one
of the skin-changers they've got as guards down in the glitterstim
factory."

She shivered at the thought.  "So what did you have to tell me?"

"Muuurgh's going to ask to go on a hunting trip while Jalus Nebl and I
make the run to Nal Hutta.  We've got it all set up.  Teroenza approved
me taking Nebl with me today.  Nal Hutta's two systems away, and it'll
take us four days, maybe five.  I promised Muuurgh he'd have that long
to find out if Mrrov is still here, and that, if she is, we'll take her
with us."

"That would be good," Bria said.  "I hated the idea of leaving Muuurgh
behind.  If Teroenza got angry enough, he'd probably kill him for
letting us escape, whether Muuurgh was responsible or not."

"Right."  Han sighed.  "I just wish I could figure out a way to break
into Teroenza's living quarters and search the place until I found
where he keeps those ship access codes and the security lock codes for
the collection.  So far, I'm stumped.  I've figured out a way to keep
the guards busy, but if I can't get those codes, I may have to change
my plans.  I might have to set the Welcome Center on fire or
something."

"Security codes?"  Bria frowned and closed her eyes.  "Security codes
.

. ."

She drew a deep breath, then began reciting a string of numbers,
symbols, and letters.

"That sounds like it!"  Han grabbed her arm in excitement.  "How'd you
get them?"

She gave him a tremulous smile.  "They were in Teroenza's mind.  I'm
afraid they're burned into mine, along with everything else.  I wish I
could forget them--and all that other stuff--but I can't."

He grabbed her shoulders and gave them an ecstatic little shake.

"Well, don't wish that till we're off this mudhole.  Bria, honey, this
is great!

You've saved me a lotta trouble!"

She smiled at him shakily.  "I paid an awful price for it, but if it
helps us .  . . I guess it was worth it."

"It will be," Han promised.  "Trust me.  I swear it will be."

She nodded.

"So all we have to do is avoid arousing suspicion until we're ready to
make the break.  That's gonna be easy for me--Nebl and I will be
offworld.

Think you can manage to just do business as usual here till we get
back?"

"I think so," she said.  "But .  . . hurry back!"

"I will, sweetheart," he said.

Bria gave Han a pleading look.  "After we're free, could we go to
Corellia, Vykk?  I want to see my folks again.  I want to let them know
I'm all right."

Han gave her a reassuring smile.  "Sure, sweetheart.  I've got some
business to take care of on Corellia, so that'll be one of our first
stops, okay?"

She gave him a radiant answering smile.  "Okay."

When Vykk left her at the door to her dorm, Bria told herself that
she'd just go upstairs and take a nap until it was time to go to
dinner.  If anyone asked, she'd plead a headache as an excuse for
missing devotions.

But when she reached her room, she picked up her pilgrim's robe and cap
and stood holding them.  Tomorrow, she thought.  I'll start tomorrow.

After all, I've had a rough couple of days.  Nobody could expect me to
miss the Exultation just like that.  I need a day to work myself up to
it...

And before she knew what she was doing, Bria found herself back in her
robes and cap, hurrying down the Path of Immortality, toward the Altar
of Promises .  . .

Two days later a jittery Han and a placid Jalus Nebl stood waiting
outside Jiliac the Hutt's audience room in his Winter Palace.  A
small

holo-recording device rested at Han's feet; it was designed to project
a visual and audio simulacrum of the sender.  Nebl was steadying a
large, elaborate box on an anti-grav lifter.  The box contained the
gift Zavval the Hutt had sent to his business associate, and sometime
rival, Jiliac.

"Wonder how much longer we'll have to wait?"  Han muttered nervously,
pacing a bit.  "It's been almost an hour."

"For an audience with a clan leader, this is nothing," Jalus Nebl
said.

"Once I waited two days to even reach the antechamber.  And don't
forget, we've got to wait for a reply.  Once I waited a week."

"Don't tell me that," Han grumbled.  "I don't want to hear about
everything that can go wrong.  I'm still skeptical that we're gonna
walk out of this place alive.  Hutts are notoriously bad-tempered,
y'know."

"I already told you, we're perfectly safe," the Sullustan replied.

"Forgive me if I'm being dense, but why can you be so sure of that?"

Han snapped.

"Long ago, in the early days of their coming to Nal Hutta, Hutts lost
so many messengers that communications between the clans completely
broke down, and everyone lost profit because of it," Nebl explained.

"So all the clans made a sworn pact--a messenger from one Hutt to
another is sacrosanct.  While we're delivering Zavval's message, and
taking back his reply, we cannot be touched or interfered with in any
way."

"Yeah, I sure hope you're right," Han mumbled.  He looked over at the
big box.  "I thought Zavval was mad at Jiliac," he whispered.  "So how
come he's sending him a gift?"

Nebl shook his head.  "Gifts are traditional.  To gain a Hutt's
attention, you must either present him with a gift or threaten him or
her.  Sometimes Hutts do both at the same time."

Han grimaced.  "Weird.  You sure you don't have any idea what's in
there?

That box is big enough to hold most anything.  Even a body, if you
folded it up.  I'd feel better if I knew."

"The box is sealed," Nebl pointed out.  "If we open it, His Excellency
Jiliac will know.  We don't want any trouble."

"Yeah .  . . I know."  Han grimaced and, to distract himself from his
worries, looked around.

The antechamber was high-ceilinged, with skylights.  It was built of
light-colored stone, and the pale walls were hung with tapestries woven
(it was said) by Jiliac's enemies while they languished in his
dungeons, waiting for the mercy of execution.  One depicted the
original Hutt homeworld, the desolate and barren planet Varl, and
another the great cataclysm that destroyed it long, long ago.  Still
another showed the great

Hutt diaspora to Nal Hutta in the Y'Toub system.  Nal Hutta, Han knew,
meant glorious jewel in Huttese.

The last tapestry was a full-sized portrait of Jiliac himself,
reclining in state upon his lavishly appointed but tasteful dais.

Han hadn't seen much of Nal Hutta, since he and Nebl had been whisked
into a droid-chauffeured landspeeder and taken south, to Jiliac's
remote Winter Palace.  The Hutt Lord's retreat was located on a small
island near the equator.  Jalus Nebl had informed Han that he was
lucky, that this island was, by comparison with the rest of Nal Hutta,
a virtual "garden spot" on this dank and noisome world.

This island reminded him of Ylesia--hot, humid, and full of giant trees
choked with huge vines.

Han's attention jerked back to the here and now when he realized that
Dorzo, Jiliac's Rodian majordomo, was beckoning to them.  "His Supreme
Excellency Jiliac, clan leader and protector of the righteous, will see
you now."

Hastily Han picked up his recorder, and then he and Nebl walked into
the audience chamber.

It was huge.  Han paced up the central aisle toward the dais, feeling
the luxurious pile of an expensive carpet beneath his boots.  The
chamber was filled with fawning sycophants of all races, tastefully
garbed dancing girls and boys, and an orchestra off in one corner.  A
massive buffet table heaped with food from a dozen worlds made his
nostrils twitch as Han suddenly recalled that he'd forgotten to eat
lunch.

Jiliac reclined at his ease on an audience dais, smoking something that
Han couldn't identify, but which he wanted no part of.  Even the faint
whiff he got of the expelled smoke made his head swim.

Jalus Nebl nudged Han, and he nervously stepped forward.  "Almighty
Jiliac," he said in Huttese, recalling the speech Zawal had rehearsed
with him, "we come from our Ylesian master Zawal the Hutt to bring you
a message and a gift.  First, the gift .  . ."  He beckoned to Nebl,
and the Sullustan, as agreed, stepped forward.

Jiliac peered down at them, then ordered, in Huttese, "Open it.  I wish
to see what Zawal deems worthy of me."

"Yes, Your Excellency," squeaked the Sullustan, who set about slitting
all the seals and releasing all the catches.

Han watched in fascination as the Sullustan raised the lid on the box
and withdrew two crystalline globes with bronze supports, which he
balanced one upon the other, and then placed the entire contraption
upon a sturdy, curved bronze stand.

All of the metal was chased with gold and silver designs.  There was
a

small housing on the back of the bottom globe that contained some kind
of battery, Han thought.  The Corellian stared at the thing in
perplexity.  He had no idea what the device was.

Jiliac did, however.  "A combination hookah and snack-quarium!"  he
boomed, speaking, of course, in Huttese, which Han by this time
understood very well.  "And one almost worthy of our greatness!  Just
what I wanted!  How did he know?"  He turned his attention back to the
two messengers and continued, more formally, "Messengers, Zavval's gift
pleases me.  Let us hope his message does, as well.  Activate it,
human."

Han bowed low, set the recorder on a low table, and switched it on.

Immediately a holo-simulacrum of Zavval appeared, filling the space
before Jiliac's dais.  "My dear Jiliac," Zavval said, stretching out a
hand toward Jiliac, as though he could see the other and were really
present.  "Over the past year, some unfortunate occurrences have
plagued our shipping operations out of Ylesia.  Ships have disappeared,
and one ship was attacked.  As one of the heads of our Kajidier, it was
my duty to trace down these despicable incursions."

Jiliac's pleased expression had faded.  Han cast a nervous glance at
the Sullustan.  I sure hope he's right about us being safe!

"We have traced these so-called 'pirates' to Nar Shaddaa, and recently
my operatives have captured and questioned one of the captains of these
vessels.  This unfortunate individual revealed--before succumbing to a
weak heart--that he was recruited and sent upon his villainous missions
by you and your great-nephew, Jabba.  Your enmity wounds us deeply--and
what is more important, cuts into our profit margin.  Be warned,
Jiliac.  Leave our shipments alone.  Any more attacks will meet with
swift reprisal upon you and your clan.  We have assembled a great
fleet, which will surely vanquish your paltry forces."

We have?  thought Han wildly.  There's just me and Nebl!  Zavval's
bluffing.

Or did he recently hire more pilots?

Zavval's message continued, inexorably, "Accept our gift as a peace
offering, or meet with grim consequences--among which your own death
will be the least.  Jiliac, I appeal to you in the name of Hutt
brotherhood to cease hijacking and terrorizing our vessels.  We can
make a much better profit if we work together, instead of contending
with each other."

By this time, Han and the Sullustan were backing away in terror,
because Jiliac was swelling up like a poisoned wound.  "Heed my
warning, Jiliac.  Cease your--"
"AiiiiiieeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrrrRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Jiliac's scream of fury made Han and Nebl leap behind the buffet

table.  The Hutt Lord's tail lashed out in a giant sweep to strike the
recording device, sending it flying.  Zawal's image vanished.

Jiliac slid forward.  Han watched in horrified fascination.  It was the
first time he'd seen a Hutt Lord move under his own power.

"Messengers!"

Jiliac screamed.  "Come forth!"

Slowly, reluctantly, Han and Nebl crawled around the edge of the table
and got shakily to their feet.  "Yes, Almighty Jiliac?"  Nebl
quavered.

Han was incapable of speech.

"I send you back to that worm-ridden parasitical infestation who calls
himself Zawal," Jiliac raged, tail lashing, as he moved back and
forth.

"Tell him he has maligned me and my kin, Jabba.  Tell him this
lackwitted attempt to incite me into a precipitous attack has failed
utterly.  I will bide my time.  He is a dead Hutt, but for the moment,
by my grace, he may pretend to be among the living.  I alone will
decide when he is to die--and it will be at my convenience.  Do you
understand, messengers?"

"Yes, Almighty One!"  Han said, having recovered his voice.  It was
obvious that Jiliac was letting them go, and he wanted nothing more
than to get off this world.  He bowed, then bowed again.  "I'll tell
him exactly what you said!"

"Good!  You may go.  Take my message to Zawal--immediately!"  Bowing,
Han and Nebl backed from the audience room.  Once outside, they hastily
leaped into their transport and ordered the droid driver to return them
to the spaceport immediately.

Han had never been so glad to see the Ylesian Dream waiting for him.

He and Jalus Nebl ran across the landing field, scrambled up the ramp,
and threw themselves into the control cabin.

Only when they were out in space, and Han was pulling the lever to send
them streaking into hyperspace, did enough of his sense of humor return
that he was able to grin feebly at the Sullustan.  "Well, Nebl," he
said, "that went well, didn't it?"

The Sullustan rolled his large, wet eyes.  "You still don't understand,
Vykk," he said.  "When one is dealing with Hutts, there are wheels
within wheels within wheels.  It's entirely possible that Zawal sent
that message because we are vulnerable, to keep Jiliac from attacking
more openly.

We're just underlings.  We only see part of the picture.  All you can
do is pray to any gods you believe in that you never anger a Hutt.  One
would be better off dead, and that is no understatement."

Han nodded.  "I believe you.  Still, if I were Zavval, I wouldn't rest
too easily at night.  He may not have long to live .  ."

Muuurgh glided through the jungle in the dimness of the short Ylesian
twilight.  It had taken him a day and a half to travel the 147
kilometers to Colony Two.  Part of his slowness had come from the
perilous crossing of the Gachoogai River.  He'd been so exhausted by
struggling through the rapid current that he'd had to take two hours
out of his trip to hunt and then another hour to sleep.  He was still
tired from his ordeal · .  . but he was finally here.

He listened for the sounds of chanting voices as he skirted the
perimeter of the compound.  Colony Two followed, as far as he knew, the
same schedule as Colony One, so the pilgrims should be at the evening
devotions.

His nostrils flared as he tested the wind, constantly sniffing for any
Togorian spoor.  Several times, Muuurgh got down on his hands and knees
and moved forward, sniffing, drinking in the scents left by the
pilgrims who had recently passed this way.

Five minutes later he jerked as if he'd been hit with a stunprod.

Mrrov!

Mrrov came this way, no more than a day ago!  Wandering cautiously
around the outskirts of the buildings, he located first the dorm she
slept in, then the factory where she worked.

Lastly, he followed the freshest scent trail to a path that he was sure
must lead to the Altar of Promises.  Apparently Colony Two was laid out
on a nearly identical plan to Colony One.

Without checking farther, the Togorian melted back into the jungle and
moved as quickly as he could toward the site of the devotions.  For a
moment he wondered whether Mrrov might scent his trail, but it was
unlikely.  He'd been thoroughly soaked in that river, and had
deliberately avoided the instinct to rub against anything and leave
scent markers.  He didn't want Mrrov to try following him back to
Colony One, and possibly becoming lost in the jungle when his trail was
interrupted by the river.

The Togorian arrived just in time to automatically resist the mental
and physical waves of the Exultation.  Narrowing his eyes, Muuurgh
scanned the writhing forms in front of him---and found Mrrov.  She was
twitching, but not really writhing .  . . and there was something false
about the way she moved that allowed him to pick her out easily.

She is faking, Muuurgh thought.  I knew Mrrov was too strongminded to
be fooled by these liars for long!

He strained his eyes to make out every line of her beneath her
pilgrim's robe.  But all he could see clearly was her head, orange
stripes contrasting vividly with the white.  He longed to see her
lovely yellow eyes, but he was behind her and to her right.  She could
not see him.

For a second, Muuurgh nearly threw caution and his vow to Vykk to the
winds--it was everything he could do not to race into the crowd of
pilgrims, grab his mate-to-be, and carry her off into the jungle.

But he had given Vykk his word of honor.  Mrrov must not know he was
here.

As the pilgrims staggered to their feet, the Exultation over, Muuurgh's
eyes widened as he saw that Mrrov was wearing a blue sash--as were
about fifty of the hundred or so pilgrims at the devotion.

That sash!  That's the sash of the Chosen Ones!  Oh, no--He could have
hissed aloud in his frustration and fear.  Muuurgh had been on Ylesia
for many months.  He'd seen those sashes before.

Sure enough, as the pilgrims began shuffling into the night, the High
Priest stepped up to call out to them in his booming voice.  "All
pilgrims who were issued blue sashes today, please remain behind!  Your
High Priest has an announcement to make!"

Obediently, the pilgrims with blue sashes stopped walking toward the
path and instead shuffled forward.  Mrrov looked as though she was
thinking of yanking off her sash and making a run for it, but she
didn't.  Muuurgh yowled inwardly.  Does she know what those sashes
mean?

"Those of you who have received these blue sashes are being honored as
Chosen Ones.  Your piety and devotion to the One and the All have
caused us to select you for a singular honor.  Tomorrow night will be
your last devotion here at this Altar.  At dawn on the following
morning, you will be taken by spaceship to meet with our missionaries,
and each of you will be selected by one of our missionaries to
accompany him out to spread the word of the One and the All."

Muuurgh heard excited, greedy murmurings from the crowd, and knew the
true pilgrims were ecstatic over the implication that they would be
able to receive Exultations without sharing it with hundreds of other
pilgrims.

Stupid... was the Togorian's first thought.  They are no better than
bist or etelo, worthy only of being hunted and eaten.  Those spaceships
will take them only to the mines of Kessel or the pleasure-houses of
the Imperial soldiers.  They will receive no more Exultations, they
will live in degradation and misery, and most of them will die within a
year...

His second thought raised the fur along his neck and spine.  Only a day
and a half until they ship her out of here!  Since the Imperial
soldiers want only humanoids in their pleasure-houses, that must mean
that Mrrov is destined for the mines on Kessel.  They figure that since
she is Togorian, and strong, she will last a long time in the
mines...

Muuurgh slammed a hand against a tree bole.  Curse them, I have
little

time!  The Ylesian overlords will undoubtedly call upon Vykk or the
Sullustan to ferry these pilgrims to the space station to await the
Kessel transport that is coming.  I must be back at Colony One to help
Vykk, so we can all escape together!

Muuurgh leaped to his feet and loped off through the jungle, feeling
fear drive the fatigue from his body.  He turned his face southeast,
heading back for Colony One.  There was no time to lose .  . . Mrrov's
very life hung in the balance.

The Togorian ran, leaping over logs and streams, ducking through
low-lying bushes.  His breath came easily, but he knew that would not
last long.  He was already travel-weary--but that could not be allowed
to matter.

Like a black shadow in the blacker night, the Togorian ran .  . .

Bria had just finished devotions and was heading for the path leading
back to her dorm when Ganar Tos fell into step beside her.  She
stiffened, keeping her head down, and refused to look up.  I wish Vykk
were back!  He's been gone three days, now .  . . Ganar Tos wouldn't be
following me around like this if Vykk were here .  . .

The elderly Zisian reached out to grasp her arm, but Bria yanked it
away.

The majordomo smiled as he stepped forward, barring her path.  "The
Exalted One, Teroenza, wishes to speak with you, Pilgrim 921," he
said.

Oh, no!  she thought, feeling her heart seem to stop, then slam in her
chest so hard she was afraid Ganar Tos would actually hear it.

Teroenza has figured out that I was the one who telepathically probed
his mind!

"Wh-what does he want?"  she managed to say, through stiff lips,
wondering if she should just try to make a run for it.  Perhaps she
could hide out in the jungle for a day or so until Vykk returned .  .

.

"He has something to discuss with you," Tos said, smiling at her.  Bria
cringed from that smile, but she decided there was no point in
running.

The guards would only track her down and kill her .  . .

So she turned and headed back toward the Altar of Promises.  When she
reached Teroenza, the High Priest peered down at her as she made the
proper obeisance.  Bria's heart pounded, and she was so frightened she
felt light-headed, dizzy.

"Pilgrim 921," Teroenza addressed her in his booming voice, "you have
served us faithfully, and I am pleased with you.  I am also pleased
with my loyal servant, Ganar Tos.  I wish to reward both of you."

Bria glanced sideways at the Zisian, whose orange eyes were
practically glowing with happiness.  Oh, no.  I have a bad feeling
about this .  . .

Teroenza indicated the majordomo.  "Ganar Tos has asked me for your
hand in marriage, and I am pleased to grant his request.  Stand before
me, and I will pronounce the words to make you his wife."

Bria gasped and wondered if she should let herself faint.  She felt as
though she might be able to do it--black spots swam before her eyes,
and her ears rang.  Then she felt a wash of pleasure engulf her, such
exquisite pleasure that she almost passed out from that.  The pleasure
was so intense, so warm, so loving, that she might almost have agreed
to anything, just to have it continue.

But just as she was about to nod like a pliant zombie, Vykk's face swam
before her eyes.  Bria's spine stiffened, and her chin came up.  She
didn't dare faint--if she did, she'd likely wake up married to Ganar
Tos and being carried back to their nuptial bed.  The thought made her
gag, and the priest's pleasure-vibes lost their power over her.  Bria
experienced a sudden, vivid image of herself sharing a bed with Ganar
Tos, and for an awful second she was afraid she might be sick.

Control yourself!  she commanded.  Think!

"But, Exalted One," she murmured timidly, forcing herself to keep her
eyes modestly downcast, "I have taken vows of chastity.  I cannot marry
anyone."

"Your piety does you credit, Pilgrim," Teroenza boomed.  "And yet, the
One and All bless fruitful unions, just as much as they bless the
celibate state.  I am granting you a special dispensation so that you
may marry Ganar Tos and raise your children to be faithful to the One
and the All."

Clever old monster, Bria thought, hating Teroenza as she'd never hated
anyone before in her life.  There's no way around his argument without
my committing blasphemy.

She took a long, deep breath, to give herself time to think.  "Very
well, Exalted One," she said meekly.  "If you say this is the will of
the One and the All, I must bow to it.  I will be a good wife to Ganar
Tos."  Gritting her teeth inwardly, she forced herself to lay her hand
on his warty green arm.

"Good, Pilgrim," Teroenza said, raising his arms to begin the
ceremony.

"But, Exalted One," Bria raised her voice slightly, "I must follow the
customs of my own people before I can consider myself legally
married."

Before the priest could refuse her, she hurried on, "They are simple,
and easily fulfilled, Exalted One.  I ask for but a day to purify
myself and meditate upon the sacred state of marriage.  Also, on
Corellia, it is traditional for a woman to wear a green gown to her
wedding.  I can easily ask the tailor droid to prepare one for me by
tomorrow evening."

Bria held her breath as Teroenza hesitated.  Finally, the High Priest
must have decided that she wasn't asking for that much.  "Very well,
Pilgrim 921," he boomed.  Ganar Tos's face fell.  "Tomorrow evening,
before the entire assembly, you and Ganar Tos shall be joined.  May the
blessing of the One and the All be upon you."

Teroenza sketched a quick sign in the air, and then turned and lumbered
away.

Ganar Tos headed purposefully for Bria.  "I will walk you back to your
dorm," he said.

"Very well," she agreed, but she pulled away when he tried to put an
arm around her.  "The groom must not touch the bride during the last
day before the ceremony," she cooed, lying through her teeth.  "Another
Corellian tradition.  Surely you can wait one short day, my
groom-to-be?"

He nodded shortly.  "Very well, wife-to-be.  I swear to you, I will be
a good husband.  It is my fondest wish that we will be blessed with
many children."

"That is my fondest wish, too," Bria said sweetly.  Within the
voluminous sleeves of her robes, she crossed all the fingers of both
hands.

Please, Vyk!"  she thought frantically, hurry back!  Please!

ten

Farewell to Paradise?

Han and Nebl made good time on their return trip, and Han guided the
Ylesian Dream down through the clouds on the nightside.  They saw
several spectacular storm cells lit up from within by lightning, but
when they landed at Colony One an hour or so past midnight in the short
Ylesian night, it was not, for a miracle, raining.  Jalus Nebl turned
to Han and commented, "Nice landing.  I can't say I've ever done
better."

Han smiled at the praise and was still grinning happily as they came
down the ramp and onto the landing field.  Both he and the Sullustan
had to hastily don their infrared goggles--the night was dead-black,
and not a single star was visible.

"Well, I'm off to get a few hours of sleep, lad," the Sullustan said as
he turned to head for the infirmary, where he was still under
treatment, though he was no longer having to breathe filtered air.

"Good night."

"Night, Nebl," Han answered, and he turned, yawning, toward the path
that led to the Administration Center.  My bunk's gonna feel awful
good, he thought.  Think I'll sleep in and-- .

Without warning, something large grabbed him from behind, and a furred
paw-hand clamped over his mouth to stifle his yell of surprise.  Han
gasped as he was lifted clean off the path and carried a few steps into
the jungle.  Then a familiar voice breathed into his ear, "Muuurgh is
sorry to have to do that, but Vykk was going to yell.  We must be
quiet."

The Togorian set the Corellian on his feet again, and Han took a deep
breath, preparatory to giving the giant alien a good scolding about

not scaring people on dark nights.  Muuurgh shook his furry head, and
something about his expression, as seen through the infrared goggles,
stopped Han in midword.  Instead he asked quietly, "What's wrong?"

"I found Mrrov," Muuurgh said.  "Pilot will be roused at dawn to fly to
Colony Two and take her and other shipload of pilgrims to space station
to meet an incoming ship.  Ship coming from Kessel, must be--so no time
to lose.  Must escape.  Now.  Or Mrrov will be gone."

Han shook his head.  He was tired--he'd been sleeping in short shifts
for the past four nights, and it was catching up with him.  "Escape?

Tonight?"

"Yesssss!"  Muuurgh's anxiety was catching.  Han could feel adrenaline
beginning to course through his body.  "Must escape!  Tell Muuurgh what
to do!  Almost two hours before dawn.  By sunrise Mrrov will be waiting
with others at Altar place, and Vykk and Muuurgh must be ready with
ship!"

"Okay, okay, pal.  Calm down."  Han tried to think what had to be done
first.  "You've caught me by surprise here, and I need a second to
unscramble my brain.  First things first.  We'll need some blasters.

Five or six of 'em.  You used to live in the guards' barracks.  Think
you can sneak in and get 'em?"

Muuurgh nodded.  "Yessss .  . . I will get five or six blasters."

"If I were you, I'd swipe 'em from the Gamorreans.  They're dumb as a
box of rocks, and they sleep like logs."

Muuurgh's whiskers twitched with amusement.  "Yessss .  . ."

"Okay, then.  Meet me in front of the Administration Center in half an
hour."

With a final nod, Muuurgh melted into the underbrush.

Han headed for the Administration Center.  First item on his agenda was
to knock out the Colony's comm units.  He didn't want anyone summoning
reinforcements from the other colonies, or warning them that there was
trouble afoot.

When the Corellian reached the comm center, he dug in his pocket for
the scrap of flimsy that Bria had given him containing all of the
security codes she'd gained from her foray into Teroenza's mind.  There
was the code for Teroenza's personal yacht, Talisman, the ship Han
planned to use for their getaway.  There was the code for Teroenza's
private living quarters, and the code for the collection room.  And'
there was also the code for the operations center that contained the
Colony's generators, the base security viewscreens, the droid repair
shop, the weapons lockers, and the comm unit.

Han tiptoed through the quiet hallways, wondering if he'd catch a

glimpse of Muuurgh on his errand, but he saw not a flicker of
motion.

By now he knew enough about the security layout of Colony One to
automatically avoid the bored night guards--who were, most likely, from
what he'd seen on his previous forays, asleep at their posts.

It seemed an eternity before he reached the operations center, but
finally he was there, entering Bria's code.  With a soft electronic
hum, the door swung open.  "That's my girl," Han muttered as he crept
inside.

There was a guard stationed there, as Han had known there would be.  A
Twi'lek, asleep in the chair, feet propped up on the communit console,
head-tails dangling behind him like two ropes of pallid flesh.

Resounding snores vibrated through the still air.

Han drew his blaster, changed the setting to STUN, and squeezed the
trigger.  A blue, circular burst erupted, enveloping the guard.  The
Twi'lek jerked once, then collapsed bonelessly into the chair, looking
exactly the same--except the snores had stopped.  "That's a definite
plus," Han muttered, holstering his gun.

Stepping over to the comm unit, he pulled out the small multitool most
pilots automatically carried in their pockets, and set to work
loosening the casing.  He intended to disable the comm unit, then
replace the casing, so whoever tried to use it wouldn't realize for a
while that it had been sabotaged.

Moments later he lifted the outer shell off and put it on the floor.

His eyes widened at the myriads of wires, circuits, transponders,
cables, and row after row of identical unlabeled compartments.  Han
groaned aloud.

"How'm I supposed to know which of these carries the line to the power
generators?"

Selecting a wire at random, he cut it with the multitool's small laser
torch.  The power indicator remained ON.  Han cut another wire.  Then
another.  With growing frustration, he grabbed a handful of the
circuits and yanked them loose.

Still no visible result.

Swearing under his breath, he ripped and tore and lasered ruthlessly,
until he was breathing hard with the effort--and the power was still
on!

Over five minutes had passed.

"Stupid board .  . ."  Han snarled and, drawing his blaster, thumbed it
up to full intensity and discharged it right into the middle of the
stubborn console's innards.  Flames shot up, the smell of singed
insulation tickled his nostrils, sparks erupted-and the power indicator
went out.

"That's better," Han muttered grimly.  For good measure, he stunned the
Twi'lek again, then he turned and left.

Once outside the Administration Center, he pulled on his goggles and
headed down the jungle path at a trot.  His strides came faster and
faster, until he was nearly running full-out, and only a headlong fall
into a mud puddle slowed him down.  Dripping and cursing, he climbed
back to his feet and headed off again.

The other buildings were ahead of him, now, including Bria's dorm.  Han
had checked out the dorms long ago and determined that unlike the
Administration Center and the spice factories, they were not guarded at
night.  After all, the t'landa Til didn't care whether anyone harmed
their slaves--slaves were easily replaceable.

Bria's little bunk was on the second floor.  A dim night-light glowed
in the stair landing.  Han tiptoed up the stairs, blaster set on STUN
at the ready, but he met no one.  The pilgrims were so euphoric after
the Exultation each night that they slept like the dead.

Han wasn't sure exactly which bunk Bria occupied.  Peering through his
goggles, he padded quietly down the central aisle, glancing at the
sleeping faces in the various types of sleeping couches, pallets, and
bunks favored by various species.

A board creaked beneath his foot, and Han paused, holding his breath.

A figure sat up in a human-style bunk, clad in a sleeveless white
nightshirt.  "Vykk?"  she whispered.

Han nodded and beckoned urgently.  "Fast!"  he hissed.

To his surprise, she was already wearing her pants.  Grabbing her
overtunic and her sandals, she tiptoed toward him, automatically
avoiding the squeaky floorboard.

Together, in silence, they made a cautious way down the stairs, through
the hall, and out into the blackness of the night.  Bria pulled on her
goggles.

"C'mon," Han said, catching her hand before she had time to say a
word.

"We've gotta hurry!"

He broke into a run, and she pounded gamely alongside him.  Soon,
though, her strides shortened, and he could tell that she was fighting
a stitch in her side.  Slowing to a rapid walk, he towed her along the
jungle path.  She was breathing too hard to speak, but Han, who was in
better shape, caught his breath quickly.

"Tonight's the night," he told her.  "I need you and Muuurgh to start
in on Teroenza's collection, while I get the guards off our backs.

Think you can do it?"

She nodded breathlessly.  "Ganar Tos .  . ."  she gasped.

"Forget him," Han said curtly.  "You'll never see him again, with any
luck."

"But he .  . . and Teroenza .  . ."  She yielded to his urgent tug and
began jogging again.  "Going to make ... me ... marry... him .  . ."

Han's eyes widened.  "Ganar Tos wanted to marry you?  Minions of
Xendor!  Good thing we're gettin' outta here!"

Unable to speak again, she just nodded.

By the time they reached the Administration Center, Bria had her second
wind.  She followed Han as he led the way down the darkened corridors
to the door of Teroenza's collection room.  Muuurgh was waiting for
them.  At his feet lay a pile of blasters.  Bria's eyes widened.  "What
are those for?"

"Diversion," Han said.  "Okay, now.., here's this bypass code .  . ."

Quickly he entered the code, and as before, the door opened.  The three
of them tiptoed into the huge, dimly lit room.  Han reached into Bria's
desk and removed a powerful glowrod and flicked the bright light around
the room.  "Think we dare turn on the lights?"

She nodded.  "It's well sealed.  I checked that last week.  No way to
see it from Teroenza's apartment."

Han switched on the overhead lights, and the room was suddenly fully
illuminated.

Since Bria had taken over the maintenance of the collection, she'd
rearranged the entire room.  The collection cases gleamed, the shelves
were far less cluttered, and the colors on the tapestries were vivid,
freed from their film of dust.  The room's three white central support
pillars had been freshly painted.

"All right," Han whispered.  "You and Muuurgh get started and begin
picking out the items you selected.  I'll be back in about fifteen
minutes, okay?"

She nodded.  "But what'll I carry them in?"

"Last week I hid a knapsack behind the backsides of the two sprites on
the white jade fountain," Han said, pointing to the huge artifact.

"That'll get you started.  I'll try to bring something else back with
me if I see anything that'll work."

"Okay," she whispered.

Muuurgh was some distance away, examining a collection of jeweled
daggers.

Bria hesitated, her expression anguished.  Han put his hands on her
shoulders.  "What is it, honey?"

"Vykk .  . . I've never done anything like this before!"  She bit her
lip and gestured at the blasters Muuurgh had brought.  "Guns, and
stealing!

People could get hurt--even killed!  You could get killed, or me!"  She
was shivering all over.

Han put his arms around her, pulled her to him.  "Bria, we have to go
tonight," he said, though it was an effort to keep his voice gentle and
hide his impatience.  "Tomorrow they're shipping Mrrov to the mines of
Kessel.  The ship's probably going to arrive in orbit anytime now to
take her away!  It's now or never, sweetheart."

"And .  . . and .  . ."  She was clinging to the front of his coverall
with both hands.  "I'm afraid of what will happen to me when I leave
here.

Without the Exultation .  . . how can I live without it?"

"You'll have me," he reminded her.  "We'll be together.  I'll be with
you .

. . every minute.  You'll be okay .  . ."

She gulped and nodded, but two tears ran down her cheeks.  Han gave her
an encouraging grin.  "Hey .  . ."  he said.  "I'm better than Ganar
Tos, right?"

Bria managed a choked laugh, and then gave him a watery smile.

Han grabbed the blasters and headed out the door, making sure it was
closed behind him, then down the corridor.

Carrying six guns in one's arms, he discovered, wasn't easy.  He
finally wound up shoving them into the front of his coverall and into
his belt.

They impeded his motion somewhat, but that was better than juggling
them in his arms and fearing that one or more would fall to the floor
with a crash.

The night was as dark as ever, but Han knew that dawn couldn't be more
than an hour away now.  He managed an awkward lope down the muddy path,
blasters whacking into his legs and bouncing against his chest.

It took him nearly seven minutes to reach the first glitterstim
factory, and another two to creep up close enough to the guard, a huge
Gamorrean, to stun the alien at close range.  Seeing the creature's
huge, porcine bulk, Han gave him an extra shot to keep him quiet for as
long as this was going to take him.

Then he turned and walked into the factory, straight to the turbolift,
the extra blasters nearly tripping him as he squeezed through the mesh
door.

Setting the turbolift for the bottom floor, he endured the ride down,
down, into the night-black chill and the darkness beyond darkness.

When Han reached the bottom level, the one where Bria had worked, he
turned right to where he'd caught a glimpse of the containers of raw
glitterstim waiting to be apportioned to the workers.

Yanking the five blasters out of his belt (he kept the sixth as a
spare, since he hadn't known to make sure his own was fully charged for
tonight's escapade) Han arranged them atop the glitterstim in a
tasteful "rayed sun" design.  Then he quickly opened each one up and,
peering

through his goggles, set the powerful weapon to OVERLOAD.  A thin
whining filled the air, growing louder, echoing in the cavernous space,
as more and more whines joined the first in the dank depths of the
factory.

"That oughta do it," Han whispered to himself, and knowing he had only
minutes to get free before the whole place went boom, he bolted for the
turbolift.

The rush of wind across his sweating face felt good.  Han leaped out,
ran down the first floor of the factory, leaped over the recumbent
Gamorrean, who was just beginning to snort and stir, and ran off, into
the night.

He was halfway back to the Administration Center when Han felt the
ground shake and turned to see a gout of yellow flame reaching into the
night.

Moments later the blue sparks of glitterstim fizzed up like fireworks,
sending sparkling streamers high into the air.

Han could barely guess how many credits he was watching go up in
smoke.

It was a sobering sight.

Ahead of him, he heard a commotion from the Administration Center, and
moments later he had to jump off the path and continue through the
jungle as a gaggle of yelling guards nearly ran him over.

Slipping in the muck of the forest floor, Han managed to keep to a good
pace as he ran the rest of the way.  His boots left muddy footprints on
the steps of the Administration Center as he pounded up them, then down
the corridors toward Teroenza's treasure room.

There were guards all over now, shouting and yelling questions, but
none stopped or questioned Han.  He made it to the door of the
collection room, looked both ways, and then slipped inside.

Bria and Muuurgh looked up, saw him, then relaxed visibly.  "How's it
going?"  Han whispered.

"Okay," Bria replied softly.  "We've almost finished the A list."

"Great."

"What did Vykk do?"  Muuurgh asked.

"Vykk blew up the glitterstim factory," Han said with satisfaction.  "A
whole bunch of pilgrims are now out of a job."

"Oh, Vykk!  If we get caught?"  Bria's face was chalky.

"We won't," Han said.  "I've got everything under control."

He reached for a hand-sized sculpture of a torsk from Alzoc III, carved
from lapis, and when it proved heavier than he'd realized, yanked hard
to pull it toward him.

The sculpture tilted up, to reveal a snarl of wires and transponders.

Somewhere, next door, in Teroenza's personal apartments, an alarm began
to buzz stridently.

Han stared at the sculpture, then at his fellow thieves.  "Uh-oh .  .

."

eleven

Escape Velocity

Bria stared at Han, terrified and furious.  "Oh, great!  Now what are
we going to do?"

Han thought quickly.  "We're getting out of here.  The A list is good
enough.  Bria, you take the knapsack, okay?  And here, take this."

Pulling the spare blaster out of his belt, he handed it to her, showed
her how to aim it, and where the trigger was.  "We may have to fight
our way outta here."

"Wonderful," she said bitterly.  "Under control, right, Vykk?  Nothing
to worry about!"  Han could only shrug helplessly.  This time, it
definitely was his fault.  "Which way?"  Muuurgh, the practical one,
wanted to know.

"Through priest's door or main door?"

Han considered for a second, but was saved from having to make a
decision--both doors simultaneously burst open.

Teroenza stood framed in the door to his apartments, snorting with
rage.

Zawal and a squad of guards filled the big double doors.

Han grabbed Bria and dived behind the huge white jade fountain, while
Muuurgh took refuge behind the room's central support pillar.  "Get
them!"  shrilled Zawal, moving forward on his repulsorlift sled. 
Teroenza charged like a mad beast, head down, horn ready.

Han snapped off a shot, saw the blue stun bolt, and cursed as he
thumbed the weapon's intensity up to FUL.  The stun beam didn't even

slow Teroenza down.  Muuurgh aimed, fired, and brought down a
Sullustan guard.

Han squeezed the trigger again, but the blaster bolt ricocheted off
Zawal's sled and struck the support pillar nearest the door, burning it
half-through.  The pillar sagged, but held.

As Teroenza headed for Muuurgh, the big Togorian leaped out and grabbed
the High Priest, clutching him around the neck and by his horn.

Digging his heels into the carpet, Muuurgh braced himself against the
High Priest's forward motion.  The t'landa Til's momentum caused him to
"crack the whip" and his massive hindquarters swung around and slammed
into the middle pillar with a huge thump!

The floor quivered, and dust sifted downward from the ceiling.

Teroenza's rear feet skidded, and the High Priest went down.  The
ground shook again.

Han aimed and snapped off a shot, and a Gamorrean screamed and fell
back into the hallway.  Bria edged around the fountain, blaster ready,
but before she could fire, one of the guards did.  She screamed and
ducked as a blaster bolt blew out a chunk of the fountain, sending jade
fragments flying into the air.  Teroenza, struggling back to his feet,
let out an anguished howl of protest.

Another blaster bolt sizzled past Han, so close that the Corellian felt
it singe his hair.  He dropped to the floor, rolled, and snapped off
two more shots at the underside of Zawal's sled.  As he'd intended, the
blaster bolts hit the housing for the repulsorlift unit.  But, instead
of sinking to the floor, the sled's speed and directional controls went
wild.

With Zavval vainly trying to control it, the big sled hurtled forward
at top speed.  Seconds later it slammed into the far wall and bounced
off.

Mowing down everything in its path, the sled caromed around the
collections room, with Zawal a helpless passenger.

A Rodian guard who was concentrating on trying to shoot Han didn't see
it coming and was struck down in a spray of blood.  The sled hurtled
through a display case, and Teroenza screamed as he saw his precious
collection of antique vases reduced to powder.

The Hutt crashed into the opposite wall, and the entire room shook.

Dust and debris rained from the ceiling.  Han and Bria threw themselves
flat as the hurtling sled whanged into one of the jade nymphs and
shattered her.

Zavval was yelling, and most of the guards by now had wisely made a
quick exit.

Then the sled, with Zawal's massive weight atop it, plowed directly
into the room's central pillar.  The support column buckled and
groaned, then bent in two and snapped off--and then the one Han had
partially vaporized followed suit.

With a last, agonized groan, the repulsorlift sled settled to the floor
and died.

Han stared in frozen horror as, seemingly in slow motion, half of the
ceiling rumbled, bulged, cracked, then broke into huge chunks and
plummeted down.  He recovered himself just in time to grab Bria and
yank her out of the way as a huge chunk of stone flooring hurtled at
them from the upper level.  Throwing her to the floor beneath the bowl
of the stone fountain, Han fell on top of her, shielding her.

Zawal screamed shrilly as massive chunks rained down on him, pinning
him to the shattered remains of his sled.  Dust rose in a choking
cloud.

Coughing and gagging, Han crawled off Bria as soon as he was sure the
ceiling fall had ceased.  He stared at the spot where Zavval had been,
but all he could see of the buried Hutt overlord was his spasmodically
jerking tail.

Teroenza had thrown himself flat beneath the protection of a massive
antique table and remained relatively unscathed.  When the debris
stopped falling, he crawled out from under the dust and rubble of his
now-cracked table.  Staggering toward Han, Bria, and Muuurgh--the
Togorian was sheltering in the doorway to the priest's
apartment--Teroenza howled, slavering with rage.  Obviously still
intent on revenge, the t'landa Til lowered his head, horn pointed, and
charged.

Han aimed and fired a bolt into his right flank, sending him crashing
to the floor with a scream.  The sickening smell of burned meat filled
the air.  A blaster bolt from one of the guards struck the fountain
again, and tiny shards of sizzling stone whipped by Han's face.  One
buried itself in his neck, and when he yanked it free, his fingers came
away slick with blood.

Han sighted along the barrel of his blaster, fired, and the last guard
went down in a heap.

"Come on!"  he yelled, grabbing Bria and the knapsack and gesturing to
Muuurgh.  "We're gettin' outta here!"

Slipping in the rubble and stumbling over bodies, the three thieves
headed for the double doors.  When they reached them, Han motioned his
comrades back and cautiously slid his head around the edge of the door,
only to be rewarded by a blaster bolt that nearly took his ear off.

"Muuurgh, take Bria out the other way!"  he ordered.  "Go through
Teroenza's door, and we'll catch them in a cross fire.  On the count of
fifty!"  The Togorian nodded, and he and Bria slithered and slipped
back

through the ruins of the treasure room, past the moaning Teroenza,
through the door of the priest's apartment.

Silently, Han counted.  At fifteen, he stuck his hand around the edge
of the door and snapped off four quick shots, and was rewarded with a
howl of agony.

One more down .  . .

He waited, breathing hard, trying not to cough on the dust that still
filled the air.

Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine .  . .

fifty!

Han dived out the door, hit the corridor rolling, and fired.  Red
blaster bolts zinged past his legs and where his head would be, but he
got another guard, a Whiphid.  As they'd planned, Bria and Muuurgh were
firing from behind the guards, and two more fell.

The remaining two guards, a Devaronian and a Gamorrean, took to their
heels and pounded away from Muuurgh and Bria, leaping over Han's
still-recumbent body as they did so.

Han got shakily to his feet, just in time to hear Muuurgh let out a
huge battle roar and grapple with--who?  Han couldn't see anyone!

Has he gone crazy?  Han wondered, but then he glimpsed a reddish orange
eye, a mouth full of teeth, and heard a loud hiss.  He saw a blaster
wave, seemingly in midair, then suddenly he could make out the pale
skinned, warty, scaled being.  A skinchanger!

Muuurgh growled and snarled as he savagely attacked the Aar'aa.  The
Togorian was so much taller than his opponent that Muuurgh was bent
over nearly double.  Han winced as the Togorian fell to his knees,
grasping his foe.  The reptilian creature was the exact color of the
neutral walls and flooring in the dimly lit corridor.  With a motion
like a striking gral-viper, the Togorian buried his fangs in the
being's throat and ripped.

Reddish-orange blood spurted into the air.

Muuurgh jumped back, and Han watched, fascinated, as the Aar'aa sagged,
then fell, with ponderous slowness, to the floor.  As the being lay
there, it slowly reverted from its pale color to its own natural skin
tone, a grayish-tan.  Han didn't have to look twice to know that it was
dead.

Bria was staring in horror at the spot where the dead Aar'aa lay.  "He
almost had me," she whispered.  "If it hadn't been for Muuurgh .  .

."

"How'd you see him, pal?"  Han said, holstering his blaster.  "I
couldn't see a thing!"

"I did not see him, I smelled him," Muuurgh said matter-of-factly.

"Togorians hunt by sight and smell.  Muuurgh is a hunter, remember?"

"Thanks, pal," Han said, and put an arm around Bria.  "I owe you one.

Now we'd better--"

"Look out!"  Bria yelled, and Han instinctively ducked.  Bria's
blaster went off in stun mode just over his head, making his ears
ring.

He straightened up in time to see Ganar Tos slowly crumpling to the
floor as a blaster slipped from his green fingers.

Han walked over to the old majordomo and, picking up the blaster,
slipped it into his belt.  Bria came to stand beside him.  "All I can
think is that if you hadn't come back today, tonight I'd have been his
wife," she murmured, and shuddered so deeply that Han hugged her
reassuringly.

"I'm glad you only stunned him," Han said.  "He may have been a
lecherous old creep, but how can I blame him for being attracted to
you?"  He smiled at her, his eyes very intent.

She glanced down, and her color rose.  "I didn't want to marry him, but
I'm glad he's not dead."

"Well," Han said, "I owe you one, honey."

"No, you don't," she said.  "We're even.  If it hadn't been for you,
I'd be buried under that ceiling back there, like that Hutt."

"Yeah, I'm afraid old Zavval's no longer with us," Han said.  "And I
suppose the Hutts will blame me for it."

For a moment Han remembered Teroenza, who was still alive, only
wounded.

Should he go back and finish off the t'landa Til?  The thought of
walking up to a helpless sentient and coldly shooting the creature in
cold blood didn't appeal to him.

"Let's get out of here," he said, beckoning to Muuurgh, who was licking
Aar'aa blood off his paws with fastidious distaste.  "C'mon, Muuurgh,
you can finish grooming your whiskers later.  Don't forget--Mrrov is
waiting."

As they jogged out of the Administration Center, they could see the
glitterstim factory still shooting up blue sparks into the air--but the
sky was no longer black, but lighter, almost blue.

"Dawn's not far off?  Han said.  "C'mon!"

The three broke into a run down the jungle path.  When they neared the
end, Han motioned them to stay back as he cautiously scanned the
landing field.

He saw no guards .  . . apparently all of them were still fighting the
fire or in the Administration Center.

Still, they went cautiously, blasters ready, every sense alert for
movement or sound.

When Han reached the Talisman, he quickly coded Bria's access code into
the lock, then the three went up the ramp.

The Talisman was a little larger than the Ylesian Dream,
teardrop-shaped, bulging along its keel.  But instead of cargo space,
most of its interior was given over to lavish passenger quarters and
amenities.  It was

proportioned and laid out for the t'landa Til, so only the pilot's
cabin contained human-style seats.  There was one small, human-sized
bunk in a guard's cabin, but the rest of the passenger cabins were
outfitted with the sleeping "hammocks" the t'landa Til favored.

Once inside, Han motioned Bria to the copilot's seat and instructed
Muuurgh to strap himself into one of the passenger berths.

He'd never flown this particular ship during his time here--Teroenza
had been too worried by the pirate attacks to risk traveling before the
weapons and shield upgrades had been completed.

Quickly Han familiarized himself with the controls.  The Talisman
didn't have as much weaponry or shielding as the Dream, but for a
private yacht, it was now heavily armed and well shielded.

"Preflight checks completed, we're good to go.  Strap in, folks .  .
.

we are outta here!"  Han cried, and raised ship.  The Talisman
responded well to his touch and seemed a willing--though rather
slow--craft.  "Now for Mrrov," Muuurgh called excitedly.  "Right,
Vykk?"

"Right, pal," Han said.  "We should be there just at sunrise.  Where
are they assembling the pilgrims destined for the Kessel ship?"

"The Altar of Promises," Muuurgh replied.

"The Altar of Broken Promises," Bria amended, a bitter tone in her
voice.

"I wonder whether Teroenza will survive?"

"I didn't wound him that bad," Han said.  "I'll bet even now he's on
his way to the infirmary and the medical droid."

As he flew, he kept an eye on the map.  "Oh, and by the way, there's
something I'd better tell you two."

"What?"  asked Bria and Muuurgh together.

"My name's not Vykk Draygo.  My real name is Han Solo.  It'd be good if
you started calling me that."

"Han?"  Bria said.  "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I was afraid if I did, you might slip and give me away to Teroenza or
one of his goons," Han said matter-of-factly.  "But I wanted you to
know, so I told you as soon as I could."

"Vykk was an alias?"

"Yeah.  One of several, actually."

"Muuurgh will have to get used to this," the Togorian said.  "How close
are we now... Han?"

"We should be there in less than five minutes," Han replied.

"How are we going to do this?"  Bria asked.  "I mean, there will be
guards there, too."

"I don't know," Han said.  "But I'll think of something."

He concentrated on his piloting, and then, when they reached Colony

Two, he flew the Talisman over the camp from south to north, skimming
low over the treetops.  "You said the pilgrims were supposed to
assemble at the Altar, right?"  Han asked Muuurgh.

"Yesssss."

"Okay, then, I wonder if we'll have enough room to do what I'm thinkin'
about .  . ."  he muttered, peering at the viewscreen that showed the
actual area, and also at the schematic that showed the topographical
features and camp buildings.  Colony Two was over the Mountains of
Faith from Colony One, set on the northeastern edge of the Zoma
Gawanga, the shallow ocean that enclosed the entire eastern
continent.

"I think we can do it," he muttered.  "I just hope the repulsorlifts on
this baby are in prime working condition.  We'll need to hover and
lower a wire.  I don't think I'll have room to actually land.  Muuurgh,
go back to the middle airlock and see if there's a wire we can let
down.  I think most of these ships are equipped with emergency gear,
and a wire and hoist should be part of it."

Muuurgh disappeared, and Han concentrated on flying a slow circuit of
the Colony.  Bria peered out the viewscreen.  "I see them!"  she said
excitedly.  "There's a big crowd assembling at the Altar!"

"Good," Han said abstractedly.

Muuurgh reappeared.  "Yes, we have a wire.  There is a harness that can
be attached to it."

"Okay, pal.  Here's what we'll do.  I'm going to bring this crate down
over the amphitheater, real slow.  Then I'm gonna set her to hover on
her repulsorlifts.  Mrrov has no reason to know who we are, so she's
gonna have to get a look at you in order to run over to the ship,
right?"

"Yesssss."

"You're gonna have to go down in the harness and let Mrrov see you.

Bria, you control the wire, okay?"

"All right .  . . Han," she said.

"Both of you stay sharp.  There may be shooting.  The ship's deflectors
should protect us against small-arms, but once you're outside, that
won't count, Muuurgh."

"I understand," "If the guards get too aggressive, I can give 'em a
burst from the ship's light laser cannon," Han said.  "I'll aim over
their heads, so I won't hit the pilgrims, but that should make the
point."  "Muuurgh is ready, Han."  "Okay.  Here goes."

Carefully Han brought the Talisman in over the amphitheater, wishing
he'd had more time to get used to the "feel" of these controls.  He

circled the amphitheater, belly holocams on, so he could get a good
look at the layout.  Han was conscious of all the pilgrims looking up
and pointing, as he dropped lower and lower with each pass.  Finally,
he was close enough to engage the repulsorlifts and hover, about twelve
or thirteen meters above the permacrete.

Han could see several priests and a bevy of guards behind the milling
crowd of pilgrims.  He knew the Sacredots must be wondering why the
High Priest's personal yacht was being used to ferry pilgrims to the
Kessel slave ship.

"That's as low as I can get and hover safely!"  Han yelled.  "Lower
Muuurgh!"

He kept a finger poised over the controls that would lower the light
laser cannon, but he didn't want to make an aggressive move first.  Han
could hear Bria and Muuurgh talking, their voices muffled by
distance.

He glanced over at the belly holocam screen just in time to see Muuurgh
descending, his blaster still bolstered.

The cam didn't provide audio, but he watched as Muuurgh's mouth opened,
and knew he must be calling to Mrrov.

Guards milled, still uncertain, but clearly uneasy.  This whole
scenario was highly irregular, and they were getting suspicious.  One
of the guards shoved his way through the crowd of pilgrims.  When the
human guard reached the forefront of the crowd, he had his blaster
drawn and was clearly calling to Muuurgh to identify himself and state
what he was doing.

"Bria," Han yelled, turning his head, careful not to jostle the
controls on the hovering vessel, "stand by!  Looks like they're
gonna--" Two things happened simultaneously: A tall figure in a
pilgrim's robe suddenly broke and raced toward Muuurgh's dangling
figure--and the guard aimed his blaster.

Han had only a glimpse of orange stripes on white fur and knew the
running figure must be Mrrov.  He saw a spurt of blaster fire from the
guard's weapon, and it was answered twice in rapid succession, by Bria
and Muuurgh.

Two more guards drew their weapons and fired.  The crowd of pilgrims
panicked and scattered, trampling each other and the guards.

Han lowered the light laser cannon, grateful for the pirate attacks
that had made Teroenza decide to beef up the ship's shielding and
weapons capability.  He fired a burst, careful to aim over the heads of
the running, screaming crowd.

More fire from the guards--and Han heard a faint yowl of pain!

Checking the screen, he saw Muuurgh sag in his harness, clutching his

side, though he still gripped his weapon.  Mrrov reached him a second
later and leaped to wrap her arms and legs around her mate, anchoring
her to him.

Bria was firing steadily now, and Han saw a Gamorrean go down.  The
wire was ascending now, revolving slowly with its off-balance load.

Mrrov grabbed Muuurgh's blaster out of his lax hand and fired over his
shoulder.

Han couldn't see whether she hit her target.

Han saw that most of the pilgrims had scattered, and only guards and
priests remained near the Altar.  Many of the guards had scattered in
the crowd, but a few were still there, still firing.  Han targeted the
Altar of Promises, made sure his aim had pinpoint accuracy, and fired
the laser cannon again.

The Altar went up with a boom Han could hear from inside the
Talisman.

Dust spurted up, and bits of stone rained down.  The priests scattered,
galloping away.  Han was surprised by how fast and maneuverable their
huge, four-footed bodies were.  The guards had vanished.

Quiet suddenly reigned.  Seconds ticked by, but outside, nothing was
stirring.  A few bodies, both guards and pilgrims, lay motionless where
they'd been trampled in the panic.

From the nether regions of the ship, he heard Bria's voice.  "I've got
them!  Let's go!"

Han checked that the bay doors were safely closed, then took the
Talisman up in a rush.  The belly holocams showed a dizzying view of
the amphitheater receding into the distance.  Han flicked them off as
he circled, checking the weather in relation to his closest escape
vector.

Ironically, he'd have to angle back toward Colony One for the best
"window" off Ylesia.  Han gunned the Talisman and took her south and
up...

up .  . .

We're almost there, he thought with a rush of excitement.  Almost free
. . .

Muuurgh repressed a moan as his shoulder banged against the side of the
Talisman.  He felt Bria's hands on him, then he heard Mrrov's voice
say, in Basic: "Help me up.  I can lift him."

He clung to the harness with his good hand and felt Mrrov's body brush
against his as she was pulled into the hovering Talisman.  The wound in
his side was the fire-stab of a night-demon's talons.  It was all he
could do to breathe and make no sound.  He was a hunter, and hunters
knew how to be quiet.

The blaster shots had stopped.  Muuurgh opened his eyes as the harness
revolved slowly and saw that the Altar of Promises had been blown
apart.  Perhaps that had been the loud explosion he'd heard.  At the
time he'd thought it was inside his head.

The blaster wound was throbbing now, in waves.  Muuurgh struggled to
stay conscious as Bria and Mrrov grabbed his arms and hauled him, still
in the harness, into the Talisman.  Dimly, he was aware of the cargo
airlock being sealed behind him.

Then he heard Bria's voice call out: "I've got them!  Let's go!"

Muuurgh lay on the deck, breathing shallowly, but a little of his
strength was returning.  He could hear Mrrov talking to Bria.  "Is
there a medic kit aboard?"

"I'll check!"  With a rustle, the human was gone, leaving him alone
with Mrrov.  With an effort, Muuurgh opened his eyes· When she saw him
looking up at her, Mrrov leaned over and lovingly rubbed his cheek with
her own, exchanging scent, "My hunter," she murmured in their own
language, licking his face tenderly.  "You tracked me.

You are the greatest hunter our people have ever known!"

"Mrrov .  . ."  Muuurgh managed to whisper.

"Quiet," she said.  "Don't try to talk.  Your wound is serious, though
I believe it will heal, in time.  Oh, Muuurgh!  When I saw you come
down from the belly of this ship, I could not believe that it was
you!

For all these days and weeks, I have wondered whether you would ever
find me--and you did!"

"You knew I was here?"  Muuurgh was confused.  "If you knew, then
why--" Her lovely, orange-striped features were troubled as she gave
him another cheek rub.  Her whiskers entangled with his own, and
Muuurgh sighed with pleasure, despite his pain.

"I had only been here a short while, when I realized that this entire
place was a sham.  I was searching for truths, but there are only lies,
here.  So I told the priests I wanted to leave.  They showed me your
picture, Muuurgh!  They told me if I tried to leave, they would kill
you!"

"So you stayed?  You should have torn their throats out!"  Muuurgh
protested.

"At the cost of your life?"  She shook her head, her eyes large and
vividly golden.  "No, my mate-to-be.  I dared not take the chance.  I
only hoped that someday you would find me, and that you would have a
ship.

And 		that day has finally come·" 	Muuurgh nodded weakly.

"Thanks to .  . . Vykk .  . .Han .  . ."  	Bria came running back into
the cargo compartment.  "I found it!"  	Moments later Muuurgh's pain
was ebbing, and Mrrov and Bria were

bandaging the wound in his side.  "You're going to have an awful scar,
Muuurgh," Bria said, sounding dismayed.

"Hunters show their scars proudly, on Togoria," Mrrov said.  "Muuurgh
will heal, and he will have a scar everyone will envy."  Suddenly the
ship shuddered.  Bria shouted, "Han!  What was that?"  "Someone's
shooting at us!"  he yelled from the bridge.  "Someone get up here and
man the weapons station!  I need Muuurgh!"

Muuurgh struggled to get up.  "No," Mrrov said.  "I will do it.  Among
my people, females have the technical expertise.  I am an engineer.  I
will do it."

Muuurgh opened his eyes, saw Bria's doubtful expression, and said,
"Believe her.  Muuurgh was not a very good shot, anyway.  Ask Pilot .

. ."

He closed his eyes, feeling blackness waiting behind the lids.  He
could resist it no longer .  . . so, with a sigh, Muuurgh let himself
slide under .  . .

Han glanced at the tall Togorian form that slid into the copilot's seat
beside him and started in surprise.  "You're not Muuurgh!"

"I am Mrrov," the female Togorian introduced herself.  She'd doffed her
pilgrim's robe, and her glorious white and orange-striped coat blazed
like fire.  "I will handle the weapons for you.  Acquaint me with what
we have, please.  You will find I am a far better weapons officer than
Muuurgh.  In our species, females are the technicians and experts with
instruments."

She glanced over at Han, and he saw that her slit-pupiled eyes were
bright yellow.  "Besides, Muuurgh is wounded, and in no shape for
this."

"Is he gonna be okay?"  Han felt a stab of concern.

"He should be.  My people are very strong and hardy.  Bria--is that her
name?"  Han nodded.  "Your Bria is with him.  He is resting."

"Okay," Han said.  "This baby doesn't have a lot of weaponry, but it's
got some concussion missiles and a light laser cannon.  Right down
there.  Laser cannon to your right, missile launchers to your left.

Targeting computer is straight in front of you."

"Very well."  After spending a moment checking the board before her,
she nodded.  "I can do this.  Who shot at us?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Han said tightly, studying his
readouts.  "I don't think the priests have surface-to-air stuff, but
I'm hanged if I can see--" He broke off with a whoop of laughter, just
as the Talisman shuddered again.  Mrrov looked at Han, who was still
chuckling, as if he were crazy.

"It's okay," he said.

She pointed at the technical readout of their surrounding space.  It
showed several storm cells, safely removed in distance from their
escape vector, but it also showed a small, teardrop-shaped craft
rapidly gaining on the Talisman.  "What do you mean, 'okay'?  There is
someone pursuing us and shooting at us, and they are gaining!"

"Aahhhh .  . . it's just old Jalus Nebl in the Ylesian Dream," Han
said, waving a dismissive hand.  "The priests must've ordered him to
come up here and shoot our asses down."  He chuckled again.

Talisman lurched slightly.  Han laughed again.

Mrrov was staring at him, obviously wondering if his mind had snapped
from the strain.  Han grinned at her cheerfully.  "You don't
understand," he said.

"No," agreed Mrrov.  "Would you care to explain it to me?"

"Sure.  Jalus Nebl and I are friends.  He wouldn't shoot me down any
more than I'd shoot him.  So he's firing his laser cannon, just missing
us by a hair each time, making it look good.  We're gaining speed every
minute, and soon, we're gonna be out of the atmosphere, and five
minutes after that, we'll be out of the planet's gravity well.  We're
fine, Mrrov.  Trust me."

Mrrov's whiskers twitched.  "I believe I am beginning to understand.

Your friend Jalus Nebl is putting on a show of attempting to shoot us
down?  So we have nothing to worry about?"

"Right," Han said cheerfully.  "We're almost clear of the atmosphere,
and if Nebl's got a grain of sense, he'll take the Ylesian Dream and
get his droopy-jowled little carcass off Ylesia, too.  Or maybe he's
decided to hang in with the priests and ask for a raise.  They'll be
desperate, with only one pilot left."

Another near-hit caused the Talisman to shiver.  "That was close," Han
muttered, checking his ship's hull and systems.  "The little
so-and-so's showing off."

He continued to track the Ylesian Dream as it followed them up through
the last of the stratosphere, into the thin layer of ionosphere.  Ahead
lay the thinnest whisper of upper atmosphere--the exosphere.

As they burst upward, Han turned his attention to the navicomputer,
checking on the programming for their jump to hyperspace.  They
wouldn't be clear of Ylesia's gravity well for several minutes yet, but
he wanted to be ready.

"I see a vehicle on our sensors," Mrrov said.  "Above us, in our
path."

"That's just the space station.  It orbits in a synchronous orbit
with

Colony One," Han said, not looking up.  "That's where they off-load
the pilgrims when the ships bring them in.  You must've been there."

"No, Han."  Mrrov's voice was suddenly urgent.  "I remember it very
well, but that's not it.  That's no space station--it's a spaceship!  A
big one!"

Finally alarmed, Han looked up and abruptly swore in six languages.

"That's a Corellian corvette!  What's it doing here?"

His hands flew over the controls as he began evasive maneuvers,
increasing speed and sheering away from the huge vessel.  With one part
of his mind, Han noted the blip that was the Dream streaking off in the
opposite direction.

Suddenly the Talisman jerked hard and bucked.  The engine began to
strain.

"What's wrong?"  Mrrov demanded, just as Bria burst into the cabin.

"Han.  . . what happened?"  she asked.

Han cut in the auxiliary power, felt the Ylesian yacht strain, but . 
.

.

it .  wasn't .  . . going .  . . to .  . . be .  . . enough-"No!"  he
yelled, frustrated, on the verge of panic.  "No, we can't go back!"

His passengers stared at him, wide-eyed with fear, as Han began
shutting down his engines to avoid burning them out.

As he did so, a voice erupted from the comm unit.  "Attention,
Talisman.

This is Captain Ngyn Reeos in command of the Corellian corvette Helot's
Shackle out of Kessel.  We advise you to shut down your engines.  You
are caught in our tractor beam."

"I know!"  Han yelled, not bothering to activate his comm unit.

"Thanks for telling me!"

Captain Reeos went on, inexorably.  "We have detained you because I
have been advised by planetary authorities that you have taken the
Talisman without authorization.  These same planetary authorities have
asked that we deliver you back to Ylesia to face charges there.

Prepare to be boarded.

Any attempt at resistance will be met with summary force."

Han stared at the narrow-waisted vessel with its eleven huge reactor
tubes.  The corvette was easily twenty times the size of his ship.  He
noted that the corvette had been modified so it had a docking bay.

"That's a huge ship," Bria whispered.  "We're being pulled toward it,
Han."

"There's nothing I can do, sweetheart," Han said dully.  "They've got
us caught--we can't break free."

"How many crew aboard that ship?"  Mrrov asked, staring as if
mesmerized at the slave ship--the ship that had come to fetch her and
the other pilgrims to a grim fate in the mines.

"With a Navy crew aboard, the complement is 165.  But this is a
modified corvette.  It's been altered to dock in space--probably to
make it easier to take on cargo--or slaves.  Crew size is probably
forty or fifty."

"Too many to fight," Bria said, her voice ragged.

"They're not getting me without a fight," Han said.  He drew his
blaster and looked at them.  "Who's with me?"

Bria just shook her head.  "The three of us?  Against forty?  Han,
you've got more courage than sense!"

He shook his head and, with a sudden, vicious gesture, holstered his
blaster again.  "You're right.  But I don't have to like it."

Without warning, a sudden crackle of a different frequency filled the
control cabin.  A voice spoke in rapid-fire Sullustan.  "Full
throttle.

Port turn.  Seven seconds--Mark!"

"What the--" Han's fingers moved automatically as he throttled back up,
using every bit of power he could squeeze out of the main and auxiliary
engines.  The sound of the straining engines was painful to hear as
they rewed, uselessly fighting the inexorable tractor beam.

By now the Talisman had been nearly drawn into the gaping maw of the
ship's docking bay.  Only a few hundred meters separated the two
ships.

Han programmed his controls for a hard port turn, and his hand hovered,
ready to implement the command.  The engines strained and rewed.  In
moments they'd burn out.  "What's that crazy little--" He broke off
with a gasp as the Ylesian Dream came streaking toward them, moving at
terrible speed.

Everyone in the Talisman's control cabin ducked as the little freighter
flashed by overhead, then banked hard to starboard.  Jalus Nebl took
the Ylesian Dream between the Talisman and Helot's Shackle at full
throttle.

The distance was so tight that the little Sullustan had to turn the
Dream on her side to make it between the two closing vessels.

"Go!"  cried Han.  "Go, Nebl!"  He activated the controls, turning the
Talisman as hard to port as he could.

When the Dream rushed between the two ships, it broke the tractor beam
for a few precious seconds.  Han's suddenly released ship ricocheted
away from the Corellian corvette like a blaster bolt, sheering off to
the left, while Jalus Nebl sped away to the right.

"Yeeeeehah!"  Han yelled in sheer exultation as he felt his ship
soaring away from the Helot's Shackle.  As he swooped by the huge
vessel, just for good measure, Han fired two concussion missiles at the
Shackle's

principle solar collector and stabilizer fin, which was located
dorsally amidships.

He watched, openmouthed, as the first missile wiped out the minimal
shield that had been all that was protecting the fin, allowing the
second missile to explode with deadly force, destroying most of the
fin.  "They had their heavy shields down, those idiots!"  he whooped.

"They thought they had us, so they left that fin almost unshielded!"

He knew the corvette could still be a threat to them, so he didn't slow
down.  Neither did Jalus Nebl.  The little Sullustan was still gaining
speed when Han's sensors reported several minutes later that he'd
successfully made the jump to hyperspace.

"And we're next," Han said, grinning at Bria.  "Say good-bye to
paradise, sweetheart .  . ."

With a flourish, he stabbed down at the controls that would take them
into hyperspace, and gloried in the sudden surge of power that thrust
them out of realspace and into star-streaked brilliance.

"Home free," Han whispered, and slumped into his seat, only just now
aware of how very, very tired he was.

Bria smiled at him and squeezed his hand.  Mrrov gave him a cheek
rub.

"Thank you," they both whispered.

Han had never felt so good

twelve

Togoria

Han awakened to the sound of soft, muffled sobbing.  He had been
sleeping on the floor in Teroenza's living area, on a pile of expensive
carpets he'd dragged into place.  He'd insisted that Bria take the one
human-style bed.  Since Mrrov had been the only one who'd gotten any
rest the previous night, she'd volunteered to doze in the pilot's seat
and keep an eye out for alarms--though now that they'd reached
hyperspace, there wasn't much that could go wrong.

Han sat up with a groan, feeling stiff.  Yesterday had been a hard day,
and he now remembered, belatedly, that he hadn't eaten anything.

Thirst was even worse than hunger.  Climbing to his feet, he staggered
over to the room's water dispenser and drank several cups.

As he did so, his hand brushed his face, and he frowned as he touched
his chin and felt thick, generous stubble.  He had forgotten to shave
since before they'd landed on Nal Hutta.

The sounds of human sobbing had stopped.  Han grabbed his clothes and
went into the luxurious refresher unit, glad that it contained
appointments for almost all types of species.  He even managed to find
a shaver.

Minutes later, clothed and feeling considerably better, he went in
search of Bria.

He found her in the tiny guard's room, sitting up on the little bunk,
arms around her knees, her face pressed against them.  "Hey .  . ."

Han whispered.  "What's wrong?  What's happened?"

She didn't raise her face, just waved him away.  "No .  . please, just
. . let me .  . . alone· I'll be .  . . all right· I don't want you
.

. . to see me like this."  She sniffled.  "I look .  . . terrible."

Han sat down beside her, but didn't touch her.  "I look terrible, too,"
he said.  "We could all do with a change of clothes.  Hey .  . ."  he
joked, trying to make her look at him, "at least I got rid of the
beard.  That's a big improvement."

She raised her head and gave him a watery smile.  Her nose and eyes
were red, but she still looked lovely to Han.  "You did look kind
of...

scruffy .  . . last night·" Han drew himself up, pretending to take
umbrage.  "Scruffy?  Me?  Never!"  He slid an arm around her gently.

"Bria, honey .  . . what's wrong?  Tell me."

She began to shudder.  "It's the Exultation, Han.  I woke up and
realized that the pilgrims are gathering for devotions right now.  And
I realized I'll never have it again--never feel that good again!"

Han didn't know what to say.  He realized that Bria was missing the
physical and emotional sensations that accompanied the Exultation just
as an addict would miss a dose of his or her drug of choice.  The
realization scared him.  Would Bria be able to fight this dependency
and win?  Or would she go through life mourning what she'd lost?

"I think that's natural," he said cautiously, not wanting to frighten
her by voicing his real thoughts.  "Of course you'd miss it for a day
or so, maybe a week.  But we'll all help you through it, honey.  You're
a strong person.  You'll get through it.  And then"--he made an
all-encompassing gesture with his hand--"it's a big galaxy,
sweetheart.

And it's all ours, now.  We'll sell Teroenza's stuff, and sell the
Talismans" "Sell the Talisman?"  she broke in.

"Yeah, I'm afraid it's too recognizable.  I'll take Muuurgh and Mrrov
home, and then we'll look for a place to sell this ship.  I think I
know one.  A used-ship dealer on Tralus, in the Corellian system.  But
we can easily book passage on a ship from there to Corellia."

He gave her shoulders a squeeze.  "And there's one big advantage to
that .

. . I won't be busy piloting.  You'll have my"--gently he kissed her
cheek--"undivided attention."

She swallowed and looked flustered.  Han started to lean toward her
again, but she pulled back, slightly, and he took the hint.

She bit her lip, her blue-green eyes haunted.  "Oh, Han.  . . what if I
can't get over this .  . . this.., longing?  Han"--she twisted her
hands together in a convulsive gesture--"it's worse than a longing!

It's like a · .  . a craving!  My whole self is crying out to be
Exulted!  I feel like someone punched a big hole in me and took part of
me away!"

She began to shiver violently.  Han pulled her to him, held her
tightly, and stroked her hair, murmuring words of comfort.  Inside,
though, his mind was racing, and he realized that he was scared, too.

Scared of how much he felt for this woman.  Han had had some pretty
definite plans regarding Bria that had involved them spending copious
amounts of time alone, in each other's arms.

But she's not ready for that, he realized with a sinking feeling.  She
needs a friend, not a lover.

How long would it take for Bria to regain herself?

Only time would tell.

"Coming up on Togoria," Han said, "where should I land us?"  "Our
largest city is Caross," Mrrov told him, indicating an area on the
schematic of the planet.  "From Caross we can send a messenger to the
Margrave of Togoria, the ruler of all the male hunters.  There is a
landing field just outside Caross.  We do not have our own ships, yet,
but traders and passenger ships from other worlds visit our planet."

"Okay, then, Caross it is," Han said.  With great care he piloted the
Talisman down to a perfect landing in the center of the field.  At the
moment, no other ships were present.

"Muuurgh," Han said as he updated his log, "are you two worried about
reprisals from the t'landa Til or the Hutts?"

"Not greatly," Muuurgh said, ostentatiously flexing his claws.  "When
Mrrov and I have assembled our tribes, we will be wed.  It is then
traditional with our people for a newly married couple to spend a
long--what do you call it?"  He said a word in his own language to
Mrrov, whose Basic was much better than his own.

"Honeymoon," she supplied.

"Yes, a long honeymoon together.  Remember that on our world, males and
females live separately for much of each year.  Once we are past our
honeymoon, Mrrov and I will see each other only once a year, for about
a month.  It is our way of life.  But first"--the giant Togorian gave
his mate-to-be a cheek rub--"we will spend a long time together, just
the two of us, in the mountains.  The Hutts and Ylesians will not find
us, and our people will not tolerate their looking.  Any pilot that
lands on Togoria and asks questions about Mrrov or Muuurgh will be . 
.

. dealt with."

Mrrov gave a feral smile that showed many needle-sharp teeth.  "Not
many species have the courage to intentionally anger Torgorians.  I
believe most bounty hunters would rather hunt .  . . easier .  . .

prey."

"I can believe it," Han said sincerely.  "Okay, then.  We're here.

Now

what?  Do you two just walk off, claw in claw?"  He grinned at Bria,
who gave him a wan smile.  Food and rest had restored her somewhat, but
he knew she was still battling her inner demons and longings.

"If Han must leave, Muuurgh and Mrrov will understand," said the giant
male.  "But if Han and Bria could stay for a day or two, they would be
able to stand with us at our ceremony that will make us a mated
couple.

You would call it a 'wedding."" Han looked over at Bria.  "So .  . .

we've just been invited to a wedding, sweetheart.  Want to stay for a
couple of days?  I think we could both use a rest."

"Sure," she said, and smiled at the Togorians.  "Nothing could please
me more."

A contingent of Togorian females, with a small scattering of visiting
males, was approaching the ship.  Han and his party walked down the
ramp.

Mrrov and Muuurgh were immediately enfolded by the crowd, amid roars
and yowls and vibrating purrs of happiness.

Still standing at the bottom of the ramp, Han took Bria's hand and
looked around him at Togoria.  "Nice planet," he said.  "After Ylesia,
this seems like a real paradise."

"It's beautiful," she agreed.  "Just right."

It was, indeed, a beautiful world.  Overhead arced a deep blue sky,
with a few puffy white clouds.  The sky held just a tint of green to
it, so it was almost indigo around the horizon.  Tall mountain peaks
shone white and glistening in the distance.  Dark forests made a
backdrop for a blue lake surrounded by meadowlands.  Exotic
green-fringed white blooms with scarlet leaves waved in the gentle
breeze.

Overhead, Han spotted a large flying creature, and realized it must be
one of the mosgoths Muuurgh had told him were the principal means of
travel on Togoria.  Mosgoths were large flying lizards, very
intelligent.  Togorians had domesticated the mosgoths long ago.  Each
species worked together to protect each other against even larger
winged reptiles, the deadly liphons who stole both Togorian cubs and
mosgoth eggs.

As Han watched, the mosgoth circled the landing field, and then began
to descend.  Han saw the Togorian male perched on its back, guiding it
by means of a nose-halter.  He was impressed by the rapport that
appeared to exist between mount and rider Togorian air was some of the
cleanest, most refreshing Han had ever breathed.  Mrrov had told him
earlier that all Togorian technology was based on solar power, for just
this reason.  Togorians revered their world and had no wish to despoil
it or pollute it in the name of progress, as so many other species in
the galaxy had done.

Han took an experimental step or two, then bounced on his heels.  He
felt light .  . . almost buoyant.  That fit, for Togoria's gravity was
somewhat less than Corellian or Ylesian gravity.

Suddenly the crowd parted, and Muuurgh, still bandaged but walking with
almost his old confident stride, emerged, with Mrrov at his side.  "Our
clans are being summoned for the mating ceremony, and the feast that
will follow," he said.  "You are our welcome guests.  Please .  . .

follow us."

Han and Bria followed.

Caross proved to be a lovely city--white native stone was used to build
terraced houses against the hillsides.  Everywhere gardens abounded,
and parks for strolling.  Togorian females busied themselves with
projects, or cared for rowdy cubs.  Muuurgh explained that both female
and male cubs remained with their mothers until they neared adulthood,
then the males returned to the clan with their fathers to learn the
ways of the hunter's life.

During the next two days, Han and Bria rested, ate delicious meals
(though they insisted on their meat being cooked), and took long
strolls together around the parks, through the gardens.  Han also took
flying lessons from a young male, Rrowv--lessons on how to ride and
control a mosgoth.  With his quick reflexes and daring, Han was soon
soaring astride his mount far above the treetops, glorying in the feel
of the sturdy ribbed wings pumping behind him as he sat in the small
saddle mounted on the mosgoth's shoulders.

The mosgoths proved to be affectionate creatures that enjoyed having
their tiny ear flaps scratched and their chests rubbed.

All through the day following their arrival, mosgoths bearing male
riders arrived from all over Togoria.  The word had gone out that
Muuurgh the hunter had returned, and all his clan-relatives were
gathering to welcome him home and attend his and Mrrov's wedding.

Muuurgh and Mrrov were kept busy relating their adventures among the
stars to audiences of their people.  Mrrov never tired of repeating the
story of what had happened to her, lest some other unwary female
Togorian be sucked in by promises of a Ylesian "paradise."

The wedding "ceremony" took place at sunset of their third day on
Togoria.

Han and Bria stood beside Muuurgh and Mrrov as they solemnly faced
their assembled clans.  Their fur gleamed from hours of careful
grooming.  Only the small white bandage on Muuurgh's side marred his
shining coat.  On their native world, Togorians rarely wore
clothing--their weather was so clement that it was seldom needed.

First the betrothed couple faced their clans, turning slowly so that
all

might see their faces.  At Muuurgh's signal, Han and Bria then stepped
back to stand with the crowd of onlookers.

Mrrov and Muuurgh turned to face each other.  Han blinked in surprise
as a low, growling yowl began emanating from their throats.  Both bared
their teeth and hissed.  Their claws sprang out.

Then, so quickly that the eye could scarcely follow, they sprang at
each other and went down on the ground, teeth locked in each other's
throats.

Growling, yowling, and snarling, they rolled over and over, slashing at
each other with their front paw-hands.  Their feet were busy, too,
digging deep into each other's furred belly.

Han looked over at Bria, who was looking faintly alarmed.  But no one
in the crowd seemed to find anything amiss about what was happening.

It takes all kinds to make a galaxy .  . Han thought.

Finally, panting and growling, the two combatants broke apart.  Despite
the apparent ferocity of their attacks, no blood was visible on their
coats.

The two circled each other, and their yowls gradually died away into
soft, gentle noises.  They stood close together, rubbing their faces
against each other for a long time.  Han could hear their hoarse
purring from where he was standing.

Then, suddenly, Mrrov hissed, spat, and lashed out at Muuurgh again.

He leaped at her, and then they were down on the ground again, rolling
and clawing and biting.

Han gave Bria's hand a squeeze.  "Romantic, isn't it?"  he whispered
with a grin.

"Shhhhh!"  she replied.

Moments later the nuptial pair were purring and rubbing against each
other, eyes half-closed with pleasure.

The crowd was getting more excited.  Han could hear a vibrating purr
arising from all sides.  Again Muuurgh and Mrrov went through their
"fighting" act.

But this time, when they reached the cheek-rubbing stage, Muuurgh
grabbed Mrrov by the loose folds of skin at the back of her neck.

Clutching her in his teeth and powerful arms, he lifted her smaller
form and carried her across the circle.  The crowd parted before them,
opening like a door.

Muuurgh vanished into the darkness, still carrying his mate.  Moments
later two loud, triumphantly ecstatic yowls broke the stillness--and
then silence reigned.

The crowd murmured their approval of the completion of the rite.  Han
was nearly knocked over by Togorian relatives of Muuurgh's slapping

his shoulders and assuring him that that had been one of the finest
weddings they had ever been privileged to witness.

They feasted into the night.  Han and Bria slipped away to take a walk
in the park, beneath Togoria's two tiny moons.  The stars blazed
overhead.

"So," Han said, "how did today go?  Is it getting any easier?"

She nodded slightly.  "A little.  Sometimes I can go a whole hour
without missing it, Han.  Sometimes, though, I feel like the minutes
are just crawling by, and I'm hanging on to my sanity by my
fingernails."

"Well, tomorrow I've got something special planned," he said, smiling
at her.  "Get ready to have some fun.  I've got everything arranged."

"What?"  she asked.  "What are we going to do?"

"That'd be telling," he teased.  "Just prepare to get up with the
birds, okay?"

"They don't have birds on Togoria," she reminded him.  "Just teeny
flying lizards."

"That's true," he said.  "But get up early, okay?"

"Okay."

When Bria arose the next morning, she could not find Han anywhere in
their suite of rooms.  But she did find a basket of fruit, a jug of
fruit juice, some strips of smoked meat, and a loaf of bread on a
tray.

On the tray was a strip of flimsy and written on it were the following
words: "Dress, eat, and come outside.  I'll be waiting--Han."

Bria read the note, raised her eyebrows, then went off to do as it
said.

Her curiosity was so strong that it even muted the constant craving for
the Exultation.  Sometimes the longings came in waves so intense that
she felt that she might go mad.  But as the days passed, such
occurrences were rarer.

Bria prayed to all the true gods of the universe that someday they
would cease altogether.

When she reached the courtyard outside the building where they'd been
quartered, Bria found Han waiting for her.  He was sitting astride a
mosgoth, with a pack and a blanket strapped behind the saddle.  As she
stood there uncertainly, he leaned down and held out a hand.  "C'mon!

Climb up!"

She stared from him to the mosgoth, to the open reaches of the Togorian
sky.  "You want me to fly with you on this .  . . creature?"  she
asked.  To fly in a spaceship, or aboard a landskimmer, was one
thing.

To climb aboard a huge reptile and soar off into the sky seemed quite
another.

"Sure!"  Han leaned over to pat the neck of his mount.  "This is
Kaydiss, and she's a real sweetie, aren't you, girl?"

The mosgoth arched her sinewy neck and flicked out a long, forked
tongue, obviously enjoying the caress.

Bria took a deep breath.  "Okay," she said.  After all, she thought,
the worst that can happen is that we'll fall out of the sky and get
killed.

Then I wouldn't have to worry about the Exultation anymore, would I?

Grasping his hand, she put a foot up onto the beast's leg, which it
obligingly crooked to help her mount.  With a pull and a scramble, she
was up, sitting before Han.  His arms were around her, as secure as a
safety harness.  Bria gasped, then shut her eyes as he clucked to
Kaydiss and twitched the reins.

With two huge leaping strides and a thrust of the mosgoth's powerful
wings, Han and Bria were airborne and climbing steadily.  Bria opened
her eyes to find herself high above the tops of the buildings.  The
wind rushed by her face, blowing her hair, bringing tears to her
eyes.

"Oh!"  she cried.  "Han, this is wonderful!"

"Yep," he said, a pardonable note of smugness in his voice.  "And just
wait till you see where I'm taking you."

Bria held the front of the saddle (with the two of them squeezed
together, she wasn't too worried about falling off) and exulted in the
feeling of really flying.

Forests and rivers flowed by beneath them.  Bria stared down at the
fields, the towns, and the lakes, grinning ecstatically.  She hadn't
felt this good since .  . . well, since her last Exultation.

But even the Exultation seemed to have lost its power over her, for the
moment.  Leaning forward, Bria opened her mouth, drinking in the wind
of their passage.  She wanted to wave her arms and whoop aloud, but she
resisted, not wanting to chance unbalancing the mosgoth.

"Won't it tire her out, carrying double?"  she shouted back at Han.

His voice came almost in her ear.  She could feel the warmth of his
breath.

"She's used to carrying male Togorians.  You and me together don't
weigh as much as Muuurgh---or even some of the smaller males.  Kaydiss
is fine."

Half an hour later, the broad river they'd been following widened,
until it branched into a large delta.  Han turned the mosgoth north,
and then, within a few more minutes, Bria saw the curling white
breakers breaking over silvery-gold sand.

She turned to give Han an excited smile.  "The beach!"

"I promised myself that someday we'd go to a real beach," he said.

"One where we could swim, and not worry about getting eaten."

He was guiding the mosgoth lower and lower now, and finally, she came
to a halt on the sand.  Han slipped on her wing hobble, then left her
to forage for herself in the nearby salt marsh.  He returned, carrying
the blanket and their lunch.

"Swim first," he asked, "or food first?"

Bria looked at the white surf and felt the tug of the water.  Her
family owned a beach house on Corellia, and she'd loved to swim ever
since she'd been old enough to walk.  "Swim," she said.

Glad that she'd worn a one-piece singlet beneath her shirt and
trousers, Bria pulled off her outer clothes and raced into the water.

Han, having stripped down to his shorts, followed her.

She soon found that, to her surprise, he couldn't swim.

"Never got the chance to learn," he admitted, a little embarrassed.  "I
was always working, and when I wasn't actually working, I was swoop
racing or something.  I told you, the beach on Ylesia was the first
time I'd ever seen a lot of water all together."

"Well," said Bria firmly, "today you're going to learn.  You're young
and strong and you've got good balance and reflexes.  You'll be
fine."

Han proved an apt pupil.  Bria was amazed at how hard he concentrated,
how precisely he followed her instructions on how to move his arms, his
legs, when to breathe, etc. She commented on it at one point.  Han
smiled sardonically.  "Pilots learn to follow instructions," he said.

"Or they wind up dead pilots."

Before they came out of the water to eat, he was paddling around
fearlessly in the surf and had begun to be able to coordinate his
breathing with his arm strokes and leg kicks.

"You're a very good pupil," Bria praised as they sat together on the
blanket, gazing out to sea.

"Thanks," he said.  "You're a good teacher."

They shared food from the provisions he'd brought, and then they walked
hand in hand along the beach.  At one point a tiny lizard flew
overhead, winking in shades of green and gold.  Bria put out a hand and
held very, very still, and the tiny thing lighted on her fingers and
clung there, its wings waving gently in the breeze.  Han grinned at
her.  "You look .  . .

beautiful .  . ."  he said.

"I feel as though I own the world," she replied, half joking.  "This
day · .  I'll remember it always, Han."

"You own this beach," he said, smiling down at her.  "I give it to
you.

It's yours, for today."

The lizard took wing, still quite unafraid, and flew away.

As they strolled through the breakers, Han told her more about his
determination to get into the Imperial Academy.  "People look up to an
Imperial officer," he said.  "Nobody's ever looked up to me for
anything, before, but if I can get in, that's all going to change.

I'll be able to turn my life around, Bria.  I'll never have to steal or
smuggle or cheat anyone again."

Bria's eyes filled with tears at the earnestness in his voice.  She
reached up and caressed his cheek gently.  "My heart breaks for you,
sometimes," she whispered.  "You've known such cruelty, such betrayal
.

. ."

He touched her cheek in return, his brown eyes intent.  The wind
ruffled his hair.  "But I also had one person who loved me," he said.

"Let me tell you about Dewlanna .  . ."

They walked slowly along, hand in hand, and Bria listened as he told
her about his best friend during his childhood.  By the time they'd
reached the blanket again, they were walking in silence.  "Garris
Shrike sounds like he'd fit in perfectly on Ylesia," Bria said,
finally.

"He'd probably wind up running the place," Han agreed, a bleak note in
his voice.  He lowered himself onto the blanket and sat, arms draped
across the tops of his knees, looking out to sea, his expression
troubled.  "I should have killed him when I had the chance, Bria.  But
· .  . I didn't."

She dropped down beside him.  "That's because you're a decent person,
Han," she said fiercely.  "You think you're tough, and you are--but
you're also decent.  You're no cold-blooded killer like Shrike.  If
you'd shot him, you'd be no better than he is."

He turned to her, his face profoundly intent, very serious.  "You're
right," he said softly.  "Sometimes when things seem so confused, you
make them all come clear .  . . with just a few words.  You're a very
.

. . wise .  . . woman .  . ."

Bria sat perfectly still as he leaned forward and kissed her, gently,
on the cheek.  His lips were warm.  As he started to pull away, she put
her hand on his cheek.  "Don't."

His head turned, and his lips found her mouth.  He tasted of sea
salt.

Bria closed her eyes, and time seemed to stop.

After several long heartbeats, he drew back.  Bria opened her eyes to
find him searching her face.  "How was that?"  he asked softly,
sounding a little breathless.  "Okay?"

Bria was more than a little breathless.  "Better than okay," she
whispered, sliding her arms around his neck, feeling the sun-warmed
skin of

his bare shoulders.  His arms went around her, holding her tightly.

"Much, much better .  . ."

She kissed him back, and it was a long, long time before they spoke
again .  . .

thirteen

Return to Corellia

The following day Mrrov and Muuurgh made ready to set off on their
"honeymoon" and Bria and Han prepared to raise ship for the Corellian
system.

At their final moment of parting, Muuurgh grasped Han by the shoulders
and shook him, very gently.  "I will miss you," he said in his
halting--but much improved--Basic.  "Must you go?  You like Togoria,
you said so.  Without you, I would never have found Mrrov.  The
Margrave of all Togoria has asked me to tell you that you and Bria are
welcome to stay forever.  You can hunt with us, Han.  Fly mosgoths.  We
would be happy."

Han smiled at the big alien.  "And see Bria only once a year?  I'm
afraid that's not the way we humans do things, pal.  But thanks for the
invite, Muuurgh.  Maybe I'll come back and see how you and Mrrov are
doing someday."

"Han do that, and soon," Muuurgh said, his Basic disintegrating in the
face of strong emotion.  He grabbed the Corellian in a hug, scooping
him clean off the ground.  Han hugged him back.

Bria and Mrrov also exchanged a fond farewell.  "You will conquer your
need for the Exultation," Mrrov told Bria, earnestly.  "I did.  For a
long while after I made myself resist it, I grieved for it.  But after
many days, the longing eased, and now I never feel it.  I let my anger
against those slavers help me wipe the longing from my spirit."

"I hope I can be as strong as you, Mrrov," Bria said.

"You already are," the Togorian female assured her.  "You just don't
realize it yet."

Once aboard the Talisman, Han lifted the Ylesian yacht into the clear
skies of Togoria with a genuine feeling of regret.  "This is a good
world," he said to Bria, who was sitting beside him in the copilot's
seat.  "Good people, too."

"Yes," she agreed.  "It was certainly good to us.  I'll never forget
yesterday, if I live to be a hundred."

Han smiled at her.  "Me neither, sweetheart.  All my life I wanted to
go to the beach and just be able to act like a regular citizen--no
scams, no security forces to worry about, no contraband burning a hole
in my pocket.

Thanks to you, I know what that's like, now."

She gave him such a tender smile that he leaned over and kissed her.

"Bria .  . . I .  . ."  Han hesitated, took a deep breath, and then
shook his head.

Squaring his shoulders, he turned back to his controls and grew very
busy with his piloting.  Bria sat there watching him, never taking her
eyes off him as he calculated their jump to hyperspace, and fed the
coordinates he'd chosen into the navicomputer.

When the stars streaked by them, and they had safely made the jump, she
swiveled her seat toward his and put a hand on his arm.  "Yes?"  she
said.

"Go on.  You were saying?"

Han tried to look innocent, and failed.  "Huh?  What do you mean?"

"You were about to tell me something, when you got busy piloting.

Well, we're safely in hyperspace now, so there's no reason you can't
tell me."  She smiled slightly.  "I'm waiting."

"Well, I was just thinking .  . . that I'm hungry," he finished in a
rush.

"Really hungry.  Let's go get some lunch."

"We ate before we left, barely an hour ago," she reminded him.  Her
expression gentle, she reached out and captured one of his hands and
held it in both her own.  "Tell me," she said.

"Well .  . ."  He shrugged.  "I'm telling you I'm hungry again."  "Are
you?"  she asked quietly.

"I .  . ."  He shook his head, obviously ill at ease.  "Uh, no.  Hey
.

. .

Bria, honey .  . . I'm no good at this."

"You're good at some things," she said, smiling impishly.

"Like what?"  he challenged, grinning back.

"Like .  . . piloting.  And fighting.  And rescuing people."

"Yeah, I guess I am."  He looked at her again, and all the sudden rush
of bravado faded.  "Bria .  . . what I was trying to say was that I .

. ."  He cleared his throat.  "This is not easy."

"I know," she said.  "I know."

Raising his hand to her lips, she kissed it, then said, "Han.  . . I
love you, too."

He looked both pleased and surprised.  "You do?"

"Yes.  For a long time, now.  I think I fell in love with you that day
in the refectory, when you wouldn't go away, no matter how much I told
you to."

"Really?  I didn't know until .  . . I don't know when I knew.  But
when I figured it out .  . . it scared me, Bria.  Never happened to me
before."

"Loving someone?  Or being loved?"

"Both.  Except for Dewlanna.  She loved me, I guess.  But that was
different."

"Yes."  Her eyes were shining.  "This is different.  I just hope we can
be together, Han."

Now it was his turn to take her hands in his.  "Of course we'll be
together," he said.  "I won't let anything get in the way of that.

Count on it, sweetheart."

Han set a course for the Talisman that took them far away from Hutt
space and brought them in a leisurely three-day trip to the Corellian
system.  He was deliberately prolonging his and Bria's time alone
together.  Inwardly, he was dreading having to go back to Corellia and
meet her family.  He knew almost nothing about how "citizens" lived,
and he was pretty sure he would have trouble fitting in.

He also knew that once they reached Traius, he'd have to get busy.  Han
was all ready to change identities as soon as they landed on
Corellia.

But Bria would be wanted by the t'landa Til and the Hutts, too, and
they knew her real name.  The first thing Han planned to do as soon as
he had credits available was to equip Bria with a fake ID.

Besides, he was trying to give her as much time as he could to heal.

He knew she still pined for the Exultation, though she no longer broke
down in panic attacks or fits of sobbing.  But several times he'd
awakened in the night to find her gone.

When he searched for her, he usually found her in the control cabin,
sitting in the copilot's seat and staring out at the stars with such
wistful longing in her eyes that Han felt a pang of jealousy.

Why can't I be enough for her?  Why isn't our love enough?  he
wondered.  He wanted to be enough for her, wanted her to be happy and

content--but he could tell she wasn't.  It grieved Han, and it made
him angry, too.

Once he tried to talk to her about it.  "It's been almost ten days!

Why do you miss it so much, still?"  he demanded, hearing the edge of
anger in his voice and unable to stop it.  "Tell me, Bria.  Make me
understand!"

She gazed at him, her blue-green eyes very sad, almost haunted.  "I
can't explain it, Han.  It's like they took a piece of me .  . . a
piece of my spirit.  It's not just missing the Exultation itself, the
pleasure, the warmth.  I'm getting past that.  It's the "she faltered,
then fell silent.

He was sitting beside her in the pilot's seat, and he reached out and
grasped her hands.  They were cold, and he warmed them gently in his.

"Go 		.  	on .  . ."  he said quietly.  "I'm here.  I'm listening"
"Both Mrrov and Teroenza were wrong when they said only weakminded
people fall into the trap of the Ylesian religion," Bria said slowly,
selecting her words with care.  "Oh, some of the pilgrims may be
discontented people who've never been successful in life and are
looking for a way to escape responsibility.  But not most of them.  I
got to know a lot of them, Han."

"Yeah, you did," he encouraged.

"Most of the Ylesian pilgrims were .  . . idealists, I guess you'd
say.

People who believed that there was something better, some meaning to
life.

They went looking in the wrong places, they got fooled into believing
the priest's bilge about the One and the All .  . . but that doesn't
make their goal--their aspiration--of believing in a higher power
stupid."

He nodded, and saw tears gather in her beautiful eyes and spill over.

Concerned, he burst out, "Bria .  . . sweetheart.  Don't tear yourself
up like this!  Just because this religion turned out to be a hokey fake
doesn't mean life isn't worth living.  We have each other.  We're gonna
have money.

We'll be fine."

"Han.  . ."  Gently she touched his cheek, caressed his face, and gave
him a loving smile.  "You're the ultimate pragmatist, aren't you?  If
you're not getting shot at or caught in a tractor beam, life is great,
right?"

He shook his head, a little stung.  "I'm a simple guy, yeah, but that
doesn't mean I can't understand what you're talking about, Bria.  It
would be nice if there were some higher power, maybe.  I just don't
happen to believe there is.  And it hurts me to see you hurt."

"Han.  . . don't you realize that the only person you can really take
care of and protect is you--" "And you, Bria," he broke in.  "Don't
forget that for one second.  We're a team, sweetheart."

"Yes," she said.  "We are a team.  But it's hard for me to be content
with not being shot at or having money.  I want more."

"You want some reason for everything that happens.  You want to work to
make your ideals real," he said.

"Yes," she agreed.  "But I understand that you don't let questions like
the meaning of life torment you.  You're probably the smart one,
Han."

"Smart?"  Han frowned.  "I ain't dumb, I know that, but I never
pretended to be a philosopher or something."

"Right.  You don't go around tearing yourself up over injustice and
corruption and wrongdoing.  You accept things as they are, and you
figure out ways around them.  Right?"

He thought about that, and finally nodded.  "Yeah, I guess so.  Maybe,
a long time ago, I had some ideas about how I could become someone who
righted wrongs and kicked the bad guys' butts, but"--he sighed and gave
her a wry smile--"I think I got those ideas beaten out of me by the
time I was just a little kid.  When you lived under Garris Shrike's
rule, you tumbled pretty quick to the fact that nobody was gonna look
out for you except yourself--and that sticking your neck out for anyone
else was a good way to get it whacked off."

"How about Dewlanna?"  she asked.

"Yeah, I knew you'd bring her up."  Han ran a hand through his hair and
grimaced.  "Dewlanna was different.  We looked out for each other,
yeah.  But she was the only one, Bria.  The only one who gave a vrelt's
ass if I lived or died.  Knowing that made me a .  . . pragmatist, I
guess."  "Of course it did," she said.  "That's perfectly natural."

"But go on," he urged.  "You were saying about how the pilgrims were ·
. .

idealists.  Are you one?"

She nodded.  "I think so, Han.  All my life I wanted to be more, to be
better--to make the universe a better place because I was in it.  When
I found the Ylesian religion, I really, truly thought that was it.

That I could somehow change the universe by believing and having
faith."  She smiled wryly and shrugged.  "Obviously, I picked the wrong
thing to believe in."

"Yeah," he said, turning over in his mind what she'd said.  "But there
are other things to believe in, Bria.  Maybe some of 'em are real.

Maybe you just have to find out what the real things are."

She stood up and came over to him, then bent down to kiss the top of
his head.  He stood up and slid his arms around her, held her
tightly.

"I know what one real thing is," she said.  "You're real.  You're the
most real person I've ever met.  The most alive."

He kissed her cheek, and she laid her head on his shoulder.  They stood
there like that for a minute, not speaking.  Finally, he said,
"Dewlanna told me about something she believed in.  Some sort of
lifestrength shared by all creatures, all things.  She believed in
that.  She swore to me it was real."

"Maybe I should go off to Kashyyyk," she said.  "On a pilgrimage."

"Sure," he said.  "Someday we'll go there.  I'd like to see it.

Dewlanna said it was a beautiful world.  They live in the treetops."

"That would be nice," she said dreamily.  "Just you and me in a
treetop.

What would we do with ourselves all day?"  can think of one thing," he
said, and bent to kiss her with such passion that even the stars seemed
to reel around her in long streaks, and her ears rang...

No, she realized, a moment later, it wasn't Han's kiss that had caused
that reaction, it was the alarm beeping to tell them they were coming
out of hyperspace.  Han grimaced.  "Talk about bad timing,
sweetheart.

But ...

later, okay?"

She smiled.  "Later .  . . I'll hold you to it."

He was already back in his seat as he checked their coordinates, but he
spared a moment to give her a grin that made her heart turn over.  "I
can hardly wait .  . ."

Han set the Talisman down in a privately owned landing field on
Tralus.

"What is this place?"  Bria said, following him down the ramp and
looking around her in bewilderment.  Ships of all sizes and
descriptions were clustered together.  Some were little more than
rusted-out hulks · .  .

others looked almost brand-new.  None had any identifying codes or
names, however.  Those markings had been scoured off by laser
torches.

"It's like .  . . a ship's graveyard or something."

"Yeah.  Old spaceships never die .  . . they just wind up at Truthful
Toryl's Used Spaceship Lot," Han said.  "When you need a ship, or you
want to get rid of a ship, and you don't want to leave a .  . . trail
.

. . you come here."

Her eyes widened.  "These ships are all .  . . stolen?"  "Most of 'em,"
he said.  "Ours is, too .  . . remember?"  Bria grimaced.  "I keep
trying to forget."

Han glanced over at the small office set in the middle of the vast
landing field.  "And here comes Truthful Toryl himself," he said.

Truthful Toryl was a Duros, a tall, thin, blue-skinned humanoid.

Completely bald, his face was quite human except for the absence of a
nose which gave him a mournful appearance.  Han stepped forward, his
hand held out.  "Good day to you, Traveler Toryl," he said.  Duros
loved to

travel so much that the word "traveler" was their preferred
honorific.

"I'm Keil d'Tana, and this is my associate, Kyloria m'Bal.  Very
pleased to meet you."

"And I you," Toryl said.  "Greetings to two travelers.  You have time
for refreshment and sharing of stories?"

The Duros were famed for being wonderful storytellers throughout the
galaxy.  A Duros had a near-photographic memory for any story he or she
heard.  Most Duros "collected" stories, and apparently Toryl was no
exception.

"I'm sorry," Han said.  "We are in a bit of a rush.  There's a
passenger vessel we have to catch."

"I quite understand," the Duros said.  "Since you are taking public
transport, I gather you are here to sell, not buy, a ship."

"You're right, Traveler," Han said.  "It's in prime condition, too.  A
lovely little pleasure yacht.  Just needs a little refitting to be
perfect for some rich Corellian family who wants to take the kids on
the perfect vacation."

"Yacht?"  Bria thought Toryl's voice sharpened on the word, but
couldn't be sure.  "I will look and quote you a price, Traveler
d'Tana."

Han led the way to where the Talisman rested.  The Duros's normally
mournful-appearing features lengthened even farther when he saw the
Ylesian vessel.  "Let me show you around," Han said, pointing at the
ramp.

The Duros shook his bald blue head.  "No need," he said.  "I can offer
you five thousand.  Firm."

Han gaped at the alien, completely shaken out of his normal confident
demeanor.  "Huh?"  he said blankly.  "What?  That's crazy!  Five
thousand for a ship like this?  That's scrap price!"

The Duros bowed slightly in Han's direction.  "Indeed it is, Traveler
Draygo."  He bowed in Bria's direction.  "And Traveler Tharen."  Waving
a hand at the Talisman, Truthful Toryl said sadly, "I agree that it is
a shame to reduce such a beautiful vessel to scrap.  But that is all I
could do with her.  The Hutts are searching for this vessel .  . .

searching intensively.  As they are searching for the resourceful pilot
Vykk Draygo, who stole her."

Han turned away, and Bria saw his lips move in a scathing curse, but
when he turned back to face Truthful Toryl, his composure was in place
again.

"I see," he said.  "Five thousand .  . . firm."

"Yes.  I might be persuaded to raise that price slightly if you and
your companion would tell me your stories .  . ."  Toryl added
hopefully.

"Sorry, pal, no can do," Han said.  He shrugged.  "Okay, five thousand
it is.  Cash."

"Cash it is," Truthful Toryl said.

Later that same day, "Janil Andrus" and his wife, "Drea Andrus,"
boarded an intersystem shuttle bound for Corellia.  Bria had worried
about posing as husband and wife, but Han had assured her that the Hutt
SECURITY ALERT bulletins listed them as being single.  Privately, he
was worried about whether the Hutts would try to trace them, since they
knew Bria's last name, but he was also aware that the Hutts wouldn't
want a scene or their scam on Ylesia revealed to the public.  He had to
hope that would keep them from openly trying to have them arrested.

Han wasn't figuring on staying on Corellia long .  . .

The pair arrived on their homeworld early in the evening and caught a
transcontinental shuttle to the southern continent, where the Tharen
home was located.  When they arrived at the station, which Bria said
was within walking distance of her home, they were tired and grubby,
with no way to change clothes.  Their only luggage was the backpack
that held Teroenza's treasures.

"So .  . ."  Han said, shifting from one foot to the other and looking
out of the station window into a soft, foggy drizzle, "now what?  Find
a place to hole up until morning?  Or should we call 'em and warn
'em?"

"I think I had better call," Bria said, sounding uncertain herself.

"Wait here."  She headed off to borrow the station master's comlink.  A
few minutes later she was back.

Han saw how drawn and tired she looked and put an arm around her.  "So
. .

. how'd it go?"

She smiled wanly.  "My mother nearly fainted, then she started
screaming at me."  She sighed.  "I know she loves me, but the ways she
shows it make me want to scream sometimes.  She wants the best for
me--as long as it's her idea of what's best!"

Han nodded, thinking for the first time in his life that perhaps he'd
been lucky, in a way, never having to deal with parents.  "So do we
start walking?"

She shook her head.  "No.  My father is coming for us in the speeder.

He'll be here any minute."

Even as she spoke, an expensive speeder pulled up outside of the
station.

A handsome, distinguished-looking man with gray hair and a heavyset
build was at the controls.

As Han and Bria approached the vehicle, the man leaped out of the

speeder and, laughing and crying at the same time, embraced his
daughter.

Long moments later he turned to shake hands with Han.  "I'm pleased to
meet you," he said.  "I understand from Bria that you saved her from ·
. . well, from terrible things.  All I can say is .  . . thank you.

Thank you, er .  .

."

"Solo, sir," Han said.  "Make it Han."

Tharen's grip was firm.  "Please .  . . call me Renn, Han."

"Yes, sir."

The ride to Bria's home was short.  They passed through a reinforced
set of security gates, then headed down a road that seemed to have no
other houses on it.  Han glanced to each side and saw high fences, the
type he'd used to sneer at back during his days as a burglar.  "Not
many people live out here," he observed.

"Oh, this is our land," Renn Tharen said carelessly.  "Bought it years
ago as a cushion between ourselves and our neighbors.  I'm a man who
likes my privacy."

He turned the vehicle into a drive that was closed with a another,
equally reinforced but more ornamental gate.  Beyond it, Han saw the
house and mumbled a virulent curse in Huttese under his breath.  Bria,
baby .  . . he thought grimly, why didn't you tell me your family was
rich enough to buy and sell half of Corellia?

The house was huge .  . . wings and modified towers, and landscaping to
match.  The Tharen house made cousin Thrackan's place look like a
cottage.

Bria turned to Han and smiled tremulously.  "Well, we're here."

"Yeah," Han said, deliberately keeping his voice noncommittal.  He
could tell that Bria was nearly sick with anxiety, and he didn't want
to worry her more than she was.  At least there was one advantage to
Bria's parents being rich--the Hutts would never dare to try to grab
her while she was in her parents' home.  That would surely cause a
major interstellar incident, and Hutts preferred to work
clandestinely.

Before the party could reach the front door, Bria's mother came
bursting out, dressed in a flowing gown that Han could only recognize
as "rich."

"Darling!"  she gasped, enfolding Bria in her arms.  Han stood off to
the side, glad to be out of the way until Bria and her parents were
finished with their greetings.

Midway through the whole hubbub of greetings, recriminations, tears,
embraces, and excited questions and answers, Bria's brother came
home.

Han recalled Bria saying her brother's name was "Pavik."  Unlike his
sister, Pavik Tharen took after his mother; short, slender, with dark
hair

and green eyes.  He was a handsome youth, and seemed genuinely fond of
his sister.

It was a long time before Bria could disengage herself from her family
to introduce Han.  Eyes shining, she took his hand and led him over to
meet her mother, Sera Tharen, and her brother.

"Pleased to meet you, Lady Tharen," Han said, shaking hands and putting
on his best manners.  "And you, Pavik."

Bria's mother's handclasp was limp and unenthusiastic.  She studied
Han, and he gained the quick impression that she didn't much like what
she saw.

He sighed inwardly.  I've got a very bad feeling about this .  . .

"Well, please come in," Sera Tharen said.  "Let's all sit down.  I must
say, this has been a shock.  I never thought I'd see my baby again, I
really didn't.  Bria, darling, how could you do this to us?"

Still murmuring recriminations, Sera Tharen led the way inside.  When
Han reached the parlor of the house, and they all sat down, he had to
repress the urge to leap up and stride out.  I don't belong here, he
thought.  I know it, and they know it.

The thought made him angry.  Refusing to let his discomfort show, Han
sat down and lounged back against the opulent cushions with a
deliberate show of ease.  He looked around, his professional eye
automatically assessing the credit value the knickknacks and
decorations would have to a fence.  "Nice place," he said casually.

"Well, erin" Sera began.

"Han.  Call me Han, Lady Tharen," Han said.

"Very well, Han," Bria's mother said stiffly, "I gather we have you to
thank for Bria's return."  Her eyes were fixed on Han's blaster, and he
realized that, like most citizens, none of Bria's family went armed.

Tough, lady, Han thought.  I don't take off My blaster for you or
anybody.  Live with it.

"Well, I tried to be helpful, Lady Tharen," Han replied.  "But I
couldn't have managed without Bria.  She's plenty tough when she wants
to be.  Good in a fight."

Lady Tharen stiffened, and Han realized that the woman would not regard
what he'd said as a compliment.  "Oh, dear .  . ."  she murmured.

"Bria, darling, before you sit down, why don't you go and change?

Really, dear, where did you get those dreadful clothes?"

"The tailor droid at the Ylesian Colony," Bria said quickly, and she
cast an appealing glance at Han, as if to ask whether he'd be all
right.

Han gave her a reassuring wave.  "Run along, honey."

Lady Tharen stiffened again at the casual endearment.  Bria smiled at

Han, gave her mother and brother a doubtful glance, and went quickly
from the room.

"So, Han," Pavik Tharen said, "what do you do?"  He was staring closely
at Han, his eyes assessing in a way that made the pilot
uncomfortable.

"Oh, whatever it takes to get by," Han replied carelessly.  "Mostly I'm
a pilot."

"In the Navy?"  Lady Tharen asked, brightening slightly.  "Are you an
officer?"

"Nope.  Freighters, ma'am.  I can fly most anything, anywhere.  That's
why I was on Ylesia, running--" Han broke off, remembering for the
first time in a long while that the contraband spice trade was highly
illegal, "That is, hauling cargo."

"Oh," murmured Lady Tharen, obviously not understanding, but
uncomfortable with Han's answer.  "How interesting."

"Yeah, it has its moments," Han said.

"I started out as a pilot, many years ago," Renn Tharen said, a note of
approval in his voice.  "When I was about your age, Han.  Worked my way
up until I owned the shipping company.  That's how I made my first
million."

Han thought of telling Renn Tharen that he was intending to enter the
Imperial Academy, but the habit of not revealing any personal
information was too ingrained.  He just smiled and nodded at Bria's
father.  "Those were the exciting days, sir," he said.  "Lots of
pirates back then, right?"

Renn Tharen smiled.  "I had a few RUN-ins.  I imagine you have, too."

Han smiled back.  "A few."

Sera Tharen looked from one to the other, vaguely disturbed.  "Oh,
dear.

That sounds .  . . dangerous."

"Comes with the job, Lady Tharen," Han said.

"But I'm forgetting my manners!"  she said.  "Captain Solo, can I get
you something to drink or eat?"

"I wouldn't mind an Alderaanian ale," Han said.  "And some flatbread
with meat and cheese.  We've been traveling all day."

"I'll tell the cook," Lady Tharen said.  Han was astonished to realize
that the "cook" was a living being, a female Selonian, instead of a
droid.  This further evidence of wealth impressed him more than
anything he'd yet encountered.

By the time Bria reemerged, Han was sitting out in the dining room,
eating.  He saw her walk out and paused in midbite.

She wore a plain blue-green dress that matched her eyes.  The soft

fabric had a faint sheen and clung to her in all the right places.

And, for the first time since he'd known her, Bria's hair was
attractively styled, brushed out into a halo of soft red-gold curls.

She looked so different from the blaster-toting thief of a few days ago
that it was as though she'd stepped out of another universe.  It's a
good thing Ganar Tos can't see her now, he thought wryly.  "You look
beautiful, honey," he said.  "That's a pretty dress."  Han was
sophisticated enough to realize that dress probably cost more credits
than the average space pilot earned in a week.  She's been raised to
have so much, he thought uneasily.  How is she going to react to living
on the salary of, first, an Imperial cadet, then an Imperial officer?

Bria smiled and sat down beside him.  "Mother, could I have some thing
to eat, too?  I'm starved!"  As Han and Bria munched their late-night
snack, her family gathered around the table and sipped expensive
vine-coffeine from fragile Levier made porcelain cups, while the
butler, another Selonian, waited on them.  "So, Captain Solo .  . .

you're Corellian?"  Lady Tharen said, raising a delicate eyebrow to
indicate that she was pretty sure he was.  Han, still chewing, nodded,
then swallowed.

"Yes, ma'am."  "And your family?"  she asked.  "Are you one of the
SalSolos?"

There was a touch of hope in her voice.  "They have a lovely old
estate, I understand.  I've met the son a few times, but Lady Sal-Solo
is very reclusive.  I understand her health is not robust."  "No, Lady
Tharen," Han replied.  "No relation."  "Oh," she said, visibly
disappointed.  "What branch of the family are you from, then?"  Bria
was looking very uncomfortable, Han noticed, but he couldn't tell
whether she was ill at ease for him, or because of him.  "Don't know,
Lady Tharen," he said honestly.  "I'm an orphan, most likely.  Traders
found me wandering in an alley down by the waterfront near Capital
Spaceport when I was a little kid.  I was raised by 'em.  Spent most of
my time in space."  Part of him took a perverse pleasure in watching
her reaction to this information.  "That's odd," Pavik Tharen said.

"You look so familiar.  I know I've seen you somewhere before.

Somewhere .  . . at a barbecue, I think.  I have a mental picture of
seeing you at a barbecue that followed a swoop racing meet."  Han
stiffened inwardly.  Now that Pavik mentioned it, Han remembered him,
too.  Pavik was probably two or three years older than Han, and Bria's
brother had been a frequent competitor at some of the swoop

races.  Due to the age difference, they'd never raced against each
other, but Han remembered seeing him.

And, of course, every time he'd done major swoop racing, Han had been
part of a "family unit" created by Garris Shrike to scam wealthy
Corellians out of their money.

"Sorry, don't remember you," he said casually.  "I've been offworld for
the past several years.  Afraid I ain't been to a Corellian barbecue
since I was a kid."

"But I remember it distinctly .  . ."  Pavik said, narrowing his eyes
suspiciously.  "You were leaning against a swoop, eating a plate of
barbecued traladon ribs.  The picture in my mind is very clear."

"Funny thing about that," Han said, leaning back in his seat with a
smile.

"People are always saying stuff like that to me.  I must have one of
those kinda faces--so ordinary that lots of people confuse me with
other folks."

"I don't think you're ordinary-looking, Han," Bria said, not
understanding what was going on, but trying to be loyal.  "I don't
think anyone who ever met you could forget you.  You're .  . .
unique."

She gave him a smile.

"Handsome, too."

Han took a deep breath and managed to smile blandly at the assembled
Tharens.  "Thanks, honey," he said.  "But I'm really just an ordinary
kinda guy."

Bria finally caught the subtle hint and fell into silence.  Pavik
Tharen continued to study Han suspiciously.

"Well," Sera Tharen said too brightly, "I'm sure you're both tired.

Captain Solo, I'll have Maronea prepare one of the guest rooms for
you.

Bria, obviously you'll want your room back, and, dear, I haven't
changed a thing.  I just knew that someday you'd come to your senses
and return to US!"

"I really couldn't just decide to leave, Mother," Bria said quietly.

"Once you go to Ylesia, they won't let you leave.  There are no ships,
and there are armed guards.  If it hadn't been for Han.  . . I would
never have been able to escape."

"Oh, dear .  . ."  Lady Tharen said, distressed and looking as if she
didn't know what to believe.  Han had the impression that the woman's
entire exposure to the seamier side of life probably occurred through
the tri-dee action-adventure serials.

"I understand that, Bria," Renn Tharen said, holding Han's eyes with
his own.  "And I'll never forget it.  Han is a hero, Sera, and we owe
him more than we can ever repay.  If it hadn't been for him, we'd never
have seen Bria again.  He probably saved her life."

"Oh .  . . oh, dear .  . ."  Lady Tharen was increasingly unnerved by
these allusions to the danger her daughter had been in.  Pavik Tharen
was looking increasingly skeptical.

Han followed the Selonian maid, Maronea, to the room on the far' side
of the house.  He was amused to note that his room was as far as it
could possibly be from Bria's and that the master suite occupied by her
parents lay between the two rooms.  Bria's mother, it seemed, had
decided to nip any chance of wee-hours assignations between her guest
and her daughter in the bud.

Can't wait until we sell Teroenza's stuff and get outta here, he
thought as he undressed and crawled into the bed.  Bria's dad ain't so
bad, he seems like he used to be a regular guy, but her mom and her
brother...

Han sighed and closed his eyes.  Tonight, at least, Lady Tharen need
have no fears.  He was so tired that the only thing on his mind was
sleep.  Funny thing about that .  . . in some ways, spending two hours
in the company of Bria's family had tired him out more than that whole
escape from Ylesia .

. .

Bria's mother came into her room to say good night and give her a last
hug before she fell asleep.  It was a tearful time for both mother and
daughter.  They hugged and cried a little, then hugged again.  "I'm so
glad to have my little girl back," Lady Tharen whispered.

"It's good to be back, Mother," Bria said, and at that moment she
sincerely meant it.  The evening had been a strain, no doubt.  But
things will get better, they're bound to, she thought, trying to
comfort herself.

Han is so lovable.  She's bound to fall for his charm and see how
wonderful he is .  . .

"This young man you've brought home .  . ."  her mother said, almost as
though she'd been reading her daughter's mind.  "It's fairly obvious
that you're not just .  . . friends, dear.  Exactly how .  . . involved
. . . are you two?"

Bria gazed at her mother unflinchingly.  "I love Han, Mother, and he
loves me.  He wants me to stay with him.  Nobody has mentioned
marriage, yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if the subject came up."

Her mother took a quick, sharp breath, as though her worst fears had
been confirmed.  But something in Bria's choice of words alerted her,
and like a hungry vrelt, she pounced.  "I see.  Well, he seems like a
nice young man, though somewhat .  . . rough around the edges, dear.

But you say that he wants you to stay with him.  Is that what you
want?"

Bria nodded her head, then shook it, then had to fight back tears.  She
shrugged miserably.  "Mother, I'm not sure.  I know I love him, really
love

him, but .  . . it's been hard for me.  Leaving Ylesia, finding out
that the religion I believed in and was devoting my whole life to was
nothing but a lie.  That hurt .  . . a lot.  I feel as though part of
me is missing, Mother.

And I also feel that I can't really promise to stay with Han when I'm
not · .  . whole."

"Does he know you have these doubts?"  her mother asked, smoothing
Bria's hair back tenderly.  The young woman didn't miss the spark of
happiness that had flared up in her mother's eyes when she'd spoken of
her uncertainty about staying with Han.

She doesn't want me to stay with him, she realized with a dull ache of
expectation fulfilled.  I knew she'd be like this.  It's so unfair!

The only reason I'm uncertain about staying with Han is because of ME,
not how I feel about him!  But she doesn't understand--she's incapable
of understanding.

"We've talked," Bria said, unwilling to confide in her mother any more
than she'd already done.  "And I can't imagine life without Han, so I'm
going to do the best I can to stay with him and be a help to him."

Her mother looked troubled, but said no more.  Bria lay down and tried
to sleep.  Being in her old bed was a luxury after sleeping on the hard
Ylesian bunks, and in the ship.  She missed Han's warmth, though.  Her
bed seemed cold.  Bria tossed and turned, thinking of Han, wondering
what she should do.

He deserves someone better, she thought sadly.  Someone who can be
there for him one hundred percent...

Pounding her pillow in frustration, Bria felt tears well up again.  Why
can't anything ever be EASY?  I found a man I can love, who loves
me--why can't that be enough?

But it wasn't.  Alone in the darkness of her childhood room, Bria
acknowledged that.

She began to cry softly, aching with misery.  After a long time, she
cried herself to sleep .  . .

The next day Han left the Tharen house shortly after breakfast and
headed off to catch the shuttle to the nearest large city.  He carried
with him the backpack containing the items he and Bria had stolen from
Teroenza.

After the disappointing revenues received from the sale of the
Talisman, Han knew he had to get top price for their small treasure
trove.

He disembarked from the shuttle in the port city of Tyrena and went to
a lockbox office, where he retrieved a few hundred credits and a set of
"clean" IDs for one "Jenos Idanian."  Then he went off to a branch of
the Imperial Bank and opened an account, using the credits and ID.

When that errand was finished, he went in search of an antiquities and
art store he recalled from past escapades.  It had been several years
since he'd visited it, and for all he knew, the little store might have
closed.

But no, the place was still there.  The sign above the door was picked
out in subdued holographic lights, opalescent against the plain gray
stone of the storefront.  Han, toting the backpack, went inside.  As he
opened the door, he could hear a soft chime from deep within the
store.

Han saw the clerk behind the counter, but he ignored the female
Selonian.

Instead, he walked as directly as possible through the labyrinthine
paths between the displays of merchandise, until he reached a small
door set inconspicuously at the back.  It was covered with an ancient
tapestry depicting the founding of the Republic, and only certain
"customers" ever discovered the door was behind it.

Once there, he looked around to make sure he was alone and unobserved,
then he knocked sharply, in a preordained pattern.  He waited, and
after another minute the sound of an electronic lock being released
sounded from the other side of the door.  Han raised the tapestry,
slipped under it, and walked through, into the back room.

The proprietor was an old, old man, still spry despite his stooped
body, wrinkled face, and wispy yellow-white hair.  Galidon Okanor had
looked exactly the same in the five years since Han had first met
him.

Now he looked up and smiled at Han.  "Well, it's .  . .um .  . . who,
today, son?"

Han smiled.  "Jenos Idanian, sir.  How are you?"  He genuinely liked
the little man, who was, at one and the same time, a genuinely
respected art assessor and appraiser, and a very competent and
trustworthy fence.

"Oh, can't complain, can't complain," said the little man.  "Because if
I did, what good would it do me?"  he added, emitting a wheezing
chuckle.

"You got a point," Han said.

Okanor sat down on a high stool before a table that was lit with a
jeweler's and appraiser's light, specially angled and illumined to show
flaws in gemstones and cracks or flaws in antiques.  He waved to a seat
opposite his.  "Sit down, sit down, Jenos Idanian.  What have you
brought me today?"

"Lots of things," Han said.  "I'd like a price for the lot, and I'd
like the credits deposited immediately in the Imperial Bank on
Coruscant."

"Fine, fine," said Okanor.  He rubbed his aged, veiny hands together.

"You usually have good taste, Jenos.  Now let's see what you've brought
me!"

"Okay," Han said, and began unloading the knapsack, placing each item
on the table beneath the light.  He held back his favorite treasure,
though, a tiny golden statue of a long-extinct Corellian paledor.  It
was beautiful, and its eyes were flawless Keral firegems.

Okanor watched avidly, occasionally uttering a soft "oh" or "ahhh," but
he forbore to speak until Han was finished.  Then he carefully picked
up each piece, studied it intently, sometimes through a jeweler's
glass, then placed it on the table again and went on to the next.

"Remarkable, most remarkable," he said, finally.  "I am going to break
a rule of mine and ask you where in the name of the galaxy you found
all of this?  In a museum?  I do not approve of stealing from museums,
you know."

Han shook his head.  "Not a museum."

"A private collection?"  Okanor pursed his lips.  "I am most impressed,
lad.

The collector in question is a sentient of taste and discrimination.  I
will also tell you, young man, that he is not very particular about his
acquisition sources.  I recognize, from their description, that at
least half of these items have been reported stolen.  Some have been on
Where are lists for years."

"Doesn't surprise me," Han said.  "And you, you'll sell 'em to museums,
won't you?"

"Most of them, most of them," Okanor agreed.

"Okay, then, that's good," Han said, thinking that would please Bria.

"That's where they should be.  So .  . . how much?"

Okanor named a figure.

Han gave the old man a look of withering contempt and reached for his
knapsack.  "There's a guy over in Kolene who will be thrilled to get a
look at this stuff.  I can see I should have visited him first," he
said, reaching for the scrimshawed bantha tusk from Tatooine.

Okanor named another, higher figure.  Silently Han began stowing items
in the backpack.

Okanor sighed as though he'd just breathed his last and named another
figure, considerably higher than the previous sum.  "And that's final,"
he added.

Han shook his head.  "It better not be, Okanor.  I need at least five
thousand more than that."

Okanor clutched his chest and watched with anguished eyes as Han
continued to stow items away in the backpack.  Finally, as Han reached
for the last, the tiny sculpture carved from living ice, he squeaked,
"No!  Don't!  You are killing me!  Impoverishing me!  I shall be naked
in the streets, Jenos, lad!  Would you do that to an old man?"

Han gave him a feral grin.  "In a heartbeat, Okanor.  I know what I
need to get out of this deal, I have a pretty good idea what it's
worth, and

I ain't taking less."  He gave the old man an intent stare.  "Frankly,
Okanor, I can't afford to take less.  I've got something important to
spend these credits on.  If what I've got in mind works, you won't see
me again.

I'll be outta all this for good."

Okanor nodded.  "All right.  You've broken me, Idanian.  I'll meet your
price."

"Good," Han said, and began taking the items out of the backpack
again.

He left the store with a satisfied smile, and carefully stowed his
"Jenos Idanian" IDs and the bank record into his credit pouch.  He'd
travel under different IDs and leave "Jenos Idanian .... clean," only
using him for the bank withdrawal.  He planned to store the golden
paledor in a safe place he knew about.  It never hurt to keep a little
something in reserve for emergencies .  . .

Knowing that Okanor's credits would be waiting for him on the capital
world of the Empire, Han headed down the street toward the shuttle
station, whistling.

When Han walked up to and through the gates of the Tharen estate, he
noticed a small, very sporty landspeeder hovering in the paved
courtyard.

He approached the door and found a young man standing inside, in the
parlor.  Pavik Tharen and his mother were there, talking to him.  When
Sera Tharen saw Han, her face fell.  She was hoping I'd cut and run,
Han thought sourly.

"Hi, Lady Tharen," Han said.  "Is Bria around?"

The young man turned to regard Han.  He was a good-looking fellow,
perhaps a year or so older than Han himself, and he was tastefully but
fashionably dressed for an afternoon of netball.

"Hello," the young man said pleasantly, holding out his hand.  "I'm
Dael Levare, and you are--" His gaze sharpened, and before Han could
speak up, he exclaimed, "Wait a minute!  I thought you looked
familiar!

Tallus Bryne, right?"

Han could think of no curse profound enough.  He smiled weakly and
shook hands.  "Hi, nice to meet you."

"Tallus Bryne?"  Pavik Tharen said sharply.

"But he's--" Sera Tharen stopped abruptly when her son nudged her, none
too gently.

Dael Levare was oblivious to the byplay as he wrung Han's hand.  "What
an honor this is!  I still remember the day you set that record, and
you did it by flying through the tunnel on Tabletop Mesa rather than
over

it!  Everyone thought you were a goner, but you pulled it off!"  He
turned to Pavik.  "You mean you didn't recognize him?  Is this Bria's
new suitor?

The swoop racing champion of all Corellia!  Your record still stands,
Bryne.  Or may I call you Tallus?"

"Tallus is fine," Han said with a mental shrug.  The vrelt's in the
kitchen for sure, this time .  . .

Bria's entrance was a welcome interruption.  Han tried to catch her eye
and give her a "look sharp" high-sign, but all her attention was for
the newcomer.  "Dael!  What are you doing here?"

"Your mother invited me over," Dael said.  "You're looking wonderful,
Bria.

I'm so glad to see you back safely--and with such a distinguished
escort!

I've wanted to shake this man's hand ever since he won the swoop racing
championship, last year!"

She looked at her mother.  "You invited him over, Mother?  How nice .

. ."

Han didn't miss the edge in her voice, and the flash of guilt in Sera
Tharen's eyes.  I get it, Han thought angrily.  Mama here wanted Bria
to see me next to her rich-guy ex-fiance, figuring I'd come out looking
like some kind of low-life jerk.

"Well, yes, dear .  . . I knew Dael would be able to catch you up on
all the news with the young crowd .  . . much better than I could . 
.

." Sera Tharen twittered nervously.  Bria's lip curled, and she turned
away from her mother to smile at Dael.

"Well, Dael, it was lovely of you to drop by.  Perhaps we can all get
together for lunch someday.  Who are you seeing these days?"  As she
spoke, she moved toward Dael, and in one smooth motion took his arm and
started him moving toward the door.  Han smiled inwardly.  Slick, Bria,
honey .  . .

nicely done.

"Sulen Belos," Dael said.  "She'd love to meet Tallus, too.  She's
quite a swoop racing fan."

"Tal--" Bria caught herself immediately, and laughed.  "Well, she
always was!"  She cast a flirtatious glance at Han.  "I'll have to
watch you, won't I, Tallus?  Sulen Belos is gorgeous, and she's never
been able to resist a swoop racer."

Han smiled at her good-naturedly.  Great.  Just great.  From bad to
worse.

"You gotta watch us swoop racers, too.  We live for danger."

Half out the door, Dael Levare laughed, as though Han had said
something clever.  "Well, I'll call you.  Nice meeting you, Tallus!"

"Nice meeting you, too," Han said.

"Don't forget to call," Bria urged, and then she shut the door behind
Levare and leaned against it.

Silence ensued.

Han had never heard such a profound silence, even inside a spacesuit
in vacuum.  He glanced quickly from Bria, to Pavik, to Sera.  All three
were staring at him grimly.  Han cleared his throat.  "Think I'll take
a little walk," he announced.  "Get some air."

Not meeting anyone's eyes, he left.

Bria felt like screaming, then sobbing, but she struggled to control
herself.  The situation was bad enough without her dissolving into
hysterics.  She was pacing back and forth in her mother's dressing
room.

Pavik was sitting on the couch, waving his arms and raising his voice,
and her mother was sitting in a pink brocade chair, alternating between
gasped exclamations of "Oh, dear!"  and "Bria, your brother is right,
we must do something!"

"You heard him last night!"  Pavik shouted.  "He denied having
swoop-raced, and he gave us a fake name!  Han Solo--right!  Who knows
what his real name is?"

"Stop it!"  Bria cried.  "Han Solo is his real name!"

"Then why is 'Tallus Btyne' listed as the swoop racing champion of
Corellia last year?"  Pavik said.  "He can't be both, Bria.  Face it,
the guy's using an alias, and the only reason to do that is that he's
got stuff to hide!  And this is the guy you want us to accept with open
arms, just because you say so?"

"Oh, dear!"  Sera wrung her hands.

Bria bit her lip to keep from shrieking.

"And another thing," Pavik said.  "My memory is starting to come back
on this, and 'Tallus Bryne' wasn't Solo's only alias.  The time I
remembered was about three years earlier.  He was just a kid, eating
barbecue after a swoop race.  That time, 'Solo' was 'Keil Garris,' the
son of Venadar Garris.  Remember him?  That guy who went around one
summer selling shares in that duralloy asteroid, and the whole thing
turned out to be bogus?  A scam?"

Bria did remember.  "But even if this Garris man was a con artist, that
doesn't mean that Han--" Pavik threw up his arms in exasperation.

"Sis, don't you remember how a couple of our friends' parents were
nearly wiped out from buying worthless shares in that nonexistent
asteroid?"  He snorted.  "That whole Garris family was nothing but a
bunch of con artists--and that includes your new boyfriend, Bria!"

"This is terrible!"  Sera Tharen said.  "Perhaps we should do
something!"

Both Bria and Pavik ignored their mother.

"But Han was just a kid then," she pointed out, fighting not to give in
to tears.  "You admitted that.  He can't be held responsible for what
you say his parents did."

"But he doesn't have any parents--or so he told us!"

Bria glared at him.  "Well, maybe they were his parents, and he's
disowned them because they were crooked," she said.  "Pavik, Han is a
good person!

He's had a tough life and wound up having to do things he didn't like
to survive, I already know that.  But he's turned around now!  He's
trying to make something of himself, and you won't give him that
chance!"

Pavik snorted derisively.  "If they even were his parents," he said.

"Sis · .  . don't be blinded by good looks and the fact that he rescued
you!  Face it, this guy may have romanced you because he'd checked our
family out and found that Dad has money!"

"Oh, dear!"  Sera said.  "Do you mean that the boy is a thief?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Mother," Pavik said.

"I should go and check to see whether anything is missing," Sera Tharen
gasped.  "Oh, dear, oh, dear, where shall I have him sleep tonight?"

"Mother, he's not going to be here, tonight," Pavik said.  "I'm calling
security.  I'm sure this guy is wanted for all kinds of things."

"Don't you dare!"  Bria cried.  "If you call security I'll never speak
to any of you again!  You're wrong about Han!  He had absolutely no
idea my family was wealthy when we met.  I never told him until we got
here!"

"A guy like that has sources to check," Pavik pointed out.  "He
probably checked you out within days of knowing you, and found out
everything he needed to know."

"No, he didn't!"

"Bria .  . . I'm not trying to be an ogre!"  Pavik said.  "I'm just
trying to make you see reason!  I don't want you to be hurt, and I
don't want you to get involved with someone who lives on the wrong side
of the law!"

"Han isn't like that!"  Bria cried, then taking a deep breath, she
amended, "Okay, I admit that in the past he probably was.  But he's
different now.

He's going to enter the Imperial Academy and become an officer.  Can't
you give him a chance?  He's trying to change his life!"

"That's what he's told you, Bria, but guys like that lie for a living,"
Pavik said.  "I'm calling security."

"Oh, dear!"

"No!"  Bria stared wildly at her brother, for a moment wishing she were
wearing a blaster.  She couldn't let him do this!

Pavik's hand was actually on the connect button on the comlink, when a
voice from the doorway stopped him in his tracks.  "Don't, Pavik.  I
forbid it."

All of them turned to see Renn Tharen standing there.

"But, Dad, you don't know--" Pavik began.

"Yes, I do," Tharen said.  "I've been in my study, and the door was
open.

I've been listening to this entire disgraceful scene, and I'm telling
you, Pavik, you're not calling security."

"But, Renn .  . ."  Sera Tharen began.  Her husband turned to her, his
glance scathing.

"Sera, I'm tired of you trying to use our daughter as a pawn to further
your social ambitions.  You're most of the reason she ran away last
year.

So stop it.  Do you understand me?"

"Renn!"  Sera Tharen gasped.  "How dare you speak to me like that?"

"Because I'm angry, Sera, angry clear through," Bria's father
snarled.

"How can you be so blind?  You don't understand the danger our daughter
was in on Ylesia!  Look!"

Seizing Bria's hand, her father dragged her over to stand before her
mother.  Taking her hands, he thrust them out before his wife's eyes.

"Look, Sera!  See her hands?  See these scars?  Those people mistreated
Bria, they made her a slave.  She might have died, Sera, if not for
Han.  I'm grateful to him, even if you don't have the common decency to
realize that!  He's a good kid, and I say that Bria could do far
worse."

"But--" she whispered, wringing her hands and beginning to cry.  "Oh,
Bria, your poor hands, darling .  . ."

"Not one more word, Sera.  I forbid it."

Sera Tharen subsided into her chair, weeping softly.

Renn Tharen whirled around to confront his son.  "Pavik, you've become
as judgmental and class-conscious as your mother.  I'm tired of you,
too."

Renn glared at the young man.  "You're talking about a man who risked
his life to save Bria from slavery.  Bria's right about him applying to
the Imperial Academy.  Han Solo is a decent guy.  He reminds me of
myself when I was his age.  There are some incidents in my past I'm not
proud of, either.

He deserves a chance, not jail.  He deserves our thanks, not a call to
CorSec."

When Renn Tharen stopped speaking, silence reigned.  Then, with a
sobbing gasp, Bria ran to her father and threw her arms around him.

"Thank you, Dad!"

Han had walked the entire length of the Tharen estate, and was on his
way back when he saw someone coming down the path toward him.  It was
Bria, and she carried a good-sized bag slung over her shoulder.  Han
saw her expression and stopped.  "What is it?"

"Come on," she said.  "Before we're missed.  We're getting out of
here.

I don't trust Pavik not to make that call to security behind Daddy's
back."

Han turned back toward the transport station.  "You sneaked out?"

"I left them a note," she said defensively.  "Did you get the money
transferred to Coruscant?"

"Yeah, we're fine," Han said.

They walked for a few minutes in silence, then Bria said, "Someday, I'd
like to know all the truth.  I hate surprises of this sort, Han."

He sighed.  "I should have told you.  I will tell you.  Everything.  I
promise.  I'm just not in the habit of trusting anyone."

"I can tell," she said grimly.

"Nice of your dad to stick up for me."

"Daddy says you remind him of himself, when he was a young pilot."  She
smiled faintly.  "I gather he led a rather checkered existence for a
few years, out on the Rim."

Han nodded and, cautiously, reached for her pack.  "I'm really sorry
about this.  Let me carry it?"

She sighed and surrendered her bag.  "Okay.  It was probably a bad idea
to come here, anyway."  After a moment she reached over and took his
hand.

"Now it's just the two of us again."

Han nodded.  "That's the way I like it, sweetheart."

fourteen

Down and Out on Coruscant The trip to Coruscant was uneventful.  True
to his promise, Han related his history to Bria, in unvarnished
detail.

It bothered him to have to admit many of the things he'd done in the
past, but he took his promise to her seriously, and he was as honest as
he could be.

At first, Han worried that Bria might be repelled by all of the things
he'd done during his checkered past, but she reassured him, saying that
she loved him more, now that she knew the truth.

The five-day voyage to Coruscant was a long one.  Han was beginning to
suffer from boredom by the time the passenger liner docked at one of
the massive space stations that serviced the huge Imperial cityworld.

From the space station, the passengers were told, they'd be shuttled
down to the spaceport in small ships.  Han was surprised to discover
that there was almost no place on the giant world where the natural
ground could be seen or touched.

"Only in Monument Plaza," their steward told the assembled passengers
who'd traveled on the liner Radiance.  "There citizens may touch the
top of the only mountain on the planet that still remains.  About
twenty meters of the peak extends into the air.  The remainder is all
hidden beneath buildings."

Coruscant, it seemed, was a warren of buildings, skyscrapers, towers,
rooftops, and more buildings, all built one upon the other in a giant,
labyrinthine hodgepodge.  Han raised his hand when the steward asked
whether there were any questions.  "You say that the topmost rooftops
are

more than a kilometer above the lowest-level streets?  What's down
there?"

The Radiance's steward shook his head warningly.  "Sir, take my word
for it.  You do not want to know.  The lowest levels never see the
sun.

They are so far beneath the clean air that they are fetid and damp and
have their own weather systems.  Foul rain drips down the sides of the
buildings.  The alleys are infested with granite slugs, duracrete
worms, shadowbarnacles .

. . and, worst of all, by the degenerate remnants of what once used to
be human beings.  These troglodytes are pale carrion and garbage
eaters, disgusting in every way."

"Huh," Han whispered to Bria, "sounds like my kinda place."

"Stop it!"  she hissed, smothering a grin.  "You are such a
smartmouth."

"I am, I really am."  Han sat back in his seat, chuckling.  "I'm
impossible.

I don't know how you put up with me."

"Neither do I," Bria said, smiling wryly.

The couple made their way over to one of the viewports on the station
while they were waiting for a "surface" shuttle down.  "It's like some
beautiful golden gem," Bria whispered.  "All those lighted buildings
.

. ."

"It looks like a corusca jewel," Han said, eyeing the planet
thoughtfully.

"Must be where the world got its name."

They were standing in line, waiting to enter the shuttle, when an
official stepped forward and pointed at Han's blaster.  "Sorry, sir,
you'll have to check your weapon.  Guns aren't permitted on
Coruscant."

Han stood there for a long moment; then with a shrug he unbuckled the
tie-down strap from around his thigh, then released the big buckle that
fastened his gunbelt.  Wrapping the belt around the holster and weapon,
Han handed it over to the official and received a numbered token in
return.

"Just give this to the official before boarding your return transport,"
the man said, "and you'll receive your weapon, sir."

Han and Bria got back into line.  Han grimaced at how light his right
leg felt without the customary weight against his thigh.  "I feel
naked," he mumbled to Bria.  "Like I'm in one of those nightmares when
you show up for something important and suddenly realize you forgot
your pants."

She began to giggle at the idea.  "I didn't know men had dreams like
that, too."

"I don't have 'em often," Han said grimly.

"Well, if nobody's armed, then it's still even," she pointed out
reasonably.

Han gave her a look as they started down the aisle of the surface

shuttle.  "Honey, don't be naive.  There's an underworld on this
planet, and you can bet your pretty eyes they're armed."

She glanced over at him as they fastened their seat restraints.  "How
do you know?"

"I took a look at the Imperial guards.  They were all armed.  I saw
security guards on Alderaan, and none of the ones I saw were armed.  So
it's a good bet whoever they would be going up against wasn't either.

But these Imperials are armed, and wearing armor, too.  Gotta be a
reason for it."

Bria shrugged.  "I have to admit, your reasoning makes sense."

"I'm gonna feel strange walking into that bank tomorrow, with no
blaster at my side," Han said, looking sadly at his empty thigh.

"Come on, Han," she whispered, "of all the places in the world, they
wouldn't let you walk into a bank armed!"

"Why not?"  Han asked.  "It's not like a guy could swipe the credits.

They don't keep hardly any credit disks there, or coins either.  It's
all electronic data entry onto personal IDs.  Good system," he added
thoughtfully.  "Saves on guards."

"Well, it's a moot point, since you had to leave your blaster," she
said, watching the city-world grow in the viewport.  Soon they'd be
entering the atmosphere.

"Yeah.  Listen, Bria, I guess this is as good a time as any to discuss
contingency plans," Han said.

"For what?"  she demanded, alarmed.  "Are you expecting trouble?"

"Keep your voice down," he cautioned.  "Nope, I'm not expecting
trouble.  This should be a smooth operation, a piece of cake.  'Jenos
Idanian' is clean, 'cause I only used him to open the account and
deposit the money.  He should be laser-proof.  But, baby .  . . I
learned long ago to always plan for trouble."

"Okay," she said.  "What do you want to plan for?"

"That's a big city, a big world," Han pointed out, just as the shuttle
kissed the upper edges of the atmosphere.  "If anything happens and we
get separated, I want to set up a meeting place."

"Okay, that makes sense," she said.  "Where?"

"The only address I know, 'cause I memorized the location a long time
ago, is a bar called 'The Glow Spider."  That's where I'll be
contacting Nici the Specialist," he said, keeping his voice very low,
but not .  . . quite .  . . whispering.  Whispers drew attention, Han
had learned long ago, where low-voiced conversations did not.

"That's the guy who can get people IDs so perfect that even the
Imperials can't detect them?"

"Yeah.  He's got contacts with the people in the Imp offices who
actually make the IDs.  They're perfect, trust me.  Okay, so it's Nici
the Specialist.  He hangs out at The Glow Spider.  Got that?"

"Nici the Specialist.  Glow Spider," she repeated.  "Where is it?"

"Level 132, megablock 17, block 5, subblock 12," Han recited.

"Memorize that perfectly.  This world is a maze, Bria."

Silently she repeated the location to herself over and over, until she
could say confidently, "I've got it."

"Good."

When they reached the "surface"--the rooftop landing field where the
shuttle landed--Han left Bria with their scanty luggage while he went
over to an automated tourist center to get information and
directions.

He and Bria needed an inexpensive place to stay while he prepared for
the entrance examinations for the Academy.  Han planned to rent a cheap
room for the duration.

When he came back to Bria, she saw that he had a palm-sized locator
computer.  "How much did that cost?"  she asked, eyeing it worriedly.

Their funds from the sale of the Ylesian yacht were running low.

"Only twenty," Han said.  "This world's too easy to get lost on, I
figure.

All I gotta do is enter our destination, like this .  . ."  Squinting
with concentration, he entered, "Level 86, megablock 4, block 2,
subblock 13..."

"What's that?"

"The place where I got us a room for tonight," Han answered, not
looking up.  "And .  . . there!"

Directions from their present location appeared on the screen.  "First,
we take the turbolift down to level 16 ..."  Han muttered, looking
around.

"There!"

They headed for the sign marked TUROLIFT.

Once aboard the lift, Bria gasped at the precipitous drop.  They fell ·
. .

and fell .  . .

"Like being in space," Han said uneasily.  "Almost free fall .  . ."

"My stomach doesn't like this," Bria gulped.

Fortunately, the turbolift slowed as it reached its destination.  Bria
staggered off, looking slightly green.

"Now to find megablock 4 .  . ."  Han mumbled, still concentrating on
his little gadget.  "Then we'll go down again .  . ."

Once out of the turbolift, Bria looked around her in wonder and growing
claustrophobia.  Everywhere buildings loomed over her, so high she had
to crane her neck to see their tops.  The tops of many of them
supported another rooftop, probably like the one she was standing on.

Even though it had been bright (but chilly) daylight up on the landing
pad, here it was dark and warm.  No air seemed to move in the duracrete
and transparisteel canyons between the buildings.  She heard a distant
rumble of thunder, but no rain reached her, and she had no way of
telling whether the storm was above her or below her.

Occasional unbarricaded airshafts broke the permacrete on the rooftop,
and about a hundred meters away, Bria could see the abrupt line of
demarcation at the end of the pavement.  Evidently a thoroughfare ran
at the deepest levels.

She walked over to look down one of the airshafts and, after one brief
glance, staggered back, head spinning and her palms crawling with
vertigo.

She glanced around, saw no one near her, then dropped to her hands and
knees and crawled back to peek over again.  As long as she wasn't
standing, she thought that the dizziness might not be too bad.

Nearing the edge of the lip, she held on with both hands and peered
down the airshaft.

The airshaft went down and down and down.  It was amazing, frightening,
to imagine her body falling down that seemingly bottomless expanse,
helplessly turning and twisting in midair.

Bria stared down, shaking.  If she were to lean a little farther, just
a tiny bit farther, she'd fall down that shaft.  It would be
effortless.  She wouldn't have to jump, no.  Just .  . . lean .  . .

and if she did that, she'd never have to feel the pangs of longing for
the Exultation again.  She'd be free from the pain, the craving.  She'd
be free .  . .

Both drawn and repelled, Bria swayed, leaning farther toward the edge
.

.

. farther .  . .

"What are you doing?"

A hand grabbed her shoulder, yanking her back, away from that yawning
drop into nothingness.  Bria looked up dazedly, to see Han staring at
her, his features twisted with worry.  "Bria, honey!  What were you
doing?"

She put a hand to her head, shook it dizzily.  "I .  . . I don't know,
Han.

I felt .  . . so strange."  Gulping, black dots dancing before her
eyes, she struggled not to faint or be sick.

Han pushed her head down between her knees, then knelt beside her as
she trembled.  He stroked her hair, hugged her tightly as her shudders
intensified.  She was shaking all over.  "Easy .  . . easy .  . . just
take it easy."

Finally, Bria looked up, feeling her shivers abate a little.  "Han, I
don't know what happened.  I felt so strange for a moment there.  I
think I almost fell .  ."

"You did," he said grimly.  "It's called vertigo, sweetheart.  I've
seen people get it before, out in space, when they look 'down' and lose
their bearings.  C'mon.  I know which way to go, now.  We're gonna take
a horizontal tube for a ways."

In the tube, Bria huddled against Han, and he held her gently.

Gradually, her shivering eased.  "Doesn't it bother you?"  she asked.

"This world?  It oppresses me.  Fascinates me, but oppresses me,
too."

"Don't forget, I grew up in space," Han reminded her.  "Not much room
for vertigo or claustrophobia there.  I must've gotten adjusted long
ago, because this place doesn't bother me.  But you .  . . you grew up
on Corellia, with a sky above you all the time.  No wonder you
freaked."  "I'm not going to try looking down again," Bria said.  "Good
idea."

After several more turbolift descents, they reached the little hostel
where Han had reserved a room and paid for it in cash out of their
dwindling funds.  "When are you going to get our money at the Imperial
Bank?"  Bria asked, throwing herself down on the bed and stretching out
with a tired sigh.

"I'll go first thing tomorrow morning," Han said.  "Listen, honey, you
look beat.  I'll go get some food and bring it back here.  We'll turn
in early."

"But don't you want to see the sights?"  Bria asked, thinking privately
that his plan sounded like the best thing she'd heard all day.

"Plenty of time for that.  I just want to eat and then sleep.  Maybe
watch the vid-unit, see what kind of propaganda Imperial City is
putting out these days."

"Okay," Bria said, smothering an exhausted yawn.  "I like your plan."

The next morning Han left Bria munching a pastry in their room and
sipping stim-tea.  "I'll be back in an hour or so," he told her.  "Once
I've got the money, we'll head over and find that bar I told you
about.

What's its name?"

"The Glow Spider," she repeated dutifully.

"And where is it?"

She recited the location.

"That's great," Han said approvingly.  "If I get lost, you can get me
there."

She chuckled.  "Is this place harder to navigate than space?"

"In some ways," Han said.  He gave Bria a kiss between the eyes.  "I'll
be right back."

"Okay, see you later."

With a cheerful wave, he was gone.  Bria lay back on the bed with a
sigh.

Maybe I'll just sleep late, she thought, stretching luxuriously.

The Imperial Bank of Coruscant took up three levels in a monstrous,
top-level skyscraper.  Han walked up to the doors, and looked in.  The
lobby was enormous, all smoked glassine, black duracrete and marble,
and dully shining transparisteel.

Taking a deep breath, and still missing the weight of his blaster, he
walked in and up to the high, shining counter.  The lobby was bustling
with business types and citizens, and Han both looked and felt out of
place in his old pilot's coverall, now stripped of all insignia, and
his battered old jacket and boots.

The more uncomfortable he felt, the more arrogantly he held himself.

He had to wait in line for several minutes, but then found himself
facing a woman clerk.  She was young and pretty, but her gaze was
impersonal--until Han gave her his best lopsided grin.  Almost against
her will, she smiled back.  "Good morning," Han said.  "I opened an
account a little while ago, on Corellia, knowing I'd be comin' here.

Like to withdraw the funds now."

"You wish to close out your account?"

"Yeah."

"Very well, sir, may I have your ID card?  We will transfer the funds
to that, and then they will be accessible from any credit port on
Coruscant or any of the inner-system worlds.  Will that be
satisfactory, Master?"

Han slid the card beneath the glassine barrier to her.  "Idanian?"

"That'll be okay," Han said, having to fight the urge to demand it all
in credit vouchers and coin.  If he did something that unusual, he'd be
bound to appear suspicious.

The clerk scanned the card, and her eyebrows rose slightly as she took
in the amount in the account.  Never expected a guy like me to have
that kind of funds, Han realized, grimly amused.

"Sir, this sum exceeds the amount I am authorized to disburse without
approval from my supervisor.  If you will wait just a moment, I will
get that approval, then disburse the funds to your card."

There wasn't much Han could say except, "Okay."

Left standing at the desk, he suppressed the urge to fidget, and
forcibly restrained himself from overtly scanning the huge lobby for
guards or security.

Take it easy, he ordered himself.  You know that with a withdrawal
this

big, they have to get it okayed.  At least I know for sure that Okanor
transferred the funds the way I told him to .  . .

Han saw the clerk speaking rapidly to a big, heavyset man in a posh
business suit.  The man nodded, took Han's ID card, and approached him
on Han's side of the barrier.  "Jenos Idanian?"  he asked
courteously.

He had a chubby, pink face, pale blue eyes, and a balding pate with
sparse white hair.

"Yeah," Han said.

"I am Parq Yewgeen Plancke, the manager of this facility.  I have
authorized your withdrawal, sir, but before I can give you back your
card, I would like to see an additional piece of ID, purely as a
formality."  The man smiled politely.  "Financial institutions are
subject to these rules, I'm afraid.  Will you step into my office?"

He waved at a glassine-enclosed cubicle.  Han's hackles rose, but he
could see the entire office, and there was no one else in there, no
guards anywhere in evidence.  "Okay," he said, "but I'm kinda in a
hurry, so I hope it doesn't take long."

"Only a second," Plancke assured him, waving Han on ahead.

The Corellian walked into the office confidently, but every sense was
alert, every muscle coiled for action.  Plancke's office was blandly
reassuring--an expensive black marble-topped desk, with a stylus and
stylpad resting atop it.  An ultra-modern flower arrangement of black
lorchads graced the corner of the desk.  There were two visitor chairs,
and Plancke's expensive cloned black leather chair.

"Have a seat, Master Idanian," Plancke said, gesturing to a chair.  Han
sat down.  "Now, if you will give me another source of ID, I can scan
it in and you will be on your way."

Han got the ID out without demur, but he didn't miss a move Plancke
made.

For two credits, I'd hightail it outta here, he thought.  I got a bad
feeling about this .  . .

Plancke took the ID, scanned it in.  "Oh, dear," he said, not sounding
at all surprised or regretful, "I'm afraid we have a problem, sir.  I
have been ordered to place a freeze on your account.  I cannot give you
any of your money."

Han was up and out of his chair.  "What?  But I--what in the name of
the galaxy is going on here?"

Plancke shook his head.  "I only know that the Bank has been contacted
by Inspector Hal Horn of CorSec.  Your funds are suspected of being
illegally accrued, and are frozen, pending a thorough investigation by
Imperial and Corellian Security."

Han didn't waste his breath arguing, just headed for the door.  His

chest felt as though it were caught in a gee-vise.  No .  . . it can't
end like this .  . .

He was a meter from the thick, smoked-glassine door when he heard an
electronic click.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I'm afraid I've been advised to
hold you here for Imperial security forces," Plancke said, sounding as
if he was enjoying his chance to be a hero.  "Have a seat."

Han turned and looked back at the fat man.  He was smiling blandly, his
round little pink cheeks making him look like a jolly sprite out of a
child's story.  "I've also signaled for our guard.  He should be here
any moment.  Please .  . . have a seat while you wait to be
arrested."

Rage filled Han with a strength he didn't know he possessed.  "Over my
dead body!"  he snarled, bounding forward.  He threw himself over the
desk, grabbing the bank manager's writing stylus as he did so.

Slamming into the astonished Plancke, he took him over backward in his
expensive chair.  In a second, he had the sharp point of the stylus
positioned just behind Plancke's chubby pink earlobe.  "One shove," he
gritted, "and this slides between your jawbone and your skull, straight
into your brain, Plancke.  If you have one.  You got a brain,
Plancke?"

"Yes .  . ."

"Good, then use it.  I'm already mad .  . . so don't push me any
further, understand?"

Han could feel all the muscles of Plancke's throat contract as he
swallowed.  His voice was hoarse and shrill with fear.  "Yes .  . ."

"Good," Han said.  "Now, I'm gonna get off you, and you're gonna get up
and sit back down in your fancy chair.  You're gonna let your guard in
when he shows up, just like everything is fine .  . . understand?"

"Yes .  . ."

Moving precisely, Plancke did as he'd been told.  Han crouched behind
Plancke's chair, and now the hand holding the stylus sent the sharp
instrument prodding into the man's back.  "Trust me, Plancke," Han
said, "one good thrust into the kidney will cause you more pain than
you ever want to know.  Might kill you.  Want to take that chance?"

"No .  . ."

"Good.  Here comes your guard.  Let him in."

"Yes .  . ."

The door lock clicked, and the guard entered.  In a second Han was on
his feet, the point of the stylus digging into Plancke's throat
again.

"Tell him!"

"Don't move," Plancke said desperately.  "He'll kill me!"

"He's right," Han said with a feral grin.  "And I'll enjoy it, too.

Now you," he said, "do exactly as you're told, if you want to see your
next pay

voucher.  Place your blaster here on Plancke's desk.  Move real slow,
understand?"

"Yessir," the guard said.  He was an elderly human, and looked
terrified at the thought of actually having to do anything besides
stand around, wearing his blaster.

Slowly, carefully, the guard removed the blaster from his holster,
placing it on the black marble.  Han reached over left-handed, and
picked it up.

"Now .  . . under the desk.  "Don't come out until I tell you to," he
said.

"Yessir."

Han placed the muzzle of the blaster against Plancke's temple, still
hugging the fat man to him.  "Now we're leaving this bank," he said
tightly.  "We're walking outta here, slow and nice.  We're heading for
the turbolift.  When I get there, if you've been a good little bank
manager, I'm gonna let you go.  Understand?"  "Yes .  . ."  "Good."

They were halfway across the lobby before anyone noticed that something
was amiss.  A man yelled, another man squawked with fear, and a woman
let out a shriek.

Han pointed the blaster at the ceiling and pulled the trigger.  Flaming
debris rained down.  "Everybody down!"  he shouted.

His command was unnecessary.  Every citizen was already cowering on the
expensive carpet.  "Okay, Plancke .  . . nice and easy now .  . ."

Together they moved toward the doors, then out through them.  Han
relaxed his grip on Plancke slightly, ready to shove the big man down
and then leap into the turbolift.  He refused to think about what he
was going to do afterwards!  One thing at a time, he cautioned
himself.

One thing at a time .  . .

He kept a sharp lookout as he and Plancke walked toward the turbolift,
and so he spotted the squad of Imperial stormtroopers before they saw
him.  Han yanked Plancke tightly against him and placed the blaster to
the man's head.  "Don't shoot!"  Plancke babbled as the troopers
leveled their weapons.  "I'm the one who called you!  I'm the bank
manager!"

Han backed toward the turbolift, dragging the heavy man with him.  A
glance at its lights reassured him that the lift was on its way to this
level.

"He's getting away!"  yelled one of the stormtroopers.  Han stood
before the door, tense, sweating, and ready to jump out of his skin.

But he betrayed none of that, only waited, his body shielded behind the
bank manager's trembling, corpulent form.

Han heard the turbolift doors slide open behind him.  "Don't let him
escape!  Open fire!"  yelled the stormtrooper officer.

"Noooooo!"  screamed Plancke as the sizzle of blaster bolts filled the
air.

Han jumped back, smelling burned flesh, dragging Plancke's falling body
with him into the turbolift.  He snapped off a shot, just as the
turbolift doors closed, then slammed his fist against the lowest button
on the bank of floors.

The high-speed turbolift dropped like a stone.

Gasping, Han managed to stagger to his feet.  One look told him Plancke
was dead.  Too bad.  He'd have let the man go, if those troopers hadn't
started trouble .  . .

Han's ears popped rapidly as the turbolift hurtled down.  Quickly he
pulled out his map-link and checked his location.  If the link was
correct, this lift would take him down about a hundred fifty stories,
then he'd have to catch another.

The moment the lift doors opened, Han sprang out.  The Corellian had
dragged Plancke's body into the darkest corner of the lift, so it
couldn't be seen from the front.  Han had also shoved his blaster
inside his leather jacket, but his hand rested lightly on its grip,
ready to draw.

The scene that met his eyes was entirely peaceful.  Citizens strolled
along a passageway between buildings, and from somewhere not far away,
music played.

Han glanced at his map-link as he strode along.  Turn right here .  .
.

And there was the next turbolift.  Han passed it up as being too
obvious, and went on to take a horizontal tube into the next
megablock.

Then came another lift down.  Two hundred stories, this time.

The streets were dirtier, now, as he searched for the next lift, making
sure his turns were random.  Down again.  He was five hundred stories
down, by now.  The streets grew ever seedier.

One time, a gang of kids approached him as he hurried along.  Han shook
his head at them warningly.  "Don't," he said.

"'Don't'!"  the leader, a huge, dark-skinned kid with a black fall of
greasy hair, mocked.  "Ooooooh, is big man afraid?  Big man gonna be
real afraid, when we get done with him .  . ."

Six vibroblades flashed in the dim squalor of the alleys the streets
had come to resemble.  Han sighed, rolled his eyes, and pulled out the
blaster.

The gang evaporated so quickly they might have been snatched up by
hawk-bats.  Han stood there, blaster in hand, until he was certain the
kids were gone.

A few startled passersby glanced at him, then quickly hurried on about
their business, with a "Me?  I didn't see nothing!"  expression.

Shoving the blaster back into the front of his jacket, Han jogged down
the shadowed street toward the next lift.

Another hundred stories, then another.  He was seven hundred stories
down.

By now his map-link was useless.  How deep is this place?  he wondered,
boarding another horizontal lift.  The turbolift reeked of human and
alien effluvia.

Eight hundred .  . . eight hundred fifty.

By now Han was moving through streets lit only feebly by stray gleams
from the airshafts, or by wan glow-lamps attached to the ramshackle
buildings.

The permacrete beneath his boots was often awash with foul-smelling,
viscous liquid.  Noxious rain spattered down, and fungi grew thick on
the stonework.

No more citizens were in evidence--only darting forms that were too
quick and furtive to identify.  Han thought some of them might be
aliens, and knowing Emperor Palpatine's poorly concealed dislike and
distrust of nonhumans, Han wasn't surprised to find them lurking here,
in the depths.

One thousand stories.  Eleven hundred .  . .

Han went in search of another lift, but couldn't find one.  Instead he
found a series of stairwells that took him down, and down .  . .

He was now almost twelve hundred stories down.  Approximately
thirty-six hundred meters below where he'd started out at the top level
at the Imperial Bank.

Han was panting, even though he was going downhill.  The air down here
was thick and humid, and smelled foul, as though he were at the bottom
of a tunnel.

No sign of pursuit.  I've lost them, Han thought, walking aimlessly
along.

He caught a flash of something scuttling along beside the front of one
of the sagging, sunken buildings, something that moved hunched over,
like an animal, but it walked on its hind legs.  Tattered scraps of
cloth barely concealed pallid skin, blotched with lesions and running
sores.  The creature snarled at Han from behind a mat of lank, filthy
hair, revealing a mouth full of rotting stumps of teeth.

Han truly couldn't decide whether it was--or once had been--human.

The being scrambled away, hissing like a vrelt, half on its feet, half
using all fours as it ran.

Shaken, Han took his blaster out of his jacket and stuck it into the

front of his belt, wearing it openly, hoping its presence would deter
any more creatures like the one he'd seen.

He passed the mouth of another alley, and there, in the ooze, several
of the troglodytes crouched, tearing and ripping at something, cramming
bits of it into their red-stained mouths.  Revolted, Han drew his
blaster, snapped off a shot over their heads, and watched them
scatter.

He didn't go any closer to their prey, but swallowed uneasily when he
saw that human-shaped ribs protruded from the mangled chest.  Minions
of Xendor, what kind of place is this?

His legs were growing very tired.  He wasn't wearing a chrono, but when
he passed beneath an airshaft, Han tilted his head far, far back and
stared up at the dizzying height.  A faint square of pallid light was
visible at the very top.  Light's going.  By the time I'll be able to
reach the rendezvous, it'll be dark... For the first time in hours, Han
thought of Bria, and was very glad he hadn't taken her with him to the
bank this morning.

She would be worried, he knew that.  With a sigh, Han found another
stairway and started the long, long climb upward.

By the time he'd reached a level that had such amenities as parks, and
park benches to sit on, Han's legs were cramped and he was shaky with
exhaustion.  He slumped onto the bench, wondering, for the first time,
what he'd do now.

He was so tired and disheartened that his mind spun like a creature
trapped inside a barrel, rolling downhill.  Gotta think--he told
himself.  I can't go back to Bria like this .  . .

But, despite his best efforts, no solution to his present dilemma
presented itself.  Han got to his feet and shambled off toward the
nearest turbolift, feeling like one of the troglodytes he'd seen---only
marginally human.

When he checked his locator, he found that it was working again, and he
began following it to the coordinates he'd told Bria about.

Level 132, megablock 17, block 5, subblock 12 he kept repeating to
himself.  As he ascended the levels to ones that were, to his mind,
livable, his stomach growled when he caught whiffs of enticing odors
from cafes and restaurants he passed.

Finally, he saw a sign lighting up the night in a sleazy section that
bordered the alien enclave.  A huge, venom-dripping Devaronian
fur-spider, picked out in garish greenish-black lights, dangled from an
eye-searing scarlet web.  The Glow Spider.  At last Noise and bustle
filled the streets, and many of the passersby were the worse for drink
or drugs.  Han passed the mouth of an alley and saw

someone activate a light, then the blue flash and sizzle as a dose of
glitterstim ignited.

Han paused in an alcove across the street from the cantina, wondering
whether Bria was waiting outside or inside.  He hoped she hadn't gone
inside alone .  . . or had she gone to try and make contact with Nici
the Specialist?  He sighed, wiped his sweaty face with his hand, and
felt his head spin from exhaustion, thirst, and hunger.

As he hesitated, Han felt someone grab his arm.  He spun on his heel,
hand going to the front of his jacket where the blaster was hidden, and
then stopped when he saw Bria.  "Honey!"  he gasped, grabbing her and
holding her so tightly she began to struggle after a second.  She
felt--and smelled--so good!

"Han!"  she gasped.  "I can't breathe!"

He relaxed his grip slightly, stood swaying.  She pushed his hair back
from his brow, staring anxiously up into his eyes.  "Oh, Han!  What
happened?"

Han felt his throat close up, and for a moment he was afraid he might
disgrace himself and start bawling.  But he took a deep breath, shook
his head, and said, "Not here.  Let's find a place to stay and some
food.  I'm done in."

Half an hour later, they were locked inside their room in a dingy
flophouse.  Han had been in worse, but it hurt him to see Bria's brave
attempt to pretend she wasn't shocked by the dirt, the smells, and the
scuttling insects.  But the place was cheap and seemed secure.

The first thing Han did was wash up and drink several glasses of
water.

He still felt light-headed, but the smell of the carry-in food revived
him somewhat.  He sat down on the edge of the rickety bed, and he and
Bria took turns eating out of the single container.

The food returned some energy to Han's exhausted body.  He swallowed
the last bite and sat back, staring hollow-eyed at Bria, wondering
where to begin.

"Han, you have to tell me," she said.  "I know from your expression
that it's bad.  You didn't get the money, did you?"

Han shook his head, then, slowly, haltingly, he told her what had
happened.  Tears filled Bria's eyes as she sat listening to him.

Finally, he stopped .  . . or ran down.  "And I made it back here," he
finished.  "The rest .  . . the rest you know.  Honey"--he looked at
her, feeling his throat close up--"this is it.  There's no place left
to turn.  I can't think of anything to do except use the last of our
credits to try and get off-world.  Then .  . . we can work.  I can get
a job piloting, I know I can."  He sighed and buried his head in his
hands.

"Baby .  . . this is my fault.  I should have realized the Hutts would
run an all-system scan on my retinal patterns, and that they'd turn up
all my aliases.  I thought I'd been smart--but I was dumb as a box of
rocks.  Oh, Bria .  . ."  He groaned, and turned to her, sliding his
arms around her, putting his head on her shoulder.  "Can you forgive
me?"

She kissed his forehead and said softly, "There's nothing to forgive.

It wasn't your fault.  If you hadn't done what you did, I'd be in a
pleasurehouse being passed around from one stormtrooper to another.

Never forget that, Han.  You are a hero.  You saved me, and I love
you."

"I love you, too," he said, looking into her eyes.  "I couldn't say it
before .  . . but .  . . I want you to know.  I love you, Bria."

She nodded, and a tear broke loose and coursed down her cheek.  Han
wiped it away with a fingertip.  "Don't cry," he said.  "I admit I came
close to it myself, earlier, but I've been thinking.  If we can just
get off this blasted world, I know we can manage.  We can work.  We'll
make a life I know we can."  He hesitated, then blurted, "We could even
get married, sweetheart.  If you want."

He could tell she was profoundly moved by his awkward proposal, but she
shook her head.  "Your dreams, Han.  You can't give them up.  We've
gotten this close.  We have to think of something.  You're going to be
an officer in the Imperial Navy, remember?"

It was his turn to shake his head.  "Not anymore, Bria.  That's over,
now.

I've gotta think of what else I'm gonna do with my life."

"Oh, Han!"  she began to cry in earnest.  "I can't bear to see you so
hurt!"

"I'm okay," he insisted, though it was a lie.

Bria laid her head against his chest, then held him tightly.  "We're
okay for tonight," Han said.  "Tomorrow we've gotta do some heavyduty
planning."

She was kissing him now, his cheek, his chin, his jaw .  . . little,
desperate, grazing kisses.  Han held her tightly and captured her
mouth, kissing her, touching her cheek, running his fingers through her
hair, desperate to touch her, to be healed by her touch.

The dingy little room faded away, and all he could think about was how
glad he was to be with her .  . .

In the early hours before daylight, on this world where night and day
meant very little to anyone who wasn't living a wealthy "top-level"
existence, Bria Tharen sat huddled in the grubby, cramped refresher
unit.

In

her hands was a stylus, and before her was a sheet of flimsy and a
large stack of credits.

Faintly, from the bedroom, she could hear Han snoring lightly.  He was
so exhausted he'd never heard her get up and leave, never awakened when
she'd returned, hours later.

Now she struggled with the flimsy and the stylus, stopping every so
often to wipe away the tears that blurred her eyes, making it almost
impossible to write.  Six or seven times she'd voided the flimsy and
started over, but time was ticking by, and she couldn't be here when
Han awoke.  If he awakened, Bria knew, she'd never, ever, be able to
make herself go.

So she was taking the coward's way out, once again.  Her sobs caught in
her throat, and she pressed both hands against her chest.  For a moment
she wondered whether her heart might stop from the pain she felt, then
she shook her head and told herself to stop delaying.  I'm so sorry,
she made herself write.  Please forgive me for doing this .  . .

Tonight, for the first time, she'd realized that Han might not achieve
his lifelong dream if she stayed with him.  She'd been dragging him
down, holding him back, for weeks, but she hadn't wanted to admit it.

But tonight .  . . seeing the anguish in his eyes, hearing the catch in
his voice--it had been too terrible to bear.

So she had slipped out, found a bar where the proprietor had let her
pay him to borrow his comm unit, and called her father.  Bria had
appealed for help, both for herself and for Han.  The pile of credit
vouchers on the floor was the result.  Renn Tharen was a man who knew
how to get things done, and he had wasted no time.  The money had been
delivered to Bria by one of her father's Coruscant business associates,
who had handed her the credits, refused thanks, then headed back out
into the night, clearly glad to get away from the sleazy, all-night
tavern.

During their brief conversation, Bria's father had warned her not to
come home.  Renn Tharen told her that inspectors from CorSec had come
to the house shortly after Bria and Han escaped, asking about Bria's
whereabouts.

"I told them nothing," he said.  "And your brother and mother aren't
speaking to me, because I cut off their allowances for a month, even
though they swore they hadn't called CorSec.  Be careful, dear .  .

."

"I will, Dad," Bria promised.  "I love you, Dad.  Thanks .  . ."

I've hurt him, too, Bria thought.  Why do I always hurt the people I
love the most?

Despair filled her, but she refused to let herself break down.  All she
could do for Han, if she loved him, was to leave him.  Be strong, Bria,
she commanded herself.

Gripping the stylus tightly, Bria wiped away her tears, then forced
herself to finish the most difficult letter she would ever write .  .

.

Han knew something was wrong even before he opened his eyes.  There was
no sound, none at all.  "Bria?"  he called.  Where is she?  Sliding out
of bed, he pulled on his clothes.  "Bria, honey?"

No answer.

Han took a deep breath and told his wildly hammering heart to calm
down.

She probably went out to get some stim-tea and pastry for breakfast, he
told himself.  It was a reasonable guess, under the circumstances--but
something told him that he was wrong.

He sealed the front of his coverall, then picked up his jacket.  Only
then did he notice that Bria's duffel was gone.

With a low moan of anguish, he saw something white protruding from the
pocket of his jacket.  Han pulled it out--and found himself holding a
pouch illed with high-denomination credit vouchers.  And there was
something else, too .  . .

A note.  Written on creased and folded flimsy.  Han shut his eyes,
clutching it.  It was nearly a full minute before he could force
himself to open his eyes, force himself to read:

Dearest Han.

You don't deserve for this to happen, and all I can say is, I'm
sorry.

I love you, but I can't stay...

fifteen

Out of the Fire

She'll come back was Han's first thought, and I've lost her
forever...

was his second.  He stared wildly around the room, feeling as if it
might explode if he didn't DO something.  With a loud curse he hurled
his jacket at the wall, then he yanked the pillows off the bed and
flung them, too.

Not enough--Han wondered frantically if he were going mad.  His head
felt too small to contain his mind, and he was filled with the need to
howl his pain and anguish aloud, like a Wookiee.

"AAAAHHHHHHHHH?  he cried, and grabbing the battered chair that was one
of the room's three pieces of furniture, Han swung it over his head and
sent it crashing full-tilt into the door.  A loud curse from his
next-door neighbor followed.  The chair lay there on the threadbare
floor matting, unbroken.  The door was still intact, too.

Han collapsed onto the bed and just lay there for several minutes, head
buried in his arms.  The pain came and went in waves.  His chest ached,
simply breathing hurt.  His only relief came when he felt numb all
Over.

Somehow, the numbness was the worst of all.

After a long time, it occurred to Han that he had not finished Bria's
letter.  Except for the pile of credit vouchers, it was all he had left
of her, so he dragged himself upright and squinted in the dim light to
read the shaky words on the flimsy:

Dearest Han, You don't deserve for this to happen, and all I can say
is, I'm sorry.  I love you, but I can't stay .  . .

Every day I wonder if I'm going to snap and take the next ship back to
Ylesia.  I'm afraid I'm not strong enough to resist--but I must
resist.

I must face the fact that I am addicted to the Exultation, and that I
must fight this addiction.  I will need all my energy to do this and
win, I'm afraid.  I've been leaning on you for strength, but that's not
good for either of us.  You need all your strength and determination to
pass those tests and make it through the Academy.

Please don't abandon your dream of becoming an officer, Han.  Don't be
afraid to use the money I left.  My father gave it to us freely,
because he likes you and is grateful to you.  Like me, he recognizes
that you saved my life.  Accept his gift, please.  We both want you to
succeed.

I've learned so much from you.  How to love, how to be loyal and
brave.

I've also learned how to find people who will help me change my
identity, so don't bother looking for me.  I'm going away, and I'm
going to beat this addiction.  I'm going to do it if it takes my last
measure of strength and courage.

You've been free all your life, Han.  And strong.  I envy you for
that.

I'm going to be free someday, too.  And strong.

Maybe then, we can meet again.

Try not to hate me too much for what I'm doing.  I don't blame you if
you do, though.  Please know that, now and forever, I love you .  . .

Yours, Bria

Han made himself finish the letter all the way through.  Each word
burned its way into his mind like a laser torch.  When he finished, he
decided to go back and reread it, because he was trying to put off the
moment when he'd have to start feeling and thinking again.  While he
was reading Bria's flimsy, it was as if she were still here.  He could
almost hear her voice.

Han knew that the moment he stopped reading, she would be gone again.

But this time, although he squinted hard, he couldn't make out the
words.

They were too blurred.

"Honey," he whispered to the letter, his throat so raw that he could
barely force the words out, "you shouldn't have done this.  We were a
team, remember?"

Hearing himself use the past tense, Han shuddered, like a man in the
grip of a fever.  He got up and began pacing back and forth, back and

forth.  Moving seemed to be the only thing that could help him bear
this.

Waves of anger and frustration alternated with moments of grief so
profound that he thought it might be easier to go mad.

She lied.  Never loved me.  Rich girl, stuck-up, just having a fling
.

. .

used me to escape, used me till she got bored.  I hate her...

Han groaned aloud, shaking his head.  No I don't.  I love her.  How
could she do this to me?  She said she loved me.  Liar!  Liar?  No . 
.

. she meant it.

Face it, Han, she's been suffering, you know it.  Bria was troubled, in
pain...

Yes, she'd been in pain.  Han remembered all those nights he'd found
her sobbing, and had held her, tried to comfort her.  Baby .  . .
why?

I tried so hard to help.  You shouldn't be alone.  You should have
stayed.  We'd have worked it out...

He was terrified that her addiction might send her running back to
Ylesia.

Han had no illusions about Teroenza's reaction if she did.  The t'landa
Til had no capacity to feel pity or to be merciful.  The High Priest
would order Bria killed if he ever laid eyes on her again.

Han stared dazedly around the squalid little room.  Had it only been
last night that they'd been here, in each other's arms?  Bria had held
him tightly, fiercely.  Now Han realized the reason for her passion.

She'd known she was holding him for the last time .  . .

He shook his head.  How could things change so irrevocably in just a
few hours?

Turn time back; some childish part of his mind said.  Make it be THEN,
not NOW.  I don't like NOW.  I want it to be THEN...

But of course that was stupid.  Han caught his breath, and the sound
was ragged, filled with pain.  Almost a sob.

Suddenly he couldn't stand being here, seeing this dreadful little
room, any longer.  Stuffing his few belongings into his small bag, Han
distributed handfuls of credit vouchers into his inside pockets,
against his skin.  Then he put on his ancient jacket and stuffed the
blaster into the front of it.

He walked out, down the hall, past the sleazy-looking woman at the
desk.

And kept walking .  . .

All day he walked, moving like a droid through the unsavory crowds of
this area, which was one of the "borderline" red-light districts that
intersected with one of the nonhuman enclaves.  He did not eat, could
not face the idea of food.

He was always conscious of the stolen blaster in the front of his
jacket.

With part of his mind, Han rather hoped that someone would try

to rob him.  That would give him an excuse to lash out, to maim or
kill--he wanted to destroy something.  Or someone.

But nobody bothered him.  Perhaps there was some aura he projected,
some body language that warned others to keep "hands off."

His mind kept playing tug-of-war with his heart.  He went over and over
everything they'd ever said and done.  Had he done something wrong?

Was Bria a lovely, troubled, but decent gift fighting a deadly
addiction?  Or was she a spoiled, callous rich kid who'd been playing a
cruel game?  Had she ever really loved him?

At some point Han found himself on a street corner between two massive
stone piles of rubble.  In his hands was Bria's flimsy, and he was
trying to read it by the flickering light of a brothel's sign.  Han
blinked.  Must be raining... His face was wet .  . .

He looked up at the sky, but of course, there was no sky, only a
rooftop, high above.  He held out a hand, palm up.  No rain.

Folding the letter, Han put it away carefully.  He resisted the
momentary urge to shred it, or blast it into cinders.  Something told
him he'd regret it if he did.

Whatever she was, she's GONE, he decided, straightening his
shoulders.

She's not coming back, and I've gotta pull myself together.  First
thing tomorrow, I go looking for Nici the Specialist at The Glow
Spider...

Han realized it was now late at night.  He'd been wandering the streets
for twelve or fifteen hours.  Fortunately, in this district, some
places never slept.  The Corellian realized that he needed both food
and sleep--he was so empty and exhausted that his head spun.

He began walking slowly back the way he'd come, realizing that every
step felt as though he were treading on burning sand.  His soles were
abraded and blistered, and he limped.

The pain in his feet was a welcome distraction.

From now on, it's just me, Han Solo, he thought, stopping and peering
up at the night sky, barely visible at the top of an airshaft.  One
star--or was it a space station?--winked against the blackness.  Han's
mental declaration had the conviction of a sworn oath.  Nobody else.  I
don't care about anybody else.  Nobody gets close, from now on.  I
don't care how pretty she is, how smart, or how sweet.  No friend, no
lover .  . . nobody's worth this kind of pain.  From now on, it's just
me .  . . Solo.  With one part of his mind, he realized the grim irony
of his inadvertent play on words, and he chuckled hollowly.  From now
on, his name was him.  His name had come to stand for what he was, what
was inside him.

Solo.  From now on.  Just me.  The galaxy and everyone in it can go to
blazes.  I'm Solo, now and forever.

The last of the youthful softness had vanished from Han's features,
and there was a new coldness, a new hardness in his eyes.  He walked on
into the night, and his boot heels sounded hard against the
permacrete--as hard and unrelenting as the shell now sheathing his
heart.

A week later Han Solo walked toward the Hall of Admissions of the
Imperial Space Academy.  The building was a huge, topmost-level
structure, massive and quietly, solidly dignified in design.

The light from Coruscant's small white sun made him blink.  It had been
a long time since he'd seen sunlight, and his eyes were still
sensitive, still easily irritated.

Having one's retinal patterns altered was possible, as Han had just
proved, but it hadn't been a pleasant experience.  He'd had the laser
surgery and cell rearrangement, then he'd spent a day in a bacta tank,
healing.  He'd then worn a bacta visor for three more days, lying in a
little back room at Nici's "clinic."

He'd put his forced inaction to good use, though, and had listened to
hours of canned history and literature recordings, boning up for the
examinations he hoped to begin.  Han was under no illusions that the
Academy testing would prove easy for him.  His education had been
spotty, at best.

Nici the Specialist had been worth every credit of his exorbitant
fee.

"Han Solo" now existed in the Imperial database, along with his retinal
patterns, and other identifying marks.  (Most of these scars were
brandnew, carefully placed on his body by Nici's medical droids.  Han
had had most of his old scars erased.) "Han Solo" now had IDs that were
indistinguishable from those possessed by every loyal citizen of the
Empire.  For the first time in more than a decade, he was "clean"--Han
Solo wasn't wanted by anyone for anything.  He no longer had to glance
guiltily behind him or try to grow eyes in the back of his head.  He
didn't have to stay alert for the betraying flash of light of a
suddenly revealed blaster muzzle.  He still tensed at loud noises, but
that was just reflex.

Han Solo was a regular citizen, not a hunted fugitive.

He still had Vykk Draygo's and Jenos Idanian's IDs, buried deep in a
credit case, but he was simply waiting for a good chance to dispose of
them.  Han's face had never appeared on a whirred poster or in a
database, only his original retinal patterns.  And they were gone,
erased.

As he mounted the stone steps to the Hall of Admissions, Han's strides
were sure and confident.  He walked up to the human recruiting

officer sitting behind the desk and smiled politely.  "Hello," he
said.  "My name is Han Solo, and I'd like to apply for admission into
the Imperial Academy.  I've always wanted to be a Naval officer."

The clerk did not smile back, but he was civil.  "May I see your
identification, Mr.  Solo?"

"Certainly," Han said, and laid it on the desk.

"This will take a moment.  Please take a seat."

Han sat, feeling inner tension, but telling himself he had nothing to
be afraid of.  Renn Tharen's credits had seen to that .  . .

Minutes later the clerk handed Han's IDs back to him and offered a
remote smile.  "Everything checks out, Solo.  You can begin the
application and testing process today.  Are you aware that over fifty
percent of the candidates are not accepted?  And that fifty percent of
those accepted never complete their course at the Academy?"

"Yes, sir, I am," Han said.  "But I'm determined to try.  I'm a good
pilot."

"The Emperor needs good pilots," the man said, his smile actually
genuine for a moment.  "Very well, let's get you started .  . ."

The next week was a calculated nightmare.  The first step was a
thorough physical, more detailed than any Han had experienced before.

The medical droids poked and prodded places that made Han long to give
them a swift kick in their circuitry, but he bore it all stoically.

He was very tense during the eye exam, but Nici's droid had been an
expert.  The Imperial medical droid found nothing wrong.

Han passed the physical with flying colors.  His reaction time and
reflexes were in the topmost percentile.

Then came the hard part .  . .

Day after day, a steadily dwindling group of cadet candidates were
ushered into private examination rooms.  Each room came equipped with
an examination droid, who posed the questions to the candidates,
recorded their scores, and kept tabulations of their standing.

Each night Han went back to his tiny little cubicle in yet another
flophouse and fell asleep, exhausted, only to dream all night of taking
exams: "Cadet Candidate Solo, I am going to show you four types of body
armor.

Which of these was used by the Mandalorian forces during the last
century?"

And, "Cadet Candidate Solo, in what year did our glorious Emperor

become President of the Imperial Senate?  What historical event
preceded his election?"

And, "Cadet Candidate Solo, if a Victory-class Star Destroyer leaves
Imperial Center at the displayed time, and carries the mass and weight
of armament, cargo, and troops, as displayed on this screen, which
course and approach vector to the Daedalon system will produce the most
fuel efficiency?  Which course and approach vector will produce the
best speed?

Be prepared to show the figures for your answer."

And, "Cadet Candidate Solo, which battle of the Noolian Crisis brought
about the liberation of the Bothan Sector?  On what date was it
fought?"

Worst of all, as far as Han was concerned, were the "cultural"
questions.

Each cadet was expected to be an officer and a gentleman (or woman),
and a certain amount of cultural acumen was required.  Han sweated his
way through questions such as, "Cadet Candidate Solo, I am going to
play music from three different worlds.  Please identify the planet of
origin of each piece of music."

Ironically, Han was much better at answering the art questions than the
music ones.  His background as a thief and burglar had given him at
least a passing acquaintance with Art History and modern Galactic
Art.

When, after three days of relentless examinations, Han found himself
still listed among the CANDIDATES on the vid-board in the giant Hall of
Admissions, he was both surprised and ecstatic.

The piloting tests covered the last two days of the week-long testing
period.  During this portion, Han's experience stood him in good
stead.

The candidates were taken off-world in large transports and shipped to
nearby Imperial bases.  Only one section of the advanced-placement
testing was conducted on Coruscant itself.

Every day, the candidates practiced piloting in a variety of different
situations.  Han did well, and knew he'd passed each test.  Only one
offnote was struck---one of Han's testing officers (human instructors
were used during this portion) commented sourly to the other
instructors that he felt that Han's "fastest time for assigned run"
score should be stricken because it was highly irregular for a cadet
candidate to fly a shuttle through Emperor Palpatine's Arch of Triumph
on Imperial Center, rather than above it.

"He frightened several thousand Imperial citizens!  We received
hundreds of complaints?  the officer sputtered.

The head testing officer shrugged.  "Nobody was injured, right?"

"Correct, sir."

"Then Cadet Candidate Solo's score stands.  Those citizens could use

a little excitement from time to time.  Good for their circulation,"
the head testing officer decided.

Han was careful not to let on that he'd overheard the exchange.  The
Corellian knew that while he'd done well on the piloting examinations,
he'd passed several of the other subjects by the barest skin of his
teeth.

Several times a "minus" sign appeared beside his name, indicating that
he would be slated for remedial studies in that area, should he pass
and be accepted into the Academy.

Not surprisingly, "Music" was among those areas, as was "Ancient
Pre-Republic History," "Interspatial Quantum Physics," and "Nonlinear
Hyperspace Geometry."

Han studied every night and fell asleep to the sounds of "cram
recordings" droning reams of information as he slumbered.  Actually,
Han didn't really mind dreaming endlessly about the examinations each
night.

It beat dreaming of Bria.

Finally, the day came when he stood before the vid-board and looked for
his name on the list of DISQUALIFIED CANDIDATES--and failed to find
it.

Heart pounding, scarcely daring to hope, he went over to look at the
other list across the Hall, the one labeled cadets--Han Solo.

There it was, in glowing letters.  Han stared at it, unable to think,
hardly daring to believe it.

But there it was.  He hung around the Hall for an hour, and went back
three different times, and it was there every time.  Finally, after the
third time, Han allowed himself to whisper, "Yes!"  and pump his fist
into the air in triumph.

He walked down the steps and out into the massive top-level plaza,
feeling the cold evening air of Coruscant, like a dash of cold,
refreshing water.

This calls for a celebration, he thought exultantly.

Han treated himself to dinner at one of the posh upper-level
restaurants, not too far from the Hall of Admissions.  He ordered nerf
medallions in tangy redor sauce, with a side order of fried tubers, and
a salad of assorted greens.  He also ordered an Alderaanian ale, which
he sipped slowly, savoring it.

Once, during dinner, he glanced around at the beautiful decor, taking
in the swanky metal and living ice sculpture, the muted jizz trio, and
the human servers.  Several high-ranking Imperial officers were there,
escorting attractive women in beautiful evening gowns.  Han raised his
glass

unobtrusively into the air and whispered, "Bria, I made it.  I sure
wish you were here to share this with me, sweetheart .  . ."

After paying the exorbitant price for the meal without a single regret,
Han walked out of the restaurant and strolled across the broad, elegant
plaza.  The weather deflector mounted high above the plaza kept off
most of the wind, so he was almost warm enough as he walked.  He sealed
up his old jacket against the chill.

All around him, and above him, Han could see the topmost spires and
roofs of the highest buildings.  This plaza was located right below the
highest level in this part of Coruscant.  Long, corkscrewed ramps led
up to the upper level, in addition to the ubiquitous turbolifts.

Once out of the brightest glare of the lights, Han leaned against a
railing and tried to see the stars.  He picked out one or two of the
brightest, but the horizon completely overshadowed the heavens.  Red
and green auroras shimmered and flickered, seemingly painted against
the blackness by some mad, gargantuan artist.  It was a breathtaking
view.  I made it!

Han smiled .  . .

And then froze, as something hard and small and round jabbed into the
small of his back.  The muzzle of a blaster.  A voice Han recognized,
even though it had been nearly five months since he'd heard it, said
jovially, "Hey, Han.  Good to see you again, boy.  I have to admit, you
weren't easy to find."

This can't be happening, Han thought.  Not now!  It's not fair!"

The genial tones held a chuckle, now.  "Han, why don't you turn around
real slow and easy, and let's talk face-to-face."

Han turned, very slowly, and as he had known he would, found himself
face-to-face with Garris Shrike.  The captain of Trader's Luck had
replaced his gaudy uniform with his old bounty hunter's garb of scarred
leather vest, trousers, and snug-fitting Alderaanian nerf-wool tunic,
but otherwise he looked exactly the same as he had the night Han had
left him sprawled unconscious on the deckplates.

No .  . . Han thought, there's something different...

After a moment he realized that he was looking slightly down at
Shrike.

It's me that's different.  I've grown a little.  I'm taller...

Shrike scrutinized him.  "Well .  . . ain't you handsome, boy," he
said.

"Too bad you can't come back with me to the Luck and let some of the
ladies get a look at you.  You'd be a real favorite, I'm sure."

Han finally found his voice.  "What do you want, Garris?"  he demanded
coldly.

"Oh, so it's 'Garris' now, is it?  Think you're my equal, do you?"

The

man backhanded Han viciously across the face.  When Han started to
react, the blaster dug threateningly into his midsection.  Silently the
younger man wiped blood from a split lower lip.  "Well, you're not my
equal, and don't you forget it.  All you are to me is a pile of credits
from the Hutts for bringing 'Vykk Draygo' back to them alive."

"The Hutts are looking for me?"  Han asked, stalling for time.

"They're looking for Vykk Draygo, and Jenos Idanian, and all the rest
of your aliases, boy.  But you're 'Han Solo,' now, aren't you?  And I'm
the only one in the whole galaxy, practically, who knew that Han Solo
was also Vykk Draygo and all those others.  So when I saw the Hutt
advert, I decided to come out of retirement just for you.  Too many
credits to pass up."

"I see," Han said.

Shrike rocked his head back with another hard slap.  "No, you don't
see, Han.  You don't see that things ain't been going good for the Luck
lately.

You don't see that Larrad's never been the same since your Wookiee hag
dislocated his arm.  Those credits from the Hutts are gonna turn things
around for all of us."

"Really?"  Han asked.  "I don't see how just capturing me is going to
change your luck.  You'd do better to pull some kind of scam on
Gamorr.

And I'm afraid .  . . Garris .  . . that I can't go along with this
little scheme of yours .  . ."  As he spoke, Han had begun lowering his
voice, little by little, speaking more and more softly.  Unconsciously,
Shrike leaned forward slightly to hear--just as Han, with a wild
scream, leaped straight at him.  One arm swept up in a block, sweeping
Shrike's arm, and almost at the same moment, Han brought his knee up
into the man's groin.  As Shrike doubled over with a grunt, Han punched
him in the jaw, hard.  The captain went down.

The blaster dropped out of Garris's hand, and Shrike grabbed for it.

Han kicked it away, sending it skittering into the black, sharp-edged
shadows.

Then he leaped over Shrike's crouched form and bolted for the ramp
leading up to the tallest roof.  From there he could hide and catch a
horizontal tube or a turbolift.

Han couldn't believe he'd actually managed to down Shrike in a fight.

While he'd been growing up, he'd lived in terror of the captain's
temper and his hard fists.

Han reached the ramp and went up the corkscrew with the rush of a ship
using full thrusters.  He reached the top of the ramp and hesitated,
looking around.  The rooftop looked otherworldly with its double-edged
shadows from Coruscant's two small moons, edging everything into
aching, sparkling white and bands of gray that plunged into
impenetrable darkness.

As Han headed out across the rooftop, still scanning for a turbolift, a
blue bolt shot out of the darkness at his right.  The shot had come
from the doorway of a turbolift.  Blaster on stun!  Han thought,
running again, zigzagging frantically.  Shrike?  How could he have got
up here so fast?

Another stun beam.

Han bolted across the rooftop like a vrelt running before a blaster
ray, running as he'd never run before in his life.  He passed another
turbolift entrance, pulled up, and headed toward it.  As he reached it,
the door opened, and Shrike stood there, silhouetted in the doorway,
blaster in hand.

Han skidded to a halt on the icy permacrete and reversed direction.

Shrike here?  Who fired those other shots, then?

But he was too busy racing across the rooftop to give the question much
consideration.

Shrike's blaster spat, blue-green in the shadows.  The uppermost level
was mostly reserved for courting couples and was not well lit.  Only
the light of Coruscant's two small moons illumined the area.

Han's breath was visible in the darkness as he raced across the
permacrete, leaping over curbs and exposed conduits.  The uppermost
spires of several buildings stuck up from the permacrete like grotesque
stone evergreens.  Han hurdled one and skidded on hoarfrost as he
landed.  It was cold up here, away from the protection of the weather
deflector.  His leather jacket offered little protection.

"Stop or I'll fry your ass!"  Shrike yelled, and another stun beam
split the night.

Han lengthened his strides, fleeing like a hunted animal, desperate to
escape.  Daring to look back over his shoulder, he saw Shrike's dark
form light up faintly in the reflected glow from another stun beam.

Turning forward again, Han ran faster, harder--only to come to a
screeching halt and stand teetering on the edge where the permacrete
dead-ended!

Arms windmilling, Han threw himself backward.  He had a brief glimpse
of the gorgeously lit plaza, ten or more stories below him, including
the elegant restaurant where he'd eaten dinner.  Through the shimmer of
the weather deflectors, he could see the elegant statues, the exotic
flowers and greenery .  . .

Dinner seemed a lifetime ago.

Han turned right, skidding a little, and headed the other way.

Another stun beam lashed at him.  His breath burned his chest as he
gasped in the freezing air.

He hurdled another spire, felt it brush the inside of his trouser leg,
but made it and ran on, dodging into a patch of shadow to escape
another stun bolt.

The shadow suddenly gave way to complete and utter emptiness as an
airshaft dropped away into nothingness!

Han was going too fast to stop.  With a yell of terror, he leaped as
hard as he could-and managed to clear the yawning gap.  He landed
heavily on the other side, fell, and rolled over, gasping, wind knocked
out, trying to get to his feet again.  He skidded on the icy
permacrete, flailing, just as a stun beam splatted right beside him.

Han's entire right side went numb.

The Corellian crashed back to the permacrete with an agonized grunt.

Letting himself go limp, he waited, hoping that he'd regain the use of
his right side in time.  Depending on the intensity level Shrike was
using, it might take two minutes .  . . or ten.

Breathing was torture, but Han gulped down every lungful, ignoring the
pain.  He needed to get his wind back, in case feeling returned to his
right side.

Footsteps approached from his left.  Shrike, going around the airshaft
Han had hurdled.  Han lay still.  Only the white plume of his breath
revealed that he still lived.

The footsteps paused beside him, circled him.  Han could see Shrike's
form dimly, through his eyelashes.  Then a boot kicked him viciously in
his right leg.  Han gasped with the pain.  "You low-life scum," Shrike
spat.

.... For two credits I'd dump your worthless hide off the edge for what
you did."

The fact that Han could feel pain in the place where Shrike's heavy
boot had struck him was good.  The stun paralysis was wearing off.  But
Han did not move, only lay limp as Shrike grabbed him by the collar of
his jacket and dragged him over the permacrete, bumping and slithering,
toward the nearest turbolift.

The trader captain was cursing steadily and, Han realized with a flare
of satisfaction, walking with a distinct limp.  The Corellian made
himself the heaviest, deadest weight he could as he bumped along over
the rooftop, feeling the icy scrape of the permacrete.  His right hand
tingled as it dragged, and that was good, too.

When Shrike reached the turbolift, he let go of Han's collar.  It was
hard to just let himself fall, but Han managed to make it look good,
without banging his head too hard.  Shrike's glittery-eyed
countenance, a bruise darkening his jaw, appeared in his field of
vision.  "Now we're going down in this lift, and you're going to behave
yourself, you little vrelt.

We're going to be real chummy, you and me.  I'm going to say you're my
buddy who had too much to drink."

Han could hear the turbolift coming.  He flexed the muscles of his
right leg, his right arm.  They responded, if sluggishly.  He didn't
have much time .  . .

"So tell me, Han, did you make it into the Imperial Academy?"  Shrike
asked, just as though Han could speak.  "Is that why you were out
treating yourself good tonight, eh?"

He laughed.  "The Imps must be real hard up if they'd take a loser like
you."  He spat, and warm spittle hit Han's face, just above his right
eye.

Han was careful not to react.  The turbolift was very close.  When
those doors opened, Shrike would be distracted for a few precious
seconds, and then .  . . then he would make his move.

Imperceptibly, Han flexed his right fingers, and they answered the
command of his brain.  Shrike was still ranting.  "Those Imperials . 
.

can't shoot straight, can't pilot, and can't fight worth a hoot.  It's
a wonder old Palpatine can get himself out of bed in the morning.  All
a bunch of losers .  . ."

The turbolift doors opened.  Shrike looked up, just as Han lunged up
off the permacrete.

The element of surprise served him for a moment.  Han managed to knock
the blaster out of Shrike's hand again, but then Garris was on him.

Iron-hard hands clamped around the younger man's throat.  Han's eyes
bulged as he hooked a leg behind Shrike's and sent the man over
backward.  Shrike didn't release his grip, so Han went down with him,
and they landed in a kicking, punching sprawl.

Han slammed a fist into Shrike's midsection, heard the man grunt in
pain.

The fingers around his throat loosened for a second--then Shrike
released his grip and tried to gouge Han's eye.

His right eye.  The viciously gouging thumb skidded in Shrike's own
saliva, and Han turned his head and snapped like an animal.  His teeth
closed on Shrike's thumb, clamped down.  Shrike screamed as Han tore
his flesh.  The Corellian tasted blood.

Han took advantage of the man's momentary distraction to bring his knee
up into Shrike's midsection.  The older man's breath whooshed out in a
stinking rush of white, into the cold night air.

Han heaved upward, throwing Shrike off him.  The man lost his grip

and went sprawling backward.  Han scrambled for where he'd heard the
blaster land--and his fingers found it.

Shrike was already up and heading purposefully for the younger man,
when Han came up onto his knees, the blaster pointed directly at him.

Han ostentatiously thumbed the intensity level up to its highest
setting.

"Your turn to freeze, Shrike," he said.  Speaking brought on a spasm of
coughing and searing pain in Han's abused throat, but he managed to get
Shrike in his sights.

Shrike laughed, and slowed, but didn't stop.  He was perhaps six meters
away.  "Now, Han, son," he said coaxingly, "old Captain Shrike was just
having a little fun with you, is all.  I wasn't going to turn you over
to those Hutts, no indeed.  Did you know you killed one of them, boy?

Hutts don't like that, no they don't.  They're never going to stop
searching for old 'Vykk Draygo,' you know?"

"Stop right there," Han said, and was terrified to hear the quaver in
his own voice.  He'd never shot anyone down in cold blood before.

Especially someone he knew.  Could he do it?

Shrike grinned as if he could read Han's mind.  "C'mon, Han.  You know
you ain't going to shoot me.  You can't.  I'm like your daddy,
almost."

Han shook his head and replied with a Huttese obscenity so blistering
that Shrike raised his eyebrows.  "Oh, my, you've developed such a
dirty mouth while you were gone, ain't you, kid?"

He was still moving.  Only about four meters separated them now.  Han
tightened his grip on the blaster, but he was horrified to realize the
muzzle was wavering.

"Let's go down below and talk about this, Han," Shrike said, his voice
low and soothing.  "I won't hurt you, you've got my word on it."

"Your word?"  Han laughed, then coughed.  "That's a laugh.  Your word
isn't worth spit."

"Sure, my word.  Besides .  . . if you shoot me, boy, you'll never find
out about your parents.  Who they were .  . . why you wound up being
dumped into those alleys where I found you."

Han stared at Shrike.  "You know who they were?  You know why I was
abandoned?"  He swallowed, and it was searing pain.  "Tell me, and I
may let you live."

Shrike was almost within grabbing distance of the blaster now.  Only a
meter or so away.  Han knew he should shoot him, knew Shrike couldn't
be trusted--but still he hesitated.  "Tell me, Shrike?"

"I'll tell you everything when you give me the blaster," Shrike said.

"Everything.  You have my word."

Shoot him!  Now!  Han's mind screamed.

With a wash of red light, a blaster bolt struck Garris Shrike directly
in the chest.  The captain threw up his hands, a look of terror and
pain contorting his features.  He fell backward like a stone, dead
before he hit the permacrete.

Han stared wildly at his hand.  His finger was on the trigger of the
blaster, but he hadn't moved it .  . . had he?

The shot, he realized, a second later, had come from behind him.  Han
whirled, still on his knees, to find himself facing another man.  He
was human, young, medium tall, slender build.  Darkish hair frosted by
moonlight.  He held a drawn blaster, and every line of him screamed
"bounty hunter."

"Okay, kid, it's over," he said, removing a pair of wrist-binders from
his belt.  "Stand up.  You're coming with me."

Those first two shots!  Han thought.  It must have been him.  He
followed me up here, and just waited for Shrike to take me down, so he
could step in and get me.

As if he'd sensed what Han was thinking, the bounty hunter added, "I
knew old Shrike would find you.  The Hutts don't have a picture of you,
so I followed Shrike, 'cause he practically raised you, didn't he,
Vykk?  I knew he'd pick you out for me."

No--Han's mind screamed.  Not now!  Not again!"

He was still stiff from the paralysis, exhausted and hurt from the
fight with Shrike.  Every muscle screamed with pain and weariness.

The bounty hunter gestured with the blaster.  "Drop your blaster, kid,
or I'll stun you right in the head and scramble your brains good.  The
Hutts want you alive, but they didn't say nothing about in your right
mind.  Drop it."

Shaking, Han dropped the blaster from his nerveless fingers.  With a
grunt of effort, he tried to get up, but his right leg buckled beneath
him.

"My leg .  . ."  he mumbled.  "Right leg won't take my weight .  . .

Shrike kicked me."

"Yeah, I saw him.  Not very professional of him, but old Shrike always
was hot-tempered," the bounty hunter said.  Moving forward, he added,
"Now I'm going to give you a hand up.  Don't try--" With a demented
howl, Han hurled himself headfirst into the bounty hunter's
midsection.

This man was younger than Shrike, stronger and faster.  But Han was
fighting like a madman, with the strength borne of utter desperation.

He had nothing to lose, and he knew it.

The bounty hunter went over backward with a yell of surprise.  Han
threw himself after him, pummeling the man.  Recovering himself, the

bounty hunter slammed Han across the temple with the muzzle of his
blaster.

Blood spurted, ran into Han's left eye, but the Corellian didn't let it
slow him down.  He clawed his way up the other's body as though it were
a jungle vine and head-butted the bounty hunter, slamming his forehead
into the man's nose.  Han heard and felt cartilage break against the
bone of his skull.  The man's shrill scream rang through the night.

Cursing, the bounty hunter grappled with Han, slamming him on the back
and in the kidneys with the blaster.  Han grabbed his arm and slammed
his hand against the permacrete, wham... WHAM!  The blaster dropped
from the man's fingers.  Han butted the bounty hunter in the face
again, ignoring the splitting of his own skin.

"You're NOT taking me!"  the Corellian yelled, slamming his head into
the man's face repeatedly.  With a yell of terror, the bounty hunter
heaved upward with all his strength and sent Han flying.

The Corellian hit, tried to roll, and slammed up against the structure
that housed the turbolift.  The bounty hunter, his face a gory mask
from his broken nose and split lips, rushed for Han, murder in his
eyes.

Han waited until the last possible second, then dodged.  As the man
went by, Han slammed his full weight into the other's shoulder.

The bounty hunter's head impacted with the stone structure with a crack
that seemed to echo throughout the icy night.

The man jerked, went limp, then slid down the wall, to lie motionless
on the permacrete.

Weaving, biting his lip, and swallowing bile, Han lurched to his feet
and stumbled over to the man.  Two fingers against his throat assured
the Corellian that the bounty hunter was now as dead as Garris Shrike,
who was lying sprawled a few meters away, staring up at the twin moons
with blank, sightless eyes.

Han slid down the wall in his own turn and just sat there, his head
whirling, sick and exhausted.  He began to shake all over, and the bout
lasted for nearly a minute.

Gotta get hold of myself, he thought dully.  Gotta think.  Think...

Climbing back to his feet, Han staggered over to the bounty hunter
again and stood eyeing him.  The man was about his own size, and he,
too, had brown hair.

Darker than Han's own, but that might not be noticed .  . .

Han's breath puffed white as he yanked on the man's boots, pulling them
off.  Slowly, methodically, he set about stripping the bounty hunter.

Five minutes later, Han stood swaying, dressed now in the bounty
hunter's clothing.  Grimly, he began putting his own clothes onto the

corpse .  . . his worn gray pilot's jumpsuit, his battered lizard-skin
jacket, his boots.  He replaced the bounty hunter's blaster in his
holster.

Lastly, he took a handful of credits, and all of his faked IDs, and
placed them in the man's inside pocket, sealing the pocket shut.  Then
he sealed the jacket closed, too.

Stumbling and limping, Han went looking for Shrike's blaster.  He found
it, finally, and went back to the body.  Wincing, he adjusted it to its
highest setting, aimed the weapon, then, turning his head to the side,
he fired directly into the corpse's face.  When he forced himself to
look, the dead man no longer had a face--or eyes.

Or retinas.

Han staggered away a few feet and was thoroughly, wretchedly, sick.

The thought of what that meal had cost him made him even sicker .  .

.

With a groan of effort, he grabbed the body beneath the arms and
dragged the bounty hunter across the icy permacrete, just as Shrike had
dragged him.  He went backward slowly, carefully, until he was once
again beside that deep, deep airshaft that he'd jumped.

Han peered down, then looked away quickly, fighting dizziness.  The
shaft went down a long, long way.

He rolled the body to the edge, then, with a hard push of both hands,
sent the bounty hunter over the edge, tumbling out into empty air.

Han didn't watch the body fall.  With dragging, limping steps, he
lurched back to Shrike's body and placed the captain's blaster in the
dead fingers.  Then he pressed the button to summon the turbolift.

When the doors opened, he nearly fell into the lighted interior.

The turbolift started down, and Han stood swaying, bracing himself with
both hands.  He had to work at not passing out.

It had been a long night .  . .

Sixteen

Rebirth

Han Solo stood alone amid the teeming mass of cadets gathered at the
ooftop landing field on Coruscant.  The tight collar of his new uniform
chafed his neck, but he resisted the urge to tug at it.  Doing so might
wrinkle it, and Han wanted to look his best.

All around him, cadets were being hugged and kissed farewell by their
families.  Only a few cadets were alone, as he was.  Han scanned the
crowd and noticed a dark-skinned boy a few meters away, who didn't seem
to have anybody.  And there was a young woman with military-short hair
standing across the landing field who was also alone.

But most of the cadets had fathers, and mothers, brothers and sisters
and grandparents, uncles and aunts and cousins, who'd come to see them
off in their hour of triumph.  Han felt a wave of loneliness.  He was
older than the other cadets, and that, too, set him apart.

But hey... I'm here.  I made it.

The transport Imperator lay waiting for them on the landing field.

Soon, the cadets would be boarding it for their trip to Carida, the
Imperial military training world.  Han smiled a little as he studied
its lines, its oversized dorsal fin.  A Corellian corvette.  How
fitting .  . .

He gazed at the crowd again, searchingly, and suddenly realized that
he'd been hoping to see a certain red-gold head among the
wellwishers.

Dumb, Solo.  Really dumb.  You didn't really expect her to show up, did
you?  She's long gone!

No, Han decided, he really hadn't expected Bria to show up.  But
maybe, deep down, he'd hoped she would .  . .

He sighed.  Dewlanna had used to quote an old Wookiee proverb at him,
something that translated into Basic as, roughly: "Joy unmixed with
sorrow is suspect."

Dewlanna .  . .

If only she could see him now.  Han imagined her, her tall, shaggy
form, her snubbed black nose, her little, twinkling eyes nearly hidden
beneath tufts of graying tan Wookiee hair.  She would be very proud
today, he knew that.  For a moment she was so real that he could almost
imagine her, could almost hear her growls and moans as she told him how
proud he'd made her.

She'd ruffle up his hair so he'd look attractively "scruffy."

Han smiled faintly at the idea.  I made it, Dewlanna, he told her image
silently.  Look at me.  You're my family, my only family, so it's right
that you be here today, even if you're only in my memory .  . .

And Bria .  . .

Face it, Solo, you still care.  You still watch for her, and listen for
the sound of her step, her voice.  You need to get over this, man . 
.

.

Han shook his head, as though he could dismiss Bria's image as easily
as he'd summoned Dewlanna's.  But he was taking Bria aboard the
Imperator, as surely as if she were here, walking beside him.  No
matter how he tried, he couldn't forget her.

Another of Dewlanna's old Wookiee proverbs surfaced in his mind: "To
have a good memory is to be both blessed and cursed .  . ."

How right you are, Dewlanna, Han thought.

He shifted his weight, and stabbing pain in his right leg reminded him
of the fight the night before last.  Han blew out his breath.  He's
dead, Dewlanna, he thought.  Your killer is dead.  You can rest easier,
knowing that, I'll bet...

An Imperial officer was making his way through the crowd, now.  As he
passed Han, the Lieutenant paused and looked at him sharply.  "Your
name, Cadet?"

Han snapped to attention.  "Cadet Han Solo, sir!"

"You forget how to salute, Cadet Solo?"

"No, sir!"  Han said, and gave the man his best salute.

The officer gazed at Han's face.  "Cadet Solo, what happened to your
face?"

For a moment Han was tempted to say he walked into a door, but he
decided that the truth was probably the best answer.  "Sir, I got in a
fight."

"Really?  I could never have told," the lieutenant said, a tinge of
sarcasm in his voice.  "What was the fight about, Cadet Solo?"

Han thought fast.  "My opponent insulted the Imperial Navy, sir."

After all, it was true.

The lieutenant raised an eyebrow.  "Really, Cadet?  That was most · .

.

unwise .  . . of him.  Did you give him a good thrashing for his
disrespect, Cadet Solo?"

Han remembered just in time not to nod.  "I did, sir.  I assure the
lieutenant that he will never say anything insulting about the Imperial
forces again, sir."

"Very good, Cadet Solo."  The lieutenant smiled faintly and walked on,
to the head of the group.

Han breathed a long, slow sigh of relief.  Made it through that one!

An amplified voice echoed across the landing fields.  A noncommissioned
officer was standing beside the lieutenant, giving orders.  "Imperial
cadets!  Assemble in ranks!"

There was general confusion for a second, then the lines of cadets
formed into ranks.  "We will board the transport ship in rows.  No
talking, and pick up your feet."

Silence fell.  Han was in Row 4. He stood as straight as he could,
looking neither left nor right, waiting for his orders to move.  From
somewhere, the martial theme of the Imperial Navy began playing in the
background· "Row one!  March!"  "Row two!  March!"  "Row three!

March!"

Excitement coursed through Han, singing in his blood.  This is it.

What I've waited for all my life .  . .

"Row four!  March!"  bawled the noncom.

Han right-faced smartly and followed the man ahead of him toward the
Imperator.  As he marched, he allowed himself a faint smile.

Today it begins, he thought.  My real life begins.

He imagined Dewlanna's and Bria's faces.  They were smiling, too.  His
feet were on the ramp.  Han took a deep breath, the kind of breath that
a newborn might draw in order to give its first cry, its first shout
of, I'm here!  Listen to me, I'm ALIVE!

Han Solo felt new, as though he'd just been born.  The dark past
tumbled off his shoulders, and only the bright future lay ahead.

He marched forward into it eagerly, and did not look back.

THE HUTT GAMBIT This book is dedicated to my good friend and fellow
writer, Kevin J.

Anderson, with thanks for all the help and encouragement.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As I noted in my previous Star Wars novel, The Paradise Snare, being
invited to write in the Star Wars universe is rather like being adopted
into a big family.  Writers and fans share information, anecdotes, and
stories of how much fun they've had in the Star Wars universe over the
years.

I feel privileged to be the first writer to produce a book using the
expanded information and visuals provided by the new special editions
of Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back; and Return of the Jedi.  It was
very helpful seeing the newly restored films with their added
footage--especially the scene where Jabba moves under his own steam.

With the caveat that all mistakes herein are my own, I'd like to thank
the following people for their help:

First and foremost, my friend Steve Osmanski, who helped me with
military, strategic, and technical information throughout, patiently
answering my hundreds of questions, reviewing the battle scenes
numerous times.

My friend Mary Frey, Steve's wife, for allowing me to "borrow" her
husband for hours on end as we planned battles and went over
strategies.

Tim O'Brien, expert on every aspect of the Imperial military, who
answered questions and gave patient advice.

(Steve and Tim O'Brien designed the battle plan for the Battle of Nar
Shaddaa, and I am forever indebted to both of them for their expertise
in Star Wars battlegaming.)

Bill, Peter, and Paul, of West End Games, who answered my endless
questions about the Star Wars universe and its denizens.

Michael Capobianco, closet Star Wars fan, who used his experience as
SFWA President to help me plot all the Hutt intrigues.  Michael also
kept my antique computers functioning.

Pat LoBrutto and Tom Dupree, my editors on this book.  Thank you,
gentlemen, for all the help, and for being patient and understanding.

Thanks also to Evelyn Cainto, who keeps things running smoothly in the
Bantam Star Wars department.

Nancy Wiesenfeld, top-notch copy editor.

Sue Rostoni of Lucasfilm for her painstaking review of the book.

My fellow Star Wars authors, who provided help, advice, and generously
"lent" their characters so I could use them in this book: Vonda M.

McIntyre, Michael A. Stackpole, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and Kevin J.

Anderson.

You, the Star Wars fans, for taking such an interest in this project
from the very beginning.

And, as always, George Lucas, for starting it all, twenty years ago.

May the Force be with you!

one

New Friends, Old Enemies

Han Solo, former Imperial officer, sat despondently at a sticky table
in a dingy bar on Devaron, sipping an inferior Alderaanian ale and
wishing he were alone.  Not that he minded the other denizens of the
bar--horned Devish males and furry Devish females, plus a smattering of
nonhumans from other worlds.  Han was used to aliens; he'd grown up
with them aboard Trader's Luck; a large trading ship that wandered the
spacelanes of the galaxy.  By the time he was ten, Han had been able to
speak and understand half a dozen nonhuman languages.

No, it wasn't the aliens around him.  It was the alien beside him.  Han
took a swig of his ale, grimaced at the sour taste, then glanced
sidelong at the cause of all his troubles.  The huge, hairy being gazed
back at him with concerned blue eyes.  Han sighed heavily.  If only
he'd go home--But the Wookiee--Chew-something--utterly refused to go
home to Kashyyyk, despite Han's repeated urging.  The alien claimed he
owed something called a "life debt" to former Imperial Lieutenant Han
Solo.

Life debt.., great.  Just what I need, Han thought bitterly.  A big
furry nursemaid trailing after me, giving me advice, fussing over me if
I drink too much, telling me he's gonna take care of me.  Great.  Just
great.

Han scowled into his ale, and the pale, watery brew reflected his
countenance back at him, distorting his features until he appeared
nearly as alien as the Wookiee.  What was his name?  Chew-something.

The Wookiee had told him, but Han wasn't good at pronouncing Wookiee,
even though he understood it perfectly.

Besides, he didn't want to learn this particular Wookiee's name.  If
he learned his name, he'd likely never get rid of his hairy shadow.

Han rubbed a hand over his face blearily, feeling several days'
stubble.

Ever since he'd been kicked out of the service, he kept forgetting to
shave.  When he'd been a cadet, then a junior lieutenant, then a full
lieutenant, he'd been meticulous with his grooming, the way an officer
and a gentleman should be .  . but now .  . . what difference did it
make?

Han raised his glass in a slightly unsteady hand and gulped the sour
ale.

He put the empty tankard down, and glanced around the bar for the
server.

Need another drink.  One more, and I'll feel much better.  Just one
more .  .

The Wookiee moaned quietly.  Han's scowl deepened.  "Keep your opinions
to yourself, hairball," he snarled.  "I'll know when I've had enough.

Th' las' thing I need is a Wookiee playin' nursemaid for me."

The Wookiee--Chewbacca, that was it--growled softly, his blue eyes
shadowed with concern.  Han's lip curled.  "I'm perfectly capable of
lookin' after myself, and don't you forget it.  Just 'cause I saved
your furry butt from being vaporized doesn't mean you owe me a thing.

I tol' you be-fore--I owed a Wookiee, long ago.  Owed her my life,
coupla times over.  So I saved you, 'cause I owed her."

Chewbacca made a sound halfway between a moan and a snarl.  Han shook
his head.  "No, that means you don't owe me a thing, don't you get
it?

I owed her, but I couldn't repay her.  So I helped you out, which makes
us even .

. . square.  So will you please take those credits I gave you, and go
back to Kashyyyk?  You ain't doin' me any favors staying here,
hairball.  I need you like I need a blaster burn on my butt."

Affronted, Chewbacca drew himself up to his full Wookiee height.  He
growled low in his throat.

"Yeah, I know I tossed away my career and my livin' that day on
Coruscant when I stopped Commander Nyklas from shootin' you.  I hate
slavery, and watchin' Nyklas use a force whip ain't a particularly
appetizing sight.  I know Wookiees, you see.  When I was growin' up, a
Wookiee was my best friend.  I knew you were gonna turn on Nyklas
before you did it--just like I knew Nyklas would go for his blaster.  I
couldn't just stand there and watch him blast you.  But don't go tryin'
to make me out as some kinda hero, Chewie.  I don't need a partner, and
I don't want a friend.  My name says it all, pal.  Solo."

Han jerked a thumb at his chest.  "Solo.  In my language, that means
me, alone, by myself.  Get it?  That's the way it is, and that's the
way I like

it.  So .  . . no offense, Chewie, but why don't you just scram.  As
in, go away.  Permanently."

Chewie stared at Han for a long moment, then he snorted disdainfully,
turned, and strode out of the bar.

Han wondered disinterestedly if he'd actually managed to convince the
big hairy oaf to leave for good.  If he had, that was reason for
celebration.

For another drink .  . .

As he glanced around the bar, he saw that over in the corner several
patrons were gathering around a table.  A sabacc game was forming.  Han
wondered whether he ought to try to get in on it.  Mentally he reviewed
the contents of his credit pouch, and decided that might not be a bad
idea.  He usually had very good luck at sabacc, and every credit
counted, these days.

These days .  . .

Han sighed.  How long had it been since that fateful day when he'd been
sent to assist Commander Nyklas with the crew of Wookiee laborers
assigned to complete a new wing on the Imperial Hall of Heroes?  He
counted, grimacing as he realized that he'd lost days on end in there
.

. . days probably spent in a dark haze of ale and bitter recrimination.
 In two days it would be two months.

Han's mouth tightened and he ran an unsteady hand through his unruly
brown hair.  For the past five years he'd kept it cut short in approved
military fashion, but now it was growing out, getting almost shaggy.

He had a sudden, sharp mental image of himself as he'd been
then--immaculately groomed, insignia polished, boots shining--and
glanced down at himself.

What a contrast between then and now.  He was wearing a stained,
grayish shirt that had once been white, a stained, gray neo-leather
jacket he'd purchased secondhand, and dark blue military-style trousers
with his Corellian bloodstripe running down the outside seam.  Only the
boots were the same.  They were custom-fitted when each cadet was
commissioned, so the Empire hadn't wanted them back.  Han had been
commissioned just a little over eight months ago, and no junior
lieutenant had ever been prouder of his rank--or of those shining
boots.

The boots were scuffed now, and worn.  Han's lip curled as he regarded
them.

Scuffed and worn by life, all the spit and polish gone .  that about
described him these days, too.

In a moment of painful honesty, Han admitted that he probably wouldn't
have been able to stay in the Imperial Navy even if he hadn't gotten
himself cashiered for rescuing and freeing Chewbacca.  He'd started his
career with high hopes, but disillusionment had quickly set in.

The prejudice against nonhumans had been hard to take for someone
raised the way Han had been, but he'd bitten his tongue and remained
silent.  But the endless, silly bureaucratic regs, the blind stupidity
of so many of the officers--Han had already begun to wonder how long
he'd be able to take it.

But he'd never figured on a dishonorable discharge, loss of pension and
back pay, and--worst of all--being blacklisted as a pilot.  They hadn't
taken his license, but Han had quickly discovered that no legitimate
company would hire him.  He'd tramped the permacrete of Coruscant for
weeks, in between alcoholic binges, looking for work--and found all
respectable doors closed to him.

Then, one night, as he'd tavern-hopped in a section of the planetwide
city near the alien ghetto, a huge, furred shadow had flowed out of the
deeper shadows of an alley and confronted Han.

For long moments Han's ale-fogged brain hadn't even recognized the
Wookiee as the one he'd saved.  It was only when Chewbacca began
speaking, thanking Han for saving his life and freeing him from
slavery, that Han had realized who he was.  Chewie had been quite
direct--his people didn't mince words.  He, Chewbacca, had sworn a life
debt to Han Solo.  Where Han went, from that day forward, he would go,
too.

And he had.

When Han had finally gotten them passage off Coruscant, piloting a ship
with a load of contraband to Tralus (the cargo had been magnetically
sealed into the hold--Han hadn't had the equipment or the energy to
break in and find out exactly what it was he was smuggling), Chewbacca
had gone with him.  On the week-long voyage, Han began teaching the
Wookiee the rudiments of piloting.  Space travel was boring, and at
least that gave him something to do besides brood over lost futures .

. .

Once on Tralus, he turned over his ship and cargo, then went looking
for another assignment.  He wound up at Truthful Toryl's Used Spaceship
Lot, asking the Duros for work.  Toryl was an old acquaintance, and he
knew Han was a reliable and expert pilot.

The Empire was tightening its grip all the time, taking away the rights
of its worlds as well as its citizens.  Duro had a shipbuilding
industry nearly equal to that of Corellia, but they had recently been
prohibited by Imperial directive from placing weapons systems in their
ships.  Han's clandestine cargo proved to be a shipment of components
useful in outfitting ships with weapons.

By the time they reached Duro, Chewie was becoming a fair copilot and
gunner.  Han hoped that teaching the Wookiee these skills would make it
easier to get rid of him on some world.  If he knew the Wookiee

could hire on as a skilled pilot or copilot, he wouldn't hesitate to
dump him in some port and then lift ship--or so Han told himself.

Once on Duro, Han drank up some of the profits from his mission, while
waiting to be contacted for another piloting job.  His patience was
rewarded one day when a Sullustan approached him and offered him good
pay to take a ship from Duro, avoiding any Imperial ports of call, a
third of the way across the galaxy to Kothlis, a Bothan colony world.

Of course the sleek, swift little craft was "hot"--stolen from some
wealthy owner's landing pad.  Han had to remind himself that he was no
longer in the business of keeping the law--he was in the business of
breaking it.

So he set his jaw and piloted the stolen vessel to her new home on
Kothlis.

Then he went looking for another assignment, and eventually found
one.

On the surface, this job seemed legit.  Han was to ferry a large
nalargon from Kothlis to Devaron.

Han had never heard of a nalargon before, which wasn't surprising, as
his exposure to music had been limited.  A nalargon proved to be a very
large instrument that was operated by a keyboard and foot pedals.

Pipes and subharmonic resonance generators produced sound on many wave
bands.  The instruments were in demand for the jizz craze that was
sweeping the galaxy.

Accordingly, the huge instrument was brought aboard the ship Han had
been assigned, bolted to the deck, then left sealed in the cargo
compartment.

Han investigated the instrument once he and Chewie were safely in
hyperspace.  He tapped it, poked and nudged it, turned it on, then
tried pressing the keys and pedals.  No sound, except the sound he made
trying to make it work.

But his tappings proved it wasn't hollow.  Han sat back on his heels,
gazing at the huge instrument.  The thing was obviously a dummy--a
shell, with something inside.  What?

Han knew from his stint in the Imperial Navy that Devaron was a world
in turmoil.  Not long ago a group of rebels had risen against the
Imperial governor, demanding independence from the Empire.  Han's lip
curled disdainfully.  Stupid fools, thinking they had a chance against
the Empire.

Seven hundred of the rebels had been captured when the ancient holy
city of Montellian Serat had been overrun by Imperial troops a few
months ago.

They'd been summarily executed without trial, killed without mercy.

The remaining rebels were still hiding out in the hills, holding out,
attacking commando fashion, but Han knew it was only a matter of time

before they, too, would be ground beneath Palpatine's heel, their
world rigidly controlled by the Empire, as so many other worlds had
been.

Eyeing the nalargon, Han made some mental calculations based on the
instrument being hollow.  Yeah .  . . a short-bore mobile laser cannon
would just about fit inside that shell.  The weapon could be mounted on
the back of a landskimmer, and was capable of blowing small targets--a
building, or a short-range Imperial fighter--into very small pieces.

It could also be blast rifles, of course.  Ten or fifteen would fit
inside there, if they were cleverly packed.

Whatever was inside the nalargon, Han had a bad feeling about the
assignment he'd taken on.  He resolved to land the ship, then walk away
from it and not go back.  He had fake landing codes, provided by the
Bothans.  He'd use them, and then get away as quickly as he could . 
.

.

He'd landed yesterday, and for all Han knew, the ship was still sitting
on the field with the nalargon in her cargo hold.  But he had a hunch
that the rebels on Devaron hadn't wasted any time .  . .

Han shook his head a little blearily, half wishing he hadn't had that
last ale.  The sour taste was still in his mouth, and his head
buzzed.

Han looked from side to side, testingly, and the room stayed still.

Good.  He wasn't too drunk to play sabacc and win.  Let's get on with
it, Solo.  Every little credit helps .  . .

The smuggler rose to his feet and strolled quite steadily across the
room to the table.  "Greetings, gentles," he said, in Basic.  "Got room
for another player?"

The dealer, a Devaronian male, turned his head with its waxed, polished
horns to regard Han questioningly.  He must have decided that the
newcomer looked okay, because he shrugged and gestured at the vacant
seat.

"Welcome, Pilot.  As long as your credits hold out, so does your
welcome."  He grinned, showing sharp, feral teeth.

Han nodded, then slid into the seat.

He'd first learned to play sabacc when he was about fourteen.  Han
anted credits into the high-stakes pot, the "sabacc pot," then picked
up the two cards he'd been dealt and scanned them, all the while
covertly studying his opponents.  When the bet for the "hand pot" came
round to him, he tossed the requisite number of credit disks into that
pot, too.

Han had the six of staves and the Queen of Air and Darkness, but at any
moment the dealer could push a button, and all the card-values would
change.  Han eyed his opponents: a tiny Sullustan, a furry Devaronian
female, the Devaronian male dealer, and a huge female Barabel, a
reptiloid being from Barab One.  This was the first time Han had seen a
Barabel up close, and she was an impressive sight.  Over two meters
tall, covered with tough black scales that would repel even a stun
blast, the Barabel had a mouthful of daggerlike teeth and a clublike
tail that reportedly made them nasty customers in a fight.  This one,
who had introduced herself as Shallamar, seemed peaceful enough,
though.  She picked up the newest card-chip she'd been dealt and
studied her hand intently through narrowed slit-pupiled eyes.

The object of sabacc was to get cards to equal, but not exceed, the
number twenty-three--either positive or negative.  In case of a tie,
positive totals beat negatives.

At the moment the cards in Han's hand had a numerical value of positive
four.  The Queen of Air and Darkness had a value of minus two.  Han
could throw that card into the interference field, which would "freeze"
its value, then hope to get the Idiot and a card with the face value of
three.

Since the Idiot had a value of zero, this would give him an "Idiot's
Array," which would beat even a pure sabacc .  . . that is, cards whose
value added up to either positive or negative twenty-three.

As Han hesitated, gazing at his Queen, the card-chips rippled and
altered.

His Queen was now the Master of sabers.  The six of sabers had become
the eight of flasks.  His total was .  . . positive twenty-two.  He
waited while the other players examined their card-chips.  The Barabel,
the female Devaronian, and the dealer threw in their hands
disgustedly--they'd "bombed out" by exceeding twenty-three.

The Sullustan raised the bet, which Han matched and raised.  "I call,"
the little alien said, laying down his card-chips with a flourish.

"Twenty," he announced.

Han grinned and put down his own.  "Twenty-two," he announced casually,
laying down his own hand.  "Afraid that hand pot's mine, pal."

The other players grumbled a bit as he scooped up their money.  The
Barabel female hissed and gave him a look that could have melted
titanium, but said nothing.

The Sullustan took the next hand, and the Devaronian dealer the one
that followed.  Han eyed the growing sabacc pot, and decided to try to
go for the bigger payoff.

They continued to play for several more hands.  Han won the hand pot
again, but nobody had gotten the sabacc pot.  Han tossed the three of
coins and the Idiot into the interference field, and his luck held--the
very next change of cards left him holding the two of flasks.

"Idiot's Array .  . ."  Han said casually, tossing the two down next to
the other two cards in the interference field.  "The sabacc pot is
mine, ladies and gentlemen .  . ."

He bent forward to scoop up the pot, and the Barabel female let out

a roar.  "Cheater!  He's got a skifter, he must have!  No one can be
so lucky!"

Han sat back and stared at her, outraged.  He had cheated at sabacc
plenty of times, using skifters--cards that would assume different
values when their edges were tapped--and in other ways.  But this time
he'd won fair and square!

"You can take your accusations and stick 'em in your ear!"  the
Corellian burst out indignantly.  Of course the Barabel didn't have any
visible ears, but his meaning wasn't lost on her.  Dropping his right
hand down to his thigh, he silently unsnapped the strap on the top of
his holster.  Shaking his head vehemently, he added, "I wasn't
cheating!  You were just outplayed, sister!"

Left-handed, Han reached across the table, grabbed a fistful of
credits, and stuffed them into his pocket.  Nobody moved or spoke, so
he reached for the remaining handful.  In a blur of reddish fur, the
Devaronian female's hand shot out, grabbed his wrist, and pinned it to
the table.  "Maybe Shallamar is right," she said, in strongly accented
Basic.  "We should search him to make sure."

Han glared at her.  "Take your hands off me," he said very quietly.

"Or I'll make you really sorry."

Something in his eyes and voice must have impressed her, because she
let go of him and stepped back.

"Coward!"  Shallamar snarled at the Devaronian.  "He's just a puny
human!"

The Devaronian shook her head and backed away, indicating that she
wanted no further part in the conflict.

Han smiled smugly as he reached for the last of the card-chips.  Seeing
that smile, the Barabel roared again.  One armored, sharptaloned hand
came sweeping down in a mighty blow that smashed the table in two,
sending board, credits, and card-chips flying.  Snarling, she advanced
on Han.  "No!

I'm going to bite your head off, cheater!  We'll see how good you are
then!"

Han took one look at her gaping maw, realizing that she was big enough
to make good on her threat, and went for his blaster.  His right hand
dropped to his thigh with blurring speed, then the well-worn grip was
there, nestled against his palm.

His hand, still moving with extraordinary speed, started back up as he
began his draw---only to stop short when the blaster hung up in the
holster!

Han had barely a second to realize that the blaster's front sight,
mounted on the end of the barrel, was caught at the bottom of his
holster.

He tugged, trying to free his weapon.

The Barabel leaped for him.  Han jumped back, but not far enough.

Shallamar's huge, sharp talons grabbed the front of his jacket,
slashing the tough material as though it were tissue.  Still yanking at
his trapped blaster, Han was hauled toward the Barabel's wide-open
mouth so fast his vision blurred.  He let out a choked gasp as a blast
of hot, reeking reptiloid breath engulfed him.

Suddenly Han glimpsed a blur of brownish tan at the corner of his
vision, just as a huge roar nearly deafened him.  A long, furred arm
snaked around Shallamar's neck, jerking her back, away from Han.

"Chewie!"  Han yelled.  He'd never been so glad to see someone in his
life.

The Barabel roared back at the Wookiee, dropping the Corellian as she
swung around to grapple with her attacker.

"Hold her for a second, Chewie!"  Han yelled, yanking at the bottom of
his holster as he twisted the grip of his blaster.  At last!  He pulled
it up and sighted at the Barabel as she wrestled with the Wookiee, but
he couldn't get a clear shot.

The two huge beings, snarling and hissing, rampaged across the room,
knocking over tables and chairs.  The other sabacc players and denizens
of the bar scattered before the fray, screaming advice and curses in
multiple languages.

The Sullustan sabacc player dropped his hand to his own blaster, but
when he saw that Han was now armed, he turned and flung himself behind
the bar.

Shallamar and Chewbacca swayed back and forth, locked in a grim parody
of a loving embrace, each testing the other's strength, trying to get
each other off balance.  "Chewie, c'mon!"  Han yelled.  "Let's get
outta here!"

Chewbacca and Shallamar whirled in a blur of brown fur and black
scales, then Shallamar lowered her head and snapped at the Wookiee's
arm.  Her needle-sharp teeth sheared off a chunk of fur and meat.  The
Wookiee roared in agony and, with a burst of strength, grabbed the
Barabel's arm and slung her around with dizzying speed, so fast that
her feet slid out from under her.  As she went down, Chewie also
grabbed her tail, swinging her so hard she was airborne.

With a final howl of triumph, Chewbacca released his grip and sent the
huge reptiloid flying across the room, while sentients scattered to
avoid her trajectory.  Shallamar landed on her back amid a ruin of
chairs, tables, and sabacc cardchips.

Stun won't work, don't want to kill--a jumble of thoughts raced
through Han's mind as he thumbed the setting on the blaster, aimed, and
fired at the dazed Shallamar, hitting her at half force just below one
huge knee joint.  She hissed in pain and sagged back, black scales
smoking and steaming.

"Chewie, c'mon!"  Han yelled, snapping off a stun shot at the sabacc
dealer, who was aiming a blaster at the Wookiee.  The Devaronian went
down without a sound.  Chewie, dripping blood, was right behind Han as
they raced for the exit, knocking over chairs and tables.

The tavern's owner, a Devaronian female, blocked his way, screaming
curses and threats, but Han slapped her aside with the barrel of his
blaster and kept running.  He slammed the door with his shoulder, then
bounced off.

Locked!

Swearing in six nonhuman languages, Han thumbed the indicator on his
weapon up to its highest power, and blasted the door.  The proprietor
howled in protest, but the Corellian and the Wookiee were already
gone.

Han and Chewbacca pelted down the squalid alley, then swung out onto
the street with its rustic-looking buildings made of blue native wood
and stuccoed permacrete.  A chilly breeze made the Corellian shiver.

It was early spring here on Devaron's south polar continent· Han
quickly holstered his blaster as he dropped his pace to a fast walk.

"How's the arm, pal?"

Chewie groaned, ending in a snarl.  Han glanced down at the damage.

"Well, it was your choice to come back," he pointed out.  "Not that I'm
sorry you did, mind you.  I .  . . I want to say .  . . uh .  . .

thanks for saving my rear."

The Wookiee made an interrogatory sound.  Han shrugged· "Well, sure, I
guess .  . ."  he mumbled.  "I've never had a partner before, but · .

. yeah, why not?  It can get kinda boring on long space flights without
someone to talk to, I guess."

Chewie rumbled with satisfaction, despite his pain.  "Don't push your
luck," Han said dryly.  "Listen, we got to get that arm seen to.

There's a med droid's clinic across the street.  Let's go."

An hour later the two were back on the street.  Chewie's arm, after a
bacta treatment, was sheathed in a protective bandage, but the med
droid had assured them that Wookiees were quick healers.

The Wookiee had just finished commenting that he was hungry, when Han
heard a soft call from the shelter of a nearby doorway.  "Pilot Solo
.

. ."

Han stopped in his tracks and looked over to find a Duros male
beckoning to him.  He glanced from side to side, but the Devaronian

street scene was quiet and peaceful.  This section near the town
square was reserved for pedestrian traffic.  "Yeah?"  he replied, in a
low voice.

The blue-skinned Duros motioned for Han to follow him into a nearby
alley.

The Corellian walked to the mouth, turned the corner, then stood with
his back against the wall, hand on the grip of his blaster.  "Okay,
this is as far as I go without knowing what you want."

The Duro's mournful expression lengthened even farther.  "You are not a
trusting sentient, Pilot Solo.  I was referred to you by a mutual
friend, Truthful Toryl.  He said you are an excellent pilot."

Han relaxed slightly, but didn't take his hand off his gun.  "I'm good,
all right," he said.  "If Truthful Toryl sent you .  . . prove it."

The Duros gazed straight at him with calm, moonstone-colored eyes.  "He
said I was to tell you that the Talisman you brought him is no more."

Han relaxed and took his hand off his weapon.  "Okay, you've convinced
me he sent you," he said.  "State your business."

"I need a ship delivered to Nar Hekka, in the Hutt system," the Duros
said.

"I am willing to pay well .  . . but, Pilot Solo, you must not allow
Imperials to board her should you run into any patrols."

Han sighed.  More intrigues.  But the Duros's offer interested him.

He'd been planning all along to eventually make his way to Nar Shaddaa,
the "Smuggler's Moon" that orbited Nal Hutta.  Now would be as good a
time as any.  From Nar Hekka, he could easily catch a ship to Nal Hutta
or Nar Shaddaa.

"Tell me more," he said.

"Only if you can raise ship within two hours," the Duros said.  "If
not, tell me, and I will look elsewhere for a pilot."

Han considered for a moment.  "Well .  . . I could maybe change my
plans .  .

. for the right price."

The Duros named a figure, then added, "And the same sum upon
delivery."

Han snorted, then shook his head, though inwardly he was surprised at
how high the initial bid was.  "C'mon, Chewie," he said, "we've got
places to go, people to see."

Too quickly, the Duros named another, higher sum.

This guy must really be desperate, Han thought as he pretended to
hesitate for a beat.  He shook his head.  "I dunno .  . . it's not
worth my butt if the Imperials are lookin' for this ship of yours.

What's she carrying?"

The Duros's expression did not change.  "That I cannot tell you.  But I
will tell you that if you deliver the ship and its contents safely to
Tagta the Hutt, he will be pleased, and pleasing a Hutt Lord is
generally considered

to be a good thing for one's financial well-being.  Tagta is Jiliac
the Hutt's highest-ranking subordinate on Nar Hekka."

Han's ears pricked up.  Jiliac the Hutt was a very high-ranking Hutt
Lord indeed.  Maybe this Tagta would give him a recommendation to the
boss .  . .

"Hmmmmmmmm .  . ."  Han scratched his head, then named a sum.  "And all
in advance," he added.

The Duros's pale blue skin seemed to grow even paler, but then he
nodded.

"Very well as to the sum, but half up front.  You will receive the rest
from Tagta, Pilot Solo."

Han considered, then nodded.  "Okay, you've got yourself a deal.

Chewie"--he turned to address the Wookiee, who was hovering nearby,
listening intently--"go on back to that lockbox where we left our stuff
and get it, will you, while I conclude my business with our friend
here?"  The Wookiee rumbled a soft assent.

"Thanks.  I'll meet you on the north side of the town square in an
hour, okay?"

Chewbacca nodded and moved off down the street.

Han walked closer to the Duros, and said, "Okay, you've got yourself a
pilot.  We'll raise ship within two hours.  Fill me in on the rest of
it.

Where do I find this Tagta the Hutt?"

Within minutes Han had all the details.  The Duros handed over a sheaf
of credit vouchers, gave him the ship's security code, and the location
of the vessel.  Then the blue-skinned alien melted away into the
dimness of the alley.

Han had a couple of minutes to kill, so he grabbed a quick bite at the
cafe next door.  He had to argue with the Devish female chef to get her
to cook his meat.  But it was worth it.  The food drowned the last of
the ale-induced muzziness.  Clearheaded, his energy renewed, Han felt
considerably cheered.

On his way to the town square, he stopped off at a secondhand shop that
catered to spacers of all species.  There he bought a beat-up black
lizard-hide jacket to replace the one the Barabel had shredded.

Respectably clothed again, he started up the street toward his
rendezvous with Chewbacca.

Han knew something was up long before he reached the town square.  The
sound of a huge crowd was unmistakable.  They seemed to be shouting in
unison.  The skin at the back of Han's neck prickled suddenly as he
realized that there was something familiar about those words.  They
weren't in Basic, but he'd heard those simple, repetitious phrases
before.

But where?

I've got a bad feeling about this .  . . he thought, turning the
corner and seeing the crowd.  They were chanting.  Chanting, swaying,
rocking with religious fervor.  Mostly Devaronians, of course, but
there were a smattering of humans and other sentients.  Han's gaze
raked the crowd, following it to the front.  A hastily erected dais
stood there, and atop it, leading the revival, stood a figure out of
Han's past.

Oh, no--he thought.  This is a Ylesian revival, and that missionary is
Veratil!  I can't let him see me!

Five years ago, Han had spent almost six months on the steaming,
fungus-infested world of Ylesia.  He'd been working as a pilot before
taking the examinations to get into the Academy, practicing and honing
his piloting skills.  Ylesia was a world at the edge of Hutt space,
where a race of beings called the t'landa Til--distant cousins of the
Hutts--offered "pilgrims" supposed religious sanctuary.

The t'landa Til sent missionaries to many worlds to preach about the
One and the All.  Han had known that for years, but he'd never been
unlucky enough to run into a Ylesian revival before now.

For a wild moment the Corellian wanted to draw his blaster, shoot
Veratil down, and yell to the assembled crowd of potential pilgrims,
"Go home!

It's all a big fake!  They just want you so they can enslave you, you
fools!  Get out of here!"

But how could he make them believe him?  To most sentients in the
galaxy, Ylesia was perceived as a place of religious retreat, where the
faithful gathered, and those wishing to hide from their pasts could
find sanctuary.

The fact that the Ylesian "sanctuary" would turn out to be a trap was
known only to the lucky few--like Han--who'd managed to escape.  No
doubt Veratil had a transport standing by to load the pilgrims on
board.  Unfortunate sentients who followed him would have no idea that
their voyage to Ylesia would lead only to slavery in the spice
factories, then, when they grew too weak or sick to work, they'd face
death in the spice mines of Kessel.

Ylesia was a golden dream for the faithful, but the reality was a world
of bondage and unending toil.

Teroenza, Veratil's boss, was the High Priest of Ylesia.  Before
fleeing the colony, Han had robbed the t'landa Til leader of the most
valuable pieces in a rare and extensive collection.  He'd left Teroenza
wounded, but alive.

Han had escaped Ylesia in Teroenza's personal yacht, the Talisman.

Soon after his getaway, Han discovered that the t'landa Til and their
Hutt overlords had placed a fat bounty on the head of "Vykk
Draygo"--Han's

alias.  Han had to change his identity, even his retinal patterns, to
escape detection and capture.

Now, seeing Veratil, Han ducked his head and turned away, wishing he
had a hood he could pull up to hide his face.  If the Sacredot saw him
and recognized him, Han knew that he was in for it.

The chanting surrounding him intensified.  Han began to sweat, despite
the chill of the Devaronian weather, because he knew what was coming.

Across the town square, he saw a tall, furred shape standing on the
edge of the crowd, watching the ceremony curiously.  Chewie!  Can't let
him get drawn into this!  The Exultation is going to come in just a
couple of minutes!

Han plunged into the crowd, keeping his head ducked, fighting his way
through the throng as he would have clawed his way through a heavy
surf.

He was breathing hard and his elbows and ribs ached by the time he
reached the Wookiee.  "Chewie!"  he yelled, grabbing the big sentient
by the arm.

"Let's get outta here!  This is gonna turn into a mob scene any second
now!"

The Wookiee whined inquiringly.  "Never mind how I know!"  Han yelled
above the chanting.  "I just know!  Trust me!"

Chewbacca nodded and turned away, using his huge size to part the crowd
before him.  Han started to follow him, then something caught the
corner of his eye, and he turned his head.  A gleam .  . . a gleam of
reddish gold on a stray curl.

Han caught just a glimpse of her, but his whole mind and body jolted to
a stop as though he'd slammed into a stone wall while running at top
speed.

Bria?  Bria!

He caught only that one brief glimpse of a pale, perfect profile and a
stray reddish-blond curl, but it was enough.  She was standing there,
wearing a black cloak and hood, in this crowd.

Memories came surging back, so strong that they scared him .  . . Bria,
a pale ghost of a slave in the spice factories of Ylesia.  Bria, scared
but determined as they robbed Teroenza of his treasures.  Bria, sitting
beside him on a golden sand beach on Togoria, her mouth soft and red
and just begging to be kissed.  Bria, lying in his arms late at night
.

. .

Bria, who had left him behind, saying she needed to fight her addiction
to the t'landa Til's Exultation by herself...

Han had spent the past five years convincing himself that he'd
forgotten her.  After four years in the Imperial Academy, plus nearly a
year of commissioned service, he'd been convinced that he no longer
cared.  But

now, in a single searing blaze of insight, Han Solo knew he'd been
lying to himself.

Without hesitating, he turned and plunged back into the crowd, heading
for the woman in the black cloak.  He was halfway there when the
Exultation hit the crowd, and the throng of sentients collapsed onto
the cobblestones of the town square as though they'd been
stunblasted.

Han had forgotten how strong the Exultation was.  Waves of intense
pleasure rolled through his mind as well as his body.  No wonder the
Ylesian pilgrims thought the t'landa Til were Divinely Gifted!  Even
knowing, as Han did, that the Exultation was caused by an empathic
transmission coupled with a subsonic vibration that caused a wave of
pleasure that acted on the brains of most bipedal sentients, Han had to
brace himself to resist it.

He knew without seeing it that the pouch beneath Veratil's "chin" had
swelled, and that the Sacredot was "humming" those vibrations as he
concentrated on warm, positive emotions.  To anyone unprepared for the
force of the Exultation, the effect was as intoxicating as any pleasure
drug.  The ability to produce the Exultation was one that all t'landa
Til males shared--it was actually a sex-linked biological ability they
possessed that, in their natural habitat, was used to attract t'landa
Til females.

All around Han the crowd had fallen prone, and most of the sentients
were writhing in pleasure.  The sight sickened Han.  He'd shaken off
the effects of the Exultation now, and he concentrated on not stepping
on bodies as he plunged toward the woman in the black cloak and hood.

He could no longer see her face or that betraying tendril of hair.

His fingers remembered the soft silkiness of that hair .  . . he used
to play with Bria's curls, watching them capture the light, bringing
the reddish gold to vibrant life .  . .

The woman in the black cloak and hood disappeared behind a stone bench
as the crowd heaved in a wave of ecstasy from the Exultation.  Han
swallowed hard.  Bria had left him because she was addicted to the
Exultation.  Was that where she'd been for the past five years?  A
willing slave on Ylesia, bound to her t'landa Til masters because she
needed her daily dose of pleasure?  Funny .  . . he'd thought Bria had
more strength than that...

Han reached the stone bench, then stopped, staring around him.  The
woman in the black cloak was nowhere in sight.  Where'd she go? 
Bri-Han thought, staring around him wildly.  From all sides he could
hear the gasps and moans of the crowd filling the air.

He jumped up on the bench, straining his eyes, trying to pick up any
trace of the woman in the black cloak.  Han only realized what a
terrible

mistake he'd made when he found himself staring across the crowd,
straight into the eyes of Veratil.

The huge, four-legged creature with the tiny arms and the broad,
single-horned head was staring back at him, his small, reddish eyes
wide with surprise.

The Corellian had no doubt that Veratil had just recognized him as
"Vykk Draygo," the man who'd wrecked the glitterstim factory, stolen
Teroenza's treasure, and caused the death of the Ylesian Hutt overlord,
Zavval.

All around Han the moans of pleasure suddenly altered into cries of
dismay and loss--Veratil's attention had been diverted, and the
Exultation had come to an abrupt, jarring halt.

Some of the throng wailed aloud, others jerked convulsively.  Still
others dragged themselves to their feet with cries of distress and
anger.  Han ducked his head and bolted forward, determined to lose
himself in the crowd.  And then, ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of
black.  Bria!

Forgetting Veratil, forgetting the danger he was in, Han plunged
forward, slamming into would-be pilgrims, tripping over feet, elbowing
his fellow sentients aside.

"Bria!"  he yelled.  "Stop!"

Putting on a burst of speed, Han reached the edge of the crowd.  The
woman was running now, but Han was moving at top speed and he caught
her in a dozen swift strides.

Reaching out, he managed to grab the black fabric, yank her to a halt,
then he grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face him---only to
find that the woman he'd chased was a total stranger.  How could he
have mistaken her for Bria?  This woman wasn't homely, she was even
pretty in a rather worn way .  . . but Bria--Bria had been one of the
loveliest women Han had ever seen.  This woman's hair was dark blond,
not gold with warm reddish highlights.

Bria had been tall.  This woman was short.

She was also angry.  "What do you think you're doing?"  she demanded in
Basic.  "Leave me alone or I'll summon security!"

"I .  . . I'm sorry .  . ."  Han mumbled, stepped back, holding up both
hands in as nonthreatening a manner as he could manage.  "I thought you
were someone else."

"Well, I feel sorry for her," the woman said huffily.  "With an
ill-mannered, scruffy lout like you in her life!"

"Look .  . ."  Han continued to back away, hands up.  "I said I was
sorry, sister.  I'm going, okay?"

"I think you'd better," she said pointedly.  "That priest has summoned
security, I think."

Han looked over his shoulder, cursed, then took to his heels, heading
away from the crowd.  He could see Chewbacca waiting for him, and waved
to the Wookiee.

He lengthened his stride, and a glance back at his pursuers reassured
him that he was losing them.

Been drinking too much .  . . he decided as he ran.  That's gotta be
it.  I'm gonna be more careful from now on .  . . a lot more careful
.

. .

"Did Han get away?"  Bria Tharen asked her friend as Lanah Malo walked
into the room, carrying Bria's black cloak under her arm.  Bria was
seated on the single human-styled chair in the cheap room they'd rented
for their short stay on Devaron.

"I think so," Lanah Malo replied, tossing the cloak to her friend, then
picking up her travel bag and dumping it on the bed.  "The last I saw,
he and that big Wookiee he was traveling with jumped into a public
skimmer.

Security was still on foot.  My guess is, he made it."

"He's probably off-world by now," Bria said softly, wistfully.  Rising,
she walked over to the window, then stood for a moment gazing up into
Devaron's coral-tinted sky.  Tears gathered in her blue-green eyes.  I
never thought I'd ever see him again.  I never thought it would hurt so
much .  . .

The pain she felt completely eclipsed the triumph she should have been
experiencing.  Today she'd faced the Exultation and successfully
resisted it.  After years of fighting her addiction to it, now she
finally knew for certain that she was a free woman.  She'd looked
forward to this day for a long time--but any joy she felt was drowned
in her grief at seeing Han again, and knowing she couldn't be with
him.

"Couldn't you have talked to him?"  the shorter woman asked, almost
echoing Bria's own thoughts.  Bria turned from the window and watched
her friend and comrade-in-arms pulling on her battered, khaki colored
jacket.  Quickly Lanah stuffed the last of her personal belongings into
the small travel bag.  "What harm could it do?"  she asked, giving Bria
a sharp, quizzical glance.

Bria shivered, then pulled the cloak around her shoulders.  It was
chilly, now that the sun was low on the horizon.  "No," she said in a
low voice.  "I couldn't talk to him."

"Why not?"  Lanah asked.  "Don't you trust him?"

Moving as methodically and carefully as a droid, Bria checked the
charge in the blaster she wore strapped to her thigh--low-down, the
way

Han had taught her, five years ago when they'd been partners,
companions .

. . lovers.  "Yes," she said, after a moment.  "I trust him.  I trust
him with anything that's mine.  But what we're trying to
accomplish--that's not mine.  That's all of us.  Betrayal at this point
could mean the end of the entire movement.  I couldn't risk it."

Lanah nodded.  "Solo showing up when he did sure messed up our plans,"
she said.  "No telling when we'll get a clear shot at Veratil again.

My guess is that he'll hightail it back to Ylesia to tell Teroenza he
spotted your exboyfriend."

Bria nodded tiredly as she ran her hands through her hair.  Han loved
to do that, she thought with a sudden surge of memory so vivid that it
felt like a blow.  Oh, Han.  . .

Lanah Malo gave her an assessing glance that was half sympathetic, half
cynical.  "You can fall apart later, Bria.  Right now we've got to
catch the transport back to Corellia.  The Commander's going to expect
a full report.

Even if we failed to take out Veratil, we still succeeded in making
contact with the Devaronian group .  . . so the trip wasn't a total
waste."

"I'm not going to fall apart," Bria said dully, holstering her blaster
without looking at it--the way Han had taught her.  "I got over Han
long ago."

"Sure you did," Lanah agreed, not unkindly, as the two women picked up
their bags and headed for the door.  "Sure you did .  . ."

two

The Smuggler's Road

Han Solo shuffled into the tiny control room of the Durosian ship,
cradling a mug of stim-tea.  He glanced at the viewscreen, which showed
the comforting starline patterns of hyperspace, then blinked blearily
over at the big Wookiee who lounged in the copilot's seat.  "I
overslept," he said accusingly.  "You didn't call me."

Chewbacca made a short comment.  "Well, yeah, I probably did need the
rest," Han admitted.  "But you're the one who got wounded.  How's the
arm?"

The Wookiee reassured Han that it was healing just fine.  The
Corel-lian glanced at the wound, and nodded, then he sank into the
pilot's seat.

"Good.  Let me tell you, pal, it's fortunate that you showed up when
you did, yesterday.  That Barabel wasn't messing around.  Things could
have gotten sticky."

Chewie pointed out, truthfully, that things had gotten sticky.  Han
shrugged.  "You're right.  And that reminds me of something."  Getting
up from his seat, he went over to the toolbox that was standard issue
on every ship, and came back with a tiny lasertorch and a microfile.

Taking his blaster out of the holster, he carefully sliced off the
sight at the end of the barrel, then began smoothing the spot.

Chewbacca wondered aloud what Han was doing.  "Fixing my weapon so it
won't ever hang up in my holster again," the Corellian explained.

"That was a bad couple of seconds in that tavern, there, when I
couldn't draw.  I'm a good shot--losing the sight won't affect my
aim."

Chewie watched as Han worked.  After a moment the human spoke again.

"Bad enough that I couldn't draw.  If it had been a blaster shootout,
instead of a slugfest, I don't think either of us would have made it
out of there alive.  But I guess it could have been worse.  We were
actually in more danger at that Ylesian revival.  If Veratil's security
people had grabbed us .  . . believe me, pal, those t'landa Til don't
mess around.  If they'd caught us, we'd be in deep humbaba manure, my
friend."

Chewie made an interrogatory sound.  "Yeah, I guess I do owe you an
explanation about that," Han said with a sigh.  "Y'see, about five
years ago I needed experience piloting big ships, 'cause I was hoping
to get into the Academy.  So I took a job piloting for the t'landa Til
on Ylesia.  Ever hear of it before?"

Chewie whined, low in his throat.  "You got it.  The pilgrim colony.

'Cept that it ain't, pal.  It's nothin' but a big scam, a major trap.

The Hutts control the place.  Pilgrims travel there hoping to join with
the cosmic All, or some such, but they turn 'em into slaves and make
them work in the spice factories.  Most of the poor fools don't last
long.  They had three colonies on Ylesia when I was there, but I heard
they've expanded to five or six, now."

Chewbacca shook his head sadly.

Han grimaced as he sighted down the barrel of his blaster.  "Somebody
ought to go in there and shut those creeps down, Chewie.  I've been a
thief, a smuggler, a con man, a gambler, and some other things I ain't
particularly proud of, pal .  . . but slavery--I can't stand it.  Or
slavers, either.

Scum of the universe.  For two credits, I'd blast 'em all into oblivion
. .

."

Chewbacca, naturally, voiced vehement support for Han's opinion.  The
Corellian grinned crookedly as he ran his thumb over the now-smooth
barrel tip.  Satisfied, he replaced the weapon in his holster.  "Yeah,
well, I kinda forgot who I was talkin' to.  But anyhow, it's a long
story.  The end result was, I decided I had to get outta there, so I
stole a bunch of stuff from the High Priest.  He had a great collection
of art objects, jeweled weapons, stuff like that.  Only trouble was,
Teroenza and his Hutt boss, Zawal, showed up at a real inopportune
time.  The shooting started, and Zawal died."

Chewbacca made an interrogatory sound.

Han sighed.  "No, I didn't shoot him.  But you could sorta say it was
my fault that he bought it."

Chewie commented that from what he knew of Hutts, the fewer the
better.

"Yeah, I've thought that myself," Han said.  "But we may wind up
workin' for a Hutt, so you'd better keep your opinion to yourself,
pal."  He

sipped his stim-tea and looked out at the racing star patterns for a
long second, lost in memories.  "So, anyhow, I got away.  But I wish
Veratil hadn't gotten a look at me yesterday.  I got a bad feelin'
about that.  The t'landa Til can be pretty nasty .  . ."

Chewie asked a question.  Han looked down and cleared his throat.

"Why'd I go back into the crowd and give Veratil the chance to see
me?

Well, pal .

. . there was this girl .  . ."

The Wookiee grunted a phrase.  Translated, it meant, "Why am I not
surprised?"

"Well, this one was .  . . special," Han said, feeling rather
defensive.

"Bria Tharen.  Yesterday, in that crowd, I thought .  . ."  He
shrugged, his eyes shadowed.  "I thought I saw her.  I coulda sworn
that was her, standing there in the crowd.  Five years ago, we were .

. . friends.  Close friends."

Chewbacca nodded.  After only a month with Han Solo, the Wookiee was
perfectly aware that human females almost invariably found the
Corellian attractive.

Han shrugged again.  "But my eyes were playing tricks on me.  When I
finally caught up to her, she wasn't Bria.  It was really aw--" He
cleared his throat self-consciously.  "Uh, that is .  . . I was sort of
disappointed.  I really hoped I'd found her again."  He took another
gulp of the cooling tea.  "I dreamed about Bria last night," he
muttered, almost to himself.  "I was wearing my uniform, and she was
smiling at me .  . ."

Chewbacca made a sympathetic sound.  Han looked up at the Wookiee.

"But, hey, Bria's part of the past.  I gotta look ahead.  What about
you, pal?  You got a girlfriend?"

The Wookiee hesitated.  Han grinned knowingly.  "Someone special?  Or
someone you'd like to be special?"

Chewie fiddled with the STABILIZER CONTROL button.  "Careful, don't
push that," Han said.  "Okay, you don't have to tell me.  But hey... I
told you.

If we're gonna be partners, doesn't that mean we oughta trust each
other?"

His hairy companion mulled that over for a moment.  Finally he nodded,
and began talking, slowly at first, then with increasing confidence.

There was a young Wookiee female, Mallatobuck, that Chewie found
attractive.  She had come around several times to help care for elderly
members of Chewie's arboreal "community" on Kashyyyk, and had helped
Chewbacca care for his father, Attichitcuk, an aged and rather
irascible Wookiee.

"So, you like her," Han said.  "Does she like you?"

Chewbacca wasn't sure.  They'd never spent much time alone together.

But there was a warmth in her blue eyes that he remembered .  . . "So,
how long has it been since you've seen her?"  Han persisted.  Chewie
thought for a moment, then growled a reply.

"Fifty years!"  Han yelped.  He knew Wookiees lived many times longer
than humans, but still .  . .

He took another swallow.  "Hey, pal .  . . I hate to tell you.

Mallatobuck might be married with six little Wooks by now.  You sure
ask a lot, wanting a girl to wait for you that long."

Chewbacca agreed that perhaps he should return to Kashyyyk and
reestablish contact as soon as possible.

"Tell you what," Han said.  "When we've gotten our own ship, bought and
paid for, Kashyyyk will be our first stop, okay?"

The big Wookiee roared an enthusiastic agreement.

Han glanced over at him, and found himself thinking that it was nice to
have someone to talk to during voyages.  Space travel, once you made
the jump to hyperspace, could be pretty dull.

"I saw that package you brought aboard," he said, changing the
subject.

"What did you buy?"

Chewbacca fetched the bundle, and returned to the copilot's seat.  He
opened the parcel.  Inside was a jumble of various lengths of metal and
wood, plus a handgrip and a powerful-looking spring attachment.

Han eyed the assortment, puzzled.  "What's that?"

The Wookiee grunted a reply.  "It's going to be a bowcaster," Han
repeated.

"Well, good luck puttin' it together.  That spring is so strong that no
human would be able to draw a weapon like that."

Chewie agreed and, taking out the toolbox, began putting his new
bowcaster together.

"You a good shot?"  Han asked.

Chewbacca modestly allowed that among his people he was considered
quite a marksman.  "Good," Han said.  "We're headin' for Nar Shaddaa,
so we'll need to cover each other's back.  It's a moon that orbits the
Hutt planet, Nal Hutta.  You ever hear of it?"

Chewie hadn't.

"Well, I've never been there, but from what I've heard, it can be a
little rough.  Even the Empire doesn't mess with Nar Shaddaa.  If
you're hot, or you want to make some kinda deal that the authorities
would frown on--you go to Nar Shaddaa.  It's that kinda place."

Han began checking the controls, making sure everything was
shipshape.

Not much longer before they emerged into realspace, not far from Nar
Hekka.

Chewbacca watched him with bright blue eyes, then asked a quiet
question.

Han glanced up.  "I did try to find Bria," he admitted after a long
moment.

"At first I was mad at her, for leaving me, but hey .  . . she was
going through a lot.  A couple of years ago, while I was on leave from
the Academy, I looked up her dad, Renn Tharen.  He said he hadn't heard
from her in a year.  He had no idea where she was."  Han sighed.  "I
liked her dad.  The rest of her family was a pain in the butt, but I
liked Renn.  He helped me out when I was in a spot.  Most of my first
six months' paychecks when I was commissioned went to pay him back some
money he'd loaned me.  He was--" The ship's hyperspace alarm sounded.

"Coming out of hyperspace," Han said, his hands flying over the
controls.  "Next stop, Nar Hekka.  We've got to find us a Hutt Lord
named Tagta, pal."

After landing the Duros's ship at the spaceport the alien had
specified, Han and Chewbacca gathered up their scanty belongings and
left it behind, under no illusions that it would be there when they got
back.  Together, they boarded a public tube-speeder that would take
them into the city where Tagta the Hutt held court.

Han had been to Nal Hutta, and found it an unpleasant world .  . .

damp, slimy, and smelly--rather like the Hutts themselves.  He'd braced
himself to endure more of the same on Nar Hekka, but he was pleasantly
surprised.

The planet was a cold world that orbited a dim red star on the edge of
the Y'Toub system, but Hutt credits and colonies of various galactic
species had transformed it into a technological wonder.  Beneath
enormous hothouse domes, the skies shone blue with a faint tinge of
violet.  Although the planet had little indigenous plant life,
vegetation from many worlds had been transplanted and carefully
cultivated.  There were numerous parks, botanical gardens, and
arboretums.  Everywhere Han and Chewie looked, beds of flowering plants
boasted large, lovely blooms of differing hues.

Once in the city, Han and the big Wookiee walked along enjoying the
sights.

Artificial convection currents wafted soft breezes that caressed their
faces.  Being "outside" on a balmy day was a wonderful change of pace
from being cooped up in a cramped spaceship, Han said, and Chewbacca
agreed with a throaty growl.

All too soon, it seemed, they approached an imposing white stone
edifice that they'd been told marked the home and business center of

Tagta the Hutt.  Even though Tagta worked for Jiliac, he was still a
prominent and wealthy Hutt Lord in his own right.

They walked up the ramp (Hutt designs did not utilize stairs, for
obvious reasons) and then paused outside the huge doorway, large enough
to admit even a corpulent Hutt on an anti-grav sled.  The majordomo was
a diminutive Sullustan female.  Her jowls quivered as Han introduced
himself and requested an audience with Lord Tagta.

The Sullustan left, ostensibly to check out their bonafides, and
returned a few minutes later.  "Lord Tagta will see you.  He asks me to
ask you whether you have eaten?  He is partaking of the noonday
meal."

Han was hungry, and he suspected Chewie was, too, but the thought of
eating with a Hutt was not appetizing.  Hutt body odor was strong
enough to turn a sensitive human's stomach.  "We just finished," Han
lied.  "But we thank Lord Tagta very much for his graciousness in
inquiring."

After several more minutes, the two smugglers, escorted by three
liveried Gamorrean guards, were ushered into the Hutt's private dining
chamber.  The room boasted high, vaulted ceilings that reminded Han of
cathedrals he'd seen.  A large, floor-to-ceiling window allowed reddish
sunlight to flood in, making the white walls appear faintly rosy.

Their host was reclining (Hutt anatomy didn't permit sitting, after
all) before a table, sampling various "dishes."

Han took one glance at the wriggling, squirming fare that comprised the
noontime repast, and averted his eyes.  He didn't allow his
squeamishness to show, however, as he and Chewbacca approached the Hutt
Lord.

Han had learned Huttese while on Ylesia, and understood it well.  He
couldn't speak it, though, because the language depended on
subharmonics for subtle nuances in meaning, and the human throat was
not constructed to produce those sounds.  He wondered whether he and
the Hutt Lord would need an interpreter droid.  He glanced around, but
didn't see one.

Tagta was reclining on a hovering anti-grav sled, but Han got the
impression that the Hutt could move around if he wished.  Some Hutts,
he knew, grew so corpulent that they could no longer glide about under
their own power, but Tagta didn't seem either that old or that fat.

Still, watching the Hutt delicately select yet another wriggler from a
glass aquarium filled with viscous fluid and stuff it into his mouth,
Han figured that Tagta would probably make it to the "fully corpulent"
stage of Hutt life.  Green drool gathered at the corners of Tagta's
mouth as he rolled the live treat around in his mouth before, finally,
swallowing it.

Han forced himself not to look away.

Finally, after several more minutes of gluttony, Tagta's hunger

seemed to be abating.  He looked up at his visitors and said, in
Huttese, "Does either of you comprehend the spoken communication of the
only truly civilized beings?"

Knowing that Tagta meant Huttese, Han nodded and said, in Basic, "Yes,
Lord Tagta, I understand it.  I cannot speak it well, though."

The Hutt waved a plump little hand and blinked his bulbous eyes in
surprise.  "That is much to your credit, then, Captain Solo.  I
understand your primitive Basic, so we will not require an interpreter
to converse."

He waved at the Wookiee.  "And your companion?"

"My friend and first mate does not speak the language of your exalted
people, Lord Tagta," Han said.  He hated having to stick flattery into
each sentence, but he was highly motivated to stay on this Hutt's good
side.

When dealing with Hutts, that was generally the best policy--and Han
didn't forget that he wanted this particular Hutt to do him a favor.

"Very well, Captain Solo," Tagta said.  "Have you brought my ship, as
you were hired to do?"

"Yes I have, Your Excellency," Han replied.  "It is docked in berth
number thirty-eight, Starport Complex Q-7."  Nar Hekka boasted a huge
starport, since it was the main crossroads of trade into and out of the
Hutt systems.

"Excellent, Captain," Tagta said.  "You have done well."  He waved a
dismissal.  "You have our leave to go."

Han didn't budge.  "Uh, Lord Tagta, I am still owed half my payment."

Tagta reared back slightly in surprise.  "What?  You came expecting
payment from me?"

Han took a deep breath.  One part of him wanted to just beat a quick
retreat.  Angering a powerful Hutt Lord probably wasn't worth it.  But
he held his ground, forcing himself to remain outwardly calm.  He had a
feeling he was being tested.  "Yes, Your Excellency, I was promised the
second half of the payment when I successfully delivered the ship to
Nar Hekka--having managed to avoid any Imperial vessels that might be
interested in the ship .  . . or its cargo.  I was told that you would
furnish the other half of my payment when I saw you."

Tagta huffed indignantly.  "How dare you imply that I would make such a
ridiculous bargain?  Leave me immediately, human!"

Han was getting mad now.  Crossing his arms on his chest, he planted
his feet and shook his head.  "No way, Your Excellency.  I know what I
was promised.  Pay up."

"You dare to demand payment of me?"

"When it comes to credits, I dare quite a lot of things," Han said
imperturbably.

"Hrrrrrmmmmmph!"  Tagta was full of disdain.  "This is your last
chance, Corellian," he warned.  "Leave, or I will summon my guards!"

"You think me and Chewie can't handle a bunch of Gamorreans?"  Han said
scornfully.  "Think again!"

Tagta gazed at the Corellian balefully, but did not summon the
guards.

"Listen, Your Excellency, you want me to tell every other pilot I meet
that Tagta the Hutt welshes on his debts?"  Han added with a curl of
his lip.  "You'll have a tough time gettin' anyone to work for you,
when I'm finished."

The Hutt Lord rumbled deep in his chest, a sort of
"hrrrrrmmmmmmmmpppppphhhhhhh!"  sound that made Han's mouth go dry.

Had he pushed his luck too far?

Seconds ticked by in Han's head as he waited, forcing himself to remain
immobile and silent.

Then Tagta actually chuckled, a deep but unmistakable sound.  "Captain
Solo, you are a brave sentient indeed!  I admire courage!"  He fumbled
amid the welter of items scattered among the squirming foodstuffs, and
tossed Han a pouch.  "There, I believe the amount is correct."

The old villain!  Han thought, half admiringly.  He had it ready all
the time!  He WAS just testing me .  . .

With the realization came a surge of confidence.  Han bowed.  "Please
accept our thanks, Lord Tagta.  And I wish to ask a favor, Your
Excellency .  . ."

"A favor?"  the Hutt boomed, blinking his bulbous eyes rapidly.  "You
are indeed a bold sentient!  What is this favor?"

"I understand that you know Lord Jiliac, sir?"

The huge, slit-pupiled eyes blinked again.  "Yes, I do business with
Jiliac.  We belong to the same clan.  What of it?"

"Well, I hear that there's work for good pilots to be had on Nar
Shaddaa.

And that Lord Jiliac owns or controls a lot of the Smuggler's Moon.

I'm a good pilot, sir, I really am.  If you could, I'd appreciate a
recommendation to Lord Jiliac.  Chewie and I would like to work for
him."

"Ahhhhh .  . ."  The deep voice boomed in the massive chest.  "I see.

What shall I tell my clan lord?  Shall I tell him that you are brazen
and greedy, Captain Solo?"

Han grinned, suddenly daring.  He was learning that Hutts had a

sense of humor--twisted, but definitely a sense of humor.  "If you
think it would help, Lord Tagta."

"Ho-HO!"  the Hutt leader boomed a mighty shout of laughter.  "Well,
let me tell you, Captain Solo, there are not many humans with the
intelligence to claim those qualities as virtues.  But among my
people--they are, indeed, sterling attributes."

"As you say, sir," murmured Han, not quite sure what to reply to
this.

The Hutt Lord bellowed, "Scribe!"  in Huttese, and a bipedal droid came
scuttling from behind the drapes in the cavernous room.  "Yes, Your
Impressiveness?"

Tagta waved a hand at the droid and gave it an order in Huttese so
rapid that Han had trouble following it.  Something about "seals" and
"messages."

Moments later the droid reappeared with a small, palm-sized holocube.

After handing it to the Hutt, it stood back respectfully.  Tagta took
the little holocube, perused the message it contained, and grunted with
satisfaction.

Then, quite deliberately, the Hutt licked one side of it, leaving a
green smear.

After holding the cube for a moment, Tagta activated the side of it,
and a clear film slid down to cover the greenish smear.  "Here, Captain
Solo," the Hutt said, handing Han the holocube.  "By this Lord Jiliac
will know that I sent you.  He is indeed in need of good pilots.  Work
hard for him, and you will be rewarded.  We Hutts are known for our
generosity and beneficence to lower life-forms who serve us ably."

Han took the cube rather gingerly, but it was no longer wet.  He looked
at the greenish smear, realizing that Jiliac would be able to do a
sensor analysis and verify that the holocube had indeed come from his
relative.

Clever, even if it is disgusting, he thought.

He bowed deeply, and nudged Chewbacca, who also bowed.  "Thank you,
Your Excellency!"

Then, clutching his holocube, Han left the Hutt overlord behind.  As
they were walking down the ramp outside the Hutt mansion, Han insisted
on divvying up the credits from the voyage.  "Just in case one of us
gets robbed," he explained, to quiet Chewbacca's protests.  "That way
one of us is sure to have some money."

Once back out on the street, Han suggested that they get some food
before heading to the shuttleport to catch the next ship for Nar
Shaddaa.

Stopping by a flower-seller's booth, Han asked the proprietor, a
spindly humanoid with long, wiry whiskers and tufted ears, whether
there was a good restaurant in the vicinity.  The sentient directed him
to the Starfarer Diner, a few blocks away.

They were halfway there, strolling casually and chatting, when Han
suddenly stopped in midsentence and swung around, alarmed--and not even
sure why.  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a
paleskinned humanoid with two long fleshy tails instead of hair.  The
Twi'lek was just stepping out of a doorway behind him.  There was a
drawn blaster in his hand.  As Han turned, the Twi'lek shouted, in
accented but understandable Basic, "Halt, both of you, or I shoot you
now!"

Han knew instinctively that if he obeyed the command to stop, he'd wind
up dead, sooner or later.  He didn't hesitate for even a second.  With
an earsplitting yell, the Corellian threw himself to the side, hit the
ground, rolled, and came up on one knee, blaster in hand.

The Twi'lek's weapon spat a blue-green burst.  Han dodged.

Stun blast!

Han aimed, fired, and the reddish beam struck his attacker midtorso.

He went down, dead or incapacitated.  The Corellian made sure the
Twi'lek wasn't getting up anytime soon, then he turned to look for
Chewbacca.  The Wookiee was leaning heavily against a parked speeder,
dazed.  He'd evidently been grazed by the stun beam.  Han ran over to
him, his heart pounding from the rush of adrenaline.  "Did he get you
bad, pal?"

With a muffled growl, Chewbacca assured his partner that he'd be
fine.

Han peered up into the Wookiee's furry face, saw that his eyes were
clear, the pupils even.  Only then did he draw a long breath of
relief.

He hadn't realized until that moment that he was getting used to having
the big hairy lug around.  If anything had happened to Chewie .

. .

Going over to the Twi'lek, Han knelt down.  One glance at the huge
blaster wound that had turned the Twi'lek's chest to blackened slag was
enough to tell him the being was dead.  Han experienced a quick
pang--he'd killed before, but he didn't like doing it.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to search the dead sentient.

There was a vibroblade strapped to the inside of a sleeve, another on
the calf.

On the inside of the other wrist the Twi'lek wore a "wrist vac," a
device that when triggered would send small, deadly blades flying into
an opponent's vitals.

Shoved into his belt, covered by his tunic, was a sleep-inducer.  A
short-range weapon, but very effective.  The Twi'lek could have simply
walked up behind Han, stuck the sleep-inducer in his back, then pulled
the trigger to send the Corellian off to dreamland.

Han stared at the weapon, his mouth dry.  A bounty hunter.  Great.  Why
am I not surprised?  This must be Teroenza's doing.  He's found out I'm
alive, and he wants me

If not for instinct and fast reflexes, Han knew, at this very moment
he'd be out cold and on his way back to Ylesia to face a terrible
vengeance .  .

.

He heard Chewbacca 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
someone 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, Han 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-trunklike legs.  With their barrel-shaped
bodies, tiny arms, and huge heads that somewhat resembled those of
their distant cousins, 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 leathery 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,
remembering the last time he'd been home, on Nal Hutta.  He'd attracted
a mate, Tilenna, 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 potential 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 unusual, 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 collection 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 "Han Solo."

Remembering the terrible night when his collection had been violated,
Teroenza's small hands clenched involuntarily 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 Hurt
was far from being old or corpulent enough to require an antigrav
sled--he got around fine under his own power, propelling himself
forward 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 Hutt 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 Kibbick.  "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 shipment 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,
Ter-oenza, 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.  Inwardly the High
Priest gritted his bite-plates.  I have to remember that Kibbick,
although a whining nuisance, allows me complete autonomy.  If I must
have a Hutt overlord, 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 Zawal'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 powerful 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 obsequious 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 human, Han Solo?"

Teroenza rubbed his small, delicate hands together.  "Inform 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
Imperial Navy just two months ago."  Teroenza's protuberant eyes were
suddenly moist and glittering with anticipation.  "By offering a
sizable bounty and specifying 'no disintegrations,' 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 awkward, 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 example that will be remembered down
through the ages by anyone of an inferior species who even contemplates
harming 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 scaled 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.  Han 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 vehemence his
companions had displayed with some consternation.  "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.

"Han Solo will be yours, High Priest .  . ."

three

Nar Shaddaa

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 Tsylden 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 Han couldn't shake his
hyperalertness.  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 navicomputer wasn't up to calculating 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 transport, Han
dreamed he was a cadet again, back in the Academy 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 cadets, 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 the yellow-white fireball, seeing an expanding donut
ring of incandescent gas that was accompanied 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
highranking Imperial officers.  One of them, Admiral Ozzel, was reading
aloud in flat, monotonous tones, while a young lieutenant methodically
ripped every bit of military rank and insignia off Han's dress uniform,
leaving him standing in a tattered tunic that hung on him in rags.

Coldly expressionless, the young lieutenant solemnly 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 contempt for one in disgrace, Tedris spat, and the glob of his
spittle landed on Han's boot.  Han stared down at the shining 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, telling himself it
was only a dream--that the humiliation was done, over, that he never
had to go through that again.

Never again.

The Han Solo Trilogy

Han sighed.  He'd worked so hard to get into the Academy, so hard to
stay there.  Despite the lacks in his pre-Academy education (and there
had been many) Han 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 respectability 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 growing
callousness, 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 Emperor 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.

Han doubted he'd have lasted much longer in the Imperial 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.

Han could kill, had done it coolly and without flinching, against armed
opponents.  But shooting unarmed prisoners?  Han shook his head.  No.

Never.

He was better off as a civilian, as a smuggler or thief.

He began dressing.  First his dark blue military-style trousers, with
the

broken red Corellian bloodstripe running down the outside seams.  When
he'd been discharged from the service, Han had half expected them to
deprive him of his bloodstripe, as they'd done with his other
decorations and insignia, but they'd left it.  Han guessed that was
because the bloodstripe wasn't an Imperial award.  It was usually
earned through military service, and was a mark of unusual heroism, but
it was awarded by the Corellian government to a Corellian.

That had been a tough few days, all right, Han thought, remembering
exactly how he'd earned the decoration.  His right thumb rubbed the
bloodstripe as he pulled his right boot on.  The bloodstripe was
designed so it could be removed and reaffixed to each new pair of
trousers.  Han had discovered that most non-Corellians had no idea what
a mark of distinction it was--many just thought it was pure
decoration.

Which suited Han just fine.  He wore it, since it was his only
remaining military decoration, but he never discussed where and how
he'd earned it.

Some things it was better not to dwell on.

He finished getting dressed, pulling on a pale gray shirt and a darker
gray vest.  He hurried, knowing they must be approaching Nar Shaddaa by
now.

His small travel knapsack slung over his shoulder, Han went out into
the corridor and moved toward the observation lounge.  This transport
hauled both passengers and cargo, so it had few amenities, but it did
have a large viewport.  Watching the stars was something that amused
and soothed most beings, and almost every transport ship had one.

When Han reached the lounge, he discovered Chewbacca was there already,
staring out at the stars.  Han went over to the viewport and stood
beside him, looking at their destination.

They were racing toward a large planet, bigger than Corellia, that
boasted brown deserts, sickly green vegetation, and slate-blue
oceans.

Han recognized it at once.  He'd been there before, five years ago.  He
nudged Chewie.  "Nal Hutta," he told his companion.  "Means 'Glorious
Jewel' in Huttese, but trust me, pal, it ain't pretty.  Bunch of swamps
and bogs, and the whole place stinks like a sewer in the middle of a
garbage dump."  The Corellian wrinkled his nose at the memory.

As the partners watched, the Stellar Princess swung past the Hutt
homeworld, using the planet's gravity to cut velocity.  Chewie whined a
question.  "Nope, I've never been to Nar Shaddaa," Han replied.  "When
I was here five years ago, I never even got a close look at it."  They
could see the edge of the big moon now, as it crept over the horizon.

Chewie made an inquiring sound.  "Yeah, the planet and its moon are
tidally

locked, so they always keep the same hemispheres facing each other,"
Han replied.  "Synchronous orbit."

As the Princess glided around the big world, Han saw that space on this
side of the planet was studded with floating debris.  As they drew
closer, the debris proved to be derelict spaceships of all shapes and
sizes.  Han's Imperial training allowed him to ID many of them, but
there were some that even he'd never seen.

The Smuggler's Moon was a big moon, one of the biggest Han had ever
encountered.  It was surrounded by the derelict spaceships, and they
were numerous enough that the Princess had to change course several
times to avoid them.  Many of them were burned-out hulks, or shells
with great holes blasted in their hulls.

From the amount of space-scarring on their sides, it was plain to Han
that many of them had been there for decades, even centuries.  Han
wondered why there were so many, but then he caught a faint glimmer of
planet-light off an ephemeral field that enclosed the waiting moon.  A
moment later a piece of space junk blazed up in a bright explosion.

"Hey, Chewie .  . . that explains these hulks," Han said, pointing.

"See that glimmer surrounding Nar Shaddaa?  The place is shielded.

These ships came calling, and if they didn't want to let 'em land, they
just refused to drop shields, then used ion guns to blast 'em.  Guess
they must've had their share of pirates and raiders, huh?"

Chewbacca made a low noise that sounded like "Hrrrrrnnnn .  . ."  and
meant "Right."

The faint haze caused by the moon's shield made it difficult to see
specifics about their approaching destination.  But Han could tell that
the landscape was almost completely covered with structures.

Communication spires stuck up in spikes from the welter of buildings.

Like a rundown version of Coruscant, Han thought, remembering the world
that was one vast city--a world so encased in layers upon layers of
buildings that the natural landscape was almost completely covered
except at the poles.

As Han stared out at the fabled Smuggler's Moon, he found himself
remembering his dream again.  In the dream he'd been looking up at
another, very different moon.  He frowned.  Funny thing--that stuff
about the mascot moon, that had actually happened.  Han had stood in
ranks with the other cadets and watched the little moon explode
violently in Carida's nighttime sky.

Perhaps his subconscious had sent him that dream to remind him of
something important that he'd forgotten.  Han hoisted his knapsack
higher on his shoulder.  "Mako," he mumbled.

Chewbacca gave him an inquiring glance.  Han shrugged.  "I was just
thinkin' that maybe we should look up Mako."

Chewie cocked his head and mhrrrrnnnnned a question.

"Mako Spince.  I knew him when he was an upperclassman cadet.  Mako and
me go back a long ways," Han explained.

Mako Spince was an old friend, and last Han had heard, he'd had ties to
Nar Shaddaa.  They said he even lived here at times.  It wouldn't hurt
to look up Mako, see if he could help his old buddy Han find work . 
.

.

Mako Spince was ten years older than Han, and they couldn't have had
more opposite childhoods.  Han had been a child of the streets until
the cruel, sadistic Garris Shrike had taken him in and introduced him
to a life of crime.  Mako was the son of an important Imperial
Senator.

He'd been brought up with every advantage--but he'd lacked Han's
determination.

Mako's main interest while at the Imperial Academy had been in having
fun.

Mako had been an upperclassman, two years ahead of Han.  Despite their
disparate backgrounds, the two had become good friends, racing swoops,
hosting clandestine wild parties, playing practical jokes on stodgy
instructors.  Mako was always the instigator in their mischief.  Han
had been the cautious one, never forgetting how hard he'd had to work
to get into the Academy.  The younger cadet was careful never to get
caught--but Mako, confident that his father's connections would protect
him from consequences, had dared anything and everything in his pursuit
of the perfect joke, the most daring escapade.

Destroying the Academy's mascot moon had been his biggest--and
last--prank as an Imperial cadet.

Han had known at the time that something was up, something big.  Mako
had tried to induce him to come along when he'd planned the break-in to
the physics lab.  But Han had had a test to study for, so he'd
refused.

If he'd known what Mako was planning, he'd have tried to talk his
friend out of it.

That night, while Han plotted orbits and worked on his "Economics of
Hyperspace Troop Movement" presentation, Mako broke into Professor
Cai-Meg's physics lab.  He stole a gram of antimatter, then a small,
one-man shuttle and a spacesuit from the Academy shuttle hangar, and
took off.

Landing on the small planetoid that was Carida's nearest of three
satellites, Mako planted the antimatter capsule in the middle of the
huge Academy Seal that had been laser-carved into the satellite decades
ago, back when Carida was still a training planet for the troops of the
now-vanished Republic.  Mako triggered the antimatter explosion from a
safe

distance in space, intending to blast the seal right off the face of
the little moon.

But Mako had underestimated the power of the antimatter he'd stolen.

The entire satellite blew up in a cataclysmic display that Han and the
other cadets witnessed from the planet's surface.

Mako was immediately one of the prime suspects.  He'd pulled so many
pranks in his time, caused so much mayhem, that the officers began
checking on him almost before the debris from the shattered satellite
had either plunged planetward or drifted into alignment, forming a
disjointed ring around Carida.

Han was also a suspect, but fortunately for him, a friend had come over
to see him for some astrophysics coaching right at the time of the
break-in.  Han's alibi was airtight.

But Mako's wasn't.

At the hearing, the prosecution had alleged that Mako was a terrorist
who'd infiltrated the Academy.  Han himself had volunteered to give
testimony under truth drugs in order to clear his friend of that
charge--and they'd had to accept his word that Mako had acted alone,
intending only to play a prank.  So Mako was spared the charge of
terrorism.  In the end, they'd just expelled the senior cadet.

Mako's father had come through one last time, and given Mako the
credits to set himself up in business.  Little did the Senator suspect
that his only son would spend the money on a ship, and contraband to
stock it with.

Then Mako had disappeared, but Han knew that Mako Spince wasn't the
sort to just quietly fade into the background.  Not Mako.  Where there
was excitement to be had, and credits to be accrued, that's where you'd
find Mako Spince.

Han was betting that someone on Nar Shaddaa would know where his friend
was.

Han watched as the Princess drifted closer and closer to the large
moon.

Nar Shaddaa was actually the size of a small planet, almost a third the
size of Nal Hutta.  It was hard to make out details through the shield,
but he could see lights flashing.

As the Princess neared the Smuggler's Moon, a section of the haze that
marked the shield suddenly disappeared, and Han knew they'd dropped a
shield to admit their ship.  The transport went past the shield, and
moments later they entered atmosphere.

Now Han could see the source of the flashing lights---huge holosigns
that advertised goods and services.  As they came closer, he was able
to read one.  "Sentients---Get It Here!  Anything goes!  If you have
the credits, we have who--or what--you want!"

Just a real classy place, Han thought sarcastically.  He'd seen signs
for pleasure-houses before, but never anything this blatant.

As the Princess dropped "down" toward a large clear space atop a
massive pile of permacrete, Han realized this must be their intended
landing site.

He looked about for a seat to strap himself in, but realized that none
of the other passengers seemed concerned.  They just grabbed a handhold
affixed to the inside hull and hung on.  Han shrugged, glanced at
Chewbacca, and they did likewise.  The Corellian discovered that it was
much more difficult enduring a tricky landing as a passenger than it
was as a pilot.  When you were piloting, you were too busy to think
about the possible danger.

A moment later there was a slight jar, and they were down.

Han and Chewbacca followed the other passengers toward the air-lock,
and found a line ahead of them, waiting to disembark.  Han couldn't
help noticing how hardened and seedy the other passengers appeared.

Tough, space-scarred males, with a scattering of even tougher appearing
females.

Sapients of assorted species, but no families, and no one was old.

That Barabel would fit right in, he thought, conscious of the
comforting weight of his blaster against his thigh.

The airlock door slid open, and the passengers began filing down the
ramp, onto the landing pad.  Han took a deep breath of the local air,
then wrinkled his nose in disgust.  Beside him, Chewie whined softly.

"I know it stinks," Han said, out of the side of his mouth.  "Get used
to it, pal.  We're gonna be here awhile."

Chewbacca's sigh was eloquent, and required no translation.

Han didn't want to seem like too much of a newcomer, so he tried hard
not to stare as they walked down the ramp.  Finally, he was able to get
a good look at his surroundings.

At first glance, Nar Shaddaa reminded him of Coruscant--there was no
open land to be seen at all.  Only buildings, towers, spires,
pedestrian glidewalks, shuttle landing pads, all of it blending into an
unending vista of sentient-created construction.  It resembled a
permacrete forest studded with garish advertising holosigns.

But as he and Chewie walked slowly across the landing pad, Han quickly
realized that even though they were on the topmost levels of the moon,
this place differed greatly from the topmost levels of Imperial Center,
as it was officially referred to these days.

Coruscant's topmost levels were clean, tastefully lighted marvels of
soaring, graceful architecture.  Only when one traveled down, hundreds
of levels down, to the deeper levels of the planet-wide city, did
Coruscant appear dingy and seedy.

The topmost level of Nar Shaddaa looked like the deepest levels of
Coruscant.  If this is a top level--Han thought, catching a glimpse of
a dizzying plunge down into an artificial canyon between two massive,
graffiti emblazoned buildings, I hate to think what it must be like
down there .  . .

Han had been down to the bottommost level of Coruscant---once.  It
wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat.

Glancing surreptitiously around at the cityscape of Nar Shaddaa, Han
made a mental note to NEVER visit the bottom levels of the Smuggler's
Moon.

Overhead, the sky was a strange color, as though they were looking at a
normal blue sky through a dark brownish filter.  Nal Hutta hung there,
as huge and bloated as the sluglike sentients that called it home.  It
took up at least ten degrees of the sky.  Han realized that Nar Shaddaa
must have two nights.  One would be the normal long night, when one
side of the moon was turned away from the sun.  The other relatively
short "night" would occur when the sun was eclipsed by the enormous
bulk of Nal Hutta.

Totality would probably last a couple of hours, Han thought, running a
rough calculation in his head.

Chewie groaned and whined.  "You're right, pal," Han said.  "At least
on Coruscant they planted trees and ornamental shrubs.  I don't think
anything could grow on this slag heap.  Not even a lubellian fungus."

The two headed for a ramp that led down off the landing pad.  The ramp
wound round and round, and was not well lighted.  Although they'd
landed in daylight, the towering spires and structures that flanked the
building with the landing-pad roof blocked out most of the Sunlight as
they descended.  The enclosed ramp quickly grew dark and shadowy.  The
rest of the travelers had long since departed, and they were alone in
the echoing silence of the high-walled, roofed ramp.  Wan glowlights
provided dim illumination.  Han kept his back to the wall, thinking
uneasily that this would be a real good place for an ambush.

His hand dropped to the butt of his blaster---just as a blue-green
splat of energy from a stun beam came out of nowhere!

Han's reflexes had always been quick, and weeks of living on the run
had honed them to a sharp edge.  Before the beam splashed against the
wall, he threw himself out of the way, landing flat.  He rolled across
the permacrete, sideways and down.  When he came up, his blaster was
ready in his hand.

Han caught a quick glimpse of his assailant--a stocky male humanoid,
with a lot of hair on his face.  A Bothan, probably.  A bounty hunter,
almost certainly.  The Corellian snapped off a shot but missed,
blowing a hole in the permacrete wall.  He crouched beside the opposite
wall, watching for the bounty hunter to reappear.

Chewbacca howled.  Han looked across the ramp at his partner, who was
crouched against the curve of the wall, safe for the moment.  He made
an urgent "stay still!"  sign with his hand.  Chewbacca glared at him,
and hefted his bowcaster emphatically.

What's he trying to tell me?  Han wondered.  Chewie roared, and to
anyone who didn't understand Wookiee, the sound he produced would have
seemed nothing more than a howl of rage.  But Han understood.  He
nodded at Chewie, then dived down-ramp, firing blindly as he went.  Two
shots sizzled into the wall, and chips of permacrete flew.

The stun beam screamed past him again, and Han took a deep breath, then
yelled with anguish, doubling over and dropping his blaster.

He hit the permacrete and lay there, as if stunned.  This had better
work .

. .

Steps approached, quick and decisive---and then came the whang of the
bowcaster being fired.  A loud, explosive whump and a short, choked-off
scream followed.

Han rolled over and leaped to his feet, just in time to see his
assailant slump to his knees, anguish imprinted on every hairy
feature.

A Bothan, sure enough.  His hands were clutching a smoking hole in his
chest.

A Bothan bounty hunter.  Han recognized the type, if not the
individual.

As he watched, the Bothan pitched over on his face.  He thrashed,
gurgled, gave one final twitch, then lay still.

Han looked over at his partner and nodded.  "Good shooting, Chewie.

Thanks."

Walking over to the dead Bothan, Han used the toe of his boot to turn
him over onto his back.  The hairy features had gone slack in death.

Han eyed the wound.  "That doesn't look anything like a blaster shot.

Can't be all that many Wookiees here on Nar Shaddaa, so I think we need
to disguise how this guy met his end."

Drawing his blaster, Han aimed, turned his head, then discharged it
full force into the Bothan's chest.  When he looked back, the Bothan
barely had a chest, and all signs of Chewie's distinctive weapon were
erased.

Han searched the bounty hunter, finding a few credits in his pockets,
and a worn flimsy giving a description of one "Han Solo" plus the
information that the quarry was thought to be heading for Nar
Shaddaa.

The bounty posted for Han was seventy-five hundred credits.  Live
capture only, no disintegrations.

Han scanned it, then stuffed it into his pocket.  "Looks like things
might get real exciting, Chewie," he said.  "We'd better stay sharp."

"Urrrrrrnnnn .  . ."

Han wondered what to do about the Bothan.  Should they try to destroy
the body?  Should they just leave him here, as a warning?  Or should
they find someplace to dump him where it would take him a while to be
discovered?

After some consideration, Han decided to just leave the Bothan.  If the
sight of one dead bounty hunter might deter another, so much the
better.

He and chewbacca set off down the last part of the ramp together.  Han
half expected the bounty hunter to have a partner, but no one bothered
them.

Minutes later they emerged onto a street in Nar Shaddaa.  Han stepped
onto a lurching glidewalk and let it carry him along, while he looked
around.

Nar Shaddaa resembled a tri-dee maze puzzle constructed by a lunatic.

Spidery walkways and precipitous ramps joined building to building.

Architectural styles and designs from dozens of worlds jostled shoulder
to shoulder.  Domes, spires, arches, hulking squat rectangles,
parabolas .  . .

the jumble of shapes made his head spin.  Durasteel and permacrete and
glassine and other building materials Han couldn't even begin to
identify were encrusted with filth and graffiti.  Some of the scrawled
names and images were stories high.

Many of the larger structures had obviously been built decades ago,
when Nar Shaddaa was a respectable spaceport, a pleasure moon where
wealthy sentients came to play.  Great buildings that had once been
fine hotels were now gutted and reduced to multilevel hovels, housing
the living detritus of a dozen or more worlds.  The streets and alleys
were subject to a constant bombardment of toxic and noxious wastes
spewed down from higher up.  The air was as bad as one of Nal Hutta's
bogs--or worse.

The scent of food from multiple worlds warred with the stench of
leaking sewers, mingling with the sharp odors of intoxicating spices
and other drugs.  The sharp reek of ship exhaust was ever-present, as
were the ships themselves, roaring and gliding and swooping overhead,
landing and taking off in an endless bizarre ballet.

Some of the hotels and casinos were still in business--most likely
those owned by the Hutt Lords, Han guessed.  Sentients from dozens of
worlds crowded the streets, avoiding eye contact, ever-alert, always
poised

to seek out and profit from another sentient's mistake or moment of
weakness.  Nearly everyone Han saw went armed, with the exception of
the droids.

Han was hungry, but he didn't recognize any of the wares the street
vendors were selling.  "They say there's a Corellian section," he
muttered to Chewie.  "That's probably where we should head."  He didn't
want to admit that he was lost, for fear of attracting thieves or
worse, but a few minutes later Han saw a banner hanging from an awning
(most booths and building fronts possessed awnings--they helped shield
the inhabitants from noxious spatters falling from above) that read in
six languages and Basic: NFORM^TON BROR.

Han stepped off the glidewalk and headed toward the booth, with Chewie
trailing behind.  The "Information Broker" proved to be an ancient
Twi'lek woman, so old that her ropy head-tails were shriveled and
knotty with age.

She eyed Han sharply, then spoke in her own language.  "What you wish
to know, Pilot?"

Han took out a half-credit coin, and laid it on the edge of the booth,
ostentatiously keeping his forefinger on it.  "Two things," he said, in
his own language, knowing she must speak Basic.  "Directions on how to
get to the Corellian section, by the safest and most direct route"--he
paused as she keyed some information onto the ancient datapad before
her, and then when she looked up again--"and .  . . where can I find a
smuggler named Mako Spince?"

The old Twi'lek grinned, showing stained and broken teeth.  "For the
first," she cried, "take this."  She shoved a flimsy into his hand.

Han squinted at it, saw that it was a section of a map.  One blinking
red dot indicated, "You Are Here."  Directions to the Corellian sector
of Nar Shaddaa were clearly indicated.

Han nodded.  "Okay.  What about Mako?"

She gave him an amused glance.  "Go there, Corellian sector, Pilot.

Ask in bars, brothels, gambling dens.  You not find Mako, no.  But he
then find you, Pilot."

Han grinned reluctantly.  "Yeah, that sounds like Mako.  Okay, I guess
you earned it."  He lifted his forefinger off the credit piece, and she
caused it to disappear so fast it was like a magic act.

She was watching him, her little orange-red eyes bright in her wrinkled
countenance.  "Pilot handsome," she said, giving her best approximation
of a coy smile.  The effect, with her teeth, was hideous.  "Oodonnaa
old, but lots of life yet.  Pilot interested?"  The tip of one
head-tail lifted off her shriveled shoulder and twitched invitingly at
the Corellian.

Han's eyes widened.  Minions of Xendor, she's propositioning me!  The

tip of her head-tail made a beckoning motion.  Han backed away,
shaking his head, feeling his cheeks grow warm.  "Uh, no thanks,
madam," he said stiffly.  "I'm honored, but, uh .  . . I've taken a .

. . vow.  Of abstinence.

Yeah.  A vow."

She seemed more amused at his discomfiture than angered by his refusal
as she waved farewell.  Han about-faced and marched away.  Beside him,
Chewbacca gave an unmistakable Wookiee guffaw.  "Yuck it up," Han
snapped.  "See if I stick my neck out for you again."

Chewie just laughed harder.

Two hours later they reached the Corellian sector.  The old Twi'lek's
map and directions proved accurate, but street signs were often
missing, or had been turned around by pranksters.  Han was relieved to
walk into the Corellian sector and see architecture that was plainly
patterned on that of his native world.  Scents wafting from the
sidewalk cafes tantalized him, familiar and reassuring.  "Let's get
something to eat," Han said, waving Chewie to one of the bistros that
looked marginally cleaner than the others.  Chairs and tables that had
once been white were ranged beneath one of the omnipresent awnings, a
green and red one, this time.

Han ordered traladon goulash, and was pleased to find that it was good,
almost like eating back home.  He dug into his plate with relish, while
Chewbacca attacked a large salad and a plate of bloody-rare traladon
ribs.

When Han had finished, he leaned back in his seat, sipping a local ale
and trying to decide if he liked the taste.  When the serving droid
appeared to display his bill, Han asked, "Mako Spince.  Does he ever
come here?  Medium height, broad shoulders, short dark hair, graying at
the temples?"

The droid's head swiveled side to side.  "No, sir, I have not seen the
person you describe."

"Tell your boss I was askin' about him, okay?"  Han said.  He finished
the last of his ale, then he and Chewbacca headed down the street
toward the most garish of the bars.  Short night was rapidly falling
now, as Y'Toub was eclipsed behind the bulk of Nal Hutta.  The real
night was still many hours away, and would last more than forty
standard hours.  As the artificial lights came up, Han wondered if he'd
ever get used to such long nights.  It probably didn't matter, since
the moon that was a city never really slept.

At The Smuggler's Rest, Han asked again for Mako Spince, and naturally,
nobody had ever heard of him.  They did the same thing at The Lucky
Star, the tattered remains of what had once been an elegant casino,
and then at two or three more bars.  Han was getting used to the word
"no."  He sighed and trudged onward.  The Smuggler's Hideaway.  The
Corellian Cafe.  The Golden Orb.

The Exotic Exhibit (LIVE Dancers!  LIVE Shows!).

The Comet Casino.

The Drunken Drummer.

By now Han's feet were beginning to hurt from pounding the permacrete,
going up and down ramps.  Places on Nar Shaddaa were often frustrating
to reach unless one had wings, or a jet pak.  You could stand on a
balcony and look over at your destination, only ten meters away, and
yet have to walk for fifteen minutes, up and down rampways, to reach
it.

Some of the buildings had ropes or wires strung between them, but Han
wasn't desperate or foolhardy enough to trust himself to swing hand
over hand across a twenty- or forty- or hundred-story abyss.

The walkways between buildings were frequently in poor repair, and
after an assessing look, Han often decided to take the long way
around.

Some of them might have held him, but he doubted they'd stand up to the
Wookiee's weight.

He was beginning to wonder whether they should just give up their
search and try to find a flophouse that would be a safe place to grab a
few hours' sleep.  Thinking back, Han realized that it had been nearly
twelve hours since he'd awakened on the Princess.

He turned his head as they walked by the mouth of a smelly alley to
suggest this to Chewbacca when a hand reached out of the alley and
grabbed him by the throat.  Half a second later, Han was dragged up
against a hard humanoid body.  He felt the muzzle of a blaster press
his temple.

"Not one step," a deep, congenial voice said over his shoulder,
addressing Chewbacca, "or I'll scramble his brains till they run out
his ears."

The Wookiee halted, snarling, showing teeth, but obviously unwilling to
attack in the face of that threat.

Han knew that voice.  He gasped, but couldn't get any breath to speak
with.  The iron hand tightened on his throat.  "Mako!"  he tried to
say.

"Maa--" was all he managed to get out.

"Don't cry to your mama to me, kid," the voice said.  "Now who in the
Name of Xendor are you, and why were you askin' about me?"

Han gulped, gagged, but still couldn't speak.

Chewbacca growled, then pointed at Mako's quivering captive.

"Haaaaannnn," the Wookiee said, twisting his mouth around the human
name with great difficulty.  "Haaaannnn .  . ."

"Huh?"  the voice said, sounding stunned.  "Han?"

Abruptly Han was released, then swung around.  As he gasped, hands to
his throat, his captor, who was indeed Mako Spince, grabbed him in a
hug so enthusiastic that it deprived him of breath yet again.  "Han!

Kid, it's great to see you!  How ARE you, you old sonofagun?"  A hard
fist thumped the younger Corellian between the shoulder blades.

Han gasped and wheezed, only to lose his breath again.  Mako helpfully
slapped him on the back, which didn't improve matters.

"Mako .  . ."  he managed, finally.  "It's been a long time.  You've
changed."

"So have you," his friend said.

They stood there studying each other.  Mako's hair was long enough to
brush his shoulders now, and there were more gray threads amid the
black.  He wore a fierce, bristling mustache, and had gained some
weight, mostly in his shoulders.  A narrow scar ran down the line of
his jaw.  Han decided he was glad Mako was on his side.  He didn't look
like anyone Han wanted to have as an enemy.  He wore a scarred jumpsuit
of spacer's leather, hide so thin and flexible, and yet so tough, that
it was said it could maintain internal pressure even in vacuum.

The two friends stared at each other, sizing each other up, then both
burst out with questions.  They stopped, laughing.  "One at a time!"

Mako said.

"Okay," Han said.  "You go first .  . ."

Minutes later, they were all seated in a tavern, drinking, talking, and
spouting questions.  Han told Mako his story, and found that his old
friend wasn't surprised to learn that he'd left the service.  "I knew
you'd never be able to go along with the slaving, Han," Mako said.  "I
remember how it used to set your teeth on edge to even see an Imperial
slaving detail.

Made you crazy, boy.  I knew the first time they tried to get you to
boss slaves, that would be the end of your brilliant career."

Han looked sheepish as he raised his second tankard of Alderaanian ale
to his lips.  "You know me too well," he admitted.  "But what could I
do, Mako?

Nyklas was gonna kill Chewie!"

Mako's ice-blue eyes were smiling with unaccustomed warmth.  "Nothing
else you could have done, kid," he said.

"So, Mako, how've you been doing?"  Han asked.  "How's the business?"

"Booming, Han," Mako said.  "The Empire's restrictions are makin' us
all rich, runnin' contraband of all kinds these days.  Spice, yeah,
that's

still big.  But we do nearly as well these days smuggling arms,
weapons components, power paks, all that kind of thing.  Luxuries like
perfume and Askajian fabric, too.  Lemme tell ya, Han, old Palpatine
wouldn't rest nearly as easy nights if he knew how dissatisfied with
his rule some worlds are getting."

"So there's work here?"  Han asked eagerly.  "Work for pilots?  You
know I'm good, Mako."

Mako signaled the server droid for another round of drinks.  "Kid,
you're one of the best, and I'll let everyone know that," Mako said,
slapping Han on the shoulder.  "Badure didn't name you 'Slick' for
nothin'!  Tell you what, want to work for me to get your feet wet?  I
could use a good copilot, and while you're ridin' with me, I can show
you some of the best runs.  I'll introduce you to all the other
runners, too.  Some of 'em are bound to need help."

Han hesitated.  "Could Chewie here come along?"

Mako shrugged and took a huge swig of ale.  "Can he shoot?  I can
always use a good gunner."

"Yeah," Han said, finishing his own tankard with more confidence than
he felt.  Chewie was a dead shot with his bowcaster, but he'd only been
training as a gunner for a month or so.  "He can shoot."

"It's all set, then," Mako said.  "Listen, kid, you found yourself a
landing zone yet?"

"A landing zone," in smuggler's lingo, meant a room or flat.  Han shook
his head and felt the room lurch slightly.  "I was hoping you could
recommend a decent place," he said.  "Not too expensive."

"Sure I can!"  Mako said, slurring ever so slightly.  "But why don' you
two come stay with me for a day or so, till we c'n get you set up."

"Well..."  Han glanced over at Chewie, "sure, we'd love to, wouldn' we,
of' buddy?"

"Hrrrrrrnnnnnnnn!"

Mako insisted on paying for the drinks, then the three left, heading
for Mako's digs.  The two humans were rather the worse for the ale
they'd consumed, but Mako assured them it wasn't far.  They headed a
few levels down, where the buildings were grimier and seamier.  "Don'
be fooled," Mako said, waving a hand at their surroundings.  "I've got
plenty of room, 'n my place is fixed up decent.  But living down here,
you're not as much a target for thieves and burglars as the folks
livin' topside."  He jerked a thumb upward.

Han eyed their surroundings, and concluded that back in his days as a
burglar he'd have given this area a clean miss.  It was
unprepossessing.

Drunks weaved along the permacrete, and the glidewalks down on this

level were permanently broken.  Beggars and pickpockets eyed them, but
didn't approach the trio.  Han figured that was because Chewbacca was
wearing his fiercest "Don't mess with me or I'll rip your arm off"
look.

But suddenly, what Han had assumed was a heap of old, grimy rags
stirred.

From within the rags a skeletal human hand appeared, and Han caught
just a glimpse of a beaky-nosed, nearly toothless face.  An ancient
crone, whose eyes shone bright with .  . . what?  Drugs?  Madness?

Oh, no!  Not again!  What is it with all the old women on Nar
Shaddaa?

Can't wait to get their hands on young pilots?

Han drew back, but the liquor had slowed his reflexes, and he wasn't
quick enough.  A second talonlike hand shot out of the heap of tatters
and grabbed his wrist.  "Tell your fortunes, good sirs?  Tell your
fortunes, masters?"  The voice was shrill and squeaky, and Han couldn't
place the accent.  "The descendant of Vima Sunrider has foreseen the
future, good sirs!  For a credit she will tell you what lies ahead."

"Lemme go!"  Han tried to yank his hand free from the filthy claw, but
the ancient woman's grip was surprisingly strong.  He fumbled for a
credit coin, just to make her let go of him.  He didn't want to have to
stun the crone--at her age a stun blast might kill her.  "Here!  Take
th' credit and lemme go!"  He dropped the money in her lap.

"Vima no beggar!"  the old woman insisted indignantly.  "She earns her
credit!  Foresees the future, yesssss she does!  Vima knows, yessssss
.

. ."

Han stopped and sighed, rolling his eyes.  At least she wasn't
propositioning him.  "Go ahead, then," he snapped.

"Ah, young captain .  . ."  she half crooned, prying open his fist and
staring at his palm, then up at his face.  "So young .  . . so much
lies before you.  A long road, first the smuggler's road, then the way
of the warrior.  Glory you will have, yessssss.  But first you must
face terrible danger.  Betrayal, yessssss.., betrayal from those you
trust.  Betrayal .  .

." Her eyes fixed for a second on Mako, and the older man and Han
exchanged exasperated glances.

"So I'm gonna be betrayed," Han said impatiently.  "Will I get rich?

Thass all I care about."

"Ahhhhhhh .  . ."  she cackled shrilly.  "My young captain, yessssss ·
. .

wealth will come to you, but only after you no longer care about it."

Han burst out laughing.  "That'll be th' day!  Grandma, gettin' rich is
ALL I care about!"

"Yesssss, that is true.  Much will you do for money.  But more will you
do for love."  "Great," Han snarled, trying again to yank free.  "Thass
it, I've had

'nuff of this garbage," he growled, and with a hard flex of his wrist,
he broke her grip.  "Thanks for nothing .  . . nutty old witch.  Don't
ever bother me again."

Turning unsteadily on his heel, Han stalked away, scowling, with
Chewbacca and Mako in his wake.  He could hear Mako snickering, and
Chewie was still chuckling.  Han scowled.  The crazy old thing had made
a fool of him!

The permacrete beneath his feet seemed to lurch slightly, and all Han
could think about was how good it was going to feel to stretch out on
Mako's couch, or floor, and grab some sleep.

Behind him, he could hear the old woman cackling softly, crooning
nonsense to herself.

Han hardly remembered climbing the rampway to Mako's flat, and he
didn't remember falling onto the couch at all.  He was instantly
asleep, and this time, he didn't dream.

When he awakened the next morning, he'd forgotten all about the old
woman and her "foretelling."

Aruk the Hutt was doing what he loved most in all the universe .  . .

totaling his profits.  The powerful Hutt Lord, head of the Besadii clan
and its kajidic, bent over his datapad, his stubby fingers busy as he
instructed the machine to calculate a percentage of profits based on a
twenty percent yearly growth in product, projected three years into the
future.

The resulting graph and accompanying figures made him laugh softly, a
booming "Hell, hell, hell .  . ."  in the solitude of his huge
office.

No other living thing was present, only Aruk's favorite scribe, who
stood poised in the corner, metallically gleaming, waiting until its
master summoned it from its artificial repose.

Aruk read the graph again, and blinked his bulbous eyes.  He was an old
Hutt, approaching his ninth century, and he'd reached the corpulent
stage that most Hutts achieved past middle age.  It was now such an
effort for him to get around under his own power that he seldom
bothered anymore.

Even the warnings of his personal physician about impending circulatory
problems failed to make him exercise these days.  Instead, he relied on
his anti-gravity repulsor sled.  With it, he could go anywhere.  Aruk's
sled was top quality, the best money could buy.  After all, why should
the head of the Besadii kajidic deny himself anything?

But Aruk was not one of those sybaritic Hutts who relished the
pleasures of the flesh.  True, he was a gourmet, and often a gourmand,
but he

didn't maintain entire palaces filled with slaves to cater to his
slightest--or most perverse--whim, the way some Hutts did.

Aruk had heard that Jiliac's nephew, Jabba, kept several female dancing
humanoids--humanoids, of all things!--on leashes near him at all
times.

Aruk considered such indulgences distasteful and extravagant.  The
Desilijic clan had always had a weakness for fleshly pleasures.

Jiliac's taste was better than Jabba's, but he enjoyed hedonistic
excess just as much as his nephew.

And that is why we will prevaiAruk thought.  The Besadii clan is
willing to endure a bit of privation, if necessary, to gain our ends
.

. .

Aruk knew it wouldn't be easy, though.  Jiliac and Jabba were clever
and ruthless, and their clan was as wealthy as his own.  For years the
two richest and most powerful Hutt clans had contended with each other
for the most lucrative ventures.  Neither clan had eschewed methods
such as assassination, kidnapping, and terrorism to gain their ends.

Aruk knew that Jabba and Jiliac would do almost anything to bring
Besadii down.  But the path to ultimate power was money, and Aruk was
pleased with how many credits the Ylesian project was bringing Besadii
every year.

Soon, Aruk thought, we will have so many credits that we will be able
to wipe them off the face of Nal Hutta, eliminate them as we would any
blight on crops or pestilence in our people.  Soon, the Besadii will
rule Nal Hutta unopposed .  . .

Aruk, and his dead sibling, Zavval, had been the ones who'd thought of
setting up colonies on Ylesia, and using religious pilgrims as slave
labor to turn raw spice into the finished product.  The only thing
they'd feared was a slave uprising, and it had been Aruk who'd come up
with the idea of the One, the All, and the Exultation to tie it all
together.

Most Hutts knew of the t'landa Til ability to project warm, pleasurable
emotions and sensations into the minds of most humanoid species.  But
it had taken Aruk's quick thinking, his cleverness, to come up with the
idea of the Exultation as a mind-numbing "reward" for a day's hard
labor in the spice factories.

Once he'd realized how the t'landa Til ability could be utilized, it
had been a simple matter for Aruk to make up some doctrine, compose a
few hymns, and write several chants and litanies.  And that was all it
took to produce a "religion" that credulous fools belonging to inferior
species could embrace.

Production in the factories was excellent--had been excellent all
along.

Only once, five years ago, had the Ylesian enterprise not turned a tidy
profit.  That was the year that wretched Corellian, Han Solo, had

destroyed the glitterstim factory.  And destroyed Zavval, too, though
the financial loss was the one Aruk regretted the most.  He did not
think himself unduly harsh or unsympathetic for caring so little that
his sibling had died.  No, he was reacting as any true Hutt would.

Aruk studied one item on the Ylesian colony's project budget.  The sum
of seventy-five hundred credits to be handed over to the person or
persons responsible for Han's live capture.  "No disintegrations" was
the primary guideline.  "Live capture and delivery."

Seventy-five hundred credits.  A twenty-five-hundred-credit raise since
the bounty was first posted.  Apparently Solo was proving .  . .

difficult.

Well, this new bounty was certainly large enough to tempt many hunters,
though Aruk had seen larger ones.  Still, for a man so young, it was a
large bounty.

Was it really necessary to pay extra for the "live capture" option?

Aruk had supervised many torture sessions, coolly and efficiently, but
unlike many of his people, he took no pleasure in tormenting sentients
to gain his own ends.  If the Corellian Solo were to be brought before
him, Aruk would not bother to torture him before ordering his death.

But Teroenza was a different story.  The t'landa Til were vengeful
people, and it was obvious to Aruk that the High Priest of Ylesia would
not rest until he could personally supervise the long and exceedingly
painful death of Han Solo.  Moment by moment, scream by scream, groan
by groan, Solo would die in the most exquisite agony, while Teroenza
savored every second of it.

But did Aruk want to pay extra, just so Teroenza could be satisfied?

Aruk considered.  Lines of concentration formed above his bulbous,
slit-pupiled eyes.  After a moment he released his breath in a short,
decisive "houf."

Very well, he would authorize the payment of the bounty.  Let Teroenza
look forward to his fun.  The anticipation made the High Priest happy,
and happy underlings were productive underlings.

Aruk was a bit concerned about Teroenza, actually.  The t'landa Til was
definitely running the Ylesian operation, no matter how much he and
that idiot Kibbick tried to disguise that fact.  Aruk frowned.  Ylesia
was a Hutt operation.  It wasn't proper for anyone other than a Hutt to
give the orders there.  And yet .  . . Kibbick was the only
high-ranking Hutt in the Besadii clan who was available at the moment
to take the Ylesian posting.

And Kibbick, there was no denying it, was a fool.

If only I dared send Durga, Aruk thought.  He has the will and the
intelligence to rule Ylesia properly, to remind Teroenza of just who
his masters are...

Durga was Aruk's only offspring.  He was still a very young Hutt,
barely past the age of legal responsibility and true self-awareness;
only a hundred standard years old.  But he was smart, ten times more
intelligent and clever than Kibbick.

When Durga was born, all the other Hutts urged Aruk to roll over on the
helpless newborn, smothering him, because of the dark birthmark that
spread like a foul liquid from his forehead down over one eye and
cheek.

They said that such a marred countenance would make the youngster
socially unacceptable, and speculated that he would be feebleminded all
his life.

Ancient tales mentioned that such birthmarks were supposed to be omens
of disaster, and the elder Hutts predicted all sorts of terrible things
should Durga be allowed to survive.

But Aruk had looked down at his tiny, squirming offspring and sensed
that his child would grow up to be a worthy Hutt, intelligent, cunning,
and, when necessary, ruthless.  So he had taken young Durga up into his
arms and solemnly pronounced that here was his offspring and heir, and
warned the nay-sayers to be silent.

Aruk had seen to it that Durga was well educated, and had everything a
growing Hutt could want.  The young Hutt responded to his parent's
interest, and the bond between the two had become very close.

Staring down at the graphs showing the Ylesian finances, Aruk made a
mental note to share his findings with Durga later that day.  He was
grooming his offspring to take on the leadership of the clan after his
own passing.

These figures are so encouraging; Aruk thought, that we should put some
of this profit into founding yet another colony on Ylesia.  Seven
colonies can produce much more processed spice than six.  And we can
increase our missionary force by recruiting more t'landa Til males and
sending them out to lure in more pilgrims."

Aruk's greatest dream was to someday expand their spice processing and
slaving operation to a second world in the Ylesian system.  He knew he
probably wouldn't live to see two worlds producing at full capacity,
but Durga definitely would.

There was only one problem, and that was Desilijic.  Aruk knew that
Jiliac and Jabba watched every move he and his high-ranking clan
members made, and they were ready to pounce at the slightest sign of
weakness.  They were ruthless, the Desilijic, and they were jealous of
the Besadii clan and their success on Ylesia.  Aruk knew only too well
how much Jabba and Jiliac would give to destroy them all and take over
the Ylesian operation.

Still, it was but a sign of the Besadii clan's extraordinary success
and accomplishment that they be so envied.  Hutt life was full of move
and

countermove.  That was the way of it, and frankly, Aruk thrived on the
intrigue, the danger.  He wouldn't have changed things if he could
have.

With a sigh of contentment, Aruk the Hutt turned off his datapad and
stretched, rubbing his bulbous eyes.  Ahhhhh .  . . a good afternoon's
work.

Time for dinner, and a chance to spend time with his offspring.  How
pleasant that he had such good news to impart!

Guiding his repulsor sled with minuscule touches from his thick
fingers, Aruk glided from the room, in search of food and companionship
. . .

four

Upping the Ante

Five months and six bounty hunters later, Han and Chewbacca had settled
down into life on Nar Shaddaa.  Han found them a little apartment in
the Corellian sector, a megablock or so from Mako's place, and only one
level below it.  The little flat was set up like a small suite, with
two tiny bedrooms with foldout beds, a minuscule kitchen/living area,
and refresher unit.  But they didn't spend much time at home.  As soon
as Mako had introduced Han to his associates, the young Corellian found
steady work.

Good pilots were always valued on Nar Shaddaa.

During his first month, Han filled in as a shift pilot on the Nar
Shaddaa to Nal Hutta shuttle, ferrying Hutts and their underlings back
and forth from the Smuggler's Moon to the Hutt homeworld.  Han had
hoped to meet either Jabba or Jiliac that way, but the two top Hutt
Lords of the Desilijic clan had their own private shuttles and didn't
need to take public ones.  Han hung on to the referral Tagta had given
him, but decided he'd better learn his way around before he applied for
jobs piloting for the Hutts.  They were tough masters to please.

Just about the time Han's temporary job ended, the young Corellian went
out with Mako on several runs, hauling loads of spice from the Twi'lek
homeworld, Ryloth, to a staging area on Roon.  There Han met up with an
old acquaintance of Mako's, a craggy-faced, aging smuggler named Zeen
A-fit.

Zeen was heading off to Smuggler's Run with a shipment of food, and
when he mentioned that he'd like company, Han and Chewbacca offered to
ride along.

Smuggler's Run was a hideout for sentients on the lam who were even
"hotter" than the denizens of Nar Shaddaa.  Smuggler's Run was a series
of hideouts--actually, artificial environments whittled out of several
large asteroids located in the middle of a huge asteroid field.  The
main one was a smelly hole bored into a large asteroid that was known
as Skip 1.

Zeen Afit showed Han the way into the Run, through the treacherous,
constantly changing asteroid field, though he wouldn't let him pilot
his clunky old freighter, the Corona.  "Next time, kid," he promised,
in his breathless, wheezy voice, as his fingers flew over the
controls.

"I promise you.  This time, just watch old Uncle Zeen and enjoy the
ride."

Han gulped as Corona narrowly missed colliding with a jagged, hurtling
rock that would have reduced them and their ship to molecules.  "If I'm
still alive when the next time comes," he pointed out, involuntarily
ducking as another asteroid nearly grazed their viewscreen.  "Blast it,
Zeen, slow down!  Are you crazy?"

"Only way to fly an asteroid field is fast and by the seat of your
pants, kid," Zeen Alit said, never taking his eyes from his
instruments.  "If you try and tiptoe in, chances are you'll get smashed
before you can wipe your nose.  I always just fly right in, keepin' my
eyes open, and I'm still here."

When they reached the fabled Smuggler's Run, Han and Chewbacca warily
followed Zeen Alit into Skip 1, to meet "the gang," as he called his
friends.  Han was introduced to a sallow, thin man with scars on his
face named Jarril, and another, older man with a receding hairline who
incongruously went by the name "Kid DXo'ln."

Skip 1 was a regular warren of rooms, dining halls, gambling dens,
bars, and drug hideaways.  Han was frankly nervous, as he realized that
here, even more than on Nar Shaddaa, there was no law.  None.

He could die here, and no one but Chewie (presuming the Wookiee was
still alive himself, an unlikely assumption) would ever know or care.

Han was careful not to let any of his nervousness show.  He had grown
up with lawless people, had seen plenty of degenerate spirits by the
time he was ten.  He'd just never encountered quite so many
bloodthirsty, desperate lost beings in one place before.

As he and Zeen headed for the bar, Han noticed the runnel of
green-ish-yellow gooey liquid oozing along a channel cut into the
middle of the stone floor.  Chewbacca snuffled, then growled in
protest.  "Yeah, that really stinks," Han said, his nostrils
twitching.

"What the heck is that stuff, Zeen?  It's on the walls, too .  . ."

"Oh, it's just the ooze we gotta put up with, kid," the smuggler told
him.

"Stinks, don't it?  Every so often we get to thinkin' we ought to
find

out where it comes from and dam it up.  It's some kinda protoorganic
compound, they say, mixed with sulfur."

Han's nose wrinkled.  The ooze smelled like rancid meat mixed with
rotting vegetation, laden with a liberal dose of sulfur.  He'd smelled
worse, but not recently.

As they stepped over the ooze channel and headed over to the bar, Han's
attention was caught and held by a beautiful woman with long black hair
who definitely stood out in the mix of unsavory smuggler types.  She
wore a short skirt that showed off magnificent legs, and a top that was
little more than a cropped shirt tied tightly to show off her bosom and
midriff.

Han stared at her, thinking that she was one of the most striking women
he'd ever seen.  Suddenly he realized she was looking back at him.  Han
quickly essayed his most charming smile.

She walked toward them.  Han's pulse skipped a beat, but then he
realized she was regarding him with a marked lack of enthusiasm, as
though he were a side of traladon meat that had gone green around the
edges.  Han's smile stiffened on his lips.  Guess the attraction isn't
mutual...

"Han, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine," Zeen said, indicating the
woman.  "Sinewy Ana Blue, one of the top smugglers around.  She also
runs a wicked sabacc table.  Blue, meet Han Solo, a new kid I brought
along for the ride.  And this is his pal, Chewie."

Han nodded cordially.  "Pleasure to meet you--" Noting his hesitation
over what to call her, she smiled, revealing a shining blue crystal
tooth in the front of her mouth.  "Call me Blue," she said, in a voice
that couldn't help being sultry.  "Han Solo, you said?

And"--she turned to Han's companion--"Chewie?"

"Chewbacca," Han supplied.

"Pleased to meet you, Chewbacca," she said.  "Have you met Wynni
yet?"

Chewie cocked his head and whined a soft question.

Sinewy Ana Blue smiled at him.  "You'll know her when you meet her,"
she promised cryptically.

"So," Han said, "may I buy you a drink .  . . Blue?"

She glanced at him, seemed to consider, then smiled faintly.  "No, I
don't think so," she said.  "You're cute, but not my type, Solo.  I
like them a bit more .  . . seasoned."

Zeen snickered.  "She's particular, our Blue," he said, noting Han's
chagrin at the open rebuff.  "You young, single types don't offer
enough · .  . sport.  She likes the lure of the chase, especially when
it's part of the thrill that comes from stealin' what don't belong to
you."

Sinewy Ana Blue gave Zeen a long, up and down stare.  "You like to
live dangerously these days, don't you?"  she drawled.  Then she turned
back to Han.  "Do you play sabacc, Han Solo?"

Han nodded.  "I've tried it," he said cautiously.

She gave him a slow, alluring smile.  "Come around, then.  I'd love to
have some fresh blood in my game."

With a final nod to Chewbacca, she turned and walked away.  Han watched
her go with an admiring headshake.  "Minions of Xendor .  . . that is
one fine-looking woman," he muttered.

"Pure sabacc," Zeen agreed.  "Prime grade ore."

"And she only goes after married guys?"

"Let's just say she prefers the thrill of the hunt," Zeen said.

"Anyone that's too available, too eager to get caught, isn't
challenging enough prey."

"You make her sound like a Devaronian fur-spider," Han said, watching
Sinewy Ana Blue's eminently watchable backside vanish amid the crowd of
talking, laughing, drinking smugglers.

"Not too far off, kid," Zeen said with a chuckle and a wink.  "Our Blue
is one of a kind.  She--" He broke off and whirled as a loud roar
reverberated through the bar.  Han spun on his heel to find a Wookiee
standing in the doorway.  She was big for a Wookiee female, as tall and
muscular as Chewie.  Her blue eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Han's
companion, who was busily looking anywhere but at the newcomer.

"Who's that?"  Han asked Zeen.

"Wynni," the senior smuggler replied with a wink and a leer.

Han and Chewbacca watched as the Wookiee came over to them.  She
growled a throaty greeting at Chewie, totally ignoring his human
companion.  Then she reached out one hairy paw and ran it admiringly
down Chewbacca's long arm.

Han turned to Zeen.  "I think she likes him," he said dryly, in
Basic.

"Looks like," Zeen agreed· "I think your buddy there is being' offered
what you weren't, pal.  'Cept he don't look any too happy about it."

The craggy-faced smuggler was correct.  Chewbacca looked around wildly
as the female Wookiee pressed up close to him, growling suggestively.

Catching Han's eye, Chewie shook his head in a slight but emphatic
movement.  Han took pity on his friend.  "Hey, Chewie," he said loudly,
"we gotta go."

Wynni turned around and snarled at him.  Clearly, she didn't like
having her seduction attempt interfered with.  Han looked at her and

shrugged.  "Sorry," he said.  "We've got somewhere we have to be.  A
previous engagement."

Wynni plainly didn't believe him.  She growled low in her throat.  Han
realized that they were drawing a crowd.  Kid DXo'ln, Zeen's balding
friend, stepped forward.  "It ain't polite to accuse people of lyin',
Wynni," he told the Wookiee.  "Han here is tellin' the truth.  I just
signed him and his Wookiee pal on to ride as copilot and gunner to
Kessel aboard the Starfire.  Matter of fact, my droids should be
finished loadin' our cargo by now, Solo.  Let's go."

Han smiled sweetly at Wynni and shrugged, with a "What can you do?" 
expression.  Chewbacca didn't bother trying to hide how glad he was to
get away from the predatory female.

As they headed up the corridor toward Skip l's landing bay, Han gave
Kid a grateful smile.  "Thanks," he said.  "For a while it looked like
I wasn't going to be able to get Chewie out of there without making her
mad."

Kid DXo'ln grinned.  "Yeah, and upsettin' a lovestruck Wookiee ain't
exactly a smart thing to do.  So, what do you want to do now?  You
actually up for going on to Kessel with me?"

"Sure," Han said.  "I've always wanted to go to Kessel.  Are you going
on the Run after you off-load your cargo there?"

"I don't know," Kid replied.  "Maybe, if there's a cargo waitin' for me
to pick up.  But there's bound to be somebody you can catch up with
who'll take you on the Run."

Han had heard of the Kessel Run, that ultimate test of a smuggler
pilot's expertise.  Traveling the Kessel Run allowed a pilot to
shortcut across a large, uninhabited area of space that would otherwise
have taken a vessel two days or more to skirt.  But the direct route
from Kessel back to the standard trade routes lay perilously close to
the Maw, a massive collection of black holes that distorted both space
and time.  Many a ship had been lost to the Maw, lost with all hands.

Once they were safely aboard the Starfire, Kid waved a hand at the
controls.  "I hear you're pretty good, Solo.  Want to try takin' her
through the field?"

Han nodded, his mouth suddenly dry.  Remembering Zeen's advice, he
forced himself to head confidently into the field, instead of holding
back.  He remembered stories told by the pilots who'd been aboard
Trader's Luck that indicated Zeen had been right--most asteroid fields
could be navigated by someone with steely nerves and quick reflexes.

Holding his breath, Han sent the beat-up little freighter skittering
from side to side, not slacking off on their speed.

Kid sat back in the pilot's seat and just watched.  Only once did he
interfere, and that was to increase the ship's acceleration a notch, to
avoid a smaller asteroid that was orbiting a larger one.  The bigger
asteroid had hidden its small companion.  The Starfire zipped by so
close that the deflector shields activated and the ship shuddered in
protest.

But they avoided the impact.

Han bit his lip when the chunk of rock, half the size of the ship,
tumbled away behind him.  "Sorry, Kid.  I should've seen it."

"No way you could'ye seen it, Solo," the older man said.  "I just been
flying into and out of the Run for so many years that I practically got
all these rocks memorized.  I knew that one had a baby taggin' behind,
'cause I've seen it before."

When they finally emerged into clear space, Han felt as though he'd
been piloting for a day instead of half an hour.  He wanted to slump
back into his seat, but a glance at Kid DXo'ln showed Kid, head tilted
back, eyes closed, apparently asleep.

Han looked at Chewie, shrugged, and said, "Take over a second while I
plot us a course to Kessel, pal."

Minutes later Han retrieved the final coordinates from the
navicomputer, and then finalized his course.  He looked over at Kid
DXo'ln.  One watery blue eye opened.  "Punch it, Solo," the raspy voice
told him.  Han grinned.  "Sure."

Moments later the bright pinpoints of realspace elongated before them,
and the Starfire shot down a seeming tunnel of starlines.  Han realized
he was grinning like a kid.  It had been a long time since he'd done
any real piloting that wasn't just drills.

When he'd been in the Navy, he'd served shifts as a helmsman on the big
Imperial ships, but his favorite duty had been flying TIE fighters.

Small, nimble, and deadly, they required pinpoint control to maneuver
and fire, but they had no shielding at all, which made them very
vulnerable.  Few TIE pilots lived to grow old.

When the Starfire emerged into realspace, Han took one look at the Maw
and drew a quick breath.  Kid DXo'ln, who had finally awakened from his
nap, stretched and grinned.  "Impressive, ain't it, Solo?"

"I'll say," Han muttered.

The Maw stretched before them, a collection of black holes that were
sucking the life from the nearby stars.  Long streamers of gas threaded
their way into the monstrous whirlpools of gas and dust that marked the
location of the black holes.  The holes themselves were invisible, of
course.  The reason they were called "black" holes was that their
gravity was so strong that nothing, not even light, could escape their
pull.

But the gas and dust marked their location.  There were quite a few of
them.

So far as Han knew, the Maw was unique in the galaxy.

"Kessel's right on the edge, Solo," Kid said.  "Here, I'll show you the
coordinates on the screen."

Han studied readouts on the lumpy, misshapen little planet that orbited
a small, fierce, blue-white star.  Kessel was orbited by its small,
solitary moon.  "The planet isn't even spherical," he muttered.  "It
doesn't mass enough to hold onto an atmosphere."

"Yeah, I know.  You gotta wear a breath mask there, but they keep a
couple of atmosphere-generating plants runnin', so we won't have to put
on vacuum gear," Kid told him.

Han frowned down at the readouts.  "I didn't know Kessel had a moon."

"Yeah, there's rumors that the Imps have been scouting it, that they
might actually build something there.  Crazy, if you ask me."

"There are Imperial ships around here?"  Kid's revelation worried
Han.

Chewie was still an escaped slave, after all.  They'd just love to
recapture him.

"Yeah, I ran into a guy who works for Imp security as a snitch, and he
told me the Imps are considering putting some kind of big hushhush
installation right smack in the middle of the Maw," Kid said
thoughtfully.

Han stared at the whirling vortices of dust and gas that marked the
black holes and shook his head.  "A base?  In there?  They're crazy,
all right!"

Kid shrugged.  "There's more space than you'd guess between those black
holes.  Some smugglers say that you can actually shorten your Kessel
Run by skimming close to the Maw."

Han frowned as he studied his readouts.  "You mean make the Run in less
time."

Kid chuckled, a creaky sound.  "Well, that, too.  But they say that
both time and space get warped, distorted so close to the Maw.  So you
can not only make your run faster, but actually shave off part of the
distance."

"What's the record?"  Han asked curiously.

"Dunno," Kid DXo'ln said.  "I think it's down below ten hours these
days, but I never been crazy enough to try for it.  Take my advice, and
don't play games with the Maw, Solo."

Han tended to think Kid's advice was good.  Skimming the Maw seemed
like the act of an idiot--a suicidal idiot.

Han set the Starfire down on Kessel, and the three smugglers donned
breath masks and got out.  There was a small cantina that served as a

recreation area where pilots and crews could get something to eat and
drink while waiting for the loading droids to fill their cargo bays.

Kid DXo'ln stayed behind to oversee the loading, leaving Han and Chewie
to grab a quick bite.  Ten minutes later Han was halfway through a
hasty meal and a glass of Polanis ale.  Privately, he wondered what to
do now.  Kid DXo'ln had made it clear that he was bound for parts he
preferred to remain unknown--at least to Han--when the Starfire was
finished loading.

The older man had commented that he was sure Han could catch a ride
back to Smuggler's Run, or back to Nar Shaddaa, probably via the Kessel
Run, from here.

Kessel boasted no facilities for overnight guests.  Han glanced around
when the cantina door opened, and then his eyes widened as he beheld a
familiar face.

"Roa!"  he exclaimed, waving at the older man who'd just entered and
was removing his breathing mask.  "Hey, Roa!  C'mon over and I'll buy
you a drink!"

Roa--if he had another name, Han had never heard it--was a big, stocky
man with graying hair and a charming smile.  He had a roguish twinkle
in his blue eyes, and a sense of humor that made him friends easily.

It seemed that everyone on Nar Shaddaa knew Roa, and he knew them.

Roa and Mako were old friends, and Roa had been one of the first pals
Mako had introduced Han to when he'd arrived on Nar Shaddaa.

Roa had been in the smuggling business for more than twenty years,
which made him the grand old man of the trade.  He enjoyed playing the
role of "shepherd" to some of the younger smugglers, and was generous
about sharing what he'd learned during his career.

Unlike many of the smugglers, who were little better than pirates, Roa
had his own private "code" that he taught the young smugglers who rode
shotgun with him on his old but meticulously maintained speedy
freighter, the Wayfarer.  Roa had taught Han, as he'd taught so many
others: never ignore a call for help .  . . never take from those who
are poorer than yourself.., never play sabacc unless you're prepared to
lose, always be prepared to make a quick getaway .  . . never pilot a
ship under the influence.

Roa's Rules, the smugglers called them.

Now, seeing his young friend, Roa's friendly, open face broke into a
wide grin.  "Han, what're you doing here?"

Han gestured to the seat beside him.  "It's a long story, Roa.  Mostly
we wound up here because a female Wookiee took too much of a liking to
Chewie, here."

Roa chuckled as he threw a leg across the bar stool.  "Chewbacca,
don't tell me you got to meet Wynni!"

Chewie moaned aloud, rolling his blue eyes expressively.  Roa
guffawed.

"Oh, c'mon, Chewie, how bad could it be, entertaining an amorous lady
Wookiee?"

Chewbacca snorted, then launched into a vivid explanation of how
strenuous--and, at times, hazardous--Wookiee romance could be.  Han
could understand him, of course, but it was obvious that Roa was barely
getting the gist of it.

The older smuggler's eyebrows went up, then he shook his head when
Chewie finished.  "All right, sounds like you did the right thing by
beating a hasty retreat, Chewbacca!  Remind me never to attract Wynni's
attention."

Han grinned.  "Me neither," he said, then sobered.  "Problem is, we're
stranded here now.  Kid DXo'ln brought us, but he's heading out of here
on some private business, and he doesn't need a crew.  So I'm lookin'
for a ride back to Nar Shaddaa.  Any chance we can catch one with you,
Roa?"

The older man smiled.  "Sure, Han.  Only trouble is, we're not going
directly back.  I've got a load of spice to take on to Myrkr.  How does
Nar Shaddaa by way of the Kessel Run strike you?"

Han's eyes lit up.  "That would be great!  I can't really get the top
piloting assignments until I've got a Run or two under my belt.  Roa
.

. .

any chance you'd let me pilot, and coach me through it?"  The older man
grinned.  "Depends, Solo."  "On what?"

"How many drinks you buy me."

Han chuckled, and waved to the bar droid for fresh ammunition.  "Tell
me about the Run," he said.  "I think I'm ready."

As Roa explained it, the Kessel Run took ships traveling in realspace
from the Kessel sector past and around the Maw, then through a rough,
uninhabited sector of space known as "the Pit."  The Pit wasn't as hard
to navigate as the Maw, but more ships had actually been lost there
than near the Maw, because after successfully making it past the
blackhole cluster, pilots tended to be tired, their reflexes slowed.

And just when they needed to rest, the Pit was waiting for them.

The Pit contained a scattered asteroid field that wasn't nearly as
concentrated as the one surrounding Smuggler's Run, but it was encased
inside a wispy arm of a nebula.  The gas and dust from the nebula
tended to make most ships' sensors imprecise, and the pilot's
line-of-sight was seriously compromised.  Zigging in and out of the
gauzy tendrils of the

nebula was a confusing, chancy business, and there was always the
chance that when a pilot zigged to avoid one asteroid, he'd zag right
into another.

Roa explained all of this to Han, then took him back to the Wayfarer
and showed him a complete schematic of their course from the
navicomputer.  Han studied it all intently, then nodded.  "Okay.  I
think I can handle it, Roa."

The Wayfarer's captain gave him a long, measuring glance, then
nodded.

"Okay, son.  Go ahead.  Take us out."

Han nodded, then his world narrowed into the viewscreen, his
coordinates, his controls, and his hands and eyes.  He felt almost like
a bio droid, someone who could link his nervous system into the ship.

It was as though Han had become the ship--as though they were one
entity.

Flying past the center of the Maw, Han was acutely conscious that the
slightest mistake on his part could result in disaster for the
Wayfarer.  He felt sweat break out on his forehead as he manipulated
the controls, avoiding gravitational eddies and anomalies.  Beside him,
in the copilot's seat, he could sense Roa's tension, though the stocky
older man made no sound.  Behind him, Chewbacca whined softly, a thin
thread of sound in the otherwise silent control cabin.

The Maw was all around them now as they skirted the dangerous
black-hole clusters.  Han knew that it would be possible to make the
Run by looping wide around this entire perilous sector, but the
cost--in fuel, in time, and in the extra distance that had to be
traveled--made negotiating the obstacle course of the Maw worthwhile.

Barely.

So far, Roa had not spoken as Han took the Wayfarer along the twisting,
tricky course that was the shortest safe way through the Maw.  Han
figured that must mean he was doing all right.  He tried to take a deep
breath as they sped past a whorl of bluish gas and dust, but it was as
though a durasteel band was tightening around his chest.

When Roa spoke softly in the silent cabin, the sound made Han jump.

"Past the halfway point.  Good job, lad.  Watch this one coming up.

It's a bit tricky."

Han nodded, and felt a greasy drop of sweat slide past his eyebrow.  He
flipped Wayfarer up on her side as they hurtled past the whirlpool of
cosmic dust that had once been a star.

Nearly an hour later, when Han felt as though he hadn't drawn a deep
breath for the whole trip, they were out of the Maw and entering the
Pit.

An asteroid whizzed by.  Han throttled back a bit as he tried to
watch

every direction at once, wishing for eyes in the back of his head like
a Moloskian.

Roa's voice was sharp.  "Hard to port!"

Han caught barely a glimpse of the onrushing asteroid, the size of a
mountain.  His sweaty hand found the control to implement Roa's
order--and slipped!

Panic erupted in Han's chest as he damped slick fingers onto the
controls, overcompensating and causing them to nearly skid into the
path of yet another asteroid!

Chewbacca howled, and Roa cursed.  Han managed to miss the chunk of
rock by the skin of his teeth.

"Sorry," he said tightly.  "Fingers slipped."

Without another word, Roa reached into a storage bin and pulled
something out.  "Here.  My present for making it past the Maw.  I'll
take over while you put 'em on."

Han grabbed the pair of pilot's gloves with their nonslip finger pads
and tugged them on, snapping them securely into place.  He flexed his
fingers.

"Thanks, Roa."

"Don't mention it," the older smuggler said.  "I always wear 'em, and I
suggest you do, too."

Han nodded.  "I will."

Several hours later, when Han had finished his first Kessel Run, and
they were relaxing in the relative safety of hyperspace, Roa leaned
back in the copilot's seat.  "So," he said, "I have to say, I've never
seen anyone fly the Run any smoother on his first try, Han.  You're a
natural, son."  Han grinned at his friend.  "You're a good coach."

Chewbacca commented sourly that he wouldn't have objected to a bit more
coaching from Roa--Han had frightened him so badly it was a wonder his
hair hadn't fallen out.

Han turned around and glared at his furry friend.  "Hey, just keep it
up, and I'll give Wynni our home address the next time I see her."

Chewie subsided into glaring silence.

"So, what are you going to do now, Han?"  Roa asked.  "Not every
smuggler can brag that he's flown the Kessel Run, and you made it in
excellent time.  What's your next move?"

Han had been thinking about that.  "I want a ship of our own for me and
Chewie," he told Roa.  "First I'll have to lease one, of course, but
then maybe someday I'll find one I can buy.  But I'll need a pile of
credits, Roa.

So when I get back to Nar Shaddaa, I'm going where the credits are."

Roa's eyebrows went up.  "The Hutts," he said.  Han checked his
stabilizers.  "Yeah, the Hutts."

Roa shook his head, frowning.  "Working for the Hutts has its dangers,
Han.

Hutts make risky employers.  Displease them, and you can end up
swimming through vacuum without a suit."

Han nodded.  "Yeah," he agreed bleakly.  "I've worked for them
before.

But to make the big money, you've got to be willing to take those risks
. . ."

Two weeks and yet another bounty hunter later, Han and Chewbacca walked
up to the largest building in the Hutt section of Nar Shaddaa.  Once a
luxury hotel, The Jewel was now headquarters to the Desilijic
kajidic.

When The Jewel had been a hotel, the management had boasted that it
could provide quarters for over half the known sentient races in the
galaxy.

Aquatic beings, methane breathers, and beings who could only be
comfortable in low gravity--The Jewel had accommodated them all, and
more.

As he approached the old building, Han could see that it had been
vastly remodeled to suit its new tenants.  The giant lobby area was now
festooned with glide ramps leading to higher levels.  The carpeting had
been pulled up, and the stone floors were polished to a brilliant shine
to ease a Hutt's passage when gliding along.

Han checked, for the fourth time, that he had Tagta's message cube
safely in his pocket.  He glanced over at Chewbacca.  "You don't have
to come in, pal.  I can probably handle this interview myself."

Chewie's only response was a firm shake of his head.  Han shrugged.

"Okay, then, but let me do the talking."

Jiliac's majordomo on Nar Shaddaa proved to be a human woman, a
striking redhead who was approaching middle years.  She wore a simple
green gown, modest in cut.  Han was impressed by her dignity and
presence as she introduced herself.  "I am Dielo, Lord Jiliac's
assistant.  You said that you had a letter of recommendation, sir?"

Han nodded, feeling rather shabby by comparison, even though he'd worn
his best pants, shirt, and jacket.  Inside he felt defensive, but he'd
learned long ago never to show discomfort or nerves.  So his insouciant
smile never wavered, and not the slightest crack showed in his air of
casual bravado.  "Yes, I do."

"May I see it?"

"Sure, long as you don't leave with it."  Han produced the small
holocube, handed it to her.  She glanced quickly at the greenish smear
on

the side, scanned the message, then nodded.  "Very well," she said,
handing the holocube back.  "Please wait here.  I will call you in
presently."

Forty-five minutes later, she reappeared and ushered Han into Lord
Jiliac's audience chamber.

Han was a little nervous, wondering whether Jiliac the Hutt would
recognize him as one of the messengers who, five years ago, had
delivered a message to him in his palace on Nal Hutta.  The message had
come from Jiliac's arch-rival, Zawal.  The Ylesian overlord had
challenged Jiliac and threatened him with dire consequences.  When he'd
heard it, Jiliac had flown into a rage and wrecked a large portion of
his audience hall.

Han hoped the Hutt Lord wouldn't recognize him.  He'd never told Jiliac
his name, after all.  Besides, he was no longer nineteen .  . . he
looked different.  His face was thinner, older, and he'd put on weight
and muscle from his time in the Academy.  Not to mention that in all
probability most humans looked pretty much alike--to a Hutt.

Still, Hans mouth was dry as he stepped through the door into the
innermost chamber.

Han was surprised to see two Hutts in the room.  One was nearly twice
the size of the other, which Han knew meant that it was older.  Hutts
grew throughout their life spans, and some of them reached impressive
proportions indeed.  The average Hutt underwent several growth spurts
after reaching adulthood.  Han had heard that some of them could more
than double in size in a matter of a few years.

Han squinted at the Hutts.  He was pretty sure that Jiliac was the
larger of the two.

The room was huge and ornate; this audience chamber had evidently been
the hotel's main ballroom.  Mirrors lined the walls, and Han caught
sight of himself on both sides.

When Han finally stood before the two Hutts, he bowed deeply.  Dielo
waved a hand at him and spoke in passable Huttese.  "Lord Jiliac, this
is the Corellian pilot your cousin Lord Tagta recommended to you.  His
name is Han Solo.  The Wookiee is named Chewbacca."

Han bowed again.  "Lord Jiliac," he said, in Basic, "it is a privilege
to meet you, Your Excellency.  Your cousin Lord Tagta says that you are
always in need of good pilots."

"Pilot Solo"--Jiliac turned bulbous eyes layered in fat upon Han, and
peered down at him with faint curiosity--"do you speak and understand
Huttese?"

"I understand it, Your Excellency.  I do not speak it well enough to
convey the beauty of the language, therefore it is not proper for me to
attempt to utter it," Han said earnestly.

Fortunately, Hutts were easy to flatter, and this one bought it.  "Ah,
a human that understands the beauty of our language," Jiliac said,
turning to the smaller Hutt.  "Truly an insightful and sensitive member
of his species."

"That isn't saying much," the other Hutt replied with a deep chuckle.

"I wonder if Captain Solo can pilot as well as he dissembles?"

Han glanced over at the younger, smaller Hutt.  Sharp intelligence
shone in his narrow-pupiled eyes.  He was about Han's height, and only
about four or five meters long.  Jiliac noticed Han looking at his
companion.

"Captain Solo, this is my nephew, Jabba.  He has become indispensable
to me in running the Desilijic kajidic."

Han bowed to the younger Hutt.  "Greetings, Your Excellency."

"Greetings, Captain Solo," Jabba replied with a gracious wave of his
small hand.  "Your reputation precedes you."

Jiliac held out his own hand.  "Enough chitchat.  The holocube,
Captain?"

"Certainly, Your Excellency."  Han produced it, handed it to Jiliac.

The Hutt Lord examined the holocube for several minutes, then passed a
small scanning device over the green smear.  Finally satisfied, he
looked at Han.

"You come highly recommended, Captain.  We can always use expert
pilots."

Han nodded.  "I'd like to work for you and your nephew, Your
Excellency."

"Very well, then you are hired, Captain.  But what about your companion
here?"  Jiliac indicated Chewbacca.

"We're a team, Your Excellency.  Chewie is my copilot."

"Indeed?"  said Jabba.  "He looks more like a bodyguard to me."  Han
could feel Chewie stiffen next to him, and he felt, more than heard,
the soft rumble of anger emanating from his furred chest.  "Chewie's a
good pilot," Han insisted.

"These are perilous times for honest business persons," Jiliac pointed
out.

"Is one of you trained in weapons systems?"

"I'm the gunner, Your Excellency," Han said.  "Chewie is a pretty fair
shot, I admit, but I'm better."

"Ah!"  Jabba sounded delighted.  "Finally, a human who does not deluge
us with his silly notion of 'modesty."" "Glad you approve," Han said
dryly.

"Kessel," Jiliac said thoughtfully.  "Our sources say you have been to
Kessel."

Han nodded.  "Yes, Your Excellency.  And I did the Run in nearly
record time, my first time through."

"Excellent!"  boomed Jabba, who had a voice nearly as deep as his far
larger uncle.  He chuckled, a low "ho-ho-ho" sound.  "Then you are
willing to tackle the Kessel Run while hauling cargo for us?"

"Depends on the cargo, Your Excellency," Han said.

"We have no way to determine, at this time, what the cargo will be,"
Jiliac said.  "Obviously, you will leave Kessel carrying a cargo of
spice, probably glitterstim, for Kessel is where that spice is mined.

But as to what you will be carrying when you land on Kessel, that is
bound to vary a great deal.  Food, luxuries, a shipment of slaves,
or--" "No slaves," Han interrupted curtly.  He had to make this
clear.

If they dumped him over it, he'd keep on looking for work.  "I'll haul
most anything for you, Your Excellency.  But not slaves."

Both Hutts stared at Han, obviously taken aback by his temerity.

Finally Jabba spoke.

"Why not, Captain Solo?"

"Personal reasons, Your Excellency," Han said.  "I've seen slavery up
close--and I didn't like it."

"Oho!"  Jabba chuckled again.  "Our brave captain has scruples .  . .

morals, even, perhaps!"

Han refused to be baited.  He just stood his ground.

Jiliac made a curt gesture to Han to stay where he was, then he and the
younger Hutt wriggled toward each other.  Watching them move, Han
couldn't decide whether they reminded him more of a snake or a slug.

They undulated along, using muscular contractions to move.

The two Hutts put their heads together and conferred.  After a couple
of minutes, they broke apart and turned back to Han and Chewie.  "Very
well, Captain Solo," Jiliac boomed, "we will not assign you to
transport slaves."

"Thank you, Your Excellency," Han said, feeling a wash of relief.

"Slaving is not a large part of our business," Jabba said, with a touch
of scorn in his voice.  "We leave most of that trade to the Besadii
kajidic that operates out of Ylesia."

"Have you ever heard of Ylesia, Captain Solo?"  Jiliac asked.

Han tensed, but kept it from showing.  "Yes, I've heard of it, Your
Excellency."

"Our main shipment these days is ryll, Captain," Jabba said.  "We have
just discovered a new source to trade with on Ryloth, the vi'lek
world.

Have you been there?"

"Yes, Your Excellency, I have.  I know the spacelanes in that area."

"Good," Jabba said.  He studied Han closely with his huge, rarely
blinking eyes.  "Tell me, Captain, have you ever piloted a space
yacht?"

Han had to stifle an ironic grin.  The reason all these bounty hunters
were after him was that in addition to swiping the cream of Teroenza's
treasure, he'd stolen Zavval and Teroenza's personal space yacht.

"Yes, Your Excellency," Han said.  "I have."

Jabba regarded Han thoughtfully.  "I shall keep that in mind."

Jiliac made a dismissive gesture.  "We shall be in touch, Captain.  At
the moment, you have our leave to depart."

Han bowed to the Hutts, and as he did so, he surreptitiously gave his
Wookiee friend a poke.  Chewbacca growled softly, but he, too, bobbed
his upper body forward.

Han left the audience, feeling sweat trickling down between his
shoulder blades.  Slowly, carefully, he let out a deep sigh of
relief.

This had better be worth it...

During the next three months, Han worked for Roa on and off, but he
also flew many missions for the Hutts.  He developed a reputation for
being able to coax top speeds out of even inferior vessels, and for
being willing to do whatever it took to get his smuggled cargo through
to its destination.

He flew the Kessel Run so many times he lost count.

There were times when the Hutts didn't need him for days or weeks at a
time, and he took assignments from Mako, Roa, or other employers.  But
Jiliac and Jabba provided him with fairly steady work, and most of his
income.

Both Jiliac and Jabba had personal space yachts.  Han discovered that
each of them had sizable holdings on other worlds than Nal
Hutta--matter of fact, Jiliac was the de facto ruler of Dilbana, and
Jabba was the top crime lord on a backwater world called Tatooine.

One day Han and Chewie were called upon to pilot Jabba's personal
yacht, the Star Jewel to Tatooine.  Han would've rather hauled spice,
frankly.

Jabba was temperamental and used to getting his own way, and made a
demanding, irascible passenger.  Han was glad that the Hutt had brought
several of his personal servants along to tend to him, so that all he,
Han, had to do was pilot the ship.

Foremost among Jabba's entourage was a Twi'lek valet named Lobb
Gerido.

Jabba treated Gerido terribly, ordering him around, snapping at him,
and insulting him.  Han was just glad that he didn't have to put up
with that sort of thing.  Jabba's entourage also included several
humanoid

dancing girls, a nalargon player nicknamed "Whizz-Bang" and Jabba's
and Jiliac's chef from their residence on Nar Shaddaa, an Ishi Tib
named Totoplat.

The purpose of Jabba's voyage was to transport a "pet" he'd recently
acquired to his palace on Tatooine.  The thing was a
nightmare--slashing claws, a huge suckerlike mouth, and an insatiable
appetite.  Han discovered it was called an Oskan blood eater.  Han's
stomach turned over the one time he watched its keeper feed it.  The
entire hold area stank from the creature's occupation.  It was a messy
eater, and its effluvia was enough to gag a Corellian corpsegrub.

The yacht was a big ship, a Ubrilddan cruiser.  It was fast, powered by
a pair of Ubrikkian N2 ion engines, with auxiliary power provided by
three smaller Kuat T-c40 ion engines.  It was also well shielded and
heavily armed with six turbolasers.  In its docking bay was space for
six Z95

Headhunter fighters, as well as two small landing shuttles.

This trip, as happened frequently, Star Jewel was down to two
Headhunters, with two pilots to crew them.  The little fighters were
tough, but they had no hyperdrive, and Jabba was known to order them
deployed as a rear guard while he took off into hyperspace.  Jabba was
tough on Headhunters and their pilots.

Tatooine was a remote world, back of beyond, and Han had to make
several hyperspace jumps to reach it.  His next-to-last jump put him
into a little-traveled spacelane, but it was the most direct route to
Tatooine.

That's where the pirate ships were waiting for them.  Four Drell
tear-drop-shaped vessels, sleek and shining, small but deadly.  Han had
faced their like before, when he'd been piloting for the Ylesians.  The
moment he saw them his mental alarm bells went off.  Pirates?"  They
could be!  Better to be safe than sorry...

"Chewie, shields on maximum!"  Han snapped, sending the yacht into an
evasive maneuvering pattern while his copilot adjusted their deflectors
to maximum strength.  Han flipped on the comm unit.  "Attention!

Gunnery crew, stand ready!  We may be seeing some action!"  He switched
frequencies.

"Headhunter pilots, report to your snubs!  This is not a drill!"

Even as the words left his mouth, the closest ship spat a salvo of quad
laser fire at them.  I was right!  Han mentally congratulated
himself.

Thanks to his caution, the Drell ship's fire went wide.

The ships were only a third the size of Jabba's massive space yacht,
but their quad laser cannons spat deadly bursts at the bigger ship as
they rushed in at top speed.  They were so small they were going to be
difficult to hit.  Han banked the Star Jewel around and yelled,
"Gunnery crew .  . .

fire at will!"

Even as the crews manning the yacht's six heavy turbolasers began
returning fire, Han switched to another comm frequency.  "Attention,
passengers and crew--we are under attack!  Prepare for evasive
maneuvers.

Activate your restraint systems."

Beside him Chewie was performing his job ably, leaving the piloting
mostly to Han, but busy balancing and distributing power to their
shields, monitoring the ship's status, checking on how much power they
could channel to the weapons.  The Hutt yacht's turbolasers, mounted
discreetly beneath the ridge of the yacht's superstructure, actually
tapped directly into the ship's power core, thus giving them far more
destructive capability than any opponent would expect.

Han dodged an incoming Drell ship, saw the turbolasers fire a vicious
burst at the oncoming vessel, but at the last moment it dodged the
fire.  Blasted little ships are too fast His comm unit crackled.

"Headhunters here.  Ready for launch."

Chewie opened the cargo-bay doors, and dropped one shield amidships so
the two fighters could launch.

Han activated the comm.  "Pilots .  . . launch on my order!  Three ·
..

two .

. . one .  . . NOW!"

Jabba was hollering over the comm, demanding an explanation.  Han could
hear wails and curses from the Twi'lek and the dancing girls.

Totoplat, the cook, was fussing that Jabba's dinner was ruined, just
ruined!

With a muttered curse, Han spared half a second to close the comm
channel from the passenger section.  When he looked back up, he
paled.

"Incoming amidships, Chewie!"  he yelled, knowing this time he couldn't
evade fast enough.  The Star Jewel shuddered violently, then shuddered
again.  Han realized the first ship had swung around and was now firing
on their stern!  He cursed when he saw that his rear deflectors were
nearly gone.  "Chewie!  I'm coming about!  Compensate for that
shield!"

Activating the comm, Han shouted, "I'm coming about, hard to port!  You
guys get that blasted pirate off my rear!"

The Wookiee snarled as he worked frantically on the shields.  Han sent
the Star Jewel into a hard port turn, then a second later he felt the
faint jolts as the gunners fired.

Another miss!

Han cursed and activated the comm.  "Listen up, you guys!  I want
portside gunner one to target the following coordinates, and fire on my
order!"

Glancing at his sensors, Han located the position of the first Drell
ship, saw that it had swung far out, then turned and was coming back
for

another run.  Han checked his X-Y coordinate grids and made a rapid
calculation.  He spat out a string of coordinates.

"Coordinates acknowledged, sir!"  the portside gunnery chief said.

"Gunner two, target the following coordinates and fire your burst five
seconds after gunner one!  Got that?"  Han reeled off another string of
coordinates.

"We copy, Captain!"

"Gunner three, target the following coordinates and fire your weapon
five seconds after gunner one."  Again, Han gave the prescribed
coordinates.

"Yes, Captain!  Ready!"

"Okay .  . . gunner one .  . . prepare to fire!"

What Han was attempting was a military technique called a limited
barrage pattern.  It was designed to make a ship dodge a burst of fire,
only to run right into another blast.  Tricky, but if they could get
the timing right .

. .

Han counted seconds in his head as he angled his stern slightly toward
the Drell, offering the most tempting target he could.  Three two..,
one!

"Portside gunner one--fire!"

The deadly beam shot out, but as Han had figured, the agile Drell
vessel evaded the blast.

Four... three.., two.., one... Han counted, watching the portside
viewscreen.  "Yes!"  he shouted as the evading ship ran straight into
the blast from portside gun two!

Incandescent white fire blossomed against the blackness.

"You got him!"

Cheers erupted from the comm unit.

The Headhunters were zeroing in on another of the Drell ships.

Stuttering bursts from their lasers shone red against the star-speckled
blackness.

Han could only spare a glance for the snubfighters and their battle.

He sent the Star Jewel hurtling toward the two remaining Drell ships,
then spoke into the comm.  "Starboard gunners, prepare to fire
continuous bursts on my order.  Coordinates are .  . ."  Glancing at
his board, he gave them a string of numbers.

He watched as the two Drell ships came about for another attack run,
then began hurtling toward the yacht at full speed.  "Starboard
gunners, fire at maximum.., now!"

The three powerful turbolasers blasted away into empty space.  Those
captains are gonna think I've lost my mind, Han thought as he counted
the

bursts from his starboard battery, mentally timing their pounding
rhythm.

What he was planning required pinpoint timing.

As the Drells reached firing range, Han wrenched his controls, rolling
the big ship to port, turning it up on its side.

Seeing that Han hadn't lost his mind after all, the Drell pirates
scattered wildly, trying to evade the bursts from the turbolasers that
were now aiming directly at them!

One Drell pirate managed to evade, but the other one was trapped in the
middle of the full barrage pattern.  The blast from starboard gun two
caught it dead center.

This time, the Star Jewel was close enough to the explosion to lose a
starboard deflector when it was repeatedly pummeled by wreckage.  Han
watched the indicators on his instruments leap as the Hutt yacht
sheered through the zone of destruction, then out the other side.

He glanced at the port viewscreen.  The other Drell ship was slowly
spinning, a huge hole blown in its side.  Only one of the Headhunters
was visible.  The fourth Drell ship, the one that had escaped the
barrage pattern, was hightailing it.

Han considered giving chase, but he knew the pirate had too much of a
headstart.  Instead he turned the yacht and headed back to pick up the
remaining Headhunter.

By the time he remembered to flick the comm unit back on, Jabba's
threats and imprecations had died away.  Han cleared his throat.

"We're okay, Your Excellency.  Hope I didn't jounce you around too much
back there."

"My precious cargo is upset!"  Jabba grumbled.  "I may have to
sacrifice one of my dancers to appease his appetite.  Blood eaters are
sensitive creatures, Solo!"

"Uh .  . . yessir.  Sorry about that, sir.  But I had to fight.

Otherwise we'd have been blown out of space.  Those pirates weren't
just looking for loot and salvage, Your Excellency.  They knew we were
coming.  They were waiting at exactly the right spot to intercept a
ship making the last leg of a trip to Tatooine."

"Really?"  Jabba's petulant tones suddenly hardened.  Now the crime
lord was all business.  "What do you think they were attempting to do,
Captain?"

"Disable or destroy us, Your Excellency," Han said, opening the
landing-bay doors so the one remaining Headhunter could limp in.  "I
believe they were after you, sir."

"Another assassination attempt .  . ."  Jabba sounded very
thoughtful.

Han knew that devious mind was working at lightspeed.

"I think so, sir."

"Interesting," Jabba grunted.  "Captain, may I ask where you learned
those .  . . unorthodox .  . . maneuvers?"

"At the Imperial Academy, Your Excellency."

"I see.  They proved most useful, I must admit.  You are to be doubly
commended for foiling this cowardly attempt to murder me, Captain
Solo.

Remind me of that when we return to Nar Shaddaa."

"You bet," Han promised.

"Solo knows something," Jabba the Hutt said to his Uncle Jiliac two
weeks later as they shared a light repast in the small lounge that
adjoined Jiliac's audience chamber on Nar Shaddaa.

Jiliac reached into his elegant combination snackquarium and water
pipe--a gift from the long-dead Zavval--and extracted a wriggling
morsel.  Holding the frantic creature in midair, he regarded it
absently.  "Really?"  he said after a moment's silent consideration.

"Knows what?"

Jabba wriggled closer to the snackquarium and, at a wave from his clan
lord, reached in for a choice little snack.  Green slime gathered at
the corners of his mouth as he anticipated the delicious rubbery warmth
of the little amphibian sliding down his gullet.  Even with this
distraction, he was still able to focus on Jiliac's question.  Jabba
was nothing if not practical.

"I don't know," he said.  "I suspect the only way to find out is to ask
him."

"Ask him what?"  demanded Jiliac as Jabba popped the treat into his
mouth.

Glunk .  . . Jabba swallowed noisily before answering, "Ask him how he
knew to react so quickly with those Drell ships.  Ship's log showed he
was tracking with his weapons systems and taking evasive maneuvers even
before they fired on us.  How did Solo know those Drell ships meant
trouble?"

"We have hired Drell pirates ourselves, in the past," Jiliac reminded
him.

"The question we must ask is, was this attack one from within our clan,
or from outside?"  He folded his small hands together on the swell of
his belly-folds.  "Make no mistake, nephew.  There are those within
Desilijic who would wrest the leadership of the kajidic from me .  .

."

"True," Jabba agreed.  "But I do not think this was an attack from
within the kajidic.  My informants assure me that the entire clan was
pleased with our profit ratio last quarter."

"Then who do you think was behind the attack?"  Jiliac asked.

"Besadii," Jabba replied flatly.

Jiliac cursed.  "Naturally.  They are the only ones who have sufficient
funds to hire the Drell pirates.  Blast them!"  The Hutt Lord's massive
tail whipped back and forth on the polished floor.  "Nephew, Aruk grows
above himself.  Ylesian trade is making Besadii so wealthy they are
becoming a personal danger, not simply an economic threat.  We must act
· .  . and soon.

This threat to Desilijic must not go unpunished."

"Agreed, Uncle," Jabba said, after swallowing another Serendina
wriggler.

"But what should we do?"

"We need more information," Jiliac decided.  "Then we can plan our
retaliation."  Flicking on the comm unit, he said, "Dielo!"

Immediately the response came back.  "I am here, Your Magnificence.

What do you wish?"

"Summon Solo to us," Jiliac ordered.  "We wish to speak with him."

"Immediately, Lord Jiliac," Dielo replied.

It was several hours before Solo appeared, and Jabba and Jiliac were
growing increasingly annoyed at having to wait by the time the
Corellian entered the audience chamber.  He was accompanied, as always,
by his tall, hairy companion.

Both Hutts looked him over in silence for several minutes.  Solo
shifted a little, and Jabba sensed that he was uneasy, though, for a
human, he hid anxiety well.

"Greetings, Solo," Jiliac finally intoned in his deepest, most
intimidating voice.

The Corellian Captain bowed.  "Greetings, Your Excellency.  What can I
do for you?"

"We want the truth," Jabba said, not waiting for Jiliac to mince around
the subject.  Jabba enjoyed being direct, and putting other sentients
on the spot.  "You can give us the truth."

Jabba's eyesight was sharp, and Hutts could see farther into the
infrared than humans could.  He watched the blood ebb from Solo's face
as he paled, though his expression did not change.  The Wookiee shifted
uneasily and whined softly.

"Uh, Your Impressiveness .  . ."  Solo wet his lips.  "I'm afraid I
don't understand.  The truth about what?"

Jabba didn't mince words.  "I've reviewed the Star Jewel's log.

Captain, how did you know the Drell pirates were waiting to attack
us?"

Solo hesitated, then drew a deep breath.  "I've run into an ambush from
pirates in Drell-built cruisers before," he said.  "And I know that
you, Jiliac, and you, Jabba, have enemies that are wealthy enough to
hire assassins."

Jiliac was staring hard at the young Corellian.  "When did you
encounter such an ambush, Captain?"  he asked slowly.

"Five years ago, Your Excellency."

Jabba leaned forward.  "And who were you working for when you
encountered them, Solo?"

The Corellian smuggler hesitated, then said quietly, "I was working for
Zavval, sir.  On Ylesia."

Jiliac's eyes widened.  "Yes .  . . my memory is stirring.  Was it you
that brought me my snackquarium?  I remember the Sullustan, but humans
look so much alike .  . ."

"Yes, sir, that was me," Han said.  Jabba could tell that it cost him
something to admit the truth.

"Why didn't you tell us this before?"  Jiliac asked, his voice as cold
as a Hothan glacier.  "What are you hiding, Captain?"

"Nothing!"  Solo protested, shaking his head.  "Listen, this is the
truth, Your Excellency!  I wanted to work for you, but I thought you
wouldn't like it if you knew I'd worked for Besadii clan---even just
piloting spice freighters.  So I didn't mention it, that's all!"  His
brown eyes blazed, and he waved his arms to emphasize his point.

"Truth is, I actually worked for Teroenza.  I barely knew Zawal.  I'm
sorry if you thought any different, Your Excellency."

Jiliac gazed down at the Corellian from his dais.  "You are correct,
Solo.  I would not have hired you had I known this."

Silence.  Solo had no answer save a shrug.

Jiliac considered for a moment.  "Are you still working for them?"

"No, Your Excellency," Solo said.  "I'm willing to testify to that
under truth drug.  Or you can take glitterstim and scan me.  I left
Ylesia five years ago, and I never want to go back."

Jabba turned to his uncle.  "Uncle, it occurs to me that Solo is
probably telling the truth.  If he were still working for Besadii at
present, he hardly would have fought so valiantly to save the Star
Jewel and me, would he?  Instead our brave captain would have heaved my
ship to and allowed it to be boarded--and me killed."  The smaller Hutt
gazed at the Corellian solemnly.  "Therefore, unless Besadii is far
more subtle and clever than I believe them to be, our captain is
telling the truth."

Solo nodded.  "I am, Your Excellency!  Matter of fact, I got no use for
Ylesia and those who run it.  You know what I think of slavers and the
slave trade--and Besadii's the biggest exporter of slaves in the
galaxy."

"True," Jabba said.  "Captain Solo, now that my uncle has identified
you as one of the messengers from Zawal, my own memory has been
refreshed.  Very soon after that threat from Zaal, we received
reports

that there had been an uprising on Ylesia.  The glitterstim factory
was destroyed, Zawal was killed in an armed attack, and several slaves
were rescued.  Two ships were stolen."

Jabba watched Solo's face intently for his reaction, but the Corellian
smuggler revealed nothing.  "Captain," Jiliac said, "we were told that
a human .  . . one 'Vykk Draygo,' was single-handedly responsible for
the conflict on Ylesia.  We were also told that Vykk Draygo was
reported killed by bounty hunters soon afterward.  What do you know of
all this?"

Solo shifted, and now Jabba could tell he was struggling to make a
decision.  Finally, he nodded.  "I know a lot about it," he admitted.

"I'm 'Vykk Draygo."" Jabba and Jiliac exchanged a long look.  "Did you
kill Zawal?"  Jabba said, in his deepest, most intimidating voice.

"Not really .  . ."  Solo wet his lips.  "I just .  . . it was an
accident, sort of.  Hey .  . . it wasn't my fault!"

Both Hutts looked at each other again, then burst out into booming
roars of laughter.  "Ho-ho-HO!"  Jabba shouted.  "Solo, for a human you
are a rare sentient!"

The Corellian seemed taken aback.  "You're not mad 'cause I caused a
Hutt to die?"

"Zawal threatened me," Jiliac reminded the Corellian.  "He and his clan
caused Desilijic many problems, and cost us some lives.  Hutts prefer
to ruin enemies by stripping them of their wealth, Captain, but we are
not above assassination as a means to rid ourselves of a problem."

Jabba watched as Solo visibly relaxed.  "Oh.  Well, humans do that,
too, sometimes."

"Really?"  Jiliac seemed surprised.  "Then perhaps there is hope for
your species after all, Captain Solo."

The Corellian smiled wryly.  Jabba recognized the expression because he
was so used to having humans attend him.

"However," Jabba said, waving a cautionary finger, "it would not do for
it to become generally known that a human killed a Hutt and remained
unmolested, Captain.  If you ever divulge the truth to anyone else ·
.

. we will have to see that you are silenced.  Permanently.  Do we
understand each other?"

Solo nodded silently, obviously impressed by Jabba's threat.

"So ..."  Jiliac was all business once more.  "You worked for Besadii,
Captain Solo.  What can you tell us about them?"

"Well, I was there about five years ago," Solo cautioned.  "But living
on Ylesia is something I could hardly forget."

"Who gave you your orders, Solo?"  Jabba asked.

"Teroenza," the human replied.  "He really runs the place, being High
Priest and all."

"Teroenza?  Tell us about him," Jabba instructed.

"Well, he's a t'landa Til," the Corellian said.  "You know what they
are, right?"

Both Hutts indicated that they did.  "Well, Teroenza reports to his
Hutt overlord, the way he did to Zavval when I was there," Solo said.

"But he's the one who makes the decisions, and who oversees the
day-today administration of the Ylesian colonies.  Teroenza's pretty
smart, and he's an efficient administrator.  I gather profits were
pretty good--though I'm sure they had a bad year after I destroyed the
glitterstim factory."

At the thought of the destruction of so much valuable property and
spice, both Hutts winced.  Solo shrugged again.  "Yeah, it bothered me,
too.  But I needed a diversion."

"How did Zavval really die?"

"The ceiling collapsed on him," Solo said.  "While we were raiding
Teroenza's treasure room we got caught, and--" Jabba's eyes narrowed.

"Treasure room?  What treasure?"

"That's what we called it," Solo explained.  "Teroenza's a really
singleminded collector of rare things--art, antiquities, weapons,
musical instruments, furniture, jewelry.  You name it, and he's got
some.  He's built a big room to house his collection down in the bowels
of the Administration Building on Ylesia.  He lives for his collection,
'cause there's not much to do on Ylesia.  It's mostly jungle."

"I see .  . ."  Jiliac said thoughtfully, with a sideways glance at
Jabba.

The younger Hutt could tell that his uncle's mind was busily churning
out a plot based on the information Solo had just given them.

Jiliac continued to question Solo about the spice factories on Ylesia,
how the operation was set up, how many guards there were, etc. Jabba
listened with interest.  His uncle was an experienced and devious
leader of the kajidic.  What did he have in mind now?

Finally, Jiliac dismissed the Corellian, and Solo and the Wookiee
turned and left the audience chamber.

"So, Uncle," Jabba said, "What are you thinking?"

Jiliac slowly took his hookah out of the bottom of the snackquarium and
began puffing on it.  Jabba smelled the sweetish odor of marcan herbs,
a mild euphoric drug.  It was several minutes before the kajidic leader
spoke.  "Jabba, my nephew, I am thinking that all this enmity between
Besadii and Desilijic must cease.  Sooner or later one of their
attempts against us will succeed, and that would be a tragedy."

"I agree," Jabba said, feeling his hide prickle as he imagined what
an

assassin's vibroblade would do to him.  Or perhaps they'd just dump
him into vacuum without a suit .  . . he shuddered at the thought.

"But what can we do?"

"I believe we should call for an inter-clan meeting, to be held on
neutral ground," Jiliac said slowly, between puffs.  "And that we
should offer a nonviolence pact to Besadii."

"Will they accept it?"  Jabba couldn't see why they should.  "Aruk is
no fool.  He will at least appear to accept it, Nephew."  Jabba knew
there had to be more to it than that.  "What is behind this request?"

he asked slowly.  Jabba knew he himself was a clever Hutt, but
sometimes Jiliac could be downright devious.

"My agenda for this meeting will include a request for up-to-date
profit disclosure on both sides," Jiliac said.  "And a request for
income equalization."

"Besadii will never agree to that!"

"I know.  But it is a valid reason for requesting profit disclosure,
and Besadii will recognize that."

"And you think Besadii will share their information with us?"

"I believe they will, Nephew.  Aruk will enjoy the chance to flaunt
their profit margins before Desilijic."

Jabba nodded.  "He will, you are correct."

"I believe that he will take this chance to bring in the leadership of
Ylesia in order to validate their figures, so Aruk can boast about
their profits."

"Who is the current overseer?"

"Kibbick is in charge of the Ylesian operation."

"But Kibbick is an idiot," Jabba pointed out.  He'd met the younger
Hutt before, at an inter-kajidic conference.

"True," Jiliac said.  "My guess is that the true leader of Ylesia will
also be summoned to report."

Jabba's eyes widened, then narrowed, at the thought.  He chuckled
aloud.  "I begin to see your drift, Uncle .  . ."

Jiliac puffed serenely on his hookah.  The corners of his wide, lipless
mouth turned up.

Teroenza was relaxing in his sling when the most famous bounty hunter
in the Empire arrived to see him.  Ganar Tos came hurrying into the
t'landa Til's inner sanctum, twisting his warty green hands
anxiously.

"Sir!  Your Excellency!  Boba Fett is here, and says you are paying him
to come for a personal interview!  Is that true, sir?"

"Yesssss .  . ."  the High Priest of Ylesia said, his breath puffing
out in a long hiss as he struggled up out of his sling to stand upon
all four pillarlike feet.  Anticipation pounded like a drumroll in his
two hearts and three stomachs.

The sentient who entered the room wore battered, greenish Mandalorian
battle armor.  Two braided Wookiee scalps, one black and one white,
hung from his right shoulder.  His features were completely masked by
his helmet.  Behind the eye slit, Teroenza thought he could make out
the glint of his eyes.

"Greetings, Master Fett!"  Teroenza boomed, wondering whether to offer
his hand.  He had a feeling that if he did, Fett would ignore it, so he
didn't.

"I would like to thank you for coming so promptly!  I trust you had no
problems with our treacherous Ylesian air currents and storms on your
way through our atmosphere."

"Let's not waste time," Fett said, his voice flat and inhuman as it
came through the helmet's speaker.  "You mentioned Mandalorian
wristdarts in your collection as my fee for coming here for a personal
interview.  Take me to see them.  Now."

"Oh, certainly, certainly, Master Fett, sir," Teroenza cried.  He had a
sudden cold certainty that if Fett were to decide for some reason to
kill him, there would be little he could do to prevent it.  Despite
Teroenza's massive bulk, easily five times that of the human, he felt
naked and vulnerable in the presence of the notorious bounty hunter.

Quickly he ushered Fett through the door in his private apartment that
led into his treasure room.  "They're right here," he said, having to
forcibly stop himself from talking too quickly, almost babbling.  Fett
moved beside him, his progress as silent and deadly as a poison dart.

Opening a case, the Ylesian High Priest seized the wristlets.  Each
contained a spring mechanism that would shoot a profusion of tiny,
deadly darts when the wearer moved his fingers in a certain way.  "A
matched set," Teroenza gabbled.  "I was assured they're in perfect
working order."

"I'll determine that for myself," Fett said, his voice, as always, flat
and emotionless.  Sealing the wristlets on, he turned in one smooth,
lithe motion, and fired both of them into a thick tapestry that adorned
the wall.  Teroenza squeaked in protest, but dared not say more.

Only after Fett had collected the darts from the tapestry did he turn
to face the High Priest.  "Very well.  I am paid for my time, Priest.

What is it you wish?"

Teroenza pulled himself together.  Fett was about to become his
employee, after all .  . . in a manner of speaking.  He summoned as
much

dignity as he could, despite the racing of his pulses.  "There is a
smuggler, Han Solo by name.  You may have seen wanted posters for
him."

Fett nodded once.

"Solo travels with a Wookiee, they say, these days.  He's been reported
seen on Nar Shaddaa.  They say that nine or ten bounty hunters have
tried for him, but he's been too quick for all of them."

Fett nodded again.  Teroenza found his silence unnerving, but he
continued doggedly, "I want him.  Alive, and relatively unharmed.  No
disintegrations."

"That makes it harder," Fett said.  "For seventy-five hundred credits,
it's not worth my time."

Teroenza had been afraid of this.  Inwardly, he quailed at the thought
of what Aruk would have to say about this.  Aruk liked to call himself
"frugal."  Teroenza thought of him as a cheap old miser.  But .  . . he
had to have Solo.  Should he try raising the bounty credits himself?

He didn't want to sell part of his collection .  . .

"Ylesia will increase the bounty on Solo to twenty thousand credits,"
Teroenza said firmly.  He resolved to talk Kibbick and Aruk into
approving the increase.  He'd manage .  . . somehow.  After all, it was
Aruk's responsibility, as head of Besadii.

Fett remained motionless, then, finally, just when Teroenza thought
he'd say no, he nodded again.  "All right."

The High Priest had to resist the urge to babble thanks at the bounty
hunter.  "When do you think you can have him?"  Teroenza asked eagerly
"That's not enough of a bounty to make me put aside my other
commitments," Fett said.  "You'll have him when I get to him,
Priest."

Teroenza fought his disappointment.  "But .  . ."

"Make it a hundred thousand, and I'll put Solo as my first priority,"
Fett offered.

A hundred thousand credits!  Teroenza's mind reeled.  His entire
collection wasn't worth much more than that!  Aruk would have him
drowned in Ylesia's oceans if he promised such a bounty.  He shook his
head.  "No.  Just put him on your list.  We'll wait."

"And you'll have Solo," Fett promised.

As Teroenza stood watching, Boba Fett turned and walked away.  Teroenza
strained his excellent hearing, but he could hear nothing.

Soundlessly, Fett vanished through the door.  The High Priest knew he
wouldn't see him again, until the day he brought Han Solo back to
Ylesia, to face a terrible fate.

Just wait, Solo, he thought.  You are a dead man.  You just don't know
it · .

yet.

five

The Thirteenth Bounty Hunter Two months and three bounty hunters later,
Han and Chewbacca were well on their way to saving the credits they'd
need to lease a ship of their own.

Jabba and Jiliac were sticklers when it came to keeping schedules, but
they paid well if their orders were followed to the letter.

There were no further attacks on the Hutt yachts.  But it was obvious
to Han that a confrontation was brewing between Desilijic and Besadii ·
. .

he knew that Jiliac's messengers had made some kind of proposal to Aruk
the Hutt's representatives.  Aruk had come back with a request for a
face-to-face conference.  Han gathered that such conferences were
highly unusual in Hutt society.  He kept his eyes and ears open,
wondering if he'd be ordered to fly Jabba and Jiliac to attend the
meeting.

Han and Chewie worked long hours, but sometimes days went by between
missions.  During their off-hours, they hung out with the other
smugglers in the Corellian sector, playing sabacc and other games of
chance.

Always ready for entertainment, and intrigued by novelty, Han was
attracted one day by a huge holosign on one of the ancient, though
still maintained, hotel-casinos.  Headlining at The Chance Castle was a
stage magician who was, by all reports, one of the best illusionists in
the galaxy.

Her name was Xaverri.  Han checked out the admission price, and when he
discovered they could afford it, he suggested to Chewbacca that they
attend a magic show that night.

Han didn't believe in magic any more than he believed in religion.

But he'd had some experience at sleight of hand in learning
pickpocketing and card tricks, and he enjoyed trying to figure out how
each trick was done.

Chewbacca proved strangely reluctant to go.  He whined and shook his
head, telling Han that they should go out with Mako that night, or over
to see Roa, who had bought a small, one-man snub fighter that pirates
had salvaged, and was working on it.  Several times Han and Chewie had
given him a hand fixing it up.

Han pointed out that they could help Roa any night, but that Xaverri
was only scheduled to appear for a week's run.

Chewie shook his head, silent, but obviously unhappy.  Han stared at
the Wookiee, wondering just what in the name of blazes was wrong with
him.

"Hey, pal, what's the matter?  This would be fun!"

Chewie just grunted and shook his head, not answering.  Han regarded
him, puzzled, when suddenly he had a flash of insight.  Wookiees were
still a primal people.  They'd incorporated and adapted advanced
technology so it fit into their society, but they weren't naturally
technological.  Wookiees were a very intelligent species who had
learned to pilot spaceships through hyperspace, but they'd never built
any of their own.  Wookiees who left Kashyyyk--though that was rare now
that the Empire had declared Kashyyyk a slave-labor world--did so on
ships built by other sentients than themselves.

Wookiee society still contained rites and customs that many citizens of
the Empire would consider primitive.  Chewie had his own beliefs, and
they included a certain amount of what Han regarded as superstition.

Wookiee legends contained frightening tales of supernatural beings that
prowled, hungered, and thirsted by night, as well as stories of evil
magicians and sorcerers who could work their will on others for
nefarious purposes.

Han stared at his hairy partner for a long moment.  "Hey, Chewie," he
said, finally, "you know as well as I do that what they're calling
'magic' in Xaverri's act ain't nothin' but a bunch of simple tricks and
nonsense, right?"

Chewbacca hrrrrnnnned, but he didn't sound too positive about it.  Han
reached up and ruffled the hair on the top of the Wookiee's head·
Dewlanna had often caressed him in just that way.  It was the Wookiee
equivalent of a comforting pat on the shoulder.  "Believe me, Chewie,"
he continued, "these stage magicians don't actually do real magic.  Not
the kind in Wookiee legends.  What this Xaverri does is all sleight of
hand, like what I can do with card-chips.  Either that or it's done

with holo-projections or mirrors or something like that.  No real
magic.

Nothing supernatural."

Chewie whined, but he was beginning to look reassured.  "I'll bet you
that if you come with me tonight, I can spot how this Xaverri does all
of her tricks," Han said.  "How 'bout it, pal, is it a deal?"

The Wookiee wanted to know what Han was willing to bet.  The Corellian
thought for a moment.  "I'll fix breakfast and clean up for a month if
I can't figure out how she does 'em," he promised.  "And if I do manage
to do it, you pay me back for your own ticket, how's that?"

Chewbacca decided that was fair.

The two smugglers got to the performance early enough to get seats
close to the stage.  They waited restlessly until there came a blare of
fanfare, and the holo-curtain vanished, to reveal the stage and its
sole occupant.

Xaverri proved to be a voluptuous, attractive woman several years older
than Han.  She had long, heavy black hair that she wore in an elaborate
coiffure.  Her eyes flashed silver from the iris-enhancers she wore.

The magician wore a costume of violet silk, slashed in strategic places
to permit occasional tantalizing glimpses of the golden skin beneath
it.

She was an exciting, exotic-looking woman.  Han wondered what planet
she came from.  He'd never seen anyone who looked like her before.

After she was introduced, she went straight into her act.  With a
minimum of stage patter, she performed increasingly difficult tricks.

Both Han and Chewbacca were captivated as they watched her illusions.

Several times Han thought he might be able to guess how a trick had
been engineered, but he was never able to spot any flaws in her
routine.  He knew he'd lost his bet with Chewie.

Xaverri performed all the traditional illusions--and then improved on
them.  She lasered a volunteer from the audience in half, then lasered
herself in two.  She "teleported" not only herself but a small flock of
Rodian batwings from one glassine cage to another one across the
stage--all in one burst of smoke and flame.  Her illusions were stylish
and imaginative--and so well done it appeared she really possessed
supernatural powers.

When she seemingly released a flock of Kayven whistlers to attack the
audience, even Han flinched, and Chewie had to be restrained from
trying to attack the illusionary beasts, so real did they appear.

For the grand finale of her act, Xaverri made the entire wall of the
hotel ballroom disappear, replaced with a star-flecked blackness of
space.  As the audience oohed and ahhhed, suddenly the emptiness of
space was

filled with a terrifying vision of a rogue dwarf star rushing headlong
at them.  Even Han couldn't stop himself from crying out and ducking as
the enormous illusion dominated the room; Chewie howled in terror and
nearly crawled under his seat.  It was all Han could do to drag him
back upright when the illusion abruptly vanished, and there, replacing
it, was a huge image of Xaverri, bowing and smiling.

Han clapped until his hands were sore, yelling and whistling.  What a
show!

After all the applause had died away, Han made sure that he found his
way backstage.  He wanted to meet the lovely illusionist, wanted to
tell her that she was extraordinarily talented.

Xaverri was the first woman he'd found himself really attracted to in a
very long time.  Since Bria had left, matter of fact.

After a long wait amid the stage-door crowd, Han saw Xaverri emerge
from her dressing room.  The silver iris-enhancers were gone, and her
eyes were now their natural dark brown.  She wore a stylish street
outfit instead of the silk costume.  Smiling warmly, she scribed her
signature and personalized messages to her fans, then thumbprinted them
onto tiny holocubes as a memento.  She was gracious and pleasant to her
admirers.

Han deliberately hung back until everyone except her assistant, a surly
Rodian, was gone.

Finally, he stepped forward, smiling his best, most charming smile.

"Hi," he said, looking her in the eye.  Xaverri was nearly as tall as
he was, and her high-heeled, elaborately decorated boots made them the
same height.

"Han Solo, Lady Xaverri.  And my partner, Chewbacca.  I wanted to tell
you that I thought that was the most original and exciting magic act
I've ever seen."

Xaverri looked him and Chewbacca up and down assessingly, then
smiled--a very different sort of smile, cold and cynical.  "Greetings,
Solo.  Let me guess," she said.  "You're selling something?"

Han shook his head.  Very perceptive of her.  But it's been a long time
since I've been a con man.  These days I'm just a pilot .  . . "Not at
all, lady.

I'm just a fan who admires stage magic.  Also, I wanted to give Chewie
a chance to see you and smell you so he'll know you're as human as I
am.  I'm afraid you more than impressed him.  When you filled the air
with those Kayven whistlers, it was like something out of a Wookiee
nightflyer legend.  He didn't know whether to dig a hole in the floor
or fight for his life."

She glanced up at Chewbacca, then, slowly, slowly, her cynical smile

faded, to be replaced by the real thing.  "Pleased to meet you,
Chewbacca.

Sorry if I scared you," she said, holding out her hand.

Chewie engulfed her hand in his two hairy paws and spouted Wookiee at
her, which she seemed to understand perfectly.  He told her that her
show had amazed and terrified him, but that now it was over, he found
that he'd really enjoyed himself.

"Why, thank you!"  she exclaimed.  "That's the reaction a magician
hopes to get!"  Han was almost jealous to see how she and the Wookiee
seemed to hit it off.  Xaverri responded to Chewie's open admiration
with genuine warmth.

Before the moment could be lost, Han stepped forward and invited the
illusionist to go out with them for a post-performance snack.

She eyed him, the caution back in her eyes.  Han studied her, and
suddenly realized that this was a human who had suffered a terrible
loss in the past.  It had made her cautious, protective.  She'll say
no, he thought, disappointed.  But, to his surprise, after a moment's
consideration, Xaverri agreed to accompany them.

Han took her to a little bistro in the Corellian sector where the food
and drink were good and cheap, and a woman with a lute-pipe alternately
strummed and sang softly.

It took a while, but Xaverri slowly relaxed, and even smiled at Han as
well as Chewie.  After they walked her back to her hotel, the magician
took Han's hand in both of hers and gazed at him earnestly.  "Solo . 
.

. thank you.  I've really enjoyed meeting you and Chewbacca."  She
looked over at the Wookiee, who gave her a pleased whine.  "I find I'm
sorry to have to say good-bye, and it's been a long time since I could
say that to anyone."

Han smiled at her.  "Then don't say good-bye, Xaverri.  Say, 'I'll be
seeing you,' because it's true."

She took a deep breath.  "I don't know if that's a good idea, Solo . 
.

."

"I do," Han said.  "Trust me."

Han was back at the stage door the next night, and the next.  He and
Xaverri got to know each other, little by cautious little.  She was
uncommunicative about her past, even more reticent than Han himself.

By listening and asking roundabout questions, Han managed to discover a
few things about her: she hated the Empire and Imperial officials with
a singleminded quiet ferocity that he found disturbing, she was proud
of her skills as a magician and couldn't resist a challenge, and .  .
.

she was lonely.

It was a hard life, traveling from planet to planet, playing to
cheering

crowds, but always winding up alone in some hotel room.  Han got the
impression that it had been a long time, perhaps years, since Xaverri
had spent time with a man.  She had many opportunities, but her natural
reserve and suspicion made her resist involvements.

For the first time in his life, Han found that he was the person who
had to open up, to try to get past barriers that made his own
considerable emotional defenses seem puny.  It was hard to do--several
times he was tempted to quit, to give up his pursuit as hopeless.

But Xaverri intrigued and excited him.  He wanted to get to know her,
and he wanted her to trust him .  . . even a little.

The third night he spent time with her, Xaverri gave him a quick kiss
at the door to her room, before vanishing inside.  Han went home
smiling.

When he got ready to go out late the next night, Chewbacca rose to
accompany him.  Han held up a warning hand to the Wookiee.  "Chewie,
old buddy, you don't have to come with me tonight."

Chewbacca made a derisive sound.  Han would get into trouble without
him, he just knew it.

Han smiled, a slow, irresistible smile.  "Yep.  That's what I'm hopin',
pal.

I'm goin' alone tonight.  See you later.  Much later--I hope."

Smiling and whistling the beginning notes from Xaverri's opening
number, Han left his apartment and headed for The Chance Castle.

When he waited outside the door this night, Xaverri emerged, wearing a
simple black and scarlet jumpsuit that set off her hair and skin.  She
looked pleased to see him, but glanced around, obviously searching for
Chewbacca.  "Where's Chewie?"

Han took her arm.  "He stayed home tonight.  Tonight it's just you and
me, babe.  If that's okay."

She looked at him, trying to look stern, then suddenly she smiled at
him knowingly.  "Solo, you're a rogue, you know that?"

He smiled back.  "I'm glad you noticed.  That means I'm your kind of
guy, right?"

She shook her head.  "You never know."

They went to one of the Hutt-owned casinos, and thanks to Han's
privileged status as Jabba and Jiliac's pilot, they were given special
treatment--free drinks, admission to special high-stakes games, plus
good seats at the shows.

It was late before they left, and true night still reigned over this
section of Nar Shaddaa.  Han walked Xaverri back to her hotel.  She
asked him how he'd become partners with Chewie, and he found himself
telling her about his time as an officer in the Imperial Navy.

"And so, after they threw me out," he finished, "I found that I

couldn't get honest work as a pilot.  I was blacklisted.  I didn't
know where my next meal was coming from.  But even though I got mad and
ordered Chewie to go, he wouldn't.  Said a life debt is the most
serious obligation a Wookiee can have.  Even takes precedence over
family ties."  He glanced at Xaverri.  "Does that bother you that I was
an Imperial officer?  I know you hate the Empire."

She shook her head.  "No, it doesn't bother me.  You didn't stay in
long enough to get corrupted.  For that, you should give thanks to
whatever gods you believe in."

Han shrugged.  "I'm afraid that's a real short list.  Not even one
entry," he said, keeping it light.  "What about you?"

She glanced at him, and her eyes were haunted.  "Revenge is my
religion, Solo.  Revenge against the Empire for what they did to me .

. . and mine."

Han reached over and took her hand, gripped it strongly.  "Tell me ·
.

. if you can."

She shook her head.  "I can't.  I've never told anyone.  I will never
talk about it.  If I did .  . . I think it might kill me.  I really do,
Solo."

"The Empire .  . ."  Han was guessing, "they killed your family?"

She drew a long breath, nodded, lips tightly pressed together.

"Husband.

Children," she said flatly.  "Yes.  They killed them."

"I'm sorry," Han said.  "I never knew my family.  I'm not sure I had
one.

Sometimes, like now, I think that might not be such a bad thing."

Xaverri shook her head.  "I don't know.  You may be right, Solo.  All I
do know is that I never miss an opportunity to hurt them.  My work
takes me through the galaxy, and, believe me, this is the first
engagement I've had in a long time where I haven't spent every free
moment figuring out a way to hurt the Empire."

Han smiled wryly.  "That's because there are no Imperials here on Nar
Shaddaa."  Which wasn't quite true, but it might as well be.  There was
an Imperial Customs office on the Smuggler's Moon.  The office was
staffed by an old man named Dedro Needalb, who basically worked for the
Hutts.  He bore the title of "Imperial Customs Inspector," though.  He
transmitted data about ships and their cargoes to the local Sector
Moff, Sam Shild, when he felt like it.  No one ever verified whether
the data he transmitted were accurate.

Basically, the Hutts had their own arrangements with Sam Shild.  They
made "political contributions" and "personal gifts" to Shild as
"gratitude" for being such a good Imperial rep.  Shild, in turn, left
the Hutts and their holdings pretty much alone.

Each prospered from the arrangement.  Like a symbiotic organism, Han
thought.

"Exactly," she said.  "There's no point in harming old Dedro Needalb.

Hurting him would hurt the Hutts and Nar Shaddaa, and it might actually
benefit the Empire.  That's the last thing I want."

"So how do you hurt them?"  Han asked, wondering whether she was an
assassin.  She was an accomplished gymnast and contortionist, and some
of her tricks involved weapons such as daggers, sabers, and
vibroblades.  But he had trouble imagining her in the role of an
assassin.  Xaverri was smart, very smart.  Probably smarter, Han had to
concede, than he was.

She'd be more likely to use brains rather than weapons in her one-woman
vendetta against the Empire.

She gave him an enigmatic smile.  "That would be telling."

Han shrugged.  "Hey, I got no love for the Empire myself.  They're
slavers these days, and I hate slavery.  Maybe I could give you a hand
sometime.

I'm pretty good in a fight."

Xaverri regarded him thoughtfully.  "I'll consider it.  I've been
thinking about replacing old Glarret soon.  He's not quick enough
anymore to be a good assistant in the act, and he can't pilot.  It's
hard on me to do all the piloting myself."

"Well, lady, let me tell you, I'm a first-class pilot," Han said with a
grin.  "Matter of fact, I'm good at a lot of things."

She rolled her eyes.  "And modest, too."

By now they had reached the door to Xaverri's room.  The illusionist
looked at Han for a long level second.  "It's pretty late, Solo."

He didn't move.  "Yeah."

She pressed the doorlock with her forefinger and thumb, and it opened
silently.  Xaverri hesitated for a second, then walked into her room.

Leaving the door open.

Han smiled, and followed her in.

Han awoke after a few hours, and decided to leave Xaverri, who was
still deeply asleep, to finish her rest.  Quietly, he dressed and let
himself out of the room, after leaving a message on her comlink that
he'd see her later that day.

It was just after sunrise on Nar Shaddaa, though the activity on the
Smuggler's Moon had little to do with the unnaturally (to most
sentients) long days and nights.  Nar Shaddaa was always awake, always
active.  Han

walked toward home through crowded streets, hearing the cries of the
street vendors selling their myriad wares.

Han whistled a few bars of an old Corellian folk song as he walked.  He
felt great.  He hadn't realized how lonely he'd been for female
companionship.

It had been a long time since he'd met a woman he really cared for, and
Xaverri obviously found him as attractive as he found her.  The memory
of her kisses still had the power to stir him.

Han found himself counting the hours until he could see her again, and
chuckled to himself, shaking his head.  Get hold of yourself, Solo.

You're no moony-eyed kid anymore, you're-Without warning, something
jabbed him in the right buttock.  At first Han thought he'd staggered
and bumped his rear against a sharp piece of glassine protruding from
the half-ruined building beside him.

Then a rush of strange, tingling warmth engulfed him.  His steps
faltered, and his vision blurred, then cleared.

What's happening?

Steely fingers clamped on to his arm and dragged him into the alley.

Han realized, with horror, that he couldn't fight back.  His hands
wouldn't obey the commands of his brain.

Drugged?  Oh, no!

A flat, inhuman voice spoke to him from just behind his right
shoulder.

"Stand still, Solo."

Han discovered that he could do nothing else than stand perfectly
still.

Inwardly he was raging, his anger as hot and explosive as starplasma,
but outwardly his body was completely obedient to that artificially
amplified voice.

Who's got me?  What does he want?

Han concentrated every muscle, every sinew, every neuron of his being
into moving his hands, his arms, his legs.  Sweat gathered on his
forehead, trickled down into his eyes.  But he couldn't so much as
twitch a finger.

The hand left his arm, went down to his thigh to unfasten the leather
strap that held his blaster secure in its holster.  Han could feel the
weight against his thigh lighten as his attacker disarmed him.  Raging,
he tried again to move, but he might as well have tried to push a ship
into hyperspace using his own muscle power.

He tried to speak, tried to say, "Who are you?"  but that proved beyond
him, too.  All he could do was to breathe, in and out, blink his eyes,
and obey.

If Han had been a Wookiee, he'd have howled, long and loud.

After relieving Han of his blaster, his captor walked around him.

Finally, Han got a look at him.  Bounty hunter!  his mind screamed.

Beat-up greenish-gray Mandalorian armor, a helmet that completely hid
his features, and armed to the teeth.  He even had black and white
braided scalps of some kind hanging from his right shoulder.  Han
wondered what the man's name was.  He must be one of the elite--a
bounty hunter who only went after "tough" cases.

The Corellian supposed that he ought to be flattered, but it seemed a
dubious honor at best.

The bounty hunter went on to pat Han down, looking for more weaponry.

He found Han's multitool in his pocket, and confiscated that.  The
Corellian tried again to move, but he could do absolutely nothing but
inhale and exhale.  His breathing was loud and harsh in his own ears.

The figure in the Mandalorian armor glanced up at him.  "Don't waste
your energy, Solo.  I jabbed you with a dose of a handy little potion
they've come up with on Ryloth.  Expensive, but for the bounty they're
paying, you're worth it.  You won't be able to move, except at my
command, for several hours.  It varies from subject to subject.  By the
time you can move under your own power, we'll be aboard my ship and
halfway to Ylesia."

Han stared at the bounty hunter, suddenly realizing he'd seen that
figure in Mandalorian armor before, a long time ago.  Where?  He
concentrated, but the memory wouldn't surface.

Having finished his search, the bounty hunter straightened.  "All
right.

Turn around."

Han found himself turning.

"Now walk.  Turn right at the mouth of the alley."

The Corellian raged helplessly as his body obeyed every command.

Right-left, right-left.  He was walking, and the bounty hunter was
right behind him.  Han could catch occasional glimpses of him with his
peripheral vision.

They walked down the street of Nar Shaddaa, and for a moment Han hoped
that they might encounter one of his friends, even, possibly, Chewie.

Surely someone would notice what was happening to him!

But although many of the denizens of Nar Shaddaa watched bounty hunter
and prize walk past, nobody even spoke to them.  Han didn't really
blame them.

This bounty hunter, whoever he was, was a different sort than the ones
he'd dealt with before.  This guy was skilled, clever, and extremely
dangerous.  Anyone who interfered with him would undoubtedly suffer
dire consequences.

Right-left, right-left, right-left.

The bounty hunter turned right at the intersection leading to the
nearest transport tube.  Han knew where they must be heading--the
closest public landing platform.  The bounty hunter must have a ship
waiting there.

Obediently, Han stepped into the transport tube.  He tried again to
move.

Just let him wiggle even a finger or a toe!  But it was hopeless.  The
public transport system consisted of small capsules that would hold
four or five individuals, all strung together in a line like beads on a
string.

Han's captor did not sit down, but he ordered Han to do so.  The
Corellian sat there, fuming, imagining all the things he would do to
this bounty hunter if only he could move.

The man did not speak.  Han could not.  It was a short, silent ride.

When they debarked from the tube capsule, Han found himself, as he'd
suspected, at one of the public rooftop landing fields.  The field was
huge, broken only by several airshafts that gave light to the buildings
beneath the platform.  The airshafts yawned, with no railings to
protect a careless walker from plunging to his, her, or its death
hundreds or thousands of stories below.

Han had a sudden vivid memory of the night Garris Shrike had chased him
across the topmost platforms on Coruscant.  He'd barely escaped with
his life then.  The Corellian had a bad feeling that this time he
wasn't going to be so lucky.

Han found himself wondering what fate held in store for him back on
Ylesia.  Teroenza didn't have a molecule of kindness or mercy in his
entire enormous body.  He'd see that his prisoner met a slow and
agonizing end.

For a moment Han wished he could get control of his body just long
enough to make a running dive down one of those airshafts.  But no
matter how he struggled to move, he could do nothing except obey
orders.

Han and his captor strode between the grounded ships, heading Han knew
not where.

Right-left, right-left, right-left .  . .

The bounty hunter pointed, his arm coming into Han's view.  "Head for
that ship.  The modified Firespray class."

Han could see it now.  The bounty hunter wasn't kidding when he said
"modified."  The patrol and attack ship was very unusual, obviously
heavily modified.  Unlike other vessels, it landed with its Kuat
Engineering Systems F-31 drive engines down against the permacrete.

Roughly egg-shaped, when those powerful engines were engaged, the ship
would "stand up" on end to fly.  Han had never seen anything quite like
it, but the vessel reminded him of its owner--powerful and deadly.

For a moment, forgetting his predicament in his interest in the ship,
Han found himself wishing he could get a look at the interior--only to
catch himself in disgust.  He was going to get a look at the interior,
all right.

He'd spend several days aboard that modified Firespray as it took him
to certain torture and inevitable death.

They were walking down the ragged "aisle" between two huge
Duro-sian-built freighters now.  In just a few steps, they'd be at the
bounty hunter's ship, and that would be it.  Han knew better than to
imagine he'd be able to somehow overpower this guy, seize control of
the Firespray, and save himself.

He wished he could swallow.  His throat was so dry it ached.

Right-left, right-left, right-left .  . .

This is it, Han thought.  This is really it...

six

Love at First Flight

As Han marched woodenly forward, he caught a blur of motion out of the
corner of his eye--a figure stepped out from behind the freighter's
massive stabilizer fin.  A voice he'd never heard before, Low,
pleasant, but holding plenty of authority, said, "Freeze, bounty
hunter.  Move and you've had it."

The hand that had been resting lightly on Han's arm fell away.  The
Corellian, of course, was unable to stop walking.  He marched forward
into the sunlit expanse between himself and the modified Firespray,
leaving his captor and his unknown benefactor behind him in the shadow
of the ship.

Relief washed through him.  I'm saved--only to be replaced with
terror.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the sudden change from shadow to
sunlight, he could see there was an airshaft between him and the
Firespray.  Unable to stop himself, he was going to walk right off the
edge!

Then the voice called after him.  "Hey, you!  Solo!  Stop!"

Han felt himself halting, and was again flooded with relief.

Fortunately, his body would obey orders from anyone, not just the
unknown bounty hunter.  "Turn around and come back here!"  the voice
added.

Joyfully, Han obeyed.

As he walked toward his former captor and his rescuer, he stared into
the shadows, but could make out little except that someone stood half
behind the bounty hunter, holding the muzzle of a blaster shoved up
under the edge of the Mandalorian helmet, so it dug into the man's
neck.

As he walked back into the shadow of the freighter's stabilizer fin,
and his eyes adjusted from full sunlight, Han finally got a good look
at his rescuer.

He was a male, human, approximately Han's age, maybe a couple of years
older.  Slightly shorter than Han himself, he was slender and fit.  He
was clean-shaven, with curling black hair, dark eyes, and skin the
color of vine-coffeine lightened with traladon milk.

The man was dressed in the height of fashion, a pale gold shirt that
laced up the front, accented with black embroidery on the wide collar
and cuffs.

His narrow black trousers were impeccably pressed.  A wide,
cummerbundlike embroidered belt accented his narrow waist and flat
stomach.  He wore black softboots, which explained why he'd been able
to ambush the bounty hunter so soundlessly.  A short, black cape hung
from his shoulders.

As Han approached him, he smiled, an exceptionally charming smile that
revealed excellent white teeth.  "You may stop now, Solo," he said,
halting Han well out of range of his erstwhile captor.

Han stopped, and stood watching as his rescuer's thumb moved on the
firing control of the blaster as he pulled his hand back slightly.

Feeling the newcomer's grip slacken, the bounty hunter started to swing
around, raising his wrists.  The bounty hunter wore Mandalorian
wristlets that were undoubtedly loaded with deadly little darts!

Han tried without success to scream a warning, but it was
unnecessary.

The newcomer was already firing.  The stun blast hit the bounty hunter,
and at such close range, even his Mandalorian armor couldn't deflect
its effects.

The bounty hunter went down bonelessly.  The edges of his armor
clattered on the permacrete as he landed.

Han's rescuer replaced his small but deadly holdout blaster in a
concealed holster attached to the ornamental belt.  He gestured to
Han.

"Help me pick him up."

Naturally, Han did as he was told.

Together, he and the newcomer carried the unconscious hunter toward his
ship.  Han wondered what they were going to do with him.  It wouldn't
be long before he regained consciousness.

"I wonder how long that stuff will affect you," the rescuer said
thoughtfully.  "Can you talk, Solo?"

Han felt his lips moving.  "Yes," he said.  He tried to say more than
that simple assent, but he couldn't.

The man glanced over at him.  "I get it.  You can respond to orders,
but no more, right?"

"I guess so," Han found himself replying.

"Nasty stuff he shot you with," the man said.  "I've heard of it, but
never seen it in action.  I'll have to investigate getting some of
it.

Could come in handy in a pinch."

When they reached the ramp leading to the airlock of the Firespray,
they laid the bounty hunter on the permacrete.  The newcomer then
proceeded to search his pockets and all the concealed places in his
armor.  "Hello, what have we here?"  he exclaimed as his deft fingers
encountered several vials in the bounty hunter's belt pocket.

After holding each vial up to the light so he could read the label,
Han's rescuer flashed him a roguish grin.  "You're in luck, Solo," he
said.  "This is the stuff he shot into you"--he held up a blue
vial--"and here's the antidote."  He held up a green vial.

Han waited impatiently as the newcomer loaded the injector with the
substance.  "I'm having to guess at the dosage," he said.  "I'll give
you the minimum, and if that doesn't help, I'll try a bit more."  He
placed the injector against Han's torso and then triggered it.

As soon as his rescuer depressed the trigger, and the substance flooded
his body, Han felt himself tingle all over.  Moments later he could
move and speak.

"Pal, I owe you one," he said, extending his hand to the other.  "If it
hadn't been for you .  . ."  He shook his head.  "So who are you and
why did you rescue me?  I've never seen you before in my life."

The other grinned.  "Lando Calrissian," he replied.  "And as to why I
saved you, it's a bit of a story.  Let's deal with Boba Fett here, and
then we'll talk."  His gaze sharpened.  "Hey, Solo, you okay?"

Han felt dizzy.  He dropped to one knee beside the prone figure of the
bounty hunter and shook his head.  "Boba .  . . Boba Fett?  This is
Boba Fett?"

The most famous bounty hunter in the galaxy had been hired to bring him
in?  Han felt himself tremble in reaction to the news.  "Oh, man .  .
.

Lando .  . ."  he said.  "I didn't know .  . ."

"Well, you're safe now," Calrissian said cheerfully.  "You can get the
shakes later, Solo.  Right now we have to figure out what we're going
to do with Master Fett, here."  He thought for a moment, then a slow,
unpleasant smile stole across his face.  He snapped his fingers.  "Got
it!"  "What?"

Calrissian was already loading the injector again, this time with the
other vial, the blue one.  He shook the bounty hunter, who groaned and
stirred.  "He's coming around, so here goes nothing," he grunted.  Han,
who had reappropriated his blaster, kept the bounty hunter covered
while Calrissian lifted the front of Fett's helmet, exposing his
throat.  The

bounty hunter suddenly struggled violently.  "Freeze!"  Han ordered,
holding the blaster against his helmet.  "This isn't set on stun,
Fett," he snarled.  "After what you almost did to me, I'd cheerfully
disintegrate you."

Boba Fett lay quiet as Calrissian shoved the injector against his neck
and triggered it.

Moments later Fett shivered.  "Lie still," Calrissian ordered.

The bounty hunter obeyed.  Han and Lando grinned at each other · .  .

slow, nasty grins.

"All right, sit up," Calrissian said.

Boba Fett did as he was told.

"You know what we ought to do," Calrissian said thoughtfully.  "If we
had any idea of how long this stuff stays in the system, I'd say take
him down to one of the local bars for a couple of hours and collect
fees from folks who'd pay well to humiliate this guy.  He's taken a lot
of bounties.  He's got to have lots of enemies."

"He said it would last several hours.  There's no way to tell exactly,"
Han pointed out.  Personally, he wanted nothing more than to get as far
away from Fett and Slave I as he could.  For a moment he considered
ordering Fett to march himself across the permacrete and down an
airshaft, but a moment's reflection convinced him that even though it
might be the smart thing to do, he just couldn't do it.  Killing
someone in a blaster fight was one thing, but callously ordering a
sentient to kill him-self--even when that sentient was a scummy bounty
hunter--was quite another.

"True."  Calrissian stood up.  "Well, I think maybe my first idea is
the best one.  Stand up, Boba Fett," he commanded.  The bounty hunter
stood up.

"Disarm yourself.  Now."

Minutes later Han and Lando regarded a largish pile of assorted
weaponry of all different kinds that lay before them on the sunlit
permacrete.

"Minions of Xendor," Han said, shaking his head, "this guy could have
set up shop with just what he had on him.  Lookit those Mandalorian
wristlets.

Bet the darts are poisoned, too."

"One way to find out," said Lando.  "Boba Fett, answer me.  Are these
darts poisoned?"

"Some of them," the bounty hunter replied.  "Which ones?"  "Left
wristlet."

"What's on the right wristlet darts?"

"Soporific."

"Nice," Han said, fingering the wristlets carefully.  "These oughta be
worth quite a bit to a collector.  So, now .  . . what do we do with
him?"

"I think we set his autopilot to blast out of here, and set a course
for some far system.  Then we order him not to interfere with the
course we've set.  If this stuff takes hours to wear off, by the time
it does, he could be sectors away."  Calrissian paused.  "He's killed
so many people, I'm almost tempted to just shoot him.  But I've never
killed anyone in cold blood like that."  He frowned, almost seeming
embarrassed.  "I'm not eager to start now, I have to admit."

"Me, too," Han said.  "Your plan sounds fine.  Let's get him aboard."

Obediently, Boba Fett opened up his ship, and the three of them walked
into Slave I. Han and Lando strapped Fett into one of the passenger
seats.

"Are you a pilot?"  Han asked.

"No, I'm not," Calrissian admitted.  "Matter of fact, that's why I was
looking for you.  I need to hire a pilot."

"You got one," Han said.  "Anything I can do to help you out.  Like I
said, I owe you, pal."

"We'll talk about that later.  Let's get rid of our friend here."

Han quickly set the autopilot to take the ship up, and prerecorded all
the necessary responses Slave I would need to make to Nar Shaddaa's
sector traffic control.  Then he chose a course that would take Slave I
clear across Imperial space in a series of bewildering hyperspace
jumps.  With any luck, Boba Fett would be unable to regain control
until he was tens of thousands of parsecs away.

"We're ready," Han said, finally.  "She'll lift in three minutes."

"Okay."

Lando turned back to the helpless bounty hunter.  "Fett, listen to me,
and do exactly what I say.  You are to sit in this seat, strapped in,
and not go near the controls of your ship until you reach the
destination Solo has set for it, or until your obedience drug wears
off, whichever comes first.  Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Fett.

"Good."  Calrissian waved a jaunty good-bye to the bounty hunter and
headed for the ramp.

Han stared hard at Boba Fett.  "Have a nice trip, bounty hunter.  I
hope I never see you again.  And you can tell Teroenza from me that the
next time I come back to Ylesia, he's one dead t'landa Til.  You hear
me?"

"Yes."

"So long, Fett," Han said.  He could hear the engines whine, and the
ramp trembled beneath his feet as he ran down it, pressing the close
button as he did so.  He had to jump down from the ramp as it rose
beneath his feet.

Lando had already scooped up Boba Fett's weaponry, and together, the
young men jogged to a safe distance.  They turned back to watch Slave I
rear up on its end, then take off, its powerful engines flaring.

Only when it had disappeared into the distance did Han finally draw a
long, deep breath and then let it out slowly.  "Whew.  Close call," he
said.  "I'll say," Calrissian agreed.  "You're lucky I spotted you,
Solo."

Han nodded and held out his hand to the other.  "Call me Han.  I owe
you, Calrissian."

"Call me Lando."  The other man's irresistible grin flashed.  "And ·
.

.

don't worry.  I'll see you pay up."

"Whatever you want, pal.  You don't know what would have happened to me
if Boba Fett had succeeded."  The Corellian shivered, even in the sun's
warmth.  "Trust me, you don't want to know."

"I can guess," Lando said.  "Boba Fett doesn't work cheap.  If somebody
wanted you that bad, chances are it wasn't just because you welshed on
a debt, or anything minor."

Han grinned.  "You are an insightful guy, pal."  He beckoned to the
other, and they began walking back across the landing platform.  "Want
to get some breakfast?  I find I'm really hungry.  Nearly meeting a
fate worse than death has that effect on me."

"Sure," Lando said.  "You buying?"

"You bet."

By the time they were settled at a little cafe Han knew, sipping cups
of stim-tea, Han was beginning to feel as though he'd known Lando for
years, instead of just an hour.  "So, tell me," he said, finishing off
the last slice of flatbread, "how did you find me?  And why were you
lookin' for me?"

"Well, I've actually seen you a time or two before," Lando admitted.

"You were pointed out to me in a couple of night spots as a fair sabacc
player, a good smuggler, and an excellent pilot."

Han tried, without much success, to look suitably modest.  "I don't
recall seeing you, Lando, but I didn't have any reason to remember, I
guess.  So, okay, you knew what I look like.  What happened this
morning?"

"Well, last night I went by your place to talk to you, and your friend
told me that he didn't think you'd be home that night."  Lando gave Han
a knowing smile.  "But he told me you'd probably be staying with a . 
.

.

friend .  . . at The Chance Castle.  So, when I finished the night's
work, I dropped by on my way home."

"You work at night?  What do you do?"  Han asked.

"Gambler," Lando said.  "Mostly.  Though I've been known to try my
hand at various schemes as they come along."

"I see.  So you hadn't been to bed yet, but you came by The Castle on
the way home."

"It wasn't far out of my way.  Most of the big casinos in that section
of Nar Shaddaa are within walking distance of each other.  Anyway, when
I got there, I saw you on the street, ahead of me.  I followed you,
intending to catch up and introduce myself--" "Only to see Boba Fett
get the drop on me," Han guessed.  "Exactly.  I don't much like bounty
hunters, so I followed you until I was pretty sure where he was
heading.  Then I managed to slip around the perimeter of the landing
field and get ahead of you.  You were walking pretty slowly, you
know.

I recognized Slave I, so I was able to hide between you and the ship,
then get the drop on Fett when he walked past."

Han nodded.  "And I'm real glad you did, pal."  He shook his head.

"Listen, don't tell Chewie about this, okay?  He's sworn something
called a life debt to me, 'cause he thinks he owes me, you see.  I had
a hard time talkin' him out of coming with me last night.  He was sure
I'd get myself into trouble .  . ."

"Well, you did," Lando said, chuckling.

"I know I did," Han admitted ruefully.  "But if Chewie ever finds out
about it, he'll never let me out of his sight again.  And, hey .  . .

there are times when a guy would like some privacy, you know?"

Lando shook his head ruefully.  "I get your point.  Okay, Han, I'll
keep your secret."  He leaned forward and poured himself another cup of
stim tea.

"Is she pretty?"

Han nodded.  "I know you'll appreciate what I mean when I say that
she's almost worth what I went through this morning."

Lando looked impressed.  "Maybe you should introduce me, old buddy."

Han shook his head.  "I don't think so .  . . old buddy.  You strike me
as a bit of a ladykiller.  You'd probably try to charm her away from
me."

Lando shrugged and sat back, smiling smugly.  "You never know."

Han grinned.  "The operative word here is 'try,' Lando.  So why were
you lookin' for me in the first place?  You mentioned needing a
pilot?"

"That's right.  I was playing sabacc over on Bespin a week or so ago,
and one of the players threw in a marker for his ship.  High-stakes
game, it was."

"And you won the ship," Han guessed.

"That's right.  But I've never piloted one.  I need to
learn--especially now, with a chance that Boba Fett will come looking
for me.  I'm going to

head for greener pastures and fresh sabacc tables for a while, and I
thought it would be fun to travel in my own ship.  I had to hire a
pilot to fly me back here, and it was expensive.  So I want you to
teach me to fly my ship," "Okay," Han said.  "I can do that.  When do
you want to start?"

Lando shrugged.  "My adrenaline level is still pretty high after
dealing with Fett.  I'm not sleepy at all.  How about now?"

Han nodded.  "Sure."

They took a different tube to a different landing platform.  Side by
side, Han and Lando walked across the windswept surface of the
platform, through ranks of parked vessels, until Lando stopped and
pointed.  "There it is.  The Millennium Falcon."

Han stared across the permacrete at the modified light stock freighter,
Corellian made and engineered, model YT-1300 Transport.  He'd seen
plenty of them before, and had always liked them--Corellians were good
engineers as well as good pilots.

But, as Han stared at this particular ship, something strange
happened.

Without warning, he fell suddenly, irrevocably, irretrievably in
love.

This ship called to him, she sang to him a siren song of speed, of
maneuverability, of narrow escapes and adventures and successful
smuggling runs galore.

That ship is going to be mine, Han thought.  Mine.  The Millennium
Falcon will be mine .  . .

The Corellian suddenly realized he was staring, his mouth agape.  Lando
was looking at him, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.  Hastily Han closed
his mouth, and tried his best to purge the sudden yearning, the wanting
from his mind.  He had to play it cool.  If Lando knew how much Han
wanted the ship, he'd surely jack the price up .  . .

"So, what do you think of her?"  Lando asked.

Han shook his head.  "What a hunk of junk!"  he exclaimed, mentally
begging the Falcon's pardon.  "That game wasn't nearly as high stakes
as you're tryin' to make me believe, old buddy."

"Hey, the pilot who flew it back here for me said it's a really fast
ship," Lando said, sounding defensive.

"Really?"  Han looked doubtful.  He shrugged.  "Well, you never know
till you try her out.  Shall we go for a spin?"

"Sure," Lando said.

Minutes later Han sat at the controls of Lando's new acquisition,
savoring the Falcon's response as she lifted on her repulsors, then he
engaged the sublight drive.  He still couldn't believe what he'd seen
in her

engine room--this ship boasted a military-grade hyperdrive!  Oh, you
honey!

Her sublight speeds were good, too.  Han sent the Falcon hurtling
upward in a steep rush.  The resulting surge of power exhilarated him,
but he was careful not to show it.  "Not bad," he said indifferently.

"But I've seen better.  Let's see how she maneuvers."

Quickly he took the Falcon up out of Nar Shaddaa's atmosphere, then
through the opening in the shield, all the while giving the correct
responses to traffic control.  Once free of the gravity well and past
the floating obstacle course of the derelict ships, Han sent the Falcon
into a dizzying series of spins, rolls, and flips.

"Hey!"  Lando protested, gulping audibly.  "You got a passenger here,
don't forget!  You want me to lose my breakfast?"

Han grinned at him.  He was tempted to ask Lando how much he wanted for
the ship, but he knew it would be more than he could possibly afford.

Wild schemes about getting the Hutts to buy the Falcon so he could fly
it regularly--and then maybe steal it, someday--raced through his
mind.

But he didn't want Jabba or Jiliac owning the Falcon.  They wouldn't
appreciate this beauty, this work of art.

Han quickly checked out the weaponry.  Her legs are good, but she could
use more muscle .  . . Only one light laser cannon, in a top gun
turret.  Not enough, Han thought.

As though Lando were reading Han's thoughts, the gambler said, "The
pilot that brought me here said it might need some more weaponry to be
a really good smuggler.  What do you think?"

"I think if this were my ship, I'd install another gun turret and some
quad lasers, as well as a repeating blaster in the belly, to cover
quick getaways," Han said.  Maybe some concussion missiles, too .  .

.

"Huh," Lando said.  "I'll have to think about that.  But it is a fast
ship, isn't it?"

Han nodded grudgingly.  "Yeah, she's got a pretty good set of legs on
her, Lando."  He surreptitiously patted the pilot's console.  Oh, you
sweetheart...

A few minutes later Lando cleared his throat.  "I thought the object of
taking it out was that you were going to start teaching me to pilot,
Han."

"Oh .  . . oh, yeah," Han said.  "I was just .  . . checking her out.

So I could teach you all her little quirks and stuff."

"You sound like this thing is alive," Lando said.

"Well, pilots get to think of their ships sort of like that," Han
admitted.

"They become like a .  . . friend.  You'll see."

"Don't forget, the Falcon is my ship," Lando said, with a slight edge
in his voice.

"Of course," Han said, carefully casual.  "Now, listen here.  We're
going to start at sublight speeds.  That's where most of the
maneuvering expertise comes.  See that lever?  Pull that lever and
we'll go into hyperdrive, and that's not something you want to do less
you've got a course laid in.  So .

. . don't touch that lever.  Got it?"

Lando leaned forward intently.  "Got it .  . ."

Thousands of light-years away, Teroenza, High Priest of Ylesia, stood
in the middle of Colony Three, surveying the damage from a dawn
terrorist raid.  Nearly a dozen bodies were sprawled around, most of
them his own security guards.  Blaster marks scored the factory
buildings.  The door to the mess hall was slagged.  A crew was
finishing putting out a fire in the Administration Building.  The smell
of burning fought with the hothouse odor of the wet, steaming jungle.

The High Priest snorted nervously.  All this from a slave raid.  Not a
raid to gain slaves, a raid to rescue them.

The troops had been human, most of them.  Teroenza had seen their
images on his communications monitors from his headquarters at Colony
One.  Two ships had spiraled down through Ylesia's treacherous air
currents, but only one had managed to land safely.  The other vessel
had gotten caught in a wind shear, and was destroyed.

Which was only justice, Teroenza thought grumpily as he surveyed the
damage the remaining ship had caused.  Meddlers!  The group had landed,
then armed troops dressed in green and khaki uniforms had leaped out
and attacked the Ylesian guards.  A firefight had ensued, and more than
a dozen guards had been killed.

Then the attackers had stormed the refectory where the pilgrims were
having breakfast.  They'd entreated them to come with them, saying they
were here to rescue them from slavery.

Teroenza made a soft whuffling sound that was his species' equivalent
of a chuckle.  Stupid raiders!  Stupid to think the pilgrims would
renounce the Exultation for freedom.  Only two pilgrims out of the two
hundred in the mess hall had run to join the invaders.

And then--Teroenza's expression darkened--she had stepped forward to
address the assembled pilgrims.  The High Priest had thought her dead
long since.  He remembered her very well.  Pilgrim 921, birth name Bria
Tharen.  A Corellian .  . . and a traitor.

Bria had argued with the pilgrims, telling them the truth about the

Exultation.  She'd told the group that someday they'd thank her--and
then she'd given the order for her troops to turn stun beams on the
crowd.

Pilgrims had fallen in their tracks.

The group of Corellians had gotten away with nearly a hundred prime
slaves.  Teroenza cursed softly.  Bria Tharen!  He couldn't decide
which Corellian he hated more, Bria or that accursed Han Solo.

Teroenza was worried about this raid.  There was money behind this
group.

Ships and weapons cost money.  They were well organized and efficient,
like a real military cadre.  Who were they?

Teroenza had heard of various rebel groups rising against the Empire.

Could the squadron of soldiers that attacked Colony Three today have
been part of such a group?

The High Priest experienced a flicker of satisfaction, though, when he
imagined how miserable the rescuers would be when the stunned pilgrims
awakened.  The t'landa Til knew only too well how addicted most
humanoids quickly became when exposed to the Exultation on a daily
basis.

By now the pilgrims must be missing the Exultation a great deal.  They
would be screaming and wailing and making threats, begging to return to
Ylesia.  They might even commandeer the rebel ship and bring it back
here, like faithful pilgrims.  One thing was certain .  . . tonight the
Corellian rebels would have their hands full.

The thought made Teroenza smile.

Several days after Boba Fett's attempt to capture him, Han went to see
Jabba and Jiliac to tell them that he would be scarce on Nar Shaddaa
for a while.  He'd decided to take Xaverri up on her offer, and become
her assistant during her next tour.  He had a feeling Boba Fett
wouldn't be easily discouraged, and it wouldn't hurt to get off Nar
Shaddaa for the next few months.

But the words died unspoken on his lips.  The moment he was ushered
into their presence, Jabba hailed him with impatient cries, ordering
him to prepare the Star Jewel for an immediate trip to Nal Hutta.  The
emissaries sent from the Desilijic and the Besadii kajidics had
convened a meeting of the Hutt kajidics for the next day.  Apparently
Besadii had been holding up the negotiations, but had suddenly made
several important concessions, in the interest of holding the meeting
quickly.

"Today?"  Han said, thinking that he'd have to cancel his lesson with
Lando this afternoon.  "That's pretty short notice, isn't it?"

"Yes," Jiliac agreed.  "We know of no reason for things to have been
speeded up, but something must have happened."

"Okay, I'll take you down this afternoon," Han said.  "Just give me an
hour or so to get the ship ready, and check out our course."

"And, Captain Solo, you must be prepared to give us your smoothest
flight," Jabba cautioned.  "No turbulence.  My aunt is in a delicate
condition, and she must not be jostled."

Han glanced around for another Hutt, but saw only Jiliac.  "Your
aunt?

I beg your pardon, Lord Jabba?  There will be three Hutts for me to
transport?"

"No, human!"  Jabba was impatient.  "Jiliac and myself, as always!

Don't you have eyes?  Didn't you notice her skin texture?  Her
condition is plain!"

Han looked over at Jiliac, and suddenly realized that the Hutt did
appear different.  Warty excrescences had erupted on the being's face,
and purplish patches mingled with the greenish ones on the leathery tan
skin.

Jiliac also appeared bigger, and rather lethargic.  Oh, wonderful, I
get to play nursemaid to a sick Hutt?  Great!

"Uh, Lord Jiliac, are you feeling--" Han began, only to have Jabba
round on him with withering scorn.

"Human idiot!  Can't you see that Lord Jiliac is now Lady Jiliac?  She
is expecting!  In her delicate condition, she really should not make
this effort, but we Desilijic are nothing if not faithful to our
duty!"

She?  Pregnant?  Han's mouth dropped open, and Chewie roared softly in
surprise.

Han recovered quickly, and bowed to Jiliac.  "Your pardon, Lady
Jiliac.

I am not familiar with your species' .  . . uh, er .  . . reproductive
habits.  I meant no offense."

Jiliac blinked at Han sleepily.  "No offense taken.  My people
reproduce as they will, and I decided it was time for me to do so.  My
child is due in a few months.  I will be able to make the trip safely,
my nephew Jabba is merely overprotective.  But a smooth flight would be
advisable."

"Yes, lady," Han said, bowing.  "Smooth flight to Nal Hutta.  Leaving
this afternoon.  I'll get right on it."

"Very well, Captain.  You are dismissed.  We wish to leave as soon as
possible."

Han bowed again, and left, with Chewie trailing behind him.  As soon as
he was out of sight, he shook his head.  Hutts!  The more I get to know
them, the weirder they are .  . .

A veritable tide of Hutts wriggled and glided toward the large Hutt
Grand Council Hall on Nal Hutta.  Jabba and Jiliac undulated along,
side

by side, accompanied by the Desilijic security guards.  Most of the
Hutts preferred to move under their own power if they still could.  It
was permissible to show weakness before humans and other underlings,
but in the company of their own kind, Hutts preferred to appear strong
and fit.

All of Desilijic moved under their own power, and among the Besadii
clan, only Aruk was too old and corpulent to manage without his sled.

As the Hutts moved toward the council chambers, they and their guards
passed through multiple security and scanning devices.  None of the
guards was allowed a weapon, and each attendee was scanned, internally
as well as externally, to make sure no dangerous substances were being
smuggled into the hall.  Hutts were not trusting beings, especially in
the company of other Hutts--and with good reason.  Long ago, every
prominent Hutt on Nal Hutta had been eliminated en masse by a single
ingenious assassin.

Hutts were determined that nothing like that would ever happen again.

The Grand Council Hall was a huge room, big enough to comfortably hold
nearly fifty Hutts.  At the moment twenty-seven Hutts were
gathered--representatives of all the major clans and kajidics, as well
as "neutral" parties from the Hutt government who would be overseeing
and administering the conference.

The Hutt homeworld was governed by the Grand Council--an oligarchy
composed of one representative appointed by each major Hutt clan.  In
reality, though, the power of the crime syndicates--the kajidics--was
far greater than that of the Grand Council.

Jabba and Jiliac had summoned two other Desilijic members to attend
them.

Aruk had brought the Besadii contingent, consisting of himself, his
offspring Durga, and his nephew Kibbick.  Jabba was pleased to note
that a t'landa Til trailed in Kibbick's wake.  Jiliac was right,
Besadii had indeed summoned Teroenza.

After the mass of Hutts had arranged themselves in a circle around the
speaker's platform, the conference was brought to order by the
Executive Secretary of the Grand Council, a Hutt named Mardoc.  After
each of the clans had officially identified itself and its contingent,
Mardoc spoke again: "Comrades-in-power, siblings-in-profit, I have
convened you today to discuss some very serious developments on the
Besadii colony world of Ylesia.  I ask Lord Aruk to speak."

Aruk moved his sled closer to the speaker's platform.  He waved his
small arms at his fellow Hutts for emphasis and began, "Fellow Hutts.

Two days ago Colony Three on Ylesia was attacked by well-armed
terrorists.  Kibbick and our overseer, Teroenza, barely escaped with
their lives.  Much destruction was done, and the attackers made off
with nearly one hundred valuable slaves."

A ripple of consternation ran around the conference room as the
assorted Hutts reacted to Aruk's news.  Jabba realized that Aruk was
staring straight at him and Jiliac.  Gauging our reaction, he
realized.

For just a moment, Jabba wondered if Jiliac had decided to play it
ultrasubtle, and had arranged the raid, but not told him.  After a
moment's thought, however, he rejected the notion.  His Aunt was so
caught up in her recent pregnancy that she had little energy for
plotting--especially commando raids.  Besides, Jiliac normally eschewed
direct assaults, preferring to work against enemies in more subtle
ways.

"Hutt brethren, we of the Besadii clan demand that Jiliac, as head of
clan Desilijic, personally assure us that this terrible raid, this
theft of valuable Besadii property, was not done by Desilijic!

Otherwise, this means war between our kajidics!"

A collective gasp echoed through the Grand Hall.  Aruk's challenge hung
in the air like the smoke from the hookahs some of the Hutt Lords were
moking.

Slowly, Jiliac pulled herself up, appearing almost regal in her new
maternal dignity.  "Fellow Hutts," she said.  "Desilijic is innocent of
any taint of aggression in this matter.  As a guarantee of this,
Desilijic pledges that if any link can be discovered between the
raiders and Desilijic, Desilijic will remit to Besadii the sum of one
million credits."

Silence for a beat, then Aruk inclined his head in the Hutt equivalent
of a bow.  "Very well.  Never let it be said that Desilijic refused to
back its integrity with money.  We ask that the Grand Council
investigate and give us their findings in one month."

Mardoc agreed, but then yielded the floor to Jiliac when she indicated
that she had more to say.  "However, I wish that I could say the same
for Besadii.  Just a few months ago, my nephew here"--she indicated
Jabba--"was brutally attacked by hired mercenaries.  Only the fact that
we cannot definitively state who sent them keeps us from leveling
accusations at our rivals!  Unlike Besadii, we do not make accusations
unless we have proof!"

Another hubbub of voices and whispers erupted in the Grand Hall.

Aruk drew himself up to his most impressive height, his rheumy old eyes
red-rimmed.  "Besadii has done nothing wrong!"

"Do you deny that you sent Drell pirates to assassinate my nephew?"

"Yes!"  thundered Aruk.

The resulting barrage of threats, insults, and rhetoric from both
sides

made it necessary for Mardoc to call for a recess.  Jabba watched the
Hutts around him, talking in small groups, and began wondering just who
it was who had attacked Ylesia.  If it wasn't Desilijic, then who?

Did Ylesia have a new rival in the slave trade?

Durga the Hutt lay stretched beside his parent on his repulsor sled
during the afternoon session.  He was concerned about Aruk.  The
conference had been going on for hours, and Aruk had been in the middle
of it the whole time.  Durga knew that his parent wasn't up to this
level of stress.  Aruk was a very old Hutt, nearly a thousand years
old.

The young Hutt listened intently, aware that his parent would quiz him
point by point on the conference.  Beside Durga, Kibbick blinked
slowly, obviously fighting sleep.  Durga looked at his cousin
scornfully, Kibbick was an idiot.  Didn't he understand that these
kinds of meetings, these feints and counterfeints, thrusts and parries
and ripostes, constituted the life's fluid of Hutt society?  Didn't he
understand that power and profit were food and drink and breath to
their people?

This was the first Hutt conference to be held in Durga's short
lifetime, and he was pleased that his parent had allowed him to
attend.

Durga knew that because of the birthmark he'd been born with, some of
the Besadii kajidic would question whether he was fit to lead Besadii
when Aruk died.

Durga knew that he had all the most essential qualities to lead
Besadii.

He was smart, scheming, devious, and ruthless.  All estimable qualities
in a Hutt.  But he had to demonstrate those qualities to Besadii,
before Aruk died, or he'd have trouble succeeding his parent.

If only I could take over Ylesia, instead of Kibbic!  Durga thought.

He knew that his father had spent a good part of yesterday evening
raging at Kibbick for allowing Teroenza to take over the running of
Ylesia.  Aruk had also sternly advised the t'landa Til that he must
know his place, lest he lose his position as High Priest.  Teroenza had
cowered before the old Hutt Lord, but Durga thought he'd caught a flash
of anger from him.  He resolved to keep a careful eye on Teroenza.

Kibbick, on the other hand, had simply whined about how unpleasant life
was on Ylesia, and how hard he was working.  Aruk had let him off with
a stern warning.  Durga privately thought that Aruk should have
relieved him of his post.  Idly, he wondered whether assassinating his
cousin was a good idea .  . .

But he had a feeling that Aruk wouldn't like it.  So that meant he
couldn't do it while his parent lived.

Not that Durga wished Aruk's death.  He was genuinely fond of his
parent, as he knew Aruk was fond of him.  Durga knew only too well that
he owed Aruk his life in every possible way.  Most Hutt parents would
not have allowed a child with a birthmark to live.

Durga also wanted to make Aruk proud of him.  That motivation was even
stronger in him than his need to gain power and profit--something that
he knew would be seen as practically sacrilegious by other Hutts, so he
never revealed it.

Durga watched as Jabba the Hutt wriggled forward to take the floor.

The second-in-command of Desilijic was said to be an exemplary Hutt in
many ways, but most Hutts found his preoccupation with humanoid females
both perverse and inexplicable.  Still, Jabba was sharp, Durga had to
grant him that, as he listened to him speak.

"Honored Hutt Lords, listen to me!  Besadii claims that their recent
expansions on Ylesia are just good business, but shall we allow good
business for one kajidic to undermine the financial underpinnings of
our world?  Besadii has grabbed such a large share of the spice trade,
and the slave trade, that we must all make them see reason!  What does
it profit them to fill their own coffers if their policies bring
disaster to our world?"

"Disaster?"  Aruk's voice boomed out so deep and authoritative that
Durga felt a ripple of pride.  His parent was as fine a Hutt leader as
had ever been born!  "Disaster, my friends?  We had one hundred and
eighty-seven percent profit in the past year!  How could this possibly
be construed to be anything but something to be praised and honored
for?  I ask you that, Jabba!  How could it?"

"Because some of your profit has come out of the coffers of your fellow
Hutts," Jabba pointed out.  "It is fine to take from others, from
humans and Rodians and Sullustans and from all the other creatures of
the galaxy.

That is why they are there--so that we Hutts may profit from them.  But
there is a danger in pulling away too much income from Nal Hutta and
your fellow Hutts."

"Oh?"  sarcasm tinged Aruk's voice.  "And what is that danger, Lord
Jabba?"

"Too much conspicuous profit may bring us to the attention of the
Emperor or his minions," Jabba pointed out.  "Nal Hutta is far from
Imperial Center.  Out here near the Rim Territories, we are protected
to some extent by distance, and protected even more by Moff Sam Shild,
whom we generously support in the style to which he has become
accustomed.  But if any one Hutt clan makes a point of having
tremendous wealth, it may bring all of us to the attention of the
Emperor.  And that, fellow Hutts, is an attention we do not want."

Durga heard the other Hutts murmuring, and had to admit that Jabba had
made a good point.  When the Empire took a close interest in any one
world, it was always unfortunate for that world.

Durga wondered how Jabba and Jiliac had discovered that Besadii was
behind the attack of Drell pirates.  Too bad they'd missed their chance
to rid Nal Hutta of Jabba.  Without Jabba, Jiliac would be easier to
get out of the way.  Jabba was a crafty Hutt, who was protective of his
Aunt.  His security forces were better than Jiliac's.

The Hutt Lords were unable to reach a conclusion about Besadii's
off-the-scale profits.  The discussion rambled on, degenerated into
personal insults, then ended with no conclusion.

Aruk took the floor again.  He was still concerned about the recent
violence.  Jiliac acknowledged that she was concerned, too.  Durga was
surprised that they could agree on anything.  Finally, Desilijic and
Besadii united to put forward an unprecedented proposal.

"I propose," Aruk said, in summary, "that the Grand Council declare a
moratorium on violence between the kajidics for at least the next three
standard months!  Who will support me in this?"

Jiliac and Jabba voiced their enthusiastic approval, then, one by one,
the representatives of the other clans chimed in.  Mardoc declared
Aruk's proposal adopted.

Durga looked up at his parent and felt another wave of pride.  Aruk is
a giant among Hutts!

Much later that night, as both Hutts prepared to sleep in Jiliac's Nal
Hutta mansion, which was located on an island in one of Nal Hutta's
more temperate zones, Jiliac turned to Jabba.  "Aruk is dangerous.  I
am more convinced of it than ever."

"Yes, he was quite impressive when he managed to rally the clans,"
Jabba agreed.  "He has .  . . charisma.  He can be very persuasive."

"It is truly ironic that it was Aruk who wound up proposing my idea
about the moratorium," Jiliac said.  "But as the meeting progressed, I
realized that if I hoped to convince the others of the wisdom of the
moratorium, the idea would have to come from Aruk."

Jabba nodded.  "He is a forceful orator, Aunt."

"An orator who must be deprived of his voice, or Desilijic will suffer
even more," Jiliac said soberly.  "A three-month moratorium on
interkajidic violence will free our minds so that we may look at the
problem of Aruk without distractions."

Jabba blinked his bulbous eyes at his aunt as she settled herself
comfortably on her padded resting spot.  "What are you thinking,
Aunt?"

Jiliac was silent for a moment, then said, "I am thinking that this is
our chance to strike at Aruk's weak spot."

"His weak spot?"

"Yes, Nephew.  Aruk has a weak spot, and it has a name.  And that name
is .  .

."

"Teroenza," Jabba said.

"Correct, Nephew."

When Teroenza boarded Kibbick's space yacht for the trip back to
Ylesia, he was in a very bad mood.  Aruk had not permitted them to have
any kind of a holiday on Nal Hutta, stressing that they must get back
to Ylesia to see to the rebuilding after the raid.

Teroenza had been profoundly disappointed.  He'd hoped to see his mate,
Tilenna, while he was home.

But Aruk had said "no," and said it with such stern disapproval that
Teroenza hadn't dared to ask again.

So here he was, stuck with that idiot Kibbick for company.  When he
could have been sporting with his lovely mate in a delicious, sensual
mud wallow.

Disgustedly, Teroenza plodded into his large, well-appointed cabin, and
sank into his resting sling.  Blast Aruk!  The Hutt Lord was getting
irrational in his old age--irrational and mean.  Meaner, that is, than
he'd been before.

The High Priest still smarted from the "financial review" he'd been
forced to sit through.  Aruk had questioned every expenditure, carped
about every extra credit.  He'd gone on and on about how the bounty
Teroenza had posted on Solo was completely unnecessary.  "Let Boba Fett
blast him into atoms!"  he'd raged.  "Disintegrations are much cheaper!
 Allowing yourself personal revenge on Solo is simply selfindulgent!"

Grumpily, Teroenza reached out and turned on his comm unit.  Words in
Huttese formed on the screen, even before he could key in his personal
code.

Eyes widening, Teroenza read the following message: "This message will
vanish in sixty seconds.  Attempting to save it will destroy your comm
unit.  Memorize the following comcode and reply to it."

A complicated comcode followed.

Intrigued, Teroenza memorized the code.  As promised, in sixty
seconds, it blinked off, to be replaced by the words "What do you want
most?

We'd like to know.  Perhaps we can help each other."

The message, of course, was unsigned, but Teroenza had a good idea of
who had sent it.  As he sat watching it blink off, to be replaced by
his comm unit's standard greeting and request for ID code, Teroenza
realized what this meant.

Would he reply to the message?

Was he a traitor?

What did he want most?

seven

Con Games When Han flew Jabba back to Nar Shaddaa following the big
Hutt conference (Jiliac had decided to stay on Nal Hutta for the length
of her confinement) he immediately sought out Lando Calrissian.

During his trip to Nal Hutta, Chewbacca had been continuing the young
gambler's piloting lessons, and Han was encouraged at his new friend's
progress.  "You're coming right along, old buddy," he said as Lando,
his mouth tight with concentration, executed a perfect landing.  The
ship settled into the Millennium Falcon's assigned berth with nary a
wobble.

"Another week, and you'll be ready to solo."

Lando glanced up at Han, his dark eyes very serious.  "I think I'm
ready now, Han.  Fact is, I've got to be ready now.  I'm leaving
tomorrow.  I've heard there's some good gambling and pleasure worlds
out in the Oseonian system, and I'm heading out to see for myself.  Or
maybe I'll hit the Corporate Sector."

"Lando, that's clean out of Imperial space!"  Han exclaimed.  "You're
not ready to navigate this ship that far!  Especially flying alone!"

"Want to come with me?"  Lando offered.

Han thought about it, and for a moment was tempted.  But he'd given his
word to Xaverri, and .  . . he shook his head.  "Can't, Lando.  I'm
signing on with Xaverri to work for her during this next tour.  I
promised her, and she's counting on me."

"Not to mention that she's a lot prettier than I am," Lando added
dryly.

Han grinned.  "Well .  . . there is that."  He sobered.  "Just wait a
couple more days, Lando.  Trust me, pal, you're not ready yet to go
that far, especially with no copilot."  Inwardly he was thinking, I'm
losing the Falcon .  . . what if I never see her again?

"Chewbacca here has been giving me good lessons," the gambler
insisted.

"He's barely had to touch the controls the last couple of times I've
taken us out."

"But--" Han began.

"No buts," Lando said.  "I'm living on borrowed time here on Nar
Shaddaa, Han--and so are you.  Boba Fett isn't one to forgive and
forget.  I'm making myself scarce for at least six months.  When does
Xaverri leave?"

"Next week," Han said.  "Her engagement was held over another week.  By
popular demand."

"Have you told Jabba that you're leaving?"  "Yeah, I did.  He wasn't
happy about it."  Chewie interjected a comment.

"Hey, Jabba was born cranky," Han said defensively.  "He's one of the
orneriest Hutts I've met--and that's sayin' something."

"Did you tell him why you've got to leave?"

"Yeah, I did.  That was the only thing that calmed him down.  I think
even Jabba might be a little nervous if he knew Boba Fett was gunning
for him."

"Well .  . . if I were you, I'd get out of here as soon as you can,"
Lando said.  "And until you're off Nar Shaddaa, you'd better watch your
back."

Nothing Han said could change Lando's decision.  It was with a heavy
heart that he stood on the landing platform the next morning and
watched the Falcon take off.  The freighter wobbled slightly as she
went soaring into the sky.  Han shook his head.  "Use your
stabilizers!"  he said, aloud.

He's not ready, he thought dejectedly.  I'll probably never see the
Falcon-,or Lando--again.

Bria Tharen sat at her desk at the largest Imperial military base on
Corellia, watching the screen of her datapad as she updated the food
requisition lists for all troops stationed in the Corellian system.

Her red-dishgold hair, which had grown into a long, curly mane during
the past five years, was swept up in a smart, businesslike style, and
she wore a crisp civilian support staff uniform--black jacket and
skirt, with black boots.

The unrelieved black set off her pale skin and exquisite bone
structure.

Her blue-green eyes narrowed as she studied the screens of data.  The
Empire was definitely building up strength in this sector.  Did that
mean the Imperial commanders were anticipating some kind of rebellion
here in the Corellian system?

She found herself wondering how long her group could manage to hold off
the Empire if it attacked in force.  Two days?  A week?

In the end, they'd all be slaughtered, she knew that.  Their small
group of rebels was growing every month, as the people of her world
grew restive at being ground beneath Palpatine's relentless heel.  But
there was no way they were ready yet to take on the Imperial forces.

From a very small beginning, though, they'd made good progress over the
past three years.  Their movement had started with barely a score of
unhappy dissidents gathering for clandestine meetings in cellars, and
had grown by leaps and bounds, until they now had cells in most of the
major cities on the planet.  Bria had no idea how many rebels there
were on Corellia, but it had to be several thousand.

The reason she had no idea how many rebels were on Corellia was that it
was not necessary for her to know.  Even though she was fairly
highranking in the rebel hierarchy, she was not part of personnel or
recruitment.

Information about the rebel groups on her world was doled out
sparingly.

Only one or two commanders knew the whole picture.  Individual members
were informed strictly on a "need to know" basis.  The less they knew,
the less they could be forced to reveal under torture.

Bria's current assignment was in intelligence.  She didn't particularly
like spying, but she was good at it.  She preferred her old job,
though, that of making contact with rebel groups on other worlds.  It
was obvious to her that if the rebels were to really oppose the Empire,
they'd have to unite.

But, so far, they'd barely begun reaching out to other groups.

Communication was monitored, travel was restricted--it was so difficult
to maintain links between groups on different planets.  As fast as
their rebel group devised codes, the Imperials broke them.

Just last month one cell of rebels had been raided during a meeting on
the eastern continent.  They'd disappeared as completely as though a
krayt dragon had opened its mouth and swallowed them whole.  Bria
thought that she'd much prefer to be gobbled alive by a monster than
caught by the Emperor's security forces .  . .

Her friend Lanah had been one of those taken.  Bria knew she'd never
see her again.

Bria was worried that her entire homeworld would wind up as a police
state.  Corellia had always been an independent world, a proud world
that governed itself.  So far, the Emperor had not appointed an
Imperial governor to usurp all power on Corellia.  But that didn't mean
he wouldn't someday.  The Empire did not allow pride or independence in
the worlds it claimed.

One of the reasons for Palpatine's not overtly taking over the
Corellian government was that Corellia had such a large human
population.  The Empire made no secret of the fact that it regarded
nonhuman species as inferior, incapable of governing themselves.

Two alien species shared the Corellian system worlds with their human
inhabitants, the Selonians and the Drall.  If Corellia had been
inhabited solely by those nonhuman sentients, they'd have been a much
more inviting target for repression--possibly even being declared a
slavelabor planet.

Look at what had happened to Kashyyyk.  The proud Wookiees captured and
led away in binders and shackles .  . .

Bria's fingers tightened on the edge of her desk.  She hated the
Empire, but even more than the Empire, she hated slavery.  Having been
a slave on Ylesia (though at the time she'd called herself a
"pilgrim"), Bria was determined to do everything she could to destroy
the Empire that allowed slavery, that used and owned beings.

When that task was done, she would devote whatever remained of her life
to freeing every slave in the galaxy.

Her lovely mouth turned down at the corners as she thought about the
raid six months ago that she'd led on Ylesia.  She and her rebel
friends had managed to rescue ninety-seven slaves, mostly Corellians,
and bring them back to their homeworlds and their families.

Within the next month, fifty-three of those freed slaves had run away
and boarded ships to return to Ylesia.

In a way, Bria couldn't blame them.  Living without the Exultation was
difficult.  It had taken her years to overcome her craving for the
feelgood rush of euphoria the t'landa Til priests could project.

But forty-four of the freed slaves are still free, Bria reminded
herself fiercely.  And just yesterday Rion told me that one of the
women had sent him a message, thanking him for returning her to her
husband and children .  . .

Rion was Bria's main link to rebel command now that she'd taken this
new position at Imperial headquarters.  It was Rion to whom she
reported every scrap of information she could glean.  He took the
information that Bria could gather or construe, then relayed it to the
leaders of the Corellian underground rebel group.

Bria hoped that soon she'd have more than bureaucratic lists of supply
requisition orders to relay to her group.  Ever since she'd taken this
job last month, she'd been careful to wear the most flattering
hairstyles and makeup, hoping that her looks would bring her to the
attention of a highranking Imperial officer.

Her efforts were paying off, too.  Just yesterday admiral Trefaren had
stopped by her desk to ask her if she would accompany him to a
reception that was being held by the Corellian government for the
highranking Imperial officers.  Several Sector Moffs were supposed to
attend.  It would be quite a gala evening, he'd assured her.

Bria had lowered her eyelids coyly, blushed attractively, and breathed
a halting, girlish "yes."  The Admiral had beamed at her, the deep
lines that ran vertically down his sallow cheeks appearing even more
like canyons in the desert, and told her he'd pick her up in his
chauffeured speeder.  Then he'd reached out and touched one of her
curls, letting it wind around his finger.  "And, my dear," he'd added,
"wear something that will set off your beauty.  I want the other
officers to be jealous of the golden treasure I've discovered."

Bria hadn't had to feign her inarticulate response--which had only
charmed him further!--because she'd been too angry to speak clearly.

The old lecher!  she thought disgustedly, resolving not to forget to
strap her dainty little vibroblade to her upper thigh .  . . just in
case.

But usually, men of his age were more talk than action.  What they
mostly wanted, as the admiral had frankly admitted, was for other men
to admire them--and any attractive young woman they'd managed to snare
with their power and wealth.

Admiral Trefaren might be our key to learn more about these new
Imperial weapons and ships we've heard rumors of, Bria thought.

So, when the evening of the reception came, she'd don a lovely, elegant
gown (she'd grown up the daughter of a rich man, and knew how to dress
for maximum effect), style her hair, tastefully paint her face, and
spend the evening smiling warmly at Admiral Trefaren.  She'd dance with
him, give him admiring glances, and keep her ears open for every scrap
of information.

And, just in case she needed help in fending off his advances, Bria
already had a tiny drop of a substance she planned to wear beneath one
manicured fingernail.  All she had to do was touch the tip of her
fingernail to the surface of his drink of choice, toward the end of the
evening, and the old welt would swiftly become so pleasantly tired,
sleepy, and drunk that she'd have no trouble dealing with him.

Bria could use that vibroblade, and use it well, but she had no
intention of doing so.  Vibroblades were for amateurs.  She was an
expert at not needing them.

For a moment she missed her battle fatigues, the weight of her blaster
strapped to her thigh.  She'd much prefer leading another armed raid
against the Ylesian Hutts, or the Imperial slavers (who were even worse
than the Hutts), than she did the prospect of playing tabaga-and-vrelt
all evening with Admiral Trefaren and his Imperial cronies.

She'd turned over her blaster to Rion when she'd taken on this
assignment.

It wasn't improbable that Admiral Trefaren would have her apartment
searched as part of the background check he'd get his minions to
perform, to ensure that she was "safe" for him to be seen with.  Bria
always kept the vibroblade with her, so she wasn't worried about
searchers finding it.

At least she knew her IDs would stand up to most security checks.  Six
years ago she'd learned all about establishing new identities from an
expert.  Han Solo had taught her much more than just how to fire a
blaster effectively.

Her lips curved in a soft smile as she indulged herself in a moment of
nostalgia for those days.  She and Han had been on the run together,
living on the edge, never knowing what would happen next.

Those had been the happiest days of her life, she realized now.  It had
been worth every tense moment, every jolt of fear, every mad chase,
every terrified escape, every blaster bolt she'd had to duck to be with
him .  . .

to be free to love him.

And she loved him still.

Seeing him on Devaron a year ago had brought it all back to her so
vividly.  After years of denial, Bria had had to admit the truth to
herself.

Han Solo was the man she loved, would always love.

But they couldn't be together.  She'd had to accept that.  Han was a
con man, a rogue, an outlaw who was out for himself.  Bria knew he'd
loved her deeply--he'd even asked her to marry him--but Han wasn't the
kind of man to forsake everything for a philosophical ideal.

During the months they'd spent together, Bria had sensed that someday
he might have the potential to embrace a cause, give himself to a
goal.

But it would have to be a cause that he'd chosen for himself, in his
own time.

Bria knew she couldn't expect him to adopt her cause.

She wondered what he was doing right now.  Was he happy?  Was he with
somebody?  Did he have friends?  When she'd seen him on Devaron, he'd
been wearing typically scruffy spacefarer's garb--not an Imperial
uniform.

But she'd heard he'd graduated from the Academy with honors.  What
could have happened to end his career?

On one hand, Bria was sorry that the dream he'd pursued so
single-mindedly had obviously come to a crashing end, but on the other,
she was glad to discover that Han was no longer an Imperial officer.

It had tortured her to think that someday they might come face-to-face
in battle, or, even worse, that she might give the order to fire on an
Imperial ship and cause his death, all unknowing.  At least she didn't
have to worry about that possibility anymore.

I wonder if I'll ever see him again .  . . she thought.  Maybe .  . .

maybe when this is all over, when the Empire is no more .  . .

Bria gave herself a mental shake, and told herself to get back to
business.

The Empire was firmly entrenched.  Rooting it out would require many
years, and the sacrifice of countless lives.  She couldn't let herself
think about what might happen in the dim, distant future.  She had to
concentrate on the here and now.

Resolutely, she activated her datapad again, and went back to work.

At the same moment as Bria Tharen was wondering about him, Han Solo was
not thinking about her.  He was, however, feeling more wounded by a
woman than he had at any time since Bria Tharen had left him.

He sat on the edge of the bed in a hotel room on Velga, a luxury moon
where the wealthy came to be entertained and play games of chance,
scowling and reading Xaverri's message on his datapad.  It said:

Dear Solo, I can't stand good-byes, so I'm not going to put either of
us through one.

The tour is over, and I'm off for a short rest before taking to the
road again.  I thought about asking you to go with me, but I think it's
better that I make a clean break now.

The last six months have been wonderful, among the best I can recall.

During that time I've grown very fond of you, dear.  Too fond.  You
know me by now .  . . I can't afford to get too fond of anyone.  That
would be dangerous for both of us.  Caring too much about another
person makes you soft, makes you vulnerable.  In my line of business, I
can't afford that.

I've paid the hotel bill through tomorrow for you and Chewbacca.

You've been two of the best assistants and companions I've ever had.

Tell him I'm sorry I couldn't say farewell.  There is a bonus for you
both in the local branch of the Imperial Bank, account code 651374,
keyed to your retinal scan.

I'm going to miss you more than I can say.  If you ever need to contact
me, you can do so through the Galaxy of Stars booking agency.  Maybe
someday we can do it all again, when I've gotten my perspective back.

Take care of yourself, Han.  And take care of your Wookiee friend.

Devotion like that is rare.

Love, Xaverri

Blast--Han thought, not sure whether what he was feeling was anger or
profound regret--some mixture of both, he guessed.  Why does this
always happen to me?

For a moment he remembered the anguish that had engulfed him when Bria
had left him with just a good-bye note, then he wrenched his mind away
from that memory.  That was a long time ago.  I'm not a kid
anymore...

He realized that he'd have to book commercial flights back to Nar
Shaddaa for himself and Chewie.  But that wouldn't eat into his savings
too much, especially in light of Xaverri's bonus.  She paid well,
though she had high expectations.

During the past six months, they'd been more like business partners
than employee and employer.  Every time they'd pulled a successful
scare on some puffed-up Imperial officer, or some smug, complacent
Imperial bureaucrat, Xaverri had shared the proceeds equally with Han
and Chewie.

Han's mouth curved into a reminiscent smile.  They'd had some exciting
times.  With all the experience he'd had conning civilians while part
of Garris Shrike's "family," Han had thought he had little to learn
about the art of scamming people.  But a month with Xaverri had
convinced him that compared to her, Garris Shrike had been a clumsy,
mendacious amateur.

Xaverri's schemes had ranged from elegantly simple to fiendishly
complex.

She seldom pulled exactly the same scam twice.  Instead she tailored
each caper to the mark, frequently using her skills as an illusionist
to trick the pompous Imperials she preyed upon.

There had been that time they'd conned the Assistant Secretary to the
D'Aelgoth Sector Moff out of most of his life savings--and put him

under suspicion of committing treason to the Empire.  Han's smile
broadened into a grin.  The guy was a venal jerk--sooner or later he
would've betrayed the Empire anyhow.

Not that all their scams had been successful.  Two had fizzled out, and
one had blown up in their faces, forcing them to run from the planetary
officials until Chewbacca had been able to locate them and pick them
up.

Han would never forget that escape--running, dodging, pursued through
the countryside by tracer droids and the local version of
canoidhounds.

The only way they'd been able to hide their scent was to spend the
night up to their necks in a swamp.

He'd also enjoyed his work as Xaverri's stage assistant.  It had been
fun, helping to create the illusions, finding out how it was really
done, and taking a bow before cheering crowds, night after night.  Even
Chewbacca had gotten to enjoy the public attention, and Xaverri had
worked up several tricks that gave Chewie a chance to show off his
Wookiee strength.

The hardest thing for Han had been getting used to the skintight,
spangled stage costume he'd had to wear.  He'd felt horribly
selfconscious the first few times he'd gone onstage wearing it.  But
eventually he'd gotten used to it, and even learned to enjoy the hoots
and whistles from some of the female audience members when he'd make
his entrance.

Xaverri had teased him about that, especially the time a girl had
dashed up onstage and kissed him full on the mouth, making him blush.

Han had teased her back about her costumes, which were often daring.

Han sighed.  If only I'd known she was planning this.  I could have
talked to her... Already he missed her, missed her presence, her smile,
her affection.  Her warmth, her kisses .  . .

She was a special woman, and Han knew now that he'd loved her.  Would
it have made any difference if he'd told her?  He decided that it
wouldn't.  As her letter said, Xaverri was not someone who wanted
love.

She didn't want to love, or to be loved.  Love, she'd discovered, made
you too vulnerable.

"Love makes you love life," she'd told him once.  "And once you love
life, you're in real danger.  You want to hold on to it, and that
wanting clouds your thinking."

"You want to hold on to which?"  Han had asked her.  "Love, or life?"

"Both," she said.  "Love is the riskiest thing in the universe."

Xaverri had risked herself more than anyone he'd ever known in
everything except love.  If she hadn't been so coolly deliberate, he'd
have called her reckless.  But she wasn't.  Danger meant nothing to
her, because

she didn't worry about dying.  Han had seen her stare death in the
face without turning a hair.

One time he'd complimented her on her courage.  She'd shaken her
head.

"No, Solo," she said.  "I'm not brave.  You're brave.  You have
courage.  I just don't care.  They aren't the same thing."

He sighed again, then rose from the bed.  Xaverri was gone.  By now her
ship, The Phantasm, was long gone from Velga.

Okay, he thought, reaching for his clothes, show's over.  Time to go
back to the real world...

At least he and Chewie now had plenty of money to lease their own
ship.

For the first time in a long while, Han wondered how things were going
back on Nar Shaddaa.

When they got back to the Smuggler's Moon, Han was surprised to realize
that it felt like coming home.  He and Chewie went to see Mako first.

They found him and Roa having a companionable drink together at one of
the taverns.  Han entered the place, grinned, and waved.  "Mako!

Roa!"

Both men turned at the hail and grinned broadly.  "Han!  Chewbacca!"

"Hey, Roa!  Hey, Mako," Han said.  "How's business?"

"Not bad," Mako said.  "Jabba misses you, kid."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure," Han said with a chuckle.  "Did Jiliac have her
baby Hutt?"

"Don't know," Roa said.  "She ain't been around, though.  So maybe
not.

How're you doin', kid?  You've been gone so long, we thought Boba Fett
had got you!"

Han grinned back.  "Not yet," he said.  "He been around much?"  Mako
glanced around reflexively, "Well, they said he was here on Nar Shaddaa
lookin' for you, several months ago.  But nobody's seen him lately."

"Good.  Keep me informed," Han said.  "So... anyone seen Lando?"  He
tried to seem casual.  "He still got that old clunker of his, the
Millennium Falcon?"

"Oh, yeah, he's still got it," Roa said.  "And, Han, you're not gonna
believe this.  Calrissian made a killing out there in the Oseon
system.

Picked up a load of life-crystals, and sold 'em for a bundle.  Guess
what he's into now?"

Han made a ribald guess.  Both Roa and Mako cracked up.  Chewie roared
an interrogatory.

"He's bought himself a used spaceship lot!"  Mako said.  "Got it lock,
stock, and barrel from a Duros who'd decided to go back to Duro and
tend the family farm."

"Well, I'm in the market for a ship to lease," Han said.  "Guess I'll
pay Lando a visit, see what he's got."

"Better see Jabba first," Mako advised.  "He's put the word out that as
soon as you came back to send you on."

Han nodded.  "Okay.  I'll do that.  Where can I find Lando's place?"

They gave him the coordinates.

With a cheerful wave, Han headed out of the tavern.  He found that it
was good to be back.  The interval with Xaverri had been pleasant, and
profitable, but his real calling was smuggling, and he was eager to get
back to it.

Jabba was so pleased to see Han that he actually wriggled down off his
dais and undulated toward the Corellian.  "Han, my boy!  You've
returned!"

Han nodded, and decided not to bow.  Jabba had obviously missed him.

"Hello, Jabba .  . . Your Excellency.  How's business?"

Jabba sighed theatrically.  "Business would be much better if only
Besadii would learn that they are not the only rightful destination for
the credits in the galaxy.  Han.  . . I must admit that I have missed
you.  We lost a ship in the Maw, and it cost Desilijic dearly.  We need
you, Han."

"Well, this time you're going to have to pay me more, Jabba," Han said
resolutely.  "Chewie and me are about to lease our own ship.  That'll
be better for both of us--you won't risk your ships, and I won't have
to take less 'cause I'm flyin' your ship."

"Fine, fine," Jabba said.  "That is fine, Han."

"But, Jabba, I gotta tell you," Han said.  "There's still a bounty on
my head.  Teroenza's got to have talked Besadii into a pretty big
one.

Most of these bounty hunters I can deal with, no problem.  But if I get
any hints that Boba Fett is back on my trail, I ain't hanging around
here.  I'm gone.

I'll operate out of Smuggler's Run.  Even Fett isn't dedicated enough
to head into the Run."

"Han, lad!"  Jabba looked pained.  "We need you!  Desilijic needs
you!

You're one of the best!"

Han grinned, liking the feeling of being on more equal footing with the
Hutt Lord.  "Hey, Jabba, I'm the best," he said.  "And I'm gonna be
provin' it."

Chewie roared.  Jabba waved at the Wookiee.  "What did he say?"

"He said, 'We're the best,'" Han replied.  "He's right.  Soon everyone
is gonna know it."

Han's next stop, as promised, was Lando's used shipyard.  He and

Chewie went straight to the office, where they found a small,
multi-armed droid with a single ruby-red eye in charge.  "Where's
Lando?"  Han demanded.

"My master is not here at the moment, sir," the little droid replied.

"May I be of service?  I am Vuffi Raa, his assistant."

Han looked at Chewbacca, who rolled his blue eyes.

"I want to speak to Lando," Han said.  "Where is he?"

"Out in the shipyard," Vuffi Raa replied.  "But .  . . sir!  Wait!

Admittance to the shipyard is not permitted unless Master Calrissian
has authorized it!  Sir!  Come back!  Sir!"

Han kept on walking.  Chewbacca, however, did stop.  As the little
droid approached him, arms flailing, he let loose with a snarl that
swiftly built to a full-throated roar.  Vuffi Raa stopped in his tracks
so fast that he nearly fell over backward, then went scuttling off,
calling "Master!

Master!"  in a plaintive voice.

Han found Lando out back, with the Falcon.  He didn't know which one of
them he was gladder to see.  The Falcon was all in one piece, he was
pleased to note.

For once, the gambler wasn't his usual dapper self.  Han was surprised
to see that he was wearing greasy mechanic's coveralls, and his hands
were filthy as he gripped a hydrospanner.

"Lando!"  Han shouted.

His friend turned around, and his handsome features lit up.  "Han, you
old pirate!  How long have you been back?"

"Just got home," Han said, shaking Lando's hand.  They grabbed each
other, thumping each other on the back, then stood back, grinning.

"Hey, Han, it's good to see you, man!"

"You, too!"

Before the end of the day, Han and Chewie had leased their new ship
from Lando.  It was a small SoroSuub freighter, Starrnite-class,
heavily modified.  The ship was about two-thirds the size of the
Millennium Falcon, and had a blunt, rounded bow, thick, stubby wings,
and a rounded, thick body that narrowed back to a flattened tail
section.  The ship resembled a coarse, unstreamlined teardrop and, as
one of Han's Quarren acquaintances later told him, looked like
"something we raise for snacks."  Each of the wings ended in a gun
turret that held two fixed laser cannons, and the pilot also controlled
a set of laser cannons mounted on the bow.

Han christened her the Bria.

"Lord Aruk wishes to see you, Your Excellency," Ganar Tos, Teroenza's
majordomo, said.  "He is waiting in your office."

The High Priest tensed.  I don't think I can take any more of his
criticism!

he thought, hoisting himself out of his resting sling resentfully.

Lord Aruk and his offspring Durga had come for a special inspection
tour of the Ylesian operation two days ago.  Teroenza had been proud to
show them the progress they'd made, the new factories, the productive
pilgrims, the steadily growing supply of valuable spice that they'd
ship offworld.  He'd even been able to show them the new cleared plot
of land for the new colony--Colony Eight.

But the more Teroenza had shown the Hutt Lord, the more Aruk had
nitpicked.

The High Priest was beginning to feel a little desperate.

Now, as he lumbered down the hallway of the Administration Building in
Colony One, Teroenza's mind was busy composing replies to any of the
charges Aruk might fling at him.  Production was up.  The workers were
efficient.  They were exploring new exports .  . . those nalatree
frogs, for example.

Aruk had developed quite a taste for them during his visit.  Kibbick
had introduced them to his uncle, insisting that Aruk had to try
them.

Durga had sampled them also, and had pronounced himself unimpressed,
but Aruk had loved the ugly amphibians, and had commanded Teroenza to
make sure he received a supply of live ones on every ship shuttling
between Ylesia and Nal Hutta.

Teroenza entered his office, trying not to let his nervousness show.

"I am here, Your Excellency," he said to Aruk.

The Hutt Lord was accompanied only by his offspring, Durga.  He looked
up at Teroenza.  "We need to have a talk, High Priest," he said
gruffly.

Oh, no.  This is worse than I feared, Teroenza thought.

"Yes, Your Excellency?"

"I am canceling your vacation, High Priest," Aruk said.  "I want you to
stay here and bring Kibbick up to speed on all Ylesian operations.  His
level of ignorance is shameful, and it is your fault!  Teroenza, you
have forgotten who are the true lords of Ylesia.  You have grown
arrogant, and think yourself in command.  This is not permissible.  You
must learn your place, High Priest.  When you have learned to serve, to
take the subservient role in governing this world, you will be
rewarded.  Only then can you return to Nal Hutta."

Teroenza remained silent during Aruk's tirade.  When the Hutt Lord
finally ran down, he found himself wanting to quit, to just walk away
from the entire ridiculous operation.  Kibbick was an idiot, and no
amount of

coaching from his overseer was going to make the young Hutt into
anything but an idiot!

And he hadn't seen his mate, Tilenna, in a year.  What if she decided
to mate with someone else because he had been gone so long?  How could
he expect her to remain faithful under these circumstances?

Resentment boiled up inside the t'landa Til, but with a great effort of
will, he managed to conceal his reaction.

"It shall be as you say, Your Excellency," he murmured.  "I shall do my
best."

"See that you do," Aruk rumbled, in his deepest, most threatening
tone.

"You are dismissed, High Priest."

Teroenza's hot rage boiled and bubbled as he walked back to his
quarters, but by the time he reached them, he was calm again.

Strangely, coldly calm.  He lowered himself into his resting sling and
dismissed his majordomo.

If his thoughts could have been expressed in one word, it would have
been: Enough.

After a few more minutes of consideration, the High Priest reached for
his comlink.  The code he'd memorized all those months ago came readily
to his fingers as he tapped it out.  And then, he keyed in the
following message: "I am willing to talk.  What do you have to
offer?"

With a triumphant, savage stab of his dainty finger, he keyed the
message to SENti.

Teroenza leaned back in his resting sling and, for the first time in
six months, felt at peace with the universe.

eight

The Shadow of the Empire

The man in the Mandalorian armor walked steadily down the dark,
cavernous entrance hall of Jabba the Hutt's palace on Tatooine.  Once,
years ago, the man had been a Journeyman Protector named "Jaster
Mereel."  That had been before he killed a man, and paid the price for
his crime.

Now he had no name save the one he had adopted for himself--Boba
Fett.

Over the past ten years, he'd become the best-known and most feared
bounty hunter in the Empire.  He was not an Imperial bounty hunter,
though at times he worked for the Empire.  He was not a Guild bounty
hunter, though he regularly took Guild commissions and paid dues.  No,
Boba Fett was an independent bounty hunter.  He set his own hours,
selected his own commissions, and lived by his own rules.

He paused midway down the stairs leading to Jabba's throne room to
survey what lay before him.  The huge chamber was dark, cavernous,
filled with booming music.  Everywhere bodies milled and swayed.

Fett's gaze followed the movements of several of Jabba's humanoid
dancing girls, admiring their lithe suppleness.  The bounty hunter was
not one to indulge in sybaritic pleasures of the flesh, however.  Boba
Fett was far too selfdisciplined to seek carnal gratification.  The joy
of the hunt was his sole pleasure, what he lived for.  The credits were
an extra, a necessary bonus, a means to accomplish his ends, but it was
the hunt that nurtured him, kept him strong and self-reliant and
focused.

As Fett descended the steps that led into Jabba's audience chamber,
the Hutt Lord's Twi'lek majordomo, Lobb Gerido, bustled toward the
bounty hunter, bowing unctuously and babbling greetings in his
fractured Basic.

Fett ignored him.

Realizing that he would never be allowed to approach Jabba carrying his
BlasTech EE-3 rifle, Fett carefully laid it down on the bottom step.

He was still armed dangerously enough to have killed Jabba and
completely destroyed the audience chamber, and Jabba probably knew
that, but the Hutt Lord also knew Boba Fett's reputation for honesty.

Jabba had paid him to come here and speak with him, and it would have
been a breach of bounty hunter protocol for Fett to accept such a
meeting if he'd had an outstanding bounty on Jabba's grotesque head.

Leaving his blast rifle on the stairs, Fett strode straight up to
Jabba's dais.  The Hutt Lord was reclining above the crowd, so he'd be
high enough up to have the best view of all the degenerate
festivities.

Even from inside the Mandalorian face mask, Boba Fett could whiff the
pungent odor of the Hutt.  Something between ancient mold and garbage
.

. .

At a gesture from the Hutt Lord, the band quieted down.  Fett stood
before Jabba, and inclined his head slightly.  He spoke Basic.  "You
sent for me?"

"I did," boomed Jabba in Huttese.  "Do you understand me, bounty
hunter?"

Fett inclined his helmeted head in a "yes."

"Very well.  Lobb Gerido, clear the room, and then make yourself
scarce."

"Yes, Master," the Twi'lek babbled, and then he scuttled about,
headtails flying, shooing all the sycophants and hangers-on out of the
audience chamber.  Finally, with a last bow, Gerido himself vanished.

Jabba glanced around, took a puff off his hookah pipe, then, when he
was sure they were alone, he leaned forward confidingly.  "Bounty
hunter, I thank you for coming to see me.  Your five thousand credits
will be deposited before you leave this throne room."

Fett nodded silently.

"I have already spoken to the Guild representative in this sector, and
arranged a generous endowment of the Guildhouse," Jabba said.

"However, he told me that you are not governed by the Guild, though you
sometimes take on Guild commissions."

"That's correct," Fett confirmed.  He was becoming intrigued.  If Jabba
just wanted someone dead, why this elaborate buildup?  What was the
Bloated One getting at?

Jabba puffed thoughtfully on his water pipe for nearly a minute,
cogitating, his bulbous eyes with their slitted pupils blinking.  "Do
you know why I have summoned you here, bounty hunter?"

"I'm assuming it's because you want to post a bounty, so I'll hunt down
and kill someone," Fett said.  "That's why people contact me."

"No," Jabba said.  He put the hookah aside and stared levelly at Fett,
obviously getting to the point.  "I want to pay you to not kill
someone."

The macrobinocular viewplate that was built into Fett's Mandalorian
helmet included infrared vision, plus motion and sound sensors.  The
bounty hunter could literally see Jabba tense, and change color.  This
is important to him, Fett realized, surprised.  Most Hutts were such
phenomenally selfish beings that he'd never heard of one willing to
stick his neck out for anyone.

"State your offer," Fett said.

"There is an outstanding bounty of twenty thousand credits on a human
who has proven very useful to me.  I wish to pay you twenty-five
thousand to ignore that bounty until further notice."

Fett had one word for Jabba.  "Who?"

"Han Solo.  He's a good pilot, the best.  He runs our spice on
schedule, and the Imperials can never catch him.  He's proven extremely
valuable to Desilijic.  I'll pay you to stop hunting him."

Boba Fett stood there in silence, thinking hard.

For the first time in years, the bounty hunter was in a quandary, torn
between his duty, his need for extra credits, and his own personal
desires.

Jabba's offer was tempting in many ways.  Boba Fett's ship, Slave I,
had recently been damaged in an asteroid field, and Fett needed some
rather expensive repairs to get the weapons systems back up to full
capability.

On the other hand, he'd been looking forward to bringing Solo in for a
long time, ever since he and that gambler friend of his, Calrissian,
had captured, drugged, and robbed the bounty hunter.  Boba Fett
couldn't allow two space burns to get the best of him and live .  . .

On the other hand, just last week, Lord Aruk of Besadii had contacted
Boba Fett in an interstellar holo-communication, and told him that he
was no longer willing to pay top credits for Solo.  Instead, he wanted
a priority live delivery bounty on a Corellian woman, Bria Tharen.

He'd raised the amount, too.  The bounty on her was fifty thousand
credits.  And the Hutt Lord had reduced the bounty on Solo to ten
thousand credits, disintegration now permitted.  Teroenza, Fett
gathered, was unaware of this change.

Fifty thousand credits was the biggest bounty currently on Boba Fett's
list.  He'd immediately begun searching for this woman named Tharen,
whom Aruk had described as being a leader in the Corellian rebel
movement.  The Besadii Lord said she had led a raid to Ylesia to
rescue slaves, and she was also suspected of leading several space
raids to free slaves bound from Ylesia to the mines of Kessel.

Fett had checked his sources, and traced the woman to Corellia, then to
one of the Outer Rim sectors, but then she'd dropped out of sight
completely.  There was one possible lead linking her to a private yacht
bound for Coruscant, but that was an unconfirmed rumor at this point.

But .  . . Fett hated the thought of not bringing in Solo to face a
humiliating, painful end at the hands of the High Priest, Teroenza.

Fett had tortured captives, when necessary, to obtain information.  He
didn't take pleasure in it---or in their deaths, when that was what the
bounty required.

But for Han Solo, he was willing to make an exception .  . .

"Well?"  Jabba's deep voice boomed, startling Fett out of his
reflections.

"What do you say, bounty hunter?"

Boba Fett thought fast, and finally arrived at a solution that was, he
felt, the best under the circumstances.  It allowed him to maintain his
integrity as a bounty hunter, while also allowing him to do the
practical thing.

"Very well," he said.  "I'll take the twenty-five thousand."

Aruk wants me to pursue Tharen as a priority anyway, he told himself,
so I'll be fulfilling the client's wish.  And the bounty on the Tharen
woman is fifty thousand, so when I've brought her in, I'll send Jabba
back his twenty-five, then hunt and kill Solo.  Honor is satisfied,
I'll have fulfilled my commissions, and gotten the chance to see Solo
die.

It was a good compromise, Fett decided.  Everyone except Teroenza would
be pleased--and, officially, Boba Fett wasn't working for the High
Priest, he was working for Lord Aruk.  It was Aruk's bounty, and the
Besadii Lord had made it clear that all he wanted was Solo dead.

Simple and profitable.  Fett was satisfied.

"Very well," Jabba boomed, obviously pleased.  He made a note on a
palm-sized datapad.  "A total of thirty thousand credits has just been
added to your account."

Fett inclined his head in that not-quite bow.  "I'll show myself out,"
he said.

"No, no," Jabba said hastily.  "Lobb will have to open the blast door
for you."  He pressed a button on his datapad, and the Twi'lek appeared
seconds later, head-tails flying.  Lobb bowed repeatedly.

"Farewell, Fett," Jabba said.  "I shall keep you in mind for any
further commissions Desilijic has."

Boba Fett did not reply, only turned and followed the majordomo out,
stopping on the way to pick up his blast rifle.

The blazing sands of Tatooine seemed doubly bright after the darkness
of Jabba's throne room, but Boba Fett's Mandalorian helmet
automatically filtered out the harmful rays, allowing him to see
clearly.

Boarding Slave I, he took off, checking his departure vector, swooping
low over the scorching desert.  Fett glanced down at those featureless
expanses, those dunes that rippled, almost like the waves of an
ocean.

He'd rarely been to Tatooine, and he couldn't imagine ever returning.

What a desolate place.  He knew that there was supposed to be life in
the deserts, but here, there was nothing.  Just unmarked sand.

But wait .  . . what was that?

Fett leaned closer to his viewscreen as Slave I swooped over a huge pit
that yawned open at the bottom of a depression in the sand.  Fett
thought he saw something moving within the pit .  . . spiky fronds or
perhaps tentacles.

Wonder what that thing is?  he thought, sending Slave I soaring up into
the atmosphere.  Guess there is something living in that desert, after
all.

Moments later the stark brownish world was far behind the bounty
hunter, so distant it was not even a memory...

One week after leasing the Bria from Lando, Han Solo was cursing the
little freighter, himself, Lando, and the universe in general.

"Chewie, old pal," Han said, during a moment of uncompromising honesty,
"I am an idiot for picking this ship.  She's nothing but a pain in the
ass."

"Hrrrrrrrnnnnnn," rumbled Chewie, in complete agreement.

The Bria needed considerable work, they discovered from almost the very
beginning.  She'd flown fine during their "test spin," but as soon as
the lease was finalized, the problems erupted like geysers on the
methane moons of Thermon.  The first time they took their new
acquisition out on a smuggling run, for the first ten minutes the ship
worked fine .  . . then the aft stabilizer shorted out, and they had to
have her towed back to Nar Shaddaa via tractor beam.  They fixed the
stabilizer, aided by Lando's little tentacled droid, Vuffi Raa (whom,
it seemed, was the Millennium Falcon's main pilot these days), and then
tried again.

This time the bow stabilizer blew.

Han and Chewie fixed the Bria again, cursing and sweating through the
repairs, then tried again.  And again.  Sometimes their little
SoroSuub

Starmite worked fine; other times they were lucky if they could limp
back to Lando's shipyard for repairs.

The Bria's navicomputer developed amnesia and her hyperdrive went on
vacation.  On her good days, Han was such an expert pilot that he could
coax a fair turn of speed out of her, but nearly every time they took
her out on a test run, some new problem surfaced in the ship.

Han complained to Lando, who only pointed out that the lease Han had
signed said "as is," and that he'd made no guarantees about the ship's
spaceworthiness.  Also, Lando pointed out---correctly--he was leasing
the little Starmite to Han at a very reasonable price.

Han couldn't argue with that, but it didn't help when the Bria just
quit cold, as she did at least half the time.

Han mentioned his ship woes to Mako, who introduced his friend to yet
another of his acquaintances.

"Master starship mechanic, pilot, and repair tech Shug Ninx, meet Han
Solo and his partner Chewbacca.  They got a ship needs some work."

Shug Ninx was humanoid, but though he looked mostly human, Han could
tell immediately that he had some alien blood.  He was tall, with spiky
brownish-blond hair and pale blue eyes.  The skin on the lower half of
his face was mottled with pale spots, and his hands only had two
fingers plus an extra joint in his opposable thumb.  It gave him great
dexterity when fiddling with machinery.

Han could tell from the man's wary expression that Shug Ninx had
frequently met with suspicion because of his mixed blood.  Most of that
distaste had probably come from Imperial officials.  They regarded
anyone who was a "half-breed" as a lower-class citizen.

Han held out his hand, smiling.  "Pleased to meet you, Shug," he
said.

"Think you can help me get this bucket of bolts up and running?"

"We can sure give it a try," Shug said, visibly relaxing.  "Bring her
over to my spacebarn today, and we'll check her out."

To reach Shug's facility, Han had to fly the Bria down a narrow abyss
between the tall, vertical towers of two huge, jumbled building
complexes.

When Han and Chewie reached the "spacebarn," Shug's huge spacedock and
garage, located deep down in the warren that was Nar Shaddaa, he was
impressed with the facility.  "Wow," he said, looking around at all the
ships in various states of assembly, "this place beats any Imp
spacedock I ever saw.  You've got just about anything you could want
here."

Equipment lined the walls, and was kicked into corners.  At first
glance the place seemed chaotic and cluttered, but as Han was soon to
discover, Shug Ninx could immediately locate any piece of equipment in
the place.

"Yeah," Shug said proudly, obviously pleased by Han's frank
admiration.  "I saved for a long time to buy this place."

After Shug had a chance to check out the Bria, the half-breed shook his
head mournfully.  "Han, half your problem with this ship is that she's
been modified using non-SoroSuub parts and components!  Everyone knows
that SoroSuubs don't take kindly to that!"

"Can you help us get her running?"  Han asked.

Shug nodded.  "Won't be easy, but we'll try."

Over the next few weeks, Han and Chewie helped Shug Ninx fix up their
new ship.  The two smugglers worked each day until they were exhausted,
tinkering and learning the intricacies of starship repair from the
master mechanic.

Han was so tired by all of the work, he almost quit going out, but one
evening, on impulse, he stopped off for a drink in a local tavern he
frequented in the Corellian sector.  The Blue Light served only liquor,
and was mostly a dive, but Han kind of liked the dark little place with
its holoposters of Corellian cities and natural wonders on the wall.

It was too dark to see them well, of course--especially after a drink
or two.  But it suited him better than the glitzier joints.

While he was sitting at the bar, sipping an Alderaanian ale, a fracas
erupted in the back of the place.  Han jumped to his feet at the sound
of a woman's curse, then a man's drunken growl.  "Hey, baby, that's no
way for a lady to talk!"

"I'm no lady," a woman said in a deep, angry voice.  Peering into the
dimness, Han could make out two struggling figures, hear the sounds of
a scuffle, then a slap.

"C'mere, you tramp!"  the man said.

The woman swore, then Han heard the meaty sound of a punch.  The man
yowled, then lunged at her.  As he raced toward the back, Han saw the
man's feet leave the floor.  The woman tossed him, using a
singleshoulder throw that was accompanied by a popping sound.  The man
shrieked, a short, bitten-off scream, then thumped to the floor and lay
there, sniveling and whimpering.

When he reached the back of the dimly lit bar, Han found a short,
spindly smuggler and thug-for-hire he knew only as "Jump" moaning and
writhing at the feet of a tall woman.  As Jump's buddy (who had wisely
not joined the fracas) helped the thug sit up, Han could see that his
arm hung at an odd angle, plainly dislocated.  The woman stood over
them, hand on the grip of her undrawn blaster, eyes narrowed, not even
breathing hard.

As Han approached, she turned on him.  "Mind your own business, man!"

Han took a step back before her flashing amber eyes.  She was as tall
as he was, with skin the color of Lando's, and a wild frizz of black
curls standing out from her head like a brelet's mane.  She looked
tougher than neutronium, and mad clear through.

The Corellian hastily put up both hands in a gesture of peace.  "Hey,
I'm not one to interfere.  Looks to me like the situation's been
handled."

"I can take care of myself," she snapped, striding past him on her way
toward the front entrance.  Her boot heels clicked on the scarred
floor.

She wore a long, tan-colored skirt, a brown silk blouse, and a half
carapace of black armor, festooned with metallic studs.  Her blaster
rode her hip, and Han could tell by its worn grip that she knew exactly
what to do with it.

Intrigued, he jogged up to the front of the Blue Light, then, careful
not to stand between her and the front door, Han gestured to a couple
of empty bar stools.  "So .  . . do you have to rush off?  Can't I buy
you a drink?"  he asked.

She studied him for a long moment, her anger fading.  In the back,
Jump's whimpers faded as the thug was led out the back way by his
friends.

"Maybe," she said.  Sticking out a gauntleted hand, she said, "Salla
Zend."

"Han Solo."  They shook, then Han threw a leg over the nearest bar
stool.

"What are you drinking?"

Salla sat down, too.  "Mad Mrelf, straight up."

"Right," said Han, carefully not showing any reaction to the strong
liquor.  He wouldn't have drunk Mad Mrelf on a bet--tales abounded of
spacers who had gone on a Mad Mrelf spree, and wound up in Imp labor
camps---or worse.

They talked, and Han discovered that Salla was also a smuggler, newly
come to Nar Shaddaa.  "I've got a ship," she said.  "The Rirnrunner.

But it needs some work.  I've got some modifications I'd like to
make."

"Hey," Han said, "do I know a place for you.  My ship's getting some
work done, too.  The guy's a real wizard.  Name of Shug Ninx."

"I'm a pretty good mechanic myself," Salla said.  "I'd like to meet
your friend."

"I'm going back to work on the Bria tomorrow morning," Han said.  "If
you like, why not meet me tomorrow, and we can go over to Shug's
spacebarn together?"

She gave him a measuring glance, then smiled, a slow, amused smile.

"I've got a better idea," she said.  "You come home with me tonight.

Can you cook?"

Han's eyes widened.  Well!  Talk about being direct!

He smiled back at her, his slow, lopsided grin.  He could tell that
even Salla wasn't immune to its effects--or maybe it was the drink.

"Sure," he said.  "One of my best friends was a cook."

Salla laughed.  "Hey, Solo, give a girl a break and turn off the
charm.

Want to break my heart?"

"No," Han said, reaching out to touch the back of her hand with one
finger, "I want to fix you dinner.  Sounds like a great plan to me.

You like traladon steaks?"

"Sure," she said lightly.  "Rare."

"I'll keep that in mind," Han promised.

When they finished their drinks, they went out into the squalid Nar
Shaddaa street.  Salla hooked her arm through Han's.  "I'm glad I found
you.  I burn water, so I don't even try cooking anymore.  I love the
prospect of a home-cooked dinner."

Han smiled at her again, putting every bit of charm he possessed into
it.

"Dinner it is.  Then maybe .  . . breakfast?"

She laughed and shook her head.  "You are a rogue, aren't you!"

"I try," Han said modestly.

"Well, don't push your luck, honey," she warned, smiling to let him
know she wasn't offended.  "I can take care of myself."

Remembering how Salla had handled Jump, Han had to agree.  He nodded,
and resolved to back off .  . . for the moment.

Over the next few weeks, Han and Salla continued to see each other, and
their relationship developed and grew closer.  By the time they'd been
dating for a month, Han was fixing her breakfast, and everyone
recognized them as a couple.

They had a lot in common, and Han enjoyed the time they spent
together.

She was an exciting, vibrant woman, smart, sensual, and direct.  As Han
got to know her better, he discovered she did have a tender side,
though it didn't surface often.

Han introduced Salla to Shug, and the two of them hit it off
immediately, too, though not romantically.  It turned out that Salla
was an expert technician, more at home with a lasertorch than most
smugglers.  She told them she'd been a tech on a corporate transport
before she'd managed to acquire Rimrunner.  Salla occasionally ran
spice, but her cargo of choice was weapons.  She was an expert
gunrunner, fearless and efficient.

Soon Salla was a regular at Shug's spacebarn, where all the smugglers
hung out, fixing their ships, swapping stories, and vying with each
other to set new performance records.  Han found that, sooner or later,
most of the human smugglers, and many of the non-humans, wound up at
Shug's

spacebarn.  Many of his pals from Smuggler's Run appeared, even, on
one notable occasion, Wynni.

Zeen and Kid, a smuggler and thief named Rik Duel, Sinewy Aha Blue, Roa
and Mako... all of them had good times at Shug's spacebarn.  Shug had
only three rules: no intoxicants of any kind, pay promptly for use of
tools or his or his techs' services, and clean up after yourself.

Han eventually wound up introducing Salla to Lando, and the two of them
hit it off, also.  Han could tell they were attracted to each other,
but Salla made it clear that Han was her choice .  . . for the
moment.

One day, when Han was up on the top hull of the Bria, working on the
main deflector, Chewbacca roared at him, telling him to climb down,
someone wanted to see him.  Han scuttled down the ladder, to find a
youth standing there, a handsome kid with brown hair and brown eyes.

He reminded Han a little of himself, when he'd been in his late
teens.

The young man held out a hand.  "Han Solo?  It's an honor to meet
you.

I'm Jarik.  Jarik Solo."

Han's eyes widened as he shook hands.  "Solo?"  he asked blankly.

"Yeah," the kid answered.  "Solo.  I think we must be related.  I'm
Corellian, too."

Since Han knew of only two relatives he could claim (and he didn't
choose to claim them--his aunt Tiion was a reclusive paranoid and her
son, Han's cousin Thrackan Sal-Solo, was a sadistic creep .  . .

assuming either of them was still alive), he wasn't sure how to reply
to this.  "Really?"  he said finally.  "That's interesting.  What
branch are you from?"

"Uh, well, I think that my uncle Renn was your father's second cousin,"
the youth said glibly.

Renn was a common name on Corellia.  Han smiled.  "Could be," he
said.

"C'mon over here and let's talk."

He led the youth into Shug's cluttered office and poured them both a
cup of stim-tea.  Chewie followed them in, and Han introduced the
Wookiee properly.  Chewie hrrrrrrnnned at Jarik, and Han could tell he
liked the young man.

"So, why'd you look me up?"  Han asked.

"Well, I'd like to learn piloting," the boy replied.  "And I hear
you're the best.  I'll work, if you'll teach me, sir.  I promise I'll
work hard."

"Well"--Han glanced over at the Wookiee---"we could use a hand with
getting the Bria fixed up, I guess.  You any good with a
hydrospanner?"

"Yessir!"  Jarik said.  "I sure am."

"We'll see," Han said.

At first he invited the youngster to hang around because he wanted to
keep an eye on him.  Han didn't believe that the boy was from
Corellia.

He just didn't look right, somehow.  He asked Roa, as the senior
smuggler, whether he knew anything about a young man named Jarik.

It took a month, but Roa was able to discover that young Jarik was a
street kid, born and raised in the depths of Nar Shaddaa.  He'd grubbed
for every mouthful, every credit, turning his hand to whatever work he
could find.

His parentage was unknown, probably even to him.  He'd always been a
denizen of Nar Shaddaa, hanging out in the Corellian sector.  It was
possible that at least one of his parents was Corellian.

When Han knew for sure that the youth had lied to him, he considered
sending the kid packing, but by that time, he'd gotten used to having
him around.  The youth hung on his every word, tagging along whenever
Han would let him.  The worshipful attention was flattering.  And,
after all, Han rationalized, it wasn't as though he himself had never
told a lie to get his foot in the door .  . .

Jarik proved to be a fast learner.  Han taught him to man the Bria's
portside gun turret, and he proved to have excellent reflexes and
aim.

Since pirate activity in Hutt space had been up lately, Han wound up
taking the kid on most of their runs.  After discussing the matter with
Chewbacca, Han decided not to tell the youngster that they knew his
name wasn't "Solo."  It was Chewie who pointed out that it obviously
meant a lot to Jarik to finally have a surname.  Wookiees were very
family-oriented, and Chewie felt sorry for the boy.

Soon after Han and Salla started their relationship, the Bria was
spaceworthy.  Shug's modifications had increased her speed until she
was a very respectable little vessel.  But she was still, as Jarik put
it, "one unpredictable lady."

One run the Bria would perform perfectly, but the next .  . . there
seemed no end to the grief she gave Han, Chewie, and Jarik out in the
spacelanes.

Han learned a whole new vocabulary of Wookiee swear words while he and
Chewie sweated to fix their recalcitrant craft.

Once the sublight motivator burned out as they were skimming past the
black-hole clusters of the Maw.  That was interesting.  For a while,
Han didn't believe they were ever going to make it back to Nar
Shaddaa.

If it hadn't been for Chewie's quick repair work and Han's piloting
expertise, the freighter would have been sucked into a black hole.

Han found them a new apartment, a bigger one, in a better part of the
Corellian section.  He was frequently not at home, staying over at
Salla's place, so he allowed Jarik to spend the night so Chewbacca
would have company.

Life, Han reflected (when he had time to reflect, which wasn't often),
was good.  It had been at least two months since any bounty hunters had
surfaced, and there hadn't been any sightings of Boba Fett.  He and
Chewie were earning a decent living, and they had a ship of their
own.

He had friends, and somebody special in his life, somebody who could
talk the language of smugglers.  Han was as content as he'd ever been
.

. .

Deep in a remote area of space, between systems, two Hutt ships
rendezvoused at a set of highly secret coordinates.  Both ships
belonged to members of the Desilijic kajidic, though neither ship was
piloted by Han Solo.  One ship was Jabba's yacht, Star Jewel, and the
other was Jiliac's yacht, Dragon Pearl.

Under the urging of their pilots, who goosed the ships toward each
other with little taps on their maneuvering thrusters, the two ships
edged closer and closer, until they were in docking range.  An
umbilical tube extended from the airlock of Star Jewel, until it
touched and anchored itself against the airlock of Dragon Pearl.  The
Hutt yachts hung in space, attached to each other by the tube.

Jabba and Jiliac were aboard Star Jewel.  Comfortably ensconced in the
yacht's luxurious salon, Jiliac cradled her young offspring in her
arms.

As the ship's instruments indicated that the two ships were
successfully connected, Jiliac put her tiny, unformed grub of a baby
Huttlet down near her pouch-slit, and allowed the little creature to
crawl inside.  Infant Hutts survived mostly inside their mother's pouch
for the first year or so of their young lives.

As the two Hutts waited expectantly, they heard several sets of
footsteps coming down the corridor.  The door opened, and Teroenza,
High Priest of Ylesia, entered.

The huge horned being was almost dwarfed by the enormous sluglike Hutts
, but Teroenza didn't seem particularly overawed, Jiliac noted.  She
gestured graciously to a t'landa Til resting sling she'd had specially
installed.

"Welcome, Teroenza.  Please make yourself at home.  I trust you were
able to camouflage your absence from your world?"

"My time is limited," Teroenza said.  "I set off in a landskimmer this
morning, with a Gamorrean pilot, ostensibly to make a personal
inspection of the Colony Eight construction.  Halfway there, in the
deepest jungle, I knocked the guard out, then set the skimmer to crash
into a jungle giant.

Then I tossed a thermal detonator into the wreckage, and when it was
burning well, I tossed the guard in.  Your ship was waiting precisely
where you guaranteed it would be.  Tomorrow it can set me back in
that

area, and I shall suitably batter and dirty myself, then come
staggering out of the jungle in time to meet one of the search
parties.

Aruk will suspect nothing."

"Well done," Jiliac said.  "But, as you note, our time is limited.  Let
us get right down to business.  Aruk has become a .  . . nuisance.  A
nuisance we would like to dispense with."

Teroenza snorted.  "No matter how high production is, he is
dissatisfied.  I have not seen my mate in over a year.  He forbids me
to take even a short visit home.  And he has reduced the bounty on Han
Solo, and altered it to a 'kill on sight, disintegrations okay'
bounty!

He forbade me to raise it, even if I paid with my own credits.  Said I
was obsessed with Solo!  When he did that, I could no longer support
him.  Contemplating the slow death of that Corellian space tramp has
been my only pleasure for months.  When I remember how he .  . ."  the
High Priest went on with his litany of grievances against Han Solo.

Jabba and Jiliac looked at each other during Teroenza's tirade.  Jiliac
knew that Jabba had made some arrangement with Boba Fett so Solo could
continue to work for them without fear of bounty hunters.  However,
that was not information Teroenza ever needed to know.

Seconds later Teroenza ran down.  He bowed.  "My apologies,
Excellencies.  As you said .  . . to business."

"First, we need to determine a price for your .  . . assistance,
Ter-oenza," Jabba pointed out.

The t'landa Til named a sum.

Jabba and Jiliac glanced at each other.  Neither spoke.

After a couple of minutes, Teroenza named a second, significantly lower
sum.  This one, while high, was not unreasonable.  Jiliac took a small
crustacean from a tray near her resting dais, and contemplated it for
several seconds.  "Done," she said, then popped the treat into her
mouth.

"I want no one to suspect murder," she said matter-of-factly.  "It must
be subtle .  . ."

"Subtle .  . ."  Teroenza murmured, absently stroking his horn, which
already looked as though it had been freshly oiled.  "Not an armed
attack, then."

"Far from it," Jiliac said.  "Besadii security is second only to our
own.

Our troops would have to blast their way in, and the whole of Nal Hutta
would know who started it.  No armed attacks."

"An accident?"  Jabba wondered aloud.  "Perhaps with his river barge?

I understand Aruk enjoys his afternoon excursions.  He often entertains
on the river."

"Possible," Jiliac said.  "But such an accident is difficult to
control.  It might destroy Durga, too, and I do not want Durga
killed."

"Why, Aunt?  Durga is clever.  He could be a possible threat to us,"
Jabba pointed out.

Before Jiliac could respond, Teroenza did.  Settling deeper into his
resting sling, the High Priest picked a pickled ruff-roach off a plate
and sampled it.  "Because," the t'landa Til said thoughtfully, "Durga
will have trouble controlling Besadii.  There are many in the kajidic
who feel he is not fit to rule because of his birthmark.  They say he
is ill-marked, and thus ill-fated.  Do away with Durga, and the kajidic
may well unite much more strongly behind the new leader."

Jiliac inclined her head to Teroenza.  "You reason like a Hutt,
Priest," she said.

Teroenza was gratified.  "Thank you, Your Excellency."

"No assault, no accident," Jabba muttered.  "What, then?"

"I have a possible plan," Jiliac said.  "A substance that Aruk can
ingest.

It has the advantage of being almost undetectable in the tissues.  And
while it is working, it slows and dulls the thinking processes, so that
the victim makes poor decisions.  For Aruk to make poor decisions is to
our benefit."

"Agreed, Aunt," Jabba said.  "But .  . . poison?  We Hutts are
extremely resistant to poisons.  For one of us, even an old one like
Aruk, to ingest enough poison to kill us would surely be noticed and
remarked upon."

Jiliac shook her massive head, a mannerism she'd picked up from
humans.

"Not the way I am thinking of it, Nephew.  This substance, when
introduced into the body, gradually poisons the victim.  It
concentrates in the brain tissues of higher life-forms.  Over a long
period of ingestion, the victim becomes actually addicted to the
poison, to the point where sudden cessation of the substance will cause
withdrawal symptoms so severe, they will result in either death or such
massive brain damage that Aruk will be of no further harm to any of
us."

"And you can get supplies of this substance?"  Teroenza asked
excitedly.

"It is extremely expensive and rare," Jiliac said.  "But .  . . yes.  I
can procure sufficient quantities."

"But how do we get him to take it?"  Jabba asked.

"Your Excellencies, I can manage that?  Teroenza was bouncing up and
down in his sling, like a youngster in a game.  "The nala-tree frogs!

Surely they would work!"

"Explain, Priest," Jiliac commanded.

Teroenza went on to explain about the Besadii Lord's predilection for
the nala-tree frogs.  "Ever since he went home, two weeks ago, he has
demanded an aquarium of live nala-tree frogs with every shipment of
processed spice we send home to Nal Hutta!"  The tlanda Til rubbed his
tiny, almost delicate hands together excitedly.

"And how would we use them?"

"The nala-tree frogs are far from being higher life-forms.  They have
almost no brain to speak of.  I doubt exposure to your poison would
kill them."

"From what I know of this substance, that would be so," Jiliac said.

"Continue, please."

"I could raise the nala-tree frogs in water to which I have added your
poison," Teroenza said.  "From the time they are small wigglers, they
would be swimming through water containing concentrations of your
substance.  The nala-tree frogs' tissues would be riddled with the
poison--and Aruk will consume them greedily!  As the months go by, I
increase the concentration of the poison in the water, and Aruk
gradually consumes more and more of the poison.  Over time, he becomes
addicted to it.  Then, when he's thoroughly dependent on the
substance--" He made a quick yanking-away gesture.  "No more poison!

Clean frogs!"

"And he will die in agony," Jiliac said.  "Or suffer permanent brain
damage.

Either of which will serve our needs."

Jabba leaned forward.  "I say we do it.  Jiliac's scheme fits all our
requirements."

"I will transmit the first of your payments," Jiliac said.  "You must
tell me where you want the credits sent."

Teroenza's bulging eyes took on a crafty gleam.  "Rather than credits,
I would mostly like items for my collection.  That way I can hide the
payments.  When I need credits, I can sell off a piece, and no one will
be the wiser."

"Very well," Jiliac said.  "You must provide us a list of acceptable
items.

If we cannot find them, we shall deposit credits instead.  But we will
try for the pieces for the collection."

"Excellent," said Teroenza.  "We have a deal."

"A toast," cried Jabba.  "To our alliance, and to Aruk's end."

"A toast!"  echoed Teroenza, raising an ornate cup.  "My first use of
my new wealth will be to place such a high bounty on Han Solo's head
that every bounty hunter in the galaxy will be looking for him!"

"To the death of Aruk!"  Jiliac said, raising her cup.  "The death of
Aruk!"  Jabba exclaimed.

Teroenza hesitated for barely an instant, then said, with great
resolution, "The death of Aruk .  . . and of Solo."

Together, they drank.

After Teroenza had left, to be spirited back to Ylesia aboard the
Dragon Pearl, Jabba and Jiliac began planning their strategy.  When
Aruk was gone, they would gradually take over the Ylesian operation.

One by one, they would eliminate key Besadii, until the decimated clan
would fall into penury and obscurity.

The thought made them extremely cheerful.

Their good mood was broken, however, by Lobb Gerido, who appeared,
wringing his hands.  "Your Excellencies .  . . one of your operatives
on Regolith Prime has just forwarded a vid-cast to us.  Most disturbing
news from Imperial Center!  The pilot has recorded it.  If Your
Excellencies will turn on your holo-projector .  . ."

Concerned, Jiliac did so.  The three-dimensional scene built before
them, and the Hutts recognized their local Moff, Sam Shild.  This was
obviously a formal press conference setting.  Behind Shild, they could
see the familiar skyline of Imperial Center, the planet that used to be
called Coruscant.

"Citizens of the Inner and Outer Rim Territories," he said, his pale
features beneath waxy dark hair set in grim lines, "our exalted and
wise Emperor has been forced to put down yet another insurrection in
Imperial space.  Vicious rebels, using weapons that have been traced to
our sector, attacked an Imperial emplacement on Rampa II, wounding and
slaying a number of Imperial troops.

"The Emperor's reprisal has been immediate, and the rebels have been
routed and captured.  Many civilian lives were lost when the rebel
butchers turned their weapons on innocent citizens.  This outrage
cannot be allowed to continue!

"Our Emperor has called upon all of his loyal sectors to aid him in
cutting off the trafficking in illegal weaponry.  I am proud to say
that I am responding to the Emperor's call in the most immediate and
visceral terms.  We all know that the source of much of the illegal
gunrunning and drug trafficking emanates from Hutt space.  To this end,
I am calling on all citizens of our sector to support me as I shut down
the Hutt scourge!  It is my intention to wipe out the smuggling trade,
and bring the Hutt crime lords to their knees!"  Shild paused, as if
suddenly recalling that Hutts did not have knees.  "Um .  . .

figuratively speaking, of course."

He cleared his throat.  "To reach this goal, I am authorized to utilize
deadly force.  The Hutts will learn that they cannot flout Imperial law
with

impunity."  He raised a fist in a sweeping military gesture.  "Law and
order will prevail once more in our Territories!"

The holo faded out on Shild's ringing last words.  Both Hutts looked at
each other for a long moment.

"This is not good, Aunt," Jabba said, finally.

"Not good at all, Nephew," Jiliac agreed.  She cursed softly.  "How can
Shild have found the courage to go against us?"

"Obviously, he is now more afraid of Palpatine than he is of us," Jabba
said.

"We shall have to teach him his error," Jiliac said slowly.  "We cannot
allow Nal Hutta to be governed by the Emperor and his wretched
minions."

"Indeed not," Jabba agreed.

Jiliac considered for a moment.  "However, as a compromise .  . ."

"Yes, Aunt?"

"Perhaps we can reason with Shild.  Buy him off.  Let him have Nar
Shaddaa and the smugglers.  We can always find more smugglers .  . ."

Jabba licked his tongue over the edges of his lipless mouth, as though
he'd tasted something particularly sweet.  "Aunt, I like the way you
think."

"We must send Shild a message," Jiliac decided.  "And gifts .  . .

expensive ones, so he will pay attention.  You know how greedy he is.

Surely he will .  . . see reason."

"Surely," Jabba agreed.  "But who will carry the message?"

Jiliac thought for a moment, then the corners of her huge, wide mouth
turned up.  "I know just the sentient .  . ."

nine

Playthings for the Moff

Han Solo stood before Jiliac's dais, eyes wide.  His mouth dropped
open.

"You want me to what?"

"Careful, Captain Solo," Jabba cautioned.  "You must address the Lady
Jiliac with respect."

Han ignored the Hutt Lord.  "But... but..."  he sputtered, "that's
crazy!

That's like asking me to point a gun at my own head and pull the
trigger!

We all heard Shild, how he was cracking down on smugglers.  In case
it's escaped your notice, Your Ladyship, I'm a smuggler"--he jerked his
thumb at his own chest--"and if I walk into Sarn Shild's place to give
him your gifts and your message, that'll be the last free walk I ever
take!  No!  I ain't doing it!"

Inwardly he was a little surprised at his own temerity in speaking to
the powerful Hutt leaders in such a manner, but Jiliac's calm request
had roused his temper.  Just who did the Hutts think they were,
anyhow?

"Captain Solo."  Jiliac did not take umbrage at Han's words or tone.

"Calm yourself.  We will provide you with new clothing, the best of
faked IDs, and one of our own courier vessels.  No one will know you
are Han Solo, smuggler.  All they will know is that you are a
diplomatic envoy from Nal Hutta, duly authorized and designated to
deliver our message and our gifts."

Han took a deep breath.  Under those circumstances, maybe .  . .

"What is it worth to you, to get your message delivered?"  he asked,
finally.

THE HUTT GAMBIT 401

"Ten thousand credits," Jiliac said, without batting an eye.

Han gasped.  That much--For just flying to Coruscant and back?"

He stared at the Hutt leaders for a moment, then turned to Chewbacca.

"What do you think, pal?"

Chewie was plainly as torn as he was.  The big Wookiee grumbled and
rumbled, then finally commented that with that kind of money, they
could start saving for a ship they could buy.  But it was Han who'd be
risking his skin, he added, so the final decision should be Han's.

The Corellian thought for another moment, then turned back to Jiliac
and Jabba.  "All right," he said.  "I'll do it for ten thousand.  All
of it in advance."

Jabba began to protest, but Jiliac shushed him with a gesture.  "Very
well, Captain.  Ten thousand in advance.  When can you leave?"

"If you can get me the IDs and vessel today," Han said grimly, "we'll
leave tomorrow morning."

"It shall be done," Jiliac said.

The Hutt leader was as good as her word.  By the next morning, Han had
received excellent faked IDs, identifying him as one Jobekk Jonn,
official Hutt diplomatic envoy.  The ship was a speedy little Corellian
courier vessel named Quicksilver.  Han was given a suit of clothing
better than anything he'd ever even touched before--a tomuon-wool
jacket and trousers, cut in the very latest style.

At Chewie's suggestion, Han cultivated a short beard during the time it
took them to fly to Coruscant.  When they docked at one of Coruscant's
many spacedocks, he slicked his hair straight back from his brow, and
was amazed at how different he looked.  The spiffy gray suit made him
look like a bureaucrat, completely erasing all traces of the
smuggler.

"I feel naked without my blaster," Han grumbled.  "But they restrict
weapons here on Coruscant .  . . I mean, Imperial Center.  Besides . 
.

. I guess diplomatic envoys don't wear guns."

Chewie commented sadly that Han no longer looked scruffy, in approved
Wookiee fashion.  Instead he appeared as sleek and polished as
lapistone.

"Trust me, pal, I can't wait till I can turn back into myself," Han
said.

Then, picking up his package of gifts, and the holocube message from
Jiliac and the Grand Council of Nal Hutta, Han left Quicksilver and
took a shuttle down to Imperial Center.

Being back in the Imperial capital city brought back a lot of memories,
most of them unpleasant ones.  Bria had left him on Coruscant.  Here

4o2 The Han Solo Trilogy

he'd been hunted across the rooftops by Garris Shrike.  His
courtmartial had taken place in the headquarters of the Imperial Navy
.

. .

Han already had the address for the Moff.  Shild maintained several
residences on different worlds, but at the moment, he was in Imperial
Center, attending conferences on law and order in the Empire.

Han reached the Moff's residence, a luxurious penthouse in one of the
city's most elegant buildings.  After going through multiple security
checks, he handed his credentials to the majordomo, an elderly human
male, and then sat down in the antechamber.  Only a strong effort of
will kept him from fidgeting.

After waiting for nearly forty-five minutes, the majordomo appeared.

"My master can give you only a few minutes," he said.  "He is departing
this evening for Velga Prime."

Nice, Han thought.  Velga Prime was the most opulent gambling planetoid
in the known galaxy.

He followed the majordomo down a succession of carpeted hallways.

Automatically, Han memorized the way, just in case things went sour and
he had to make a quick escape.

Finally, the majordomo ushered him into an office bigger than Han's
apartment back on Nar Shaddaa.  "Master Jobekk Jonn, of Nal Hutta, Your
Excellency," the old man intoned.

Moff Sam Shild was a tall, pale, ascetic-seeming man with oiled black
hair and a thin, pointy mustache.  Slender to the point of emaciation,
he had pale, cold-looking hands with elongated fingers.

He wore no jewelry except a black krayt dragon pearl in one earlobe.

His suit was the same opalescent black as the jewel.

He gestured brusquely to a seat.  "I'm afraid I must be brief, Jonn.  I
realize that the Hutts have been .  . . generous to my administration
in he past, but the Emperor has made his wishes clear.  My hands are
tied."

"Let's not be hasty, Your Excellency," Han said, watching his diction
and grammar.  Unconsciously, he slipped back into his speech patterns
from when he'd been an Imperial officer.  "I believe you will find the
Hutt offerings and message I've brought to be of interest.  May I?"

Shild nodded shortly.  Han carefully placed the package on the table.

"Please open it," he said.

"Very well," the Moff said.  Carefully he opened the package, and from
the way his eyes lit up, Han could tell that the Hutt Lords knew his
tastes well.

A small silver pipe, encrusted with semiprecious gems.  A miniaturized
holo-projector so small it would fit into a human palm.  A necklace

made of gold and platinum wire, encrusted with golden corusca gems.

"For your lady, sir," Han said smoothly.

"Yes, she will like this .  . ."  muttered the Moff.  A line appeared
between his brows as he quickly scanned the holocube's message, which
he trigged to display by means of his retinal pattern.

"Look here, Jonn," he said when he'd finished reading it, "I wish that
I could offer Nal Hutta more assurances, but as I told you before, I
have no choice.  The Emperor has called upon all Imperial worlds to
tighten down on smuggling, gunrunning, and other illegal activities.

My sector contains Hutt space, and unfortunately the Hutt reputation
for dishonesty is so well known that I cannot possibly cover for
them.

I will, however, promise Nal Hutta no armed reprisals if they
cooperate."

"Cooperate in what way?"

"Do their best to become loyal, law-abiding citizens of the Empire."

That'll be the day, Han thought.  "What about Nar Shaddaa?"  he asked,
unable to help himself.  Fear for himself and his friends made his
mouth dry.

"I shall have to make an example of Nar Shaddaa," Shild said.  "By the
time I am finished with the Smuggler's Moon, it will no longer support
the smuggling industry.  Its inhabitants will be lucky if it can still
support sentient life."

Han tried to conceal his shock.  What are we going to do?

Shild shook his head.  "And now, I'm afraid, I must depart.  I regret
that you had to travel so far for only a short interview, but I did
warn your Hutt masters that I would be unable to .  . . bend .  . .

over this issue."

Shild stood up, and automatically Han did also.

"Sam?"  came a voice from behind the door leading into the next room.

Caught in the act of turning, Han froze.  That voice!

"My dear, I am in here," called Shild.  "I was just about to show the
diplomatic envoy from Nal Hutta out."

The door opened, and a woman stood there, smiling.  "Sam, darling," she
said, "we must hurry.  The shuttle is waiting on the rooftop.  Will you
be much longer?"

Han turned his head, and their eyes met--for the first time in six
years.

Bria Tharen.  This time, there was no mistake.  Bria stood there,
dressed in a flowing silken gown that made her seem just as much of an
ornament as anything else in Shild's palatial home.  The low-cut gown
was turquoise, the color of her eyes.  She was stunningly beautiful.

As she stared back at Han, she blinked, and went a little pale.  Her
smile did not waver, though.

She's good, Han thought.  He knew he'd betrayed his shock, but
fortunately Shild wasn't looking at him.  Han hastily pulled himself
back together, composing his features into a polite, neutral mask.

Shild gestured at Bria.  "Master Jobekk Jonn of Nal Hutta, my .  . .

niece ... Bria."

Only Han's years of playing sabacc saved him.  As Bria composedly held
out her hand with a throaty, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Master
Jonn," Han was able to take it and bow over it with a suave smile.

"The pleasure is all mine," he said.  "Shild, you are a very lucky man,
to have such a lovely .  . . niece."

He saw a faint wave of color brighten her cheeks at his gibe.  "You
look familiar, sir," she said.  "Haven't I seen you before?"  Her voice
was cool and disinterested.

Han knew she was baiting him.  "Perhaps on wanted posters," Han
murmured, so quietly Shild couldn't hear.

Then bowing coldly over her hand once more, he let go of her--though
all he wanted to do was grab her and bring her with him!--and bowed
formally to Shild.

"Thank you for your time, Your Excellency."

Then, turning away, Han strode resolutely from the room.

Later that same night, much later, Bria Tharen lay in her small bunk
aboard the Moff's yacht, muffling her sobs in her pillow.  Every time
she recalled the look in Han's eyes, she wanted to wail aloud.

It was only too obvious that he'd thought the worst--that she was
Shild's concubine.  Sobs shook her.  That was what he was supposed to
think, after all.  That was what Sarn Shild wanted everyone to think.

In truth, the Moff's sexual preferences did not run to human females.

Bria traveled with him as a lovely show object, to be displayed to
Imperial officials, just as Shild would display any trophy.

She kept his home running smoothly, listened to him when he wanted
someone to talk to, oversaw his household staff and office, and
generally kept Moff Sam Shild's life running smoothly.

But she had never shared his bed, which was the only thing that made
this current assignment bearable.  And now .  . . now Han had seen her,
and thought the worst.  Even all the information Bria had been able to
funnel to the rebel movement back on Corellia couldn't ease the grief
and shame she felt.

Her pillow was wet.  Bria turned it over, and then lay there, staring
into the darkness, as the Moff's yacht streaked through hyperspace.

"Han.  . ."  she whispered brokenly.  "Han .  . ."

ten

The Admiral's Orders On the way back to Nar Shaddaa, Chewbacca flew the
Hutt courier ship Quicksilver competently, but his mind was not
completely on his work.  The Wookiee glanced over at his partner, the
human to whom he'd sworn a life debt, and his blue eyes crinkled with
concern.  Han was slumped in the copilot's seat, scowling blackly at
the star-lined void of hyperspace.

He'd been like this for days now, ever since he'd boarded Quicksilver
following his mission to the Moff's residence on Coruscant.  He rarely
spoke, and when he did, all he did was complain and make sarcastic
comments.

And he complained about everything--the food, the speed of the little
courier ship, Chewie's piloting, the tedium of space travel, the greed
of the Hutts .  . . any subject the Wookiee had tried to introduce, Han
had had a great many negative things to say about it.

For the first time since he'd met the Corellian, Chewbacca actually
wondered whether there might be circumstances under which renouncing a
life debt was the honorable thing to do.  More honorable, say, than
murdering the person to whom one owed the life debt .  . .

"This thing moves like a thousand-year-old Hutt," Han grumbled.  "You'd
think with the size of the engines, she'd be able to make some speed
.

. .

think you could get her to go a little faster if I got out and
pushed?"

Chewbacca restrained himself and commented that it wouldn't be too long
now before they were back on Nar Shaddaa.

"Yeah, and it can't be too soon for me," Han said bitterly.  He got up
and paced nervously around the cramped cabin.  When he turned abruptly,
he whacked his head on a low stanchion and began cursing a blue
streak.

When he finally began to repeat himself, Han growled, then threw
himself back into the copilot's seat.  "After we return the Hutts'
little bucket of bolts to them, I guess we'll have to head for
Smuggler's Run.  If the Br--" he seemed to choke on the word, then
amended, "if that blasted ship of ours will make it through the
asteroid field."

Chewbacca asked why they'd be heading for Smuggler's Run.  Wynni, he
pointed out, would likely be at Smuggler's Run, and she was the last
person he wanted to see.  The Wookiee wasn't sure he could take much
more of the way she was so free with her paws.

"Listen, pal"--Han's voice dripped sarcasm--"in case it ain't occurred
to you, it's all over for Nar Shaddaa.  Moff Sam Shild has probably
already ordered his fleet to assemble out near Teth.  We're shakin' the
dust of that miserable excuse for a moon off our feet for good."  What
fleet?  Chewbacca wanted to know.

"Oh, each Imperial Moff has his own discretionary 'peacekeeping'
squadron," Han said, propping his boots on the console, not bothering
to look before he plunked them down.  Chewie was relieved to see that
he missed the DEC control.  Sudden decelerations while in hyperspace
were not a good idea.

"No doubt Shild has one, too.  His fleet's probably not the best, but
it'll be more than enough for the mission."

Chewbacca was confused.  Why wouldn't the Moff's fleet be the best
available?

"Oh, it's just the way things go in the Imperial Navy.  Since Hutt
space is out here in the Rim, far from 'civilization'--that is,
Coruscant--I'd bet Sam Shild got stuck with all the older ships and
weaponry, while all the newest, best stuff went to Rampa 1 and Rampa
2," Rampa 17 Chewie asked.  He'd thought only Rampa 2 had experienced
an uprising.

"Yeah, well, when the citizens of Rampa I heard about what was going
on, they rose up, too," Han said.  "For all the good it's gonna do
'em."

Chewie commented that he hated the Empire that had enslaved him, and
wished he could help bring it down.

Han snorted.  "Hey, pal, don't hold your breath.  Palpatine's got more
weapons and starships than he knows what to do with.  Any rebellion
against the Empire is doomed."

The Wookiee pilot did not believe his partner's pronouncement, and

said so.  It made sense to him that at some point the Imperial worlds,
tired of Palpatine's iron fist, would unite and rebel.

Han shook his head sourly.  "Never happen, Chewie.  And if it did,
they'd be doomed.  Just like Nar Shaddaa is doomed."

Chewie commented that it wasn't the Wookiee way to run away from a
fight.

Didn't Han want to fight back against the Imperial fleet?  He was
certain that the smugglers were much better pilots--and certainly
better shots--than the Imperials.  Maybe they could defeat the Imperial
attack.

Han laughed out loud at the suggestion.

Annoyed, Chewie's lips skinned back from his teeth, and he snarled at
his human partner.

Han sat up in a hurry, looking startled.  Chewie rarely showed temper
to the Corellian, and Wookiee anger was not something to be taken
lightly.

"Hey, no need to get sore about it!  I can't help it if Nar Shaddaa
doesn't stand a chance!  It ain't my fault!"

The Wookiee growled, low in his throat.

"Okay, okay," Han soothed.  "I'll definitely warn 'em, so they can get
away.  I'll talk to Mako about it, soon as we've reported in to Jiliac,
okay?"

Chewbacca subsided, and went back to piloting.  But the Wookiee was
still thinking, still adding things up.  He commented on Han's ill
temper.

"Whaddaya mean, I've been hard to live with?"  Han was indignant.

"Nothin's wrong!"

Chewbacca's comment was short and to the point.

Han flushed.  "Whaddaya mean, this has somethin' to do with a woman?"

he demanded indignantly.  "What makes you think that?"

Chewie reeled off a list of reasons, then put forth his best guess as
to exactly which woman Han was upset about.

Han cursed, scowled, then, finally, slumped down and put his hands over
his face.  He rubbed his forehead and groaned aloud.  "You're right,
Chewie," he mumbled.  "It was her.  Bria.  With Sam Shild.  I couldn't
believe it.  How could she?"

Chewbacca noted that appearances could sometimes be deceiving.

Han shook his head.  "Not this time," he said miserably.  "She called
him 'Sam darling."" The Wookiee wondered whether Bria might be married
to the Moff.

Han sighed.  "Nope.  It wasn't that .  . . formal .  . . a
relationship.

Chewie, I can't believe she'd do that!  It's so .  . . cheap!"

Chewbacca tried to be comforting, reminding Han that sometimes
sentients had to do things they didn't particularly like because they
were necessary.  Maybe there were extenuating circumstances in Bria's
case, too.

Han tried to smile.  "Thanks, pal.  I wish I could say I thought you
were right.  But .  . ."  He shook his head, and subsided into
silence.

It was a very silent flight back to the landing platform on Nar
Shaddaa.

Han and Chewie reported to Jiliac and Jabba the moment they returned to
Nar Shaddaa.  The Hutts were not pleased to hear that Sam Shild was no
longer in their pay.  "We shall have to do some investigating about
this fleet and the situation," Jiliac said.  "Come back in two hours,
Captain Solo."

Han shrugged and agreed.  He had his ten thousand credits, he'd checked
his balance before he'd left Nar Shaddaa.  So he was willing to do the
Hutts' bidding for a little while longer.  Besides, in two hours, he'd
be able to find Mako and pass along the warning to the older
smuggler.

Mako was even more upset than Jiliac and Jabba when he heard the
situation.

"Keep this quiet, Han," he said softly, staring out across the awnings
and walkways of Nar Shaddaa.  They were standing on his little balcony
outside his ramshackle flat.  "If the citizens get wind of this,
there'll be mass panic.  An Imp fleet ain't nothing to mess with."

"But with enough warning, maybe they could evacuate--" Han began, only
to break off at Mako's quick headshake.

"Not a chance, kid.  Too many of 'em don't have anywhere else to go.

Take that Jarik Solo kid who's been riding with you and Chewie.  He's a
rat from the deep-down streets, born and 'raised'--not that anyone
likely raised him--here on Nar Shaddaa.  There's millions like him,
Han.  And if the Imps are out to teach Nar Shaddaa a lesson, then a
whole lotta people are gonna die."

Han was considerably sobered by his talk with Mako.  He hadn't thought
of it in those terms before.  He realized how lucky he and Chewbacca
were, to be able to climb aboard their ship and fly away from the
danger.  He resolved that if it came to that, he'd take Jarik with
him.

He'd grown to like the youth.

But what about all the other sentients who wouldn't be able to get
out?

Nar Shaddaa had shields, but they wouldn't be able to stand for long
against an Imperial bombardment.  Han had a sudden, vivid vision of
these crumbling towers in flames from Imperial turbolasers.  People
would be fleeing, filling the streets, screaming, cowering, clutching
children against them.

Rodians, Sullustans, Twi'leks, Wookiees, Gamorreans, Bothans,
Chadra-Fans .  . . and more.  Not to mention humans.  Lots of humans.

The Corellian section was full of them .  . .

Han reported back to Jiliac's audience chamber in a very troubled
frame of mind.

The Hutt leader fixed him with a somber gaze.  "What you have said is
true.

We checked our sources on Teth, and the Moff has indeed ordered his
discretionary fleet to assemble there.  Since some elements of the
fleet have been out on patrol, it will take a week or possibly two for
all the ships to converge on Teth, and then a minimum of several days
to prepare for an assault on Nal Hutta.  We are taking measures to
ensure our safety on Nal Hutta."

But what about Nar Shaddaa?  Han wondered· It was a pretty good bet
that the self-centered Hutts would give the Smuggler's Moon barely a
thought, in comparison to protecting their safety, and that of their
homeworld.

"We have discovered that Shild's fleet is under the command of Admiral
Winstel Greelanx.  You used to be an Imperial officer, Captain.  Do you
know him?"

"No," Han said.  "Never heard of him.  But it's a big Navy."

"True," Jiliac said.  "Our sources have assured us that Admiral
Greelanx, while a competent officer, has, in the past, not been above
furthering his own fortunes when the opportunity arises.  He was in
charge of several Imperial fleets doing customs patrol in the past, and
we have confirmed that under the right circumstances he can be bribed·"
Han nodded, not really surprised, much less shocked.  The pay scale for
an Imperial officer wasn't that good.  He'd heard of more than one Imp
officer on the take.

"With that in mind, we want you to go and see him, Captain," Jiliac
continued· "We want you to negotiate with him on our behalf."

"Me?"  The thought of just marching right into the middle of an
Imperial fleet was not appealing.  And offering a bribe to an Imperial
officer carried the death penalty should he be caught.  "But--" "You
are our best choice, Captain Solo," Jiliac said.  "But--" "No buts, Han
my boy," Jabba said, in those overly friendly tones he'd adopted
recently.  "You can handle this assignment better than anyone else.

You were an Imperial officer· We will get you a uniform, forged orders,
and a military ID.  You can get in to speak with Greelanx, take him a
small 'gift' from us.  You speak his language, Han.  You can talk to
him in terms he will understand."

"Credits are what he'll understand," Han said.  "Lots of them·" "We
have been delegated to act on behalf of all Nal Hutta," Jiliac said.

"Money is no object to ensuring the Admiral's .  . . cooperation."

"But .  . ."  Han was thinking fast, "you can't expect him to not
attack.

The Moff would notice he hadn't fulfilled his orders.  They'd
courtmartial him.  And then they'd send an even bigger fleet to wipe us
out!"

"And the next Admiral they appoint may not be amenable to our · .  .

persuasions," Jiliac said, nodding her massive head in agreement.

"That is why we want Admiral Greelanx to stay in command.  But there
must be some way for us to ensure an Imperial defeat."

Han frowned.  The entire thrust of his education at the Imperial
Academy had been on ensuring victory for the Empire.  "I don't know .

. ."  he said uncertainly.

"Couldn't we pay the Admiral to put his ships in the wrong positions,
so they're not able to fire properly, or something of the kind?"

Jiliac asked.  "We Hutts are not military-minded sentients, Captain.

What kinds of things would bring about the result we want?  An Imperial
defeat, without it being obvious that we paid Greelanx off."

"Well .  . ."  Han thought hard, "maybe he'll sell us his battle
plan.

With that in hand, we could create a defense that would put all of our
ships in just the right spot to--maybe--defeat the Imperial fleet.

Maybe.

Especially if Greelanx had been paid to cut and run as soon as he could
justify a withdrawal."

"Under what circumstances should we not attempt to engage the Imperial
fleet?"  Jiliac asked.

"If Shild's fleet has a Victory Star Destroyer or--worse---one of the
Imperial Star Destroyers, forget it, Your Excellency.  But the Imps
tend to assign older vessels to duty out here in the Rim.  So maybe
there's a chance."

Jabba was obviously impressed by Han's knowledge.  "Another reason why
you are the right person to undertake this mission, Han my boy.  You
will be able to assess the strength of the Mof's fleet, as few others
could do."

Han looked over at Chewbacca.  Even without asking the Wookiee, he
could see that Chewie wanted to go for it--to do anything they could to
help their adopted home.  Han thought about Shug's spacebarn, and all
the good times he'd had there with his friends.  Sure, he'd had dreams
of living a respectable life, of becoming a real "citizen"--but those
dreams were in the past.  He was a smuggler now, and probably a
smuggler forever.  He liked being a smuggler.

Thoughts of the towers of Nar Shaddaa in flames, of innocent sentients
slaughtered, decided him.  "All right.  I'll get in to see Greelanx and
talk to him."

"Emphasize that this is an offer no sentient in his right mind could
refuse," Jiliac said.  "We will pay well."

"I'll make sure he understands," Han said.

"When can you leave?"  Jabba wanted to know.  "Time is short."

"Get me the uniform and the ID and I'll leave tonight," Han said.  "All
I have to do is get a haircut .  . ."

It felt very strange to be back in uniform again, Han decided as he
walked casually along the permacrete of the Imperial base on Teth three
days later.  He tried not to fidget in his gray uniform with its blue
and red lieutenant's insignia.  Wearing the short-brimmed cap again
felt odd, too.

And he missed his old boots.  These new boots weren't properly broken
in, and were a shade too small.  They pinched his toes.

The sentry at the gate had scanned his ID, then given only a cursory
glance at Han's orders before saluting and waving him through.

Han was watching for a special group of young officers.  There should
be shuttles going up to the Admiral's flagship, the Dreadnaught
Imperial Destiny, throughout the afternoon, filled with officers and
enlisted men reporting aboard after their last few hours of leave.

They'd be spending the next week preparing the big ship for its mission
against the Hutt worlds.  From what Han had been able to tell from
passing the fleet while making their landing approach, Greelanx's force
consisted of three Dreadnaughts--the Imperial Destiny, the Pride of the
Senate, and the Peacekeeper--four bulk cruisers, plus nearly a score of
customs and patrol ships, including some Guardian-class light cruisers
and a couple of Carrack-class light cruisers.  Lots of TIE fighters in
the holds of the bigger ships, of course.

Certainly enough power to utterly destroy Nar Shaddaa, but it wasn't as
bad as it could be.  Han had seen no Star Destroyers, and it was a safe
bet that if Greelanx's squadron included one, that would be his
flagship.

As he walked along, Han noticed a milling group of young officers
queuing up before an Imperial shuttle.  Here I go, he thought, walking
purposefully up to them, then falling in at the back of the line.  Now
that he was back in the uniform, his shoulders were automatically
straighter, his steps more precise, his eyes forward.

The young officers filed aboard the ship, and took seats in the
shuttle, strapping in.  Han's seatmate gave him a pleasant nod.  Han
nodded back and smiled.  The crew complement of a Dreadnaught was
16,204, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would realize for a long
time that Lieutenant "Stew Manosk" was an interloper.

The flight up to the Dreadnaught was uneventful.  Han's seatmate fell
asleep.  Han smiled.  Too much shore leave, perhaps?

After they docked with the Destiny, Han filed off the ship, then headed
for the nearest unoccupied datapad.  The ship was big enough that
nobody would be too surprised to see him call up a schematic showing
what was located on each deck.

There we go .  . . level four, section three .  . .

Han quickly headed for the nearest turbolift.  He boarded one, then was
quickly shuffled into the back, as others crowded in on the next
deck.

Han was staring straight ahead when he suddenly realized to his horror
that he knew the young officer standing near the door!

It was Tedris Bjalin, the young lieutenant who had, so systematically,
stripped Han's uniform of rank during his courtmartial.

Han surreptitiously eased himself as far to the right as he could,
behind a taller man, crossing his fingers that Tedris wouldn't turn
around.  The lieutenant didn't, and he got off at the next floor.

Han breathed a long, quiet sigh of relief.  Of all the lousy
coincidences, one of the few guys who could ID me!  Actually, it wasn't
such an odd coincidence.  Tedris was from the Outer Rim Territories.

It wasn't too surprising that he'd be assigned out here, since he knew
these spaceways.

I'll just have to make sure I stay out of his way .  . .

Once on level four, Han walked quickly along, looking for the corridor
leading to section three.  He found it, turned in, then walked down to
the end.  The highest-ranking officers always had offices with a
viewport.  One of the privileges of rank.

Han found the correct door, then hesitated, squared his shoulders, and
felt in his pocket for the Hutt gift.  It was a lovely (and quite
valuable) man's ring, platinum, set with a large and flawless Bothan
glitterstone.

The anterior office was occupied by a silver droid, who was sitting
before a desk, entering data on a datapad.  The droid looked up as Han
entered.

"May I help you, Lieutenant?"

"I need to see Admiral Greelanx," Han said.

"Do you have an appointment, Lieutenant?"

"No, not exactly," Han said.  "But I know he'll want to see me.  I have
some ... information ... for him.  You know what I mean?"  He leered,
then winked, deliberately attempting to overload the "inference"
circuits in the droid's programming.

The silver droid's green eyes flashed slightly as the creature tried to
interpret what Han was saying.  Finally, it stirred.  "Excuse me,
Lieutenant, perhaps you should speak with the Admiral's aide."

"Sure," Han said, standing at ease.

The droid hastened into the next room, and Han could faintly hear it
expostulating with someone inside.  Finally, it came back out, followed
by an extremely irritated-looking senior lieutenant.  Han snapped to
attention and saluted.  "What's going on here, Lieutenant?"  the man
snapped.  "Sir, Lieutenant Stevv Manosk, requesting to see the admiral,
sir!"

"State your business, Lieutenant," the man, whose name badge identified
him as "Kern Fallon," ordered.

"Sir, I have a message for the admiral.  It's a .  . . personal .  .

.

message, sir."  Han was taking a calculated risk that Greelanx was as
morally corrupt as many of the high-ranking Imperial officers he'd
encountered.  If the man took bribes, then there was a good chance that
he was far from being an ascetic type where the ladies were concerned
.

. .

Fallon raised an eyebrow.  "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?"

Han sensed that he was being tested, and didn't change expression.

"Sir, she told me to give the message only to the admiral, sir."

"'She'?"  Fallon's voice fell until he was whispering.  "You mean
Malessa?"

Han allowed his eyes to widen and gambled.  "Sir, this message is from
Lady Greelanx!"  he said, in shocked tones.  "Who is Malessa?"

If Malessa is Lady Greelanx's name, I'm done for, he thought.

But his luck held.  Senior Lieutenant Fallon's eyes went wide.  "Lady
Greelanx, but of course!  I meant her, I just .  . . slip of the
tongue, Malessa is my wife, I just .  . . slip of the tongue, I assure
you, I was just thinking of her .  . . wait just a moment .  . ."

Fallon bustled inside, and Han allowed himself a smug smile.  Pure
sabacc, he thought.  It had been a fairly safe bet that good old
Admiral Greelanx had a mistress or two on the side .  . .

Moments later he was in the admiral's large inner office, with its
tasteful furnishings and viewport that allowed the admiral to admire
his squadron as they hung in orbit.

Greelanx was a stocky man of medium height, with thinning gray hair and
a small, squarish mustache.  He was standing behind his desk when Han
entered, looking somewhat alarmed.  "Lieutenant?  You bring a message
from my wife?"

Han took a deep breath and said, "Sir, what I have to convey can only
be said in utter privacy, sir."

Greelanx studied him for a moment, then beckoned Han closer and slapped
a control beneath his desk.  "Privacy screen on, and jamming
activated," he said.  "Now, tell me what this is all about."

Han held out the ring.  "Admiral, I bring you a gift from the Hutt
Lords of Nal Hutta.  They want to deal."

Greelanx's eyes lit up at the sight of the valuable piece of jewelry,
but he did not touch it.  "I see," he said.  "I can't say I'm
surprised, either.

The slugs don't want to have their comfortable, crime-ridden lives
disturbed, eh?"

Han nodded.  "That's about the size of it, Admiral.  And they are
willing to pay well for the privilege.  We're talking all the Lords of
Nal Hutta, here.  They are prepared to be very generous."

Greelanx finally allowed himself to pick up the ring and examine it,
then he slipped it onto his finger.  It fitted perfectly.  "Suits you
very well, sir," Han said.

"Yes, it does," Greelanx agreed.  He toyed with the ring, sliding it
back and forth thoughtfully.  "I must admit, I find the Hutt offer . 
.

.

tempting," he said, finally.  "Especially since I plan to retire next
year.

It would be nice to have a chance to .  . . augment .  . . my
pension."

"I quite agree, sir."

"But my orders are clear, and I cannot go against them," Greelanx said,
slipping the ring off and holding it out toward Han.  "I'm afraid we
cannot do business, young man."

Han tensed, but made himself stay calm.  He could tell Greelanx was
really tempted.  "Sir, what are your orders?"  he asked.  "Perhaps we
can think of something that will benefit us both, and yet leave you
free of any charge of wrongdoing."

Greelanx laughed bitterly, a short, bitten-off laugh.  "Hardly, young
man.

My orders are to enter the Hutt system, execute order Base Delta Zero
upon the Smuggler's Moon, Nar Shaddaa, and then blockade Nal Hutta and
Nar Hekka until the Hutts agree to allow full customs inspections and a
complete military presence on their worlds.  The Moff doesn't want to
cripple the Hutts too badly, but he wants Nar Shaddaa reduced to
rubble."

Han swallowed, his mouth dry.  Base Delta Zero was an order that called
for the decimation of a world--all life, all vessels, all systems--even
droids were to be captured or destroyed.  His worse nightmare come
true.

"Admiral .  . . have you completed your battle plan?"  Han asked.

"My staff has been working on it," Greelanx said.  "And I am reviewing
it now.  Why?"

"The Hutts would like to purchase the detailed plan, sir," Han said.

"Name your price."

Greelanx was obviously intrigued by Han's statement.  "Buy the battle
plan?"  he said, his voice expressing surprise.  "What good will that
do you?"

"Give us a fighting chance, perhaps, sir," Han said.

"Us?"  the admiral looked sharply at Han.  "You're one of them?  A
smuggler?"

"Yes, sir."

Greelanx shrugged.  "I'm surprised," he admitted.  "You wear the
uniform well."

"Thank you, sir," Han said, and he meant it.

Greelanx paced slowly around the office, obviously thinking, tossing
the ring up and then catching it.  Finally, he came to stand before Han
again.

"You're saying that your Hutt employers will pay me what I ask for my
battle plan," he said.

"Yes, sir," Han said.  "For that, and for taking the first reasonable,
strategically justifiable opportunity to withdraw your squadron.  We'll
take care of the rest."

"Hmmmmmm .  . ."  Greelanx thought some more, then, finally, as if
making a decision, he slipped the ring back on his finger.  "Very well,
young man, we have a deal," he said.  "I want my payment in gems .  .
.

small, easy to dispose of, and not terribly traceable.  I shall make
you a list of the types and weights I wish."

"Fine, sir," Han said.  "You do that."

"Sit down, over there."  Greelanx pointed to a couch across his
office.

"I'll finish reviewing the battle plan, and then you can have it."

Han nodded, and went to sit down, as told.  He was a little surprised
that it had been that easy.  He wondered if he should be suspicious of
Greelanx, but the man seemed genuinely motivated by greed.  But there
was something else going on, too .  . . something Han couldn't put his
finger on .  . .

Greelanx worked for nearly two hours, then, finally, stood up and
beckoned Han into the privacy field again.  "I have it," he said.

"Nothing terribly inspired, standard Imperial tactics, but eminently
workable.  We should be able to cut any smuggler fleet to ribbons, I'm
afraid."

"That's our concern," Han said.  "You just stick to this, Admiral"--he
indicated the battle plan--"and when you can justifiably withdraw your
squadron, you do it.  I'll be back to pay you."

"You are a pilot, are you not?"  Greelanx asked.

"You bet I am, sir," Han said.  He grinned at the older man.  "You're
going to wish you had me on your side."

The admiral chuckled.  "Cocky, aren't you?  But the best pilots always
are.

Very well, then, I'll leave a shuttle for you at these coordinates."

He added a line to the sheet of flimsy containing the battle plan.

"Wear that uniform.  All the docking codes you'll need will be in the
navicomputer.

I'll expect you one week to the day and hour after the attack.  Is
that understood?"

Han nodded.  "Yes, sir, I understand.  I'll be back, count on it.  The
Hutts are only too aware of their danger.  They'll pay off, no
complaints."

It least none you'll hear, he added silently.

"Very well.  That concludes our business," Greelanx said.  "Although,
young man, I believe you are overly optimistic about your chances
against my squadron."

Han nodded.  "Noted, Admiral.  But all we want is a fighting chance."

"You'll get it," Greelanx said.  "But your people had better be
prepared to defend themselves.  My attack will be genuine."

Han saluted.  "Yes, sir."

Then he executed a perfect about-face, and strode from the room.

eleven

Battle Stations?

The corners of Aruk the Hutt's wide, lipless mouth turned down as he
squinted his protuberant eyes at the shipping report displayed on his
datapad.  He used to relish going over all the facts and figures .  .
.

the quarterly, semi-annual, and annual reports, the Ylesian profit
statements, the prospectuses for new companies, his net worth
statement, and all the other reports on the vast and varied financial
enterprises of Besadii kajidic .  . . but lately, it was becoming more
and more of a chore to concentrate on them.

Abstractedly, Aruk reached for another of the nala-tree frogs that
Teroenza shipped him from Ylesia.  The t'landa Til had been faithful to
his promise to provide only the biggest, tastiest, freshest frogs to
his Hutt overlord.

Aruk's hand closed around the nala-tree frog.  The terrified creature
squirmed wildly in the Hutt Lord's grip.  Opening his mouth, Aruk
tossed the wriggling morsel in, then rolled it around on his tongue,
savoring its frenzied struggles for a long minute or two before finally
swallowing the thing whole.

Delicious... Aruk thought with a contented sigh.

He frowned again at the datapad.  These reports could wait.  Perhaps
he'd take a nap, though he knew he really shouldn't.  His physician and
the reed droids had both insisted that he get more exercise.  Every day
that he didn't get off his sled and wriggle around under his own power,
they complained and lectured.  Every time he ate rich food, or smoked
his hookah, they fussed, insisting that he was endangering his
cardiovascular system.  Aruk knew they were right, that his circulation
was sluggish, he could tell because the greenish patches on his leather
hide had darkened.

But he was old, blast it, and at his age, he should be allowed to do
just as he liked--which included smoking, eating what he wanted, and
not exercising.  And .  . . not reading incomprehensible financial
reports.

Aruk resolved to turn the financial report over to Durga.  Time the
youngster began taking some of the load off his parent's shoulders.

The aging Hutt Lord took another nala-tree frog to savor, then, with a
sigh, he closed his bulbous eyes for a delightful afternoon nap .  .

.

"All right, you sentients, settle down!"  roared Mako Spince.  His
amplified voice resounded off the walls of the large auditorium at The
Chance Castle where Han had first seen Xaverri perform.  The
hotelcasino had generously donated the space, when Mako had called a
meeting of representatives from every enclave, both humanoid and
nonhumanoid, on Nar Shaddaa.  "I said, settle down!"

Slowly the crowd quieted.  Mako waited until he had their full
attention, then he said, "Okay, guys.  I'm no politician, so I don't
know how to make a speech.  The best I can do is just tell you the
facts as we know 'em.

Okay?"

The crowd indicated their approval of Mako's words with a muted buzz of
applause.  In the front of the crowd, a Gotal yelled, "Go on, Mako!"

"Okay."  Mako held up his right hand, and used his left to tick off
points on his fingers as he spoke.  "Fact number one.  Fellow sentients
and inhabitants of Nar Shaddaa .  . . we are in a world of trouble.

Within a week, a squadron of Imperial vessels is going to be dispatched
from Teth, sent by our own beloved Moff, Sarn Shild.  This squadron has
orders to wipe us out.  Not give us a bloody nose, or destroy some of
our ships.  I mean they're going to do their best to see that no more
smuggling happens out of Nar Shaddaa--ever.  The place will be a
smoking ruin."

A murmur of fear ran through the auditorium as the assembled smugglers
tried to assimilate Mako's words.

"Fact number two," Mako went on, "we're on our own for this one,
folks.

The Hutts have just spent a bundle of credits installing brandnew
planetary defense shields so they can hide behind 'em on Nal Hutta,
while the Imp fleet uses up their ammo on us.  The Hutts have, by
report, hired a small fleet of mercs to come in and help defend them,
but their primary

strategy is just to let the Imps have Nar Shaddaa, and hope that'll
satisfy 'em."

Boos, hisses, and catcalls of all kinds filled the space, drowning Mako
out.  The smugglers howled their rage, their threats, their anger at
the Hutts.  It was nearly five minutes before Mako could make himself
heard again.

"Yeah, yeah!  It makes me mad, too, friends, but what can you do?

They're Hutts, so whaddaya expect, folks?  But anyway that's the
point.

Whatever we do about this, it's our call.  The slugs ain't gonna help
us Out."

Grumbling, the crowd subsided.

"Okay, fact three.  We ain't exactly helpless, fellow sentients.  We
have it on good authority that the Imp squadron doesn't include
anything with super-heavy firepower.  No Star Destroyers.  That's good
news for us.  That means we can fight back!"

Mutters of consternation swelled, mingled with yells of determination:
"Yeah!  We'll fight!  We'll kick their butts!  We wanna fight!  Those
Imps can't shoot for sour trig-berries!  We ain't running from a bunch
of Imps!

We'll make 'em sorry they attacked us!"

Mako grinned.  "Hey, fellow sentients, my thoughts exactly.  I intend
to fight this fleet, and if it's just me out there in my one ship, so
be it.

Nobody is wiping me out without a fight!  Nobody!"

This time, the cheers from the crowd were deafening.  "Yeah!  Mako!

You lead us, Mako!  Yeah, we'll fight!"

Mako motioned for quiet.  "All right, those who want to fight, raise
their hands, or paws or tentacles or whatever you got.  Those who don't
wanna fight--I suggest you take your belongings and your families and
head out right now.  It's gonna get dicey around here, real soon."

Han, who was watching from the wings of the stage, was surprised to see
that the vast majority of the assembled beings stayed.  Only a couple
of dozen sentients got up and left.

Mako waited until they were out of the way before he started in
again.

"Okay, folks.  First thing we need is for everyone with some battle
experience to come on down here to the front.  I'm not talkin' about
winging a pirate who got too close, I'm talkin' real combat experience
in space, specially against the Imperials.  C'mon down here."

Over the next several minutes about forty sentients, most of them
humanoid, made their way down front.  "Okay, guys," Mako said.  "The
first thing we need here in planning a counteroffensive is a leader.

Anyone wanna volunteer?"

One of the humanoids, a Bothan, pointed up at the senior smuggler.

"You, Mako!  You be our leader!"  he shouted.

The crowd reacted enthusiastically to this suggestion, and soon a
swelling chant was heard.  "Ma-ko!  Ma-ko!  Ma-ko!!  MAKO!"

The chanting went on, gaining in volume, until Han wanted to put his
hands over his ears.  Mako waved his arms, and silence descended.

"Okay!  Okay!"  he said, his teeth flashing in a wide grin.  "I'm real
flattered, folks.

And I swear to you that I'll do my best for you.  I swear it!"

Thunderous cheers erupted again.

"Okay, one more thing, then I'm gonna dismiss you for now," Mako
said.

"I want you to meet my right-hand man, folks.  A lot of you know him as
a smuggler with a cranky ship and a big, furry sidekick.  Han Solo,
c'mon out here!"

Han walked out.  He and Mako had basically figured that the senior
smuggler would get tapped to lead the Nar Shaddaa forces.  Things were
going just as the two of them had figured they would.

More thunderous cheers, and a chant of "Ma-ko!  Han!  Mako!  Han!"

sprang up.

Han waved at the crowd, feeling his cheeks grow warm.  He'd never
before had thousands of people cheering just for him before.  When he'd
been Xaverri's assistant, he'd shared the spotlight, but it wasn't the
same as this.

Hearing all these people applauding him was a weird--but
pleasant--experience.

"Okay, folks," Mako said, waving again for quiet.  "I'm gonna ask my
combat veterans down there"--he indicated the little crowd--"to stay in
close touch and check in here at The Chance Castle each morning.  We'll
post notice of meetings or drills outside the auditorium, okay?  Now
let's have a round of applause for our brave volunteers here!"

Cheers resounded.  It was obvious that the crowd of sentients felt
tremendously better, just knowing they were going to do something,
instead of tamely waiting to be slaughtered.

Once the main crowd had left, Mako addressed the combat veterans.

"Okay, Han and me are gonna put together a plan for our defense over
the next day or so, and then we'll brief you on it, and begin battle
drills.  By the time those Imps get here, everyone is going to know
just what to do, and that's a promise.  If you folks know any other
sentients with combat experience, bring 'em along to the briefing.  Got
that?"

The veterans all indicated that they did.  "Good," Mako said.  "Over
the next couple of days, get your ships in prime fighting condition.

Shields fully charged, armor reinforced, all lasers charged .  . . you
know the

drill.  We need all our ships working at full capacity.  So let's get
started, right?"

"Right!"  they shouted.

After Mako dismissed the combat veterans, he and Han headed for one of
the meeting rooms in the back of the casino, where they were joined by
the rest of the smuggler "High Command"--as Mako and Han had jokingly
dubbed their group.  Chewbacca, Roa, Shug Ninx, Salla Zend, Lando
Calrissian, Rik Duel, and Sinewy Ana Blue made up Mako's elite group of
experienced smugglers.

Mako and Han didn't plan to tell anyone but the High Command that they
were in possession of the Imperial battle plan.  They figured that
might make the smugglers overconfident, and that would be disastrous
for their side.  Also, some smugglers would sell their grandmothers for
enough credits, and they couldn't afford a security leak.

As Han sat beside him, Mako called up a holographic schematic on his
datapad, and projected it above the tabletop.  All those present leaned
forward to study the plan.

"Look here."  Mako used a laser pointer to indicate the small,
holographic representations of the ships in question.  "We've got the
Imp capital ships coming out of hyperspace here, and advancing on Nar
Shaddaa.  And sixteen skirmish line ships, Guardian-class Customs light
cruisers, they'll be coming out of hyperspace in a shell formation to
surround Nar Shaddaa.

Then we've got two recon line vessels, that'll be these Carrack-class
cruisers, one on each side .  . . here and here.  Everyone got that?"

"Got it," Rik Duel said.

"And then, back here in a wedge formation, are the three Dreadnaughts
and the four bulk cruisers .  . . the heavy stuff.  Remember that these
Dreadnaughts each carry twelve TIE fighters, and the Carrack- class
light cruisers each carry four recon TIEs.  That's at least forty-four
TIEs we're going to have to deal with."

The members of Mako's "High Command" looked at each other with worried
expressions.  "Smuggler's Run is beginning to look better and better,"
Sinewy Ana Blue said.  "The Imps would never be crazy enough to send a
fleet into an asteroid field."

Han was quick to reassure them.  "Hey, we can handle these TIEs," he
insisted.  "No shielding, don't forget.  They're fast little suckers,
true, but even a brush with a quad or turbolaser beam and .  . ."  He
opened both hands and mouthed "boom."

Mako nodded.  "Han used to fly TIE fighters in combat situations, and
while I was in the Academy I trained in them.  The only reason we're

still here is that we're not still doing it.  TIE fighter pilots are
really, really good .  . . but that doesn't keep most of 'em from
winding up really, really dead."

"Okay," Lando spoke up, "so we know what the Imperial force is, and how
they're going to approach us.  How do we fight back against them, using
freighters and a few one-man fighters like the one Roa's been
building?"

Everyone turned to look at the senior smuggler.  "Yeah, I've almost
finished work on her," Roa said.  "She's gonna be a sweet little ship
to handle."

"What are you naming her?"  Blue asked, with an impish grin.  Roa
grinned back at her.  "The Lwyll, of course," he replied.

Roa and his lady love, Lwyll, had been an on-again, off-again item on
Nar Shaddaa for over ten years.  Everyone knew Lwyll.  The lovely blond
woman was one of the few people on the Smuggler's Moon who lived a
completely legitimate life, earning an honest credit for an honest
day's work.  Roa had been after her for years to come and live with
him, but Lwyll would never do it.  She saw him, but she saw other men,
too, and Roa was wounded whenever she did it.

Still, he'd never been able to bring himself to take the ultimate
plunge and ask her to marry him.  Han and the other smugglers had
teased Roa about his indecision.  All his friends could tell that Lwyll
was the best thing that had ever happened to Roa.

"You're planning to fly Lwyll against the TIEs?"  Mako asked.  "What
does the real Lwyll have to say about that?"

Roa sighed, and then gave his friends a rueful grin.  "Believe me, she
had plenty to say.  You guys aren't going to believe this .  . . but
last night I up and asked Lwyll to marry me."

General murmurs of surprise ran around the table.  "Don't keep us in
suspense," Blue cried, "what did she say?"

"She said 'no,'" Roa said.  The senior smuggler's broad, open features
sagged.  "She said she didn't want to wind up a widow."

"Can't blame her for that," Lando said.  None of the smugglers in the
room was married, and it was no accident.  Living on the edge as they
did, it was impossible for them to maintain anything approaching a
normal family life.

Chewbacca turned to Han and spoke earnestly.  The Corellian translated
for those who didn't understand Wookiee.  "Roa, Chewie says that if you
were a Wookiee, it'd be time for you to settle down.  He thinks Lwyll
is too good to lose.  He likes her."

Roa grinned.  "He's right.  She's too good to lose.  That's why this

battle is my last stand as a smuggler, guys.  If I live through it,
I'm gonna quit this life and go straight."

Everyone was amazed to hear this from the senior smuggler, knowing how
much Roa loved the life he'd chosen.  "Yep, I'm gonna do it," Roa
insisted.

"And Lwyll says if I do, she'll be my wife."

"Well .  . . congratulations!"  Lando said.  "That's great news.

You're getting one wonderful woman, Roa."

All the smugglers echoed the young gambler's sentiments.

"I know it," Roa agreed.  "So .  . . all I gotta do is make it through
this battle .  . ."

"Speaking of which, we ought to get back to it," Mako said.  "And
figure out a way to beat these Imps."

"We have one big advantage," Roa said.  "The element of surprise."

Mako stared at him.  "We know when they're coming, so there's no
element of surprise there.  But... they're invading us.  How are we
supposed to surprise them?"

Roa smiled genially and waved a hand at the ceiling.  "Think, my
friends, think!  What's up there?"

"A shield that needs fixing a lot," Mako said grimly.  "Past that," Roa
said.  "Traffic buoys," Han said.  "Farther," Roa said.

Han thought for a moment, then a slow smile crept over his face.  Salla
laughed.  "I get it!  Space junk!  Dozens .  .. hundreds .  . . of
junked spaceships and parts of spaceships."

Roa was nodding at the tall lady smuggler.  "Right.  So much space junk
in that ring around Nar Shaddaa that ships could hide behind it, or
beneath it, or in its shadow--and then pop out and catch the Imp fleet
by surprise."

Chewie voiced a loud "Hrrrrnnnnnnn!"

Now it was Mako's turn to nod excitedly.  "I think you got something
there, Roa," he said.  "And it might work.  Especially if we staged a
couple of ships frantically running for cover--freighters, they'll
think they're civs--and got the Imps to chase 'em until they're right
where we want them, then"--he punched the air--"wham!  We pop out of
cover and clobber them!"

Excitedly the senior smuggler keyed the operation Roa had described
into the datapad.  The "High Command" watched as the ring of debris
around Nar Shaddaa swam into view.  As the Imperial skirmish ships
zoomed in in pursuit of two small freighters, converging on the
rightmost hemisphere (if one were facing Nal Hutta), suddenly a
multitude of assorted freighters and other ships zipped out of
concealment in the debris ring and zeroed in on the Imperial ships,
lasers flashing.

"Okay, that should enable us to take care of a good percentage of those
skirmish ships," Han said.  "But what do we do about the recon vessels,
and that wedge of capital-class ships .  . . the Dreadnaughts and bulk
cruisers?"

A gloomy silence fell.  Finally Mako spoke up.  "I know the Hutts are
hiring a merc force--probably pirates--to defend Nal Hutta.  The slugs
don't give a hoot about Nar Shaddaa, not in comparison to their own
precious hides, but if that merc captain has any smarts, he'll
recognize that we could add significantly to his firepower.  Maybe we
can get him, whoever he is, to take part in the battle.  It's worth a
try, at least."

Lando was staring morosely at the creeping holographic image of the
bulk cruisers and Dreadnaughts advancing on Nar Shaddaa.  "Those
pirates are apt to have superior firepower, right?"

Mako nodded.  "Right.  They'll probably have some captured Imp vessels
that they've modified.  Maybe even some heavy weaponry like proton
torpedoes.

But their ammo would be limited.  It's hard to just buy proton
torpedoes to arm pirated Imp vessels.  The Imps kinda frown on having
their own ships used against 'em."

He said this last so dryly that a chuckle ran around the table.

Han was studying the wedge of capital-class ships.  "All of these ships
have forward-firing main guns," he said.  "Too bad we can't hit them
with a flank attack.  But we just don't have the ships to do it, if the
main part of our fleet will still be engaging those skirmish ships and
the TIEs."

"Maybe that's where we can convince the mercs to help us," Mako said
thoughtfully.  "If they attacked on the Imp flank, they'd stand a
decent chance of crippling one of those big ships, and that would be a
ship they could commandeer after the battle.  They'd love that!"

"Yeah .  . . provided we could create some kind of diversion so the
pirates could flank them," Han said.

Rik Duel stroked his short, elegant beard while he thought.  "What we
need is another fleet to come at them in a head-on run," he said.

"But we don't have enough ships to divide our forces that much," Roa
said.

"If we do, we're likely to lose everything."

"If we don't, we're likely to lose Nar Shaddaa," Lando pointed out.

"I'm no ex-Imp officer like Han here is, but it seems to me that we've
got to do whatever it takes to keep these big ships from turning and
blasting away at our moon's shields.  They're old, and it wouldn't take
too many salvos to disable them.  Then they'd level the place."

"Lando's right," Shug Ninx said.  "We need something to keep those

big ships occupied so the mercs--or whoever--can make a flank
attack.

Maybe we can .  . . I don't know .  . . divert their attention
somehow."

"Well, a formation of ships coming at them head-on would certainly get
their attention," Salla said.  "Question is, where do we get them?

We're going to have our hands full over here"--she pointed into the
holographic display--"fighting these skirmish ships and TIEs."

Han had been staring into the holographic display, thinking how real
the minuscule fleet appeared, down to the tiny TIE fighters.  Too bad,
he thought, we can't project a hologram at the Imps and make them
believe they're under attack...

The idea suddenly coalesced in his brain.  "That's it!"  he shouted.

"That could work!"

Conversation around the table ceased, and everyone stared at the
Corellian.  Han grinned at his friends excitedly.  "Hey, I think I may
know somebody who can provide us with that head-on attack force.  We
can use them as a diversion, for long enough to distract those heavy
cruisers!"

Chewbacca had obviously followed Han's thinking.  The Wookiee banged
his fist on the table and roared his approval.

The remainder of the group, however, stared at Han, confused,
apparently completely in the dark.  "Huh?"  Lando said.  "Who?

What?"

Han ignored his friend.  Leaping to his feet, he gestured at Mako.

"I've gotta put in a call--does the manager here have a comm unit?"

The manager of The Chance Castle was only too happy to allow Han to use
his unit.  All of the big casinos knew that a major Imperial raid would
be very bad for business .  . .

twelve

Dreams and Nightmares

Bria Tharen stood beside Sarn Shild on the observation platform of the
space station orbiting the planet Teth.  The observation platform was
enclosed mostly by force fields, so there was nothing visible between
them and the surrounding vacuum.  Bria could look straight ahead, to
her left, her right, and overhead, and see nothing but naked space or
the massive, turning shape of the planet.  The young woman repressed a
shiver as she thought of the cold, airless blackness scant meters
away.

Despite her unease, the brilliant, adoring smile on her face never
wavered.

When she'd taken this assignment, Bria had already been a fairly good
actress, able to conceal her true feelings automatically.

But by now, she thought grimly, I probably deserve an award.  Too bad
there isn't an "Undercover Agent of the Year" trophy .  . .

The thought was so ridiculous that it made her smile genuine, for a
brief second.  Moff Shild put an arm around her and squeezed her
shoulders, pointing.  "Look, my dear!  Here they come!"

The small contingent of VIPs on the observation platform began
applauding as the Imperial fleet have into view.

Bria smiled and clapped as the skirmish ships, the recon vessels, the
bulk cruisers, and the Dreadnaughts glided slowly toward the reviewing
platform.  TIE fighters swooped and darted around the bigger ships like
small insects poised to feed off a herd of grazers.

Shild was grinning ecstatically as he beheld his squadron.  He gave
Bria's shoulders another hug, and she kept herself from shrinking away
by

an effort of will.  "Today marks the beginning of a new era of law and
order in the Outer Rim, my dear!"  he said, in his "political" voice.

Then he added, in a conspiratorial whisper, "And the beginning of a new
life for us, Bria!"

Bria looked up at the Moff inquiringly.  "Really, Sarn?  How so?"  He
kept his voice low, but it was still intense, still forceful.  "Once my
fleet has wiped out Nar Shaddaa, and brought the Hutts to their .  .
.

well, brought them to heel, my power in this sector will be
unquestioned.  And when I tap into the wealth of the Hutts--the lesser
clans and Desilijic, at least--I will be able to afford to augment my
military forces until I can take on much greater foes than a mob of
thieving smugglers."

Why does he always sound like he's making a campaign speech?  Bria
wondered.  Aloud she said, "Desilijic?  Why not Besadii, too?"

"In a private communique, the Emperor made it clear that Besadii is to
remain unmolested," Shild said.  "They're useful to him, providing the
Empire with trained slaves.  Besadii must continue to prosper."

Bria filed this information away as something to relay to Rion as soon
as she could.  Palpatine even has his fingers in Hutt internal
politics?  Is there anything the Emperor doesn't try to turn to his
personal advantage?  Aloud she said, "Oh, well, that makes sense."

"Yes, the Emperor is a canny fellow," Shild said, still speaking in
that almost whisper.  "But .  . . perhaps .  . . not canny enough."

Bria was puzzled.  "What do you mean, Sarn?"

He smiled, his "public" smile, but there was something in his eyes that
made Bria uneasy.  "I fear that between the growing rebellions on the
innermost worlds and the internal political squabblings in the highest
echelons, our beloved Emperor has overextended himself.  He is losing
his grip in the Outer Rim Territories.  The Imperial forces are spread
so thin in these sectors that a strong leader with a powerful military
force to back him could simply .  . . secede .  . . from the Empire."

Bria looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.  He was talking
sedition!

Didn't he realize that?

Shild mistook her look for amazed appreciation.  He beamed at her.

"Oh, don't think I haven't thought of it, my dear.  There's no reason
that the Outer Rim Territories couldn't become another Corporate
Sector, with no ties or allegiance to the Empire.  If I had sufficient
military might, I could lead the Outer Rim to independence and
prosperity--it would be glorious!"

Bria had to clench her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping.  What in
the name of Xendor's Minions has gotten into him?  I always knew Sam
was arrogant, but he sounds like a madman!

Was it possible that the Moff had fallen under some kind of .  . .

influence?  Bria knew there were some telepathic species of aliens, but
she'd never heard of any that could do anything like this.  Maybe Shild
had simply gone crazy.  That was one possible explanation.

But the light in Shild's dark eyes was not that of a madman, it was the
light of a man with a mission.

"And after leading the Outer Rim Territories to glory, my dear"--he
gave her another one-armed hug--"it's possible that I should turn my
concentration .  . . well, shall we say, toward more populated areas of
the galaxy.  There are unhappy worlds, here in the Empire, worlds that
are looking for new leadership.  I could provide that leadership."

I can't believe I'm hearing this!  He's talking about challenging the
Emperor!

Bria was terrified to even stand here and listen to Shild.  Palpatine
had ears everywhere.  Surely the Emperor would discover Shild's
outrageous ambition, and eliminate him as casually as she might slap a
stinging insect.

The Imperial fleet was moving magnificently past them now, passing in
review.  Shild dropped his arm from around Bria, stepped forward to
stand on the very edge of the platform, looking slim and elegant in his
Moff's uniform.  He saluted his troops as they glided past him.

Bria stood back, near the entrance, feeling that coldness, that near
panic grow, until it was everything she could do not to leave, to just
run away and abandon Shild to face the consequences of his own
egotistical ambition.

I'll find out just what he's planning, if I can, she promised herself,
and then I'll go.

Bria stared at Shild, realizing she was now regarding him the same way
she would a man who had contracted a terrible incurable disease.  A
walking dead man.  She found she was actually sorry that Shild had
contracted this "disease," this craving for power.  The Moff had always
treated her well, and her assignment could have been far worse.

For a wild moment she considered trying to talk some sense into Shild,
but she quickly abandoned the thought.  The Moff knew she was
intelligent, and he valued that, but he had sufficient masculine
arrogance that he'd never listen to a woman he was using as a front to
disguise his sexual peccadilloes.

The fleet was nearly past the reviewing stand now.  In minutes, as soon
as they'd cleared Teth's gravity well, they'd jump to hyperspace on the
first leg of the long journey to the Y'Toub system.  On the Outer Rim,
systems tended to be spread farther apart than they were in the more
crowded central portions of the galaxy.

Bria found herself, as she often did, thinking of Han.  Surely he was
no longer on Nar Shaddaa.  He'd gone back to his Hutt masters,
delivered Shild's warning, then taken off.  Han was good at
self-preservation.  He wouldn't try anything crazy like trying to fight
the Imperial squadron, would he?

Would he?

Bria's mouth was terribly dry.  She licked her lips, forced herself to
swallow, then drifted back through the massive door to the magnificent
reception inside, in search of a cup of stimtea.

As she sipped it, Bria tried again and again to convince herself that
Han was long gone from Nar Shaddaa, safe from Admiral Greelanx and his
troops.

But, in her heart of hearts, she didn't believe it.  Bria had a sudden
vivid memory of the Corellian that time they were about to be boarded
by slavers, remembered Han drawing his blaster and squaring his jaw .

. .

remembered him vowing, "They're not getting me without a fight!"

The odds against them had been approximately forty to three .  . .

Bria's hands were shaking so badly she had to put the cup down on the
table.  She closed her eyes, fighting for control.  What if he tries to
fight?  What if they kill him?  I would probably never know .  . .

And that was the most terrible thought of all .  . .

Captain Soontir Fel stood on the bridge of the Dreadnaught Pride of
the Senate, preparing to follow his commander into hyperspace.  In his
gray uniform, with decorations and rank insignia providing touches of
color, Fel was an impressive sight that inspired confidence in those
under his command.

One of the youngest people ever to receive a captain's commission in
the Imperial Navy, Fel was a tall, muscular man, broad-shouldered and
exceptionally strong.  Black hair, dark eyes, and rugged, almost
handsome features made him look as though he'd just stepped out of an
Imperial Navy recruiting holoposter.

Fel was a good, conscientious officer, well liked by his men.  He had a
special camaraderie with his TIE fighter pilots.  Soontir Fel had once
been a TIE fighter pilot himself, and his exploits and accomplishments
were almost legendary.

In a way, Fel wished he could be back down there in the TIE fighter
squad room right now, relaxing, joking, and sipping cups of stim-tea
with the others.  Fel was unhappy with his current assignment.

For one thing, this Dreadnaught was a clunky old wagon, especially
compared to the new Imperial Star Destroyers.  Fel would have given a
great deal to be able to command one of those ships!

But he was determined to do his best by the Pride; he just hoped he'd
get the chance.  Fel had studied Admiral Greelanx's battle plan, and he
was not impressed.  Oh, it was by the book, all right, but Fel thought
the battle plan was too inflexible, too dependent on several
assumptions that Fel perceived as either shaky or outright erroneous.

In the first place, Greelanx was certain that the smugglers were
nothing but a disorganized rabble, who couldn't possibly mount a
coordinated attack.  Soontir Fel had commanded Customs patrol ships (as
had Greelanx), and he knew for a fact that many of these smuggler
pilots were the equal of any Imperial pilot ever graduated.  They had
fast reflexes, were excellent shots, and possessed a reckless courage
that made them dangerous customers in a fight.

They were tough and independent, but if the smugglers found someone to
lead them wisely, Fel thought that they might well put together a
defense to be reckoned with.

Secondly, Greelanx believed that since the smugglers could not possibly
pose a threat to this force, there was no point in attempting
surprise.

The admiral's plan called for their squadron to emerge from hyperspace
well within range of Nar Shaddaa's sensors.

Fel thought that assumption amounted to overconfidence, pure and
simple.

And overconfidence was frequently a disaster in combat.

The worst problem, as far as Fel was concerned, was implementing order
Base Delta Zero on Nar Shaddaa.

Fel knew that last wasn't Greelanx's fault.  The Sector Moff had issued
that order.  But in the admiral's place, Fel would have at least tried
to get Sam Shild to modify that instruction.  The Emperor's directive
had been to shut down the smuggling operations out of Nar Shaddaa and
other smuggler nests, especially the gunrunners.  The directive hadn't
included anything about razing the entire moon.  Fel had had
considerable combat experience, and he knew that sentients of most
species would fight like cornered Corellian vrelts when it came to
protecting their homes and families.

There were millions of sentients on Nar Shaddaa, many of whom were only
peripherally involved with the smuggling business.  Elderly sentients,
children .  . . Soontir Fel grimaced.

This would be his first Imperial-ordered massacre.  He'd been lucky to
avoid such an order for this long, the way things were going.

Fel would carry out his orders, but he wasn't happy about them.  He
knew images of the flaming buildings would haunt him, as he gave each
order to fire.  And afterward .  . . they'd have to send down shuttles
and ground troops to mop up, and he, Fel, being a conscientious
commander, would have to oversee that operation.

Visions of smoking rubble strewn with blackened corpses filled his
mind, and Fel took a deep breath.  Stop it, he ordered himself
sternly.

There's nothing you can do about it.  Tormenting yourself over it
serves no purpose .  . .

As Fel watched, the Imperial Destiny suddenly accelerated strongly,
then vanished from sight as it engaged its hyperdrive.  Peacekeeper
followed.

Fel was relieved to have something to do, anything to distract him from
his thoughts.  He glanced over at his navigator.  "Course laid in,
Commander?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Very well.  Commander Rosk, prepare to make the jump to lightspeed, on
my order."

"Yes, sir."

Fell watched the coordinates flash by on the navigational boards, then
said, "Engage hyperdrive."

"Yes, sir."

Fel watched as the stars suddenly elongated, and there was, for the
first time, a sensation of terrible velocity aboard the big ship.

The mission to wipe out Nar Shaddaa was under way.

Admiral Winstel Greelanx stood on the bridge of his own Dreadnaught,
watching the star trails of hyperspace.  The admiral had his own
concerns about this mission, very different concerns from those felt by
his captains, Reldo Dovlis and Soontir Fel.

Greelanx was aware that Fel did not think much of his planned
strategy.

Dovlis was a less imaginative, older officer, content to follow orders
without question, so Greelanx expected no problems with him.  Fel, on
the other hand .  . . there could be problems there.

Greelanx sighed.  If only this mission was as cut and dried as it
appeared on the surface!  Go to Nar Shaddaa, wipe out the wretched
smugglers, and then blockade the Y'Toub system.  But it was far from
being that simple.

Less than a full day after Moff Shild had called him into his office
on Teth to give Greelanx his marching orders, the admiral had received
a message in the most secret Imperial code, sent "eyes only" under the
tightest security to Greelanx's personal comlink.

The secrecy code on this message had been so restrictive that the
admiral hadn't even dared to have it decoded by one of his staff, even
his top administrative aide or secretarial droid.  No, he'd laboriously
sat down with a code key and translated the entire thing by himself,
writing it out by hand onto a sheet of flimsy.

As directed, the admiral had kept no copies of the message, destroying
the flimsy as soon as he was finished reading it through.

The admiral had checked and rechecked the codes, thinking there had to
be some mistake.  But they all checked out.  This message came from the
very highest echelons of Imperial Intelligence.  Excomm was the branch
of Imperial security that was answerable only to the Emperor himself,
or to his top-ranking aide, Lord Vader.

Greelanx had never received such a message before in his career--and he
had served over thirty years in the Navy.

He had memorized the message, and that was easy, for it had been
short.

The message had read:

Admiral Winstel Greelanx, eyes only, destroy after reading.  Regarding
Nar Shaddaa/Nal Hutta engagement.

You are advised for the good of your Empire to engage the enemy and
suffer a strategic defeat.  Minimize Imperial losses, and withdraw in
good order.

Repeat: you are to LOSE, Admiral.  Do not attempt to confirm these
orders.

Do not discuss them with anyone.  If you fail to comply, no excuses
will be accepted.

Do NOT fail.

What did it all mean?  Greelanx wondered.  Someone very high up wanted
Sam Shild's foray against the Hutts to fail.  Who?  And why?

Greelanx was not a particularly imaginative or intelligent man, but he
was smart enough to realize that if he told Sam Shild about those
orders, he would sound like a madman.  He had no proof that he had
received them.  The encoded message had been
"time-sensitive"--impossible to

copy, except manually, and designed to vanish within minutes after
being downloaded.

And then had come the Hutt bribe.  What a supreme irony, under the
circumstances!  A chance to increase his retirement nest egg by a
thousand-fold or more.  Even if he hadn't gotten those secret orders,
Greelanx would have found the Hutt offer difficult to reject.

Could the two things be related somehow?  he wondered.  Or was it just
an incredible coincidence?

Greelanx had no way to tell.

The admiral was edgy and nervous about the entire venture.  Schemes ran
through his head, only to be discarded as too risky.  Should he try to
contact the High Command?  Tell the Moff?  Take the Imperial Destiny to
some remote location, then abscond in an Imperial shuttle?

That last option seemed the most likely to ensure his continued
existence.

He could go to the Corporate Sector, perhaps.  Somewhere far, far
away.

But if he did that, Greelanx had soon realized, his family would pay
for his escape.  His son and daughter, his wife.  Perhaps even his two
mistresses.

Greelanx was not particularly fond of his wife, but he wished her no
harm.

And he loved his children, who were grown and married.  He had a
grandchild on the way.

No, the admiral decided, he could not risk them.  If he'd kept the
flimsy and showed it to the Moff, Greelanx knew that he'd have signed
his and their death warrants.  The Imperial security forces were swift
and ruthless.  Greelanx and his family could run to the ends of the
universe, and the storm troopers would still hunt them down.

All he could do was obey, and hope for the best.

As he stood on the bridge of his ship, Admiral Winstel Greelanx thought
of the young smuggler who had brought the Hutt offer.  An offer he
hadn't been able to refuse.  Had the young man sensed there was more
going on than Greelanx was telling?

He'd seemed like an intelligent young fellow.  Greelanx would have been
willing to bet he'd worn an Imperial uniform before.  Why had he left
the service to become an outlaw?

The admiral hated to think that young smuggler might be one of the
sentients he'd have to kill in order to make his attack on Nar Shaddaa
appear legitimate.

Greelanx watched the star trails, thinking .  . . and worrying.  How
did I get myself into this?  he wondered.  And how in the name of all
that's sacred do I get myself out of it?

Durga the Hutt was working in his office when a servitor droid rolled
rapidly in.  "Sir!  Sir!  The Lord Aruk has been taken ill!  Please
come!"

The young Hutt Lord abandoned his datapad and wriggled quickly after
the droid, down endless corridors in the huge Besadii enclave.  He
found his parent lying limp, eyes rolled back in his head, sprawled
across his repulsor sled.  Aruk's personal physician, a Hutt named
Grodo, was working over the unconscious Besadii leader, assisted by two
med droids.

"What happened?"  Durga demanded breathlessly as he undulated up to
them, his tail pushing him along in long, swift glides.  "Is he going
to be all right?"

"We don't know yet, sir," the physician said brusquely.  He was working
hard over the unconscious Hutt, giving him a jab with an injector, then
administering oxygen.  A circulatory pump stim-unit was adhered to
Aruk's midsection, automatically sending mild jolts into the massive
body to keep Aruk's heartbeat regular.

Aruk's green-slimed tongue lolled limply out of his mouth.  The sight
terrified Durga.  The young Hutt forced himself to halt several meters
away, not wishing to get in the way.  "He was talking to his scribe,
giving an order about some work, when suddenly, as the droid reported,
he just slumped over."

"What do you think caused this?"  Durga said.  "Should I summon
security, have them seal off the palace?"

"No, sir," Grodo said.  "This is the result of some kind of brain
seizure, I suspect due to poor circulation.  You know I have been
warning your parent about--" "Yes, yes, I remember," Durga said.  In
his anxiety, he grabbed the edge of a low inlaid table, and only
realized he'd been twisting it when the heavy wood splintered in his
hands.

Minutes later Aruk suddenly blinked, stirred, and then slowly raised
himself, looking very puzzled.  "What?"  he croaked, his deep voice
raw.

"What happened?"

"You collapsed, Lord," Grodo said.  "Some type of brain seizure.

Caused by lack of oxygen to the brain, I suspect."

"Caused by poor circulation, no doubt," Aruk grunted.  "Well .  . . I
feel fine, now.  Except that my head is pounding."

"I can administer something mild for the pain, Lord," the physician
said, triggering his injector.

Moments later Aruk sighed with relief.  "Much better."

"Lord Aruk," the physician said sternly, "I want you to promise me

that you will take better care of yourself.  Let this episode be a
warning to you."

Aruk grumbled deep in his massive chest.  "At my age, I should be able
to do--" "Please, Father!"  Durga blurted.  "Listen to Grodo!  You must
mend your ways!"

The Besadii Lord grunted, then sighed.  "Very well.  I promise to
exercise for at least half an hour each day.  And I will give up
smoking my hookah."

"And the rich food!"  cried the physician triumphantly, seizing the
moment.

"Very well," Aruk growled.  "All except my favorite nala-tree frogs.  I
will not give them up."

"I believe we can allow Your Excellency one treat," Grodo said, now
prepared to be magnanimous in light of his win.  "If you give up all
other rich foods, you may have a sensible amount of nala-tree frogs
each day."

Durga was so relieved to see Aruk recovering that he glided right up to
his parent and placed his small hand on that massive neck.  "You must
take care of yourself, Father.  I will exercise with you.  It will be
more enjoyable that way."

Aruk's wide mouth turned up as he regarded his offspring.  "Very well,
my child.  I promise I will take better care of myself."

"Besadii needs you," Durga said.  "You are our greatest leader,
Father!"

Aruk grumbled a bit more under his breath, but Durga could tell that he
was pleased by his offspring's concern.

The young Hutt Lord left his parent to the care of the physician and
his med-droid assistants, and went back to his office, badly shaken.

For a moment he'd thought that Aruk was dying, and that he would wind
up trying to run Besadii all by himself.  Durga had received a
frightening insight--he wasn't ready.

Especially with this crisis coming, he thought.  The Imperial fleet may
be on its way to attack Nar Shaddaa .  . .

Aruk had told his offspring not to worry, that the Imperials would not
harm Besadii, or Ylesia.  "We supply them with slaves," the elderly
Hutt said reassuringly.  "The Empire needs its slaves.  Therefore they
need Besadii."

Durga devoutly hoped that his parent was right about that .  . .

thirteen

Making Magic

Han, Chewbacca, and Salla Zend stood together on the windswept landing
platform, watching Phantasm's ramp extrude from the ship.  Moments
later a figure with long black hair appeared and started down the
ramp.

Spotting Han, she waved.

"That's her, c'mon!"  Han told Salla.  Chewie was already loping
forward, growling a friendly greeting.

"Solo!"  the newcomer cried.  "Chewbacca!"

"Xaverri!"  Han called back, jogging toward her.  It was so good to see
her again!

When they reached each other, he grabbed her shoulders, but she flung
her arms around him and hugged him, hard.  Han hugged her back, but he
carefully kissed her forehead, rather than her mouth.  After Xaverri
greeted Chewie with a big hug and a Wookiee head-rub, she turned back
to Han and Salla.  "Xaverri, I want you to meet Salla Zend," Han said
as the two women stood regarding each other.  "Xaverri, this is Salla,
smuggler and expert mechanic."

"Hi, pleased to meet you!"  Salla said, sticking out her hand.

"My pleasure," Xaverri said, shaking hands.  "Any friend of Solo's is a
friend of mine."

Han was vastly uncomfortable.  I've never had two girlfriends meet each
other before, he thought.  The Corellian wondered whether Xaverri would
want to take up their relationship where they'd left off, months
before.

Salla, he knew, would likely take a dim view of that.

But, hey, she doesn't own me, he thought defensively.  It's not like
we're married or anything.

Still, he was careful to walk beside Salla as he picked up Xaverri's
bag and they started across the permacrete of the landing field
together.

Later, over flatbread and traladon-cheese appetizers at Han's favorite
Corellian eatery, he explained his plan to Xaverri.

When he'd finished, she regarded him searchingly.  "Let me get this
straight.  You want me to create a holo-illusion of a whole bunch of
smuggler vessels coming straight at these Imperial Capital-class
ships.

You want the illusion to be real enough, and last long enough, to cause
the Imp vessels to be fooled into turning to fire on the fake fleet.

Have I got it right?"

"That's it," Han said.  As she'd detailed the plan, he'd realized just
what he was asking.  Xaverri had never created anything on this scale
before.

Probably no one had.

Xaverri shook her head, her long black hair sliding over her
shoulders.

"You don't ask much, do you, Solo?"

"Hey," Han said, trying to grin, "think of it as a challenge.  Your
greatest illusion ever!"

"Any holo-illusion requires projectors," Xaverri said.  "What can we
use for them?"

"I was thinking we could get all the tri-dee projectors from the
casinos," Han said.  "You know, the ones that they use to project shows
onto the screens in the gambling areas, so people can watch the shows
while they lose their shirts."

Xaverri frowned.  "Maybe," she said.  "But even if we could create the
image of the fleet, the Imp sensors would tell them right away it was
an illusion.  They'd ignore it."

"Maybe we could jam their sensors?"  Salla suggested.  "After all, we
can jam transmissions going out.  Isn't there some way to jam what's
going in?"

The magician was looking at the smugglers with her eyes wide.  "You
know something," she said, "I think I'm getting an idea .  . ."

Han leaned forward.  "Yeah?  What?"

She sipped her drink, thinking, then replied, "I think we may be able
to use the traffic-control buoys to send false data to the Imps.  So
they'll see the holo-illusion, at the same time as their sensors pick
up data that tells them what they're seeing is real!"

Salla was excited.  "Great!  That sounds perfect!"

Xaverri smiled at her.  "But I'll need help building all this.  Slicers
to help reprogram the traffic-control buoys, techs to build the
projectors for the illusion.  Do you know any good slicers and
techs?"

Salla grinned back and impulsively reached out a hand.  The two women
clasped hands over the table.  "You bet I do, Xaverri," the tall
smuggler said.  "Shug and I will help."

Chewbacca let out a loud, emphatic roar that caused a passing wait
droid to drop a food tray and scuttle back into the kitchen.

"Chewie says, include him in, too," Han supplied the translation with a
grin.  "Xaverri .  . . I know you probably gave up a fancy booking to
come here and help us.  I want you to know I--we--all appreciate it."

"Hey, Solo, it's a chance to hurt the Imperials," the magician said.

"How could I refuse?"

When Han and Chewie arrived for the promised big briefing of their
combat pilots, they found most of the smuggler pilots and crews
assembled in the auditorium of The Chance Castle.  Mako was already
onstage, exchanging jokes and jibes with his audience.  When he saw Han
and Chewie, the senior smuggler rapped his knuckles on the rostrum to
get his audience's attention.

"Okay, all of you, listen up!"  he shouted.

Silence descended.  "Listen good, you spacebums," Mako said, the pride
and affection in his voice as he regarded his troops taking away any
possible sting from his words.  "'Cause your lives, and the lives of
those you're flyin' with, may be at stake here."

Mako paused, surveying them all, seeing that he did, indeed, have their
full attention.

"Here's how we're gonna pull this little trick off.  We can't be sure
when the Imps are going to attack, but we've got a pretty good idea of
the battle plan they'll follow.  That's 'cause the Imperial Navy has
standard battle plans for just about any situation, and they're trained
to follow them, no matter what.  Old Han here used to be an Imp
officer, and he'll back me up on this.  Right, Han?"

Han walked out onto the stage and nodded exaggeratedly.  "Mako's
right!"  he shouted, because his voice wasn't amplified the way Mako's
was.  The senior smuggler motioned to the Corellian to come over and
share the podium.  Han did so.

"So, the standard plan for this kind of operation has them rendezvous
and deploy fairly far out.  If we're lucky, we'll pick them up on our
sensors.

If not, we may have to scramble to get to our ships.  Everyone prepared
to do that?"

All the smugglers agreed, with a shout, that they were prepared.

"Good," Han said.  "So they're gonna deploy, maybe fix any lastminute
problems.

Then the Imps should make a microjump through hyperspace, so they'll
arrive pretty close to the far side of Nar Shaddaa, but well out of
weapons range.  By that time, we'll be in our ships and launched.  Each
ship is gonna go to its hiding place among the debris, or lose itself
in regular space traffic.  A couple of smaller fighters, like Roa in
his Lwyll, are gonna do recon.  The bigger ships will fly false
transponder codes, and the fighters will be either in cargo bays of the
big freighters or clamped on to their hulls.  The rest of us will just
be innocent little spacers, and properly panicked when the Imps zoom
into view.  Right, gang?"

"Yeah!  Right!"  they yelled, loving the idea of getting the drop on
the arrogant Imperial Navy.

Mako took over again.  "Okay, at that point the Imps will send in their
pickets for a quick look around."

One of the captains in the front row waved a taloned paw.  "What's a
picket, Mako?"

Han and Mako looked at each other and sighed.

"Sorry," Mako said.  "Pickets are the bigger recon ships and their
recon TIE fighters, okay?  We expect there will probably be two bigger
recon ships, probably Carrack-class light cruisers.  Each can carry
four recon TIE fighters.  Taken together, they're called the pickets.

Okay?"

"Okay!"  yelled the smuggler.

Mako grinned evilly.  "Now, the Imps aren't expecting us to put up any
kind of organized resistance, and we don't want to disappoint them, do
we, fellow sentients?"

"No!"  shouted the smugglers.

"Okay, then.  We want to keep the Imps where we want them, right?"

"Right!"

"Okay, then.  To do that, we've got to show them exactly what they
expect to see.  That way we can predict what they'll do, because
they'll follow those Imp guidelines I told you about.  When the Imp
Admiral sends in his recon ships and then the skirmish vessels, which
will follow a few minutes behind the recon ships, he'll be expecting us
to think that this is the big attack.

"He's going to sit back with his big Capital-class ships in their nice
little regulation wedge, and he'll expect this disorganized band of
bozos to come out fighting with everything we've got, since we're not
smart enough to hold back.  That Admiral is figuring we'll take the
recon pickets--the

Carrack-class vessels--and the skirmish ships--most likely customs
cor-vettes-to make up his whole attack force."

"We'll show 'em we're not dumb!"  yelled a smuggler from the back.

"That's right, we're gonna show 'em.  What we're gonna do is make it
look like we've thrown everything we have against the first Imp ships
to cruise up to Nar Shaddaa.  That'll be those recon ships and,
approaching more slowly, the skirmish ships.  Look here, and we'll show
you."

Mako nodded at Han, and he took up the narrative, while Mako used a
holographic image and pointer on the large tri-dee screen to illustrate
the battle plan for their troops.

"All right," Han said, "as you can see from Mako's diagram, we're gonna
split up our ships into two groups, the First Strike Element and the
Main Strike Element.  The First Strike Element will be all the small
ships without exceptionally heavy armament, plus a couple of the merc
captains with those modified Customs patrol ships.  So, listen up.  I'm
going to read the ship and captain names of the First Strike Element,
while Mako puts your names up on the display."

Han read off the list.  "Okay, then.  Before we're through, you people
will know where you have to go, and what you have to do, and when you
have to do it.  What we're here for today, as we said, is to show you
what part you're going to play in the Big Picture."

Mako handed Han the pointer, and then took over.  "Okay, now for the
Main Strike Element.  That's gonna be all our big ships, plus the
freighters with heavy weapons, and the starfighter squadrons.  We've
got six Y-wings, some Cloak-shape fighters, and assorted types of
Z-95

Headhunters.  Here's the list."

As Mako read off the list of the Main Strike Element, Han kept
augmenting the holographic display.  Soon the huge tri-dee screen in
the casino auditorium looked like an elaborate pattern of different
colored lines and squiggles, interspersed with three-dimensional
representations of ships.

"Okay, so now you people know which Strike Element you belong to.

Anyone not know?"

Several newcomers raised their hands, or paws, or tentacles, and were
hastily assigned to one or the other element.  Mako then went on: "The
First Element will attack first, just like it sounds.  Stay in the
pairs we've assigned you to, please!  Two ships can cover each other
and are more than twice as effective as two single ships!"

Han leaned close to the podium.  "And, everyone .  . . watch out for
the turbolasers on the Imp cruisers.  They can blast you out of space
with

one shot.  Keep your ships dodging whenever you're in range of the
bigger Imp vessels.  Got that?"

"Yeah!"  the pilots shouted.

Mako resumed.  "Remember, fellow smugglers, that mixed in with these
bigger Imp recon and skirmish ships will be dozens of TIE fighters.

They're fast, real fast, and they have okay lasers, but they're
fragile.  One good hit, and they're blown to pieces.  They're too fast
for a lock-on, so you'll have to shoot by eye.  Take your time and lead
your targets.  Since most of your freighters have some weapon that can
shoot behind you, use that one to keep the TIEs off you while you hit
the picket ships.  You with me?"

"Yeah!"  the crowd yelled.  "Kill those TIEs!"

"Okay, so this is still early in the battle.  We're gonna hit the recon
pickets with what they're going to think is everything we've got.  With
luck, we'll drive off a couple of these Imperial picket ships, kill
some recon TIEs, maybe even disable one of the Carrack-class ships,
though even Lando wouldn't bet on our chances to do that."

Mako paused for the general laugh this remark occasioned.  Someone
yelled at the young gambler, "Hey, Lando, what odds are you giving?"

Han took over again.  "Somewhere in here the Imp commander will commit
his lighter skirmish vessels, order them to increase to full speed and
attack, 'cause he's thinking that he's seen all we've got, and now he's
going in for the kill.  He'll most likely hold the big cruisers back
for now, saving them, planning to bring them in when he goes to strafe
Nar Shaddaa.  When the pickets, then the skirmish vessels, engage you,
it's critically important for everyone to stay in your assigned
position!  Here's where you get your chance to hit them hard from one
side to overload a shield.  Then you or your partner can score some
damage and then both of you get out!

Those of you with missiles or torpedoes can really hurt these light
Customs corvettes."

Han gave his troops a long, serious look.  "Guys, by now it'll be
pretty confused up there; civilian ships caught up in this'll be trying
to run, and all of our lighter stuff except the fighters will be mixing
it up with the Imps.  Don't lose track of what's going on!  Stay in
position!  Stay focused!  Be sure to keep someone on your ship
listening to the comm for instructions, in case we have to move you off
your assigned positions.  You got that?"

"Yeah, we got it!"  came a few voices.  Han put on a very shocked face
and cupped his ear.

"Hey, am I gettin' old and going deaf, or what?  I asked if you guys
got that?"

"Yeah!  We GOT it!"  they yelled, much more forcefully.

"That's better," Mako said, taking over again.  "Okay, let's move on.

Frankly, fellow sentients, we're expecting you to clean up on the Imp
picket and skirmish ships; we'll have the advantage of numbers and this
is our home ground.  We're expecting to kill at least half of them,
which is gonna surprise the blazes out of that Imp Admiral.  But when
he gets over being shocked and upset--and has gained a little more
respect for us--" Mako paused dramatically, and the hall was filled
with shouts of "Oh, yeah I" and "We'll teach him some respect!"

"We sure will!"  Han yelled, then stood back to let Mako continue.

"Okay, but this Imp Admiral ain't gonna stand there with his jaw
dropped for very long, I hate to tell you.  No, what he's gonna do is
think, 'How DARE they?"  and he'll send in his heavy Capital-class
ships.  We can expect at least two or three big bulk cruisers, with
maybe a Dreadnaught or two to help.  These big boys will have thicker
shields and armor, and more and bigger guns.  Frankly, fellow
sentients, we've only got a handful of ships that are even capable of
challenging 'em, let alone hurting them."

A considerably sobered silence fell over their audience.  Han had
worried that at this point they might lose them, but nobody got up and
left, much to his relief.

"But," Mako said, "here's the trick.  If we can really hurt even one or
two of those heavies, the Imps will almost certainly withdraw, since
they won't be able to complete their job, and it's standard Imperial
doctrine to cut your losses and run if you can't win."

"So how do we hurt them, Mako?"  yelled a human smuggler.  "Good
question.

We've worked out a strategy that we think will do the trick.  Listen
closely, guys.  When those big guys come at us, we'll pretend to give
way.

I'll pass the word over the comm to fall back between Nar Shaddaa and
Nal Hutta.  But by Doellin's halter, don't everyone turn in formation
and zoom away the instant the Imp cruisers attack!  No, we've got to
make this look good, or the Imps'll get suspicious!"

"So what do we do?"  yelled one wag--a Bothan.  "Hang around and invite
them over for a drink?"

Mako glared at his heckler.  "Get serious, clown.  What we're tellin'
you to do is to fall back, but do it like it was your own idea, not
following orders.  Turn tail and run like terror-stricken rabble,
that's just fine.  We want them to chase you.  Got that?"

"Yeah!"  they yelled.

"Hey," yelled the wag, "we can fake being' scared, specially if we
are!"

Laughter followed.

"Okay, good," Mako said, "right around here"--he used the pointer

to indicate a point in space close to Nar Shaddaa, on a straight line
between the moon and the planet--"we're going to have our own big ships
waiting.  And we have a little surprise for our Imperial friends."  He
turned and gestured into the wings of the stage.  "Xaverri, please step
out here."

Xaverri came out onto the stage, dressed in a pilot's coverall.  Her
black hair was braided tightly to her head, and she wore little
makeup.

Han had suggested she wear her stage magician's costume for this part
of the presentation, but she had demurred.  "No, Han.  If they're going
to trust me and what I can do, I want to seem like one of them."

"Pilots and crews .  . . I want to introduce you to Xaverri.  She's the
person who's going to win this battle for us.  Some of you already know
her.  For those of you who don't know her, let me tell you that she's
the best in the galaxy at what she does.  What she does is make
illusions.

Xaverri?"

With a graceful wave of her hand, Xaverri suddenly made the lights in
the auditorium flicker, then, without warning, the air was filled with
Kayven whistlers.  The trick was part of her act, but even Han, who was
expecting it, had trouble not ducking when one of the vicious flying
creatures swooped directly at his head.

The audience of smugglers yelled and ducked, then when Xaverri made the
whistlers disappear with a second wave of her hand, they broke into
spontaneous applause.

Mako led the crowd in clapping and stomping his feet in appreciation.

Xaverri stood there, smiling serenely, but not taking a bow.

"She's good, guys," Mako said.  "And just for us, Xaverri is going to
create her masterpiece.  When we've got the big Imp ships here, where
we want them"--he pointed to the spot again--"Xaverri is going to
create the illusion that a really big fleet is coming at the Imps from
the direction of Nal Hutta.  Then, when the Imp ships turn to fire
their forward guns at this phantom fleet, that's when we'll hit 'em in
the flank and from the rear with everything we've got!"

Cheering broke out from the crowd.

Han stepped forward when the noise died down.  "Just to let you know,
Captain Renthal and her big ships will be waiting with Mako and the
Main Strike Element.  Captain Renthal"--he turned and extended a hand
to her where she sat in the front row, a big, squarish woman with pale
skin and close-cropped red-and-gold-striped hair--"please stand up."

The smugglers clapped for her, too, which was surprising, because

some of them had undoubtedly run afoul of Renthal's Fist or other
ships in her pirate fleet.

"Captain Renthal, your big ships will have to clear the path for your
Y-wings, and our fighters and strike ships.  Any of the smaller Imp
cruisers between our force and the flanks of those Capital-class ships
will be your target.  Your heavy turbolasers and proton torpedoes must
knock them out.

We can't make a run on heavy cruisers if we're having to dodge fire
from too many directions at once," Mako said, for the benefit of the
audience.

He and Han had already gone over every part of the battle plan with
Renthal many times.

Drea Renthal nodded.  "I'll do my part," she said, in a clear, strong
alto.

"I was hired to keep the Imps from getting near Nal Hutta.  After
seeing your battle plan, I agree that this is the best way to
accomplish that."

She turned to face the smugglers.  "So you can count on me and my fleet
to fight with you all the way!"

More cheers.  Renthal pumped her fist in the air, and the crowd went
wild.

"Okay," Han continued when the noise had died down a bit, "the fighters
without missiles or torpedoes will serve as escorts.  You guys have got
to keep those TIEs off us while we make our run."  The Corellian waved
at the remainder of the smugglers.  "The rest of us will go in and
target one or two of the heavy cruisers.  When the time comes, Mako
will give you your orders.  We'll have to get in as close as we can to
their rear and then let them have it with a concentrated volley right
into the engines.  Don't hold back, let them have every bit of
firepower you've got!"

Cheers broke out again from the crowd.  Obviously, the realization that
they'd have help from Xaverri's illusion, and a well-armed pirate
fleet, had lifted the smugglers' spirits.

"Okay, fellow sentients," Mako said, "one more thing.  If what we're
tryin' for here works, you clear out fast!  Those cruisers make a
pretty big explosion.  You don't want to get caught in it, right?"

"Right!"  they roared.

"And ..."  Mako finished up, "if this doesn't work ..."  He shrugged.

"Well, we'll just have to keep trying.  It's not like we can just give
up and go away."

The crowd regarded him, alert but sobered by his final words.

Han stepped back up to the podium.  "Okay," he said.  "That's the
plan.

We'll go over it until you've got it down pat.  Any questions?"

To Han's amazement, over the next several days, Xaverri and Salla
became the best of friends.  He and Mako were busy staging repeated
battle drills for their pilots and crews on the Nar Shaddaa defense
squadron, so he didn't have much time to hang out at Shug's spacebarn,
but every time he did go there, he found Salla and Xaverri working
together on creating the illusionist's "masterpiece."

"It'll only be good for about a two- or three-minute distraction,
Solo," Xaverri warned.  "They're going to see these ships swooping at
them, real close, and they're going to see data that corresponds to
their visual sightings appear on their instrument panels.  But I want
these ships to appear close, so their reaction will be to turn all
their vessels to bring their forward guns into play.  That makes them
vulnerable to your flank attack."

Xaverri took a sip from a cup of stim-tea Han had brewed for Shug,
Salla, Chewie, Jarik, and the other technician volunteers who were
working on making Xaverri's illusion a "reality."

"But these ships are going to appear such a threat because they're
going to be close.  Within a couple of minutes, when the Imps realize
that none of them has been hit by the blasts they're seeing emanate
from those ships, they'll realize it's a fake."

Han nodded.  "A minute or three is all we can ask for, Xaverri.  We'll
be really grateful for that diversion.  We've contacted the pirate
captain the Hutts hired.  Drea Renthal.  Her flagship, Renthal's Fist,
is gonna be hiding 'behind' Nar Shaddaa--that is, on the Nal Hutta side
of the moon--along with the rest of her fleet.  When those
Capital-class ships come swinging around the moon, then turn to face
your illusionary fleet, she and Mako are going to hit them hard."

Jarik Solo wiped tiredly at his dirty face with an even filthier
hand.

"Han, what's the strength of that merc fleet?  Are they gonna be much
help?"

Han nodded.  "Yeah, Jarik.  Renthal's Fist is a Corellian corvette.

She's heavily modified, and heavily armed.  Even has proton torpedo
launchers in the front.  Only problem is, they don't have many
torpedoes.  Renthal can't afford to miss."

"How many other ships?"  Xaverri wanted to know.

"Renthal also has a bulk freighter, Golden Dreams, that's been
converted to carry fighters.  SoroSuub medium transport.  Big ship.

Not much shielding, though.  She'll launch her Z-95 Headhunters, then
hang back, letting Renthal's Fist carry the attack.  Then there's the
Too Late Now and the Minestra.  Too Late Now is a captured Imp patrol
craft.  Renthal replaced one of the laser turrets with an ion cannon,
so hopefully she can knock out some of those bulk cruisers.  Minestra
is a Rendili Stardrive light

corvette.  Nice ship, modified so she has concussion missiles and ion
cannons to go with her laser turrets."

"That sounds like a pretty good force to me," Xaverri said.  "Of
course, I barely know the difference between an ion cannon and a
concussion missile."

"When I first started smuggling, I barely did, too," Salla said with a
laugh.  "But when the Imp patrols start shooting at you with 'em, you
find yourself getting real knowledgeable real fast."

The two women smiled at each other.  Han still couldn't get over how
quickly they'd become friends.  To tell the truth, he was a bit
jealous.  In many ways, Salla and Xaverri seemed closer to each other
than either woman had ever been to him.  He wondered whether they'd
ever talked to each other about him.  Compared notes, maybe?

The thought made his face redden.  Jarik provided a welcome
distraction.

"Hey, Han.  . . can I talk to you a minute?"

Han gulped the last of his stim-tea and stood up.  "Sure, Jarik.  Want
to go into Shug's office so we can be out of the way?"

"Yeah," the youth said.  "If we try to talk here, someone will run over
us with an anti-grav lifter or something?

The spacebarn was a hive of activity.  Everywhere smugglers were fixing
up their ships, in some cases modifying them, trying to squeeze extra
speed out of their engines, or adding an extra quad laser or missile
launcher.

Han and Jarik walked by Salla's Rimrunner, and waved to Shug when he
raised his face shield to wipe his sweating face.  Han stopped to cup
his hands around his mouth and shouted up at the master mechanic.

"Looks good, Shug!

You and Salla are sure gonna give those Imps a rude surprise!"

Whenever they weren't working on helping Xaverri create her master
illusion, Salla and Shug, with Rik Duel's help, had been modifying
Rimrunner, installing a pair of camouflaged concussion missile
launchers in the stern.  Salla's smuggling ship was a CorelliSpace
Gymsnor-4-class light freighter and, like virtually every smuggling
ship in the business, was heavily modified.  The ship looked rather
like a flying wing or--if you wanted to be insulting and gain a punch
in the nose from Salla--a my-nock.

Rimrunner was a fast, agile ship, and Salla was an excellent pilot.

Han was counting heavily on her during the coming battle.

He knew that Salla would be in a much better position to do serious
damage to the Imperial ships than he would.  The Bria was a decent
little ship, but nowhere near as fast as the Millennium Falcon or the
Rimrunner.  She was more lightly armed, too.

When Han and Jarik reached Shug's office, they had to clear several
odds and ends of greasy equipment off the chairs before they could sit
down.

Once they were comfortable, Han sighed.  "Glad you wanted to have a
talk, kid.  This is the first time I've sat down all day, seems like.

Organizing this battle has kept me and Mako hopping."

"Yeah, I've been busy, too," Jarik said.  "When I wasn't busy helping
the Lady Xaverri, I've been helping Chewie with the Bria, or Shug with
the Rimrunner."

"Shug tells me you're gettin' to be a pretty good mechanic, Jarik," Han
said.  "And you're becoming a decent pilot and gunner.  I'm going to be
glad to have you flying with me as a gunner.  Chewie's good, but two
gunners are more than twice as good as one."

"Han.  . . that's .  . . that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Jarik's handsome young features were shadowed.  "I .  . . I've never
been in a battle before."  He swallowed.  "Last night, I fell asleep
while I was cleaning carbon scoring off the Bria, and I .  . . I had
this dream.

Nightmare, really."

"Yeah?  What about?"

"I dreamed we were fighting the Imperials, and"--he swallowed--"Han .

. .

we got blown up.  I had a TIE in my sights, and I .  . . I froze.  I
didn't shoot.  And then I saw the streak of green from the laser blast
coming straight at me, and there was nothing I could do.  I dreamed
that I ...

died."

Jarik's face worked.  He shivered.  "Han.  . . I'm scared.  I don't
know if I've got what it takes.  What if I mess up, and get us all
killed, the way I did in my dream?"

"Jarik," Han said, "if you weren't scared, I'd be worried about you.

The first time I went into real combat, as a TIE pilot, I was so scared
I nearly upchucked in my helmet.  Fortunately, I was already strapped
in my cockpit, in vacuum, so I knew that if I did that, I'd choke and
die.  So I managed to hold it back.  Then someone shot at me, and
without even thinkin' about it, I found myself shootin' back.  The
training just .  . .

took over."

"Really?"  Jarik looked as though he didn't know whether to find Han's
story reassuring or not.  "But, Han ... everyone says you're brave.

It's the first thing they say about you--'He's got courage!"  Nobody
ever told me I had courage.  What if I'm a coward?  How can I risk
letting you all down?"

Han gave the youth a long, measuring look.  "Jarik, you're facin'
something that we all have to face.  We're not citizens here on Nar
Shaddaa.  We live outside the law, and that's dangerous, by
definition.

Cowards don't make it here on Nar Shaddaa.  They get eaten alive."

"Well, yeah, I can handle myself with a vibroblade or in a fistfight,"
Jarik allowed.  "But that's not the same thing as just being blown to
atoms.

Boom, and you're history."

"Kid, I've watched you, and I can only tell you that I think you've got
what it takes.  Yeah, people do freeze sometimes in battle.  But that's
why Mako and I have been gettin' everyone out in their ships for all
these battle drills."

Han shrugged.  "We did the same thing when I was with the Imps.  You
drill and you drill, and the reason for that is that anyone can freeze
when faced with real combat.  Even combat vets.  But if you know the
drill cold, chances are that even if your brain freezes, your hands and
body won't.

They'll go on autopilot, keep on doing what you've been drilled to do,
even though your mind ain't giving 'em instructions for a few
seconds.

"But then, if you've drilled well, and know your stuff cold--and, kid,
you know your stuff, I've watched you--then your brain is gonna click
back in.

The fear will still be there, but you'll be able to work past it,
around it.  It won't slow you down anymore.  You'll just keep on doing
what you gotta do.  And you'll be all right."

Jarik wet his lips.  "But .  . . what if I don't?  Maybe you should get
another gunner, Han.  I'd rather die than let you down."

"If you want me to, I will, kid," Han said.  "But I'd rather have
you.

I know you, we work well together.  We've drilled together.  But it's
your decision.  Just let me know, okay?"

The youth nodded.  "Thanks.  I'll .  . . think .  . . about it."

Han gave him a pat on the shoulder as he walked by.  "Get some sleep,
kid.

We're all gettin' a little worn down."

Jarik gave the Corellian a wan smile.  "Okay, Han."

Lando Calrissian hated getting dirty, but he was growing accustomed to
it.

Readying the Millennium Falcon for serious combat was a grimy, greasy
job, but somebody had to do it.  Last week, Shug had helped him find
and install a "new" gun turret on the Falcon's starboard side, aft of
the cockpit, just above the boarding ramp.  But there was still a lot
to do.  Han, Chewie, and Salla would have helped him, he knew that, but
they were tied up either helping Xaverri prepare her holo-illusion, or
fixing up their own ships.

Lando gathered that Xaverri and Han were a thing of the past.  As he
used a hydrospanner to tighten up the bolts on the new quad laser
mounting, the young gambler found himself thinking about Xaverri.  She
was certainly a very fine woman, intelligent, attractive, sharp
dresser, good sense of humor--all qualities Lando found irresistible.

He wondered whether she'd have any interest in taking up with him where
she and the Corellian had left off.  It was obvious that she liked
rogues and scoundrels, or she'd never have had a relationship with the
Corellian.

Maybe I should try growing a mustache, Lando thought.  Might give me a
. .

. rakish .  . . air.  The corners of the gambler's mouth curved
upward.

Perhaps Xaverri would be interested in traveling with him, when this
was all over.

Lando was considering going back to the Oseon system.  He had a couple
of moneymaking schemes he wanted to try.  And he needed to sharpen his
already considerable sabacc skills.  There was a big highstakes sabacc
championship scheduled to be played on Bespin's Cloud City in about six
months.  Lando very much wanted to play in that championship.  But he'd
need to raise a considerable stake to qualify, and the easiest,
quickest way to do that was to head back for the Oseon.  Things were
looser there .  . .

And it would be very agreeable, Lando decided, to have a lovely lady
traveling companion.

Only problem was .  . . was Xaverri still in love with Han?  And how
would Han feel about having his former girlfriend take up with his best
buddy?

Well, Lando amended, his best human buddy.  Han's best friend was
indubitably Chewbacca .  . .

Immersed in fantasies of himself and Xaverri wining and dining in the
finest resorts of the Oseon system, Lando managed to whack the knuckles
of his other hand with the hydrospanner.  Cursing, he started to suck
the injured digits, but his hand was so dirty, he desisted.

"Master?"  Vuffi Raa said, emerging from beneath the Falcon's belly.

The little droid carried various tools in each of his five-armed,
tentacle-digited limbs.  Its single red eye stared up at Lando.

"Master, what happened?"

Still wishing he could suck his injured knuckle, Lando gritted, "Vuffi
Raa, how many times have I told you not to call me 'Master'!"

"Five hundred and sixty-two times, Master," replied the little droid
promptly.

Lando snarled.  "I just whacked my knuckle, that's all, you little junk
heap I'll be all right.  Let's get back to work.  We have to have the
Falcon spaceworthy by tonight.  Mako's calling for another drill."

"Very well," Vuffi Raa said.

"Hey, Vuffi Raa?"  Lando called.

Already on his way back under the ship, the little droid paused.  "Yes,
Master?"

Lando let the title slide this time.  "Are you sure you're going to be
okay piloting the Falcon during this battle?"

"It will strain my circuitry, Master, because, as you know, I am
programmed not to cause harm to living--especially sentient--beings.

However, since you will be the one doing the shooting, I believe I can
manage to fly.

Just don't order me to ram another vessel.  Then I will be unable to
comply."

"I should hope not!"  Lando exclaimed.  "All right, little vacuum
cleaner, back to work."

"Yes, Master."

Han and Mako had told almost no one the actual time that Greelanx was
planning to attack.  Some of the smuggler "High Command" knew that Han
and Mako knew the timing of the operation, but they accepted the two
ex-Imperials' decision that it would be better for most of the
smugglers not to know.

Lando, Shug, Salla, Rik Duel, Blue, and Jarik .  . . all of them were
aware that one of the times they went out on a drill, it would wind up
being the real thing.  The other smugglers did not know.

Han and Mako had to be careful in drilling their troops.  They didn't
want the smugglers to get bored and lax, which might happen if they
drilled too much.  On the other hand, they knew that their smuggler
squadron would need lots of practice.  The key to having a fighting
chance to defeat the Imperial fleet was for the smugglers to stick with
the battle plan Mako and Han had devised.

The smugglers of Nar Shaddaa were all rugged individualists, unused to
doing anything as part of a large, orchestrated group.  "It's like
tryin' to herd vro-cats," Han told Xaverri wearily.  "They keep
thinkin' they know better, and they want to question every blasted
decision we make.  What a pain in the rear!"

"Yes, but the last time you called a formation drill," Xaverri pointed
out, trying to encourage him, "they got into position and made their
runs in one-third of the time it took them to do it the first time."

"Yeah," Han agreed with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.  He sighed.

"But it's giving me gray hairs, honey."  She grinned, and pretended to
inspect his scalp.  His hair was still very

short from his visit to Admiral Greelanx.  "Nope," she announced,
after a minute, "I don't see any."

He grinned back at her tiredly.  "Well, I got gray hairs growin'
internally, then."

She patted his hand.  "Don't worry, Solo.  We'll get through this."  "I
hope so," he said.  "And, Xaverri, honey?"  "Yes?"

"I want to thank you for comin' here to help us.  Without you, we
wouldn't have a chance."

She gave him a roguish smile.  "I wouldn't have missed it for
anything.

Just meeting Salla has made it all worthwhile."

"Yeah, I noticed that you two have gotten real chummy," Han said
warily.

"So .  . . what do you two talk about while you're laughin' and workin'
together, anyhow?"

She chuckled.  "You egotistical spacebum, Solo!  You think we're
talking about you, don't you?"

Han shook his head.  "Me?  Of course not!"

"Oh, yes, you do!"  She laughed at his discomfiture.  "Admit it,
Solo!"

Han steadfastly refused to admit it.  But inwardly he was wondering
when this was all over, if he'd be able to take up with Salla where
they'd left off.

He'd seen Lando eyeing both Xaverri and Salla, and he knew Calrissian
wouldn't hesitate to move in on her if he thought Salla was looking
around.

Did Salla really care about him?  The way Xaverri and Bria had?  He
didn't know.  They never talked about that kind of thing.  They had
fun, good times, and they worked well together.  Any discussion of
inner feelings or a future together had never come up, by, Han
suspected, mutual consent.

How did he feel about Salla, anyway?

Han wasn't sure.  Most of the time he was too busy to give the subject
any consideration.  He knew for a fact that he wasn't ready to do what
Roa was doing .  . .

As he was sitting there in Shug's spacebarn, Chewie came over to him
and growled a reminder.  Han looked up.  "Oh!  The briefing?  I lost
track of time!"

Quickly he and the Wookiee hastened back to The Chance Castle to the
auditorium.  Time for another run-through, so they could make sure each
smuggler understood his, her, or its role in their strategy .  . .

Two hours later Han caught up with Shug Ninx as the smugglers filed out
of the auditorium.  The half-blood was walking with Salla Zend.  When
Han caught up with them, Salla grabbed Han's arm and squeezed it,
then

gave him a kiss on the cheek.  "You were great," she said.  "You're
always great, Han.  I swear, you're a natural leader."

The Corellian grinned, a little abashed.  "Who, me?"

They walked out, and Shug said, "When's the next drill?"

"Don't know," Han lied.  "Mako will call this one.  Is the Rimrunner
ready?

The holo-projectors in place?  The traffic buoys ready?"

"Ready," Shug confirmed.  "I tell you, Han, when this is all over, if
I'm not dead, I'm going to sleep for a week."

Salla punched her friend's arm.  "Don't talk like that, it's bad
luck!"

"Did you find a rear gunner?"  Han asked.

"Yeah, Rik volunteered to handle those rear missile launchers," Salla
said.

"He says he's a good gunner."

"He's right," Han said.  "But .  . . don't leave him alone in your
ship, loan him money, or give him the security access codes to anything
you value, okay?"

Salla grinned.  "Yeah, we've been warned about him.  Light-fingered
even with his own kind, right?"

"That's putting it mildly," Han said.  "Did I tell you we've got some
good news?"

"No, what?"

"Mako had been planning to command the resistance from Renthal's
Fist.

But a couple of days ago we realized we'd got lucky.  Guess who got so
wrapped up in motherhood that she forgot to send a pilot to bring her
yacht back to Nal Hutta?  And guess whose calls to her favorite pilots
have somehow failed to go through, because communications between Nal
Hutta and Nar Shaddaa are so overloaded these days?"

Salla began to grin.  "You mean the Dragon Pearl is still here?"

"Yeah.  And unlike her nephew, Jabba, Jiliac's conscientious about
keeping her combat-ready.  She's got six Headhunters, and we've checked
'em out.  All in prime working order.  We've got pilots for 'em, too.

Plus a gunnery crew for Mako, and we talked Blue into piloting.  Her
ship is too slow to help us out much, but she's a good pilot, too good
to be wasted.  That way Mako can concentrate on his tactical screens,
keepin' track of everything."

Shug whistled softly.  "That yacht will be a big help.  Not too great
on armor, but nice weaponry and good shields."

"But if it gets shot up, Jiliac is going to have somebody's hide for a
wall decoration .  . ."  Salla mused.  "I guess we have to take the
chance, though.  We need every bit of firepower we have."

"Well, we're keepin' it quiet about who is actually gonna be aboard
Dragon Pearl" Han said.  "And if Mako has to take a nice long
vacation

on Smuggler's Run while Jiliac gets over it, he says he's prepared to
do that."  He grinned.  "Blue promised him she'd make his stay .  . .

interesting."

Shug shook his head, and Salla snorted.  "I'll just bet she will!"

Clad in a pilot's pressurized flight suit, Roa stood on the permacrete
of the landing pad, looking down at the beautiful blond woman who stood
before him, tears in her eyes.  "Take it easy, Lwyll," he said.  "Don't
worry.  I'll be careful."

"Please ..."  she said, clutching his forearms with her hands, "please
come back to me, Roa.  Life wouldn't be worth much without you."

"I promise I'll come back," the older smuggler vowed.  "The Lwyll is a
good ship.  She'll take care of me, just like you would.  That's why I
named her that."

He leaned over and gave her a kiss.  "Besides, this is just another
drill, honey.  You've come out here and kissed me good-bye eight times
now, and I've always been back within half an hour or so.  This is just
like that."

She nodded, but a tear broke loose and slid down her cheek.  "I love
you, Roa."

"And I love you, Lwyll.  I'm coming back, honey.  I'm going to go
straight.  And we're going to get married.  You'll see.  It'll be all
right."

She nodded.  "Okay.  You'd better go."  "Right.  Don't want to be late
for the drill!"

Grinning, Roa hoisted his stocky form up into the cockpit of the Lwyll,
a modified Redthorn-class scoutship, fast and maneuverable, but lightly
armed with only forward-firing triple lasers.  The little ship looked
like a needle-pointed cylinder, with a stubby delta wing.  Almost as
fast as a TIE fighter, the Lwyll possessed an overwhelming advantage in
a dog-fight--she had shields.

Roa looked down at his bride-to-be, standing on the permacrete, waving
to him, and he grinned down at her, then gave her a thumbsup sign.

Then he checked his instruments, strapped himself in, and put on his
helmet.  In order to achieve maximum speed and power to his weaponry,
he'd elected to forgo diverting power to life support.

Easing forward on the throttle, then activating the belly thrusters, he
sent his little ship climbing, climbing, up and away.  Glancing down,
he tried to make out Lwyll's bright head, but she was lost in the
distance.

Quickly Roa headed out for his assigned coordinates.  He was one of

the few pilots who was not assigned to fly with a partner.  His
assignment was to use the Lwyll's fast speed to reconnoiter the
movements of the Imperial fleet.  He had a special channel that allowed
him to report back to Mako.

As the atmosphere thinned around him, and the sky changed from
blue-gray to cobalt, then to black, speckled with stars, Roa relaxed.

He'd always loved to fly, and the Lwyll was a joy to handle, quick and
responsive.

Roa headed for his assigned coordinates, swooping past the limb of Nar
Shaddaa, and reached them in only a few minutes' flight time.  As he
approached his station, he anticipated hearing his headphones come to
life with Mako's message that he'd heard so often before: "All ships,
return to base.  This was a drill.  All ships return to base after
completing your drill .  . ."

Seconds later, as expected, the aging smuggler heard Mako's voice:
"Attention.  Attention.  All you spacebums, listen up.  This is it.

The Imps have appeared on our sensors.  This is it.  This is not a
drill.  Repeat, not a drill.  This is the real thing, kiddies.  Prepare
to engage the enemy."  Roa's eyes widened.  Huh?  Not a drill?

As Mako's voice faded from his hearing, Roa stared, taut with fear, as
the Imperial vessels popped out of hyperspace .  . .

fourteen

The Battle of Nar Shaddaa

The first thing Admiral Winstel Greelanx saw when Imperial Destiny
emerged from its hyperspace microjump was a small scoutship turning
tail and racing frantically away from him.  The Admiral smiled dryly.

I expect I'll see a lot of that today...

The thought depressed him.  It was going to be very difficult to manage
to lose to this disorganized rabble.  How in the galaxy was he going to
manage it?

"Sir, the squadron has emerged from hyperspace," his second-in-command,
Commander Jelon, informed him.

Habit took over, and Greelanx found himself issuing orders
automatically.

"Order the squadron to deploy."

Greelanx knew what was happening, and did not bother to watch.  The
seven Capital-class ships arranged themselves into Greelanx's
stipulated fighting wedge--with the Destiny as the point of the
wedge.

Then came two bulk cruisers, Arrestor and Liquidator, followed by the
Peacekeeper and Pride of the Senate.  The last two bulk cruisers,
Enforcer and Inexorable, brought up the rear.  The Dreadnaughts
launched their TIE fighters, which moved to surround the wedge.

The two recon Carrack-class ships, Vigilance and Outpost, moved out in
front of the squadron and launched their recon TIE fighters.  The
sixteen skirmish ships, Guardian-class Customs corvettes, were already
in their shell-toms formation, ready to block any escape from the
Smuggler's Moon.

It all happened quickly and smoothly, without a hitch.  Greelanx had
drilled his commanders well on every point of his battle plan.

"Admiral, sir, the squadron has been deployed as ordered," announced
Jelon, scant minutes later.

"Very well.  Order the squadron to proceed as planned."

"Yes, Admiral."

The squadron moved forward at the specified speeds, with the pickets
advancing on Nar Shaddaa at flank speed, the skirmish line advancing at
cruising speed, and the capital ships advancing at flank speed.

Greelanx stared through the viewport of the bridge, then checked the
long-range scanners, seeing that the moon Nar Shaddaa was surrounded by
hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pieces of debris.  He wouldn't be able
to take his Capital-class ships through that sargasso, especially if
the smugglers put up any resistance.  When they reached the moon's
vicinity, he'd have to order them to alter their straight-on approach
to swing wide of the floating debris.

Greelanx stood with his hands behind him, seeing the minuscule dot on
the tactical "repeater" display that represented that tiny,
panicstricken vessel he'd first seen.  As the little scoutship
approached the floating debris, two other small ships, freighters at a
guess, joined it in its panicked flight.

The admiral sighed.  His battle plan called for the entire engagement
to be over in less than fifteen minutes.  He had better get busy,
figuring out how he was going to manage to lose .  . .

For the first minute or so, it was all Roa could do not to panic and
flee into hyperspace.  The sight of the Imperial squadron emerging from
hyperspace had rattled him badly.  Even though he'd known,
intellectually, that the Imperial squadron was going to contain dozens
of ships, some of them so huge they dwarfed any ship he'd ever flown,
that hadn't prepared him for nearly flying right down their throats.

Almost without knowing he'd done it, Roa found himself turned around
and heading back for Nar Shaddaa at top speed.  He forced himself to
take several deep breaths, and fought back the fear.  The drill came
back to him as the Lwyll streaked along.  Report in.  I have to report
contact.  I'm a scoutship, remember?

He activated his comm on the special coded frequency they'd rigged.

"Defender Central, this is Lwyll.  Come in, Central."

Mako's voice in his helmet.  "We read you, Lwyll.  Have you spotted
them?"

"Affirmative, Central."  Roa checked his sensors and rear tactical
display.

"They are deployed, and advancing."

"Good, that's what we want, remember.  Just keep leading them in.  Cut
your speed a little, if you can do it without giving yourself away,
Roa.  I'm sending Elegant Interlude and Star Traveler out to help you
lead at least one of those pickets to where we want it."

"I read you, Central."

Roa slowed down a bit, making sure to do it gradually.  He was startled
at how quickly the Carrack-class vessels were approaching.  Fast
ships!

He was glad Mako had assigned the two ships he had to help out.  Both
were speedy vessels, and Danith Jalay and Renna Strego were experienced
captains.

He took a deep breath.  The fear was still there, deep down somewhere,
but it no longer threatened his thinking processes.

Settling deep into his seat, Roa concentrated on the task at hand.

On the bridge of the Dragon Pearl, Mako Spince watched the sensors and
tactical readouts, hardly daring to blink.  The Pearl was too large to
actually hide amid the floating hulks and debris, the way some of the
smaller vessels could, but he'd ordered Blue to position her so that
the Carrack-class ships wouldn't spot her until they had the Imp
vessels where they wanted them.

Mako saw that one Carrack-class ship, the Outpost, had altered course
to approach the other side of Nar Shaddaa, while the Vigilance
continued toward the ambush.  That made sense, since Greelanx couldn't
know where the smugglers would engage him.  Once the smuggler attack
began, the Outpost would probably just wait there, rather than
engaging, ready to report on and possibly engage any smuggler ships
attempting to escape the Imperial attack.

The other Carrack-class, the one whose ship ID broadcast identified her
as the Vigilance, continued to move toward his position.

Almost there, Mako thought, wiping his sweating palms on his
trousers.

Almost...

Falan Iniro was a Corellian, and his friends frequently told him he was
hotheaded and impulsive.  Iniro would counter this criticism by
pointing out that his quickness to act was usually a virtue, often
giving him the jump on the sweetest deal, the finest cargo, the best
sabacc hand.

Now, aboard his modified YT-1210-class light freighter, the Take
That!, Iniro chafed at the waiting.  Blast it, he thought, what's going
on?

It was frustrating, having to hide here in the shadow of a wrecked
freighter, grappled to its side by a magnetic claw.  Iniro checked his
instruments again, and this time, something caught his attention.

Something really big was moving toward them.  Close, really close.

It has to be one of them, Iniro thought.  He wished for a moment that
he'd installed new sensors, modern ones with better ID capability.

Aloud he said to his gunner, a Rodian named Gadaf, "Hey, Gadaf, I got
something on the sensors.  Get ready to shoot."

"Okay, Captain," the Rodian said.  "Standing by."

Some of the other smugglers had commented that they thought the Take
That!

was too lightly armed to go against an Imperial ship, but Falan Iniro
was convinced that his piloting skills--which were considerable--would
more than make up for the fact that he had only a single laser, mounted
in a turret on the top of the ship.

"I just wish .  . ."  the Rodian's voice reached him, sounding
wistful.

"You wish what?"

"That we'd had time to calibrate the sights on this laser, boss.  I
keep having to compensate for it.  It's firing consistently to the
right."

Iniro was not sympathetic.  "That's easy to compensate for, Gadaf.  I
score hits with that laser all the time."

"Yes, I know, boss," the Rodian said.  "I don't do too bad, either."

"Huh .  . ."  Irritated, Iniro fidgeted.  When are we going to get our
blasted orders?

The something bigmwhatever it was--had moved almost past the Take
That!

on Iniro's sensors.

Come on, come on!  What are you-Iniro's body went rigid as he heard a
voice in his headphones.  Mako Spince's voice, garbled by distance and
intervening space debris, but still recognizable.  "First Strike
Element, this is Defender Central.  Prepare to----" Iniro let out a
whoop, and realized that he hadn't quite caught that last word.

"Engage," wasn't it?  He was pretty sure.

For a moment he thought of keying his comm and asking, "Say again,
Central," but he didn't.  The other guys would laugh at him, and he'd
get left behind as they attacked!

"Let's go!"  he yelled, and disengaged his magnetic grapple.  Swooping
out from behind the hunk of space junk, Iniro saw that there were two
other ships with him.  Only two?  Where in the name of Xendor's Minions
were the others?

Iniro didn't have time to wonder, because almost immediately he found
himself under attack.  Some kind of TIE fighter.

A blast struck his forward shield.  Iniro compensated, and felt the
ship shudder as Gadaf shot at the TIE.  Clean miss, too far to the
left.

Overcompensated, the fool!!  Iniro thought.  He sent the Take That!

into a sweeping turn, pouring on all the power he could.  "Get him,
Gadaf!"  he yelled.

A red bolt streaked out, barely missed the twisting, turning TIE.

Iniro swore, and gave chase.  It wasn't easy, here in this junkyard of
space debris.  He was constantly having to flip his vessel up on her
side, or resort to other, even more drastic maneuvers, to avoid
crashing into something.

"Clear shot .  . . coming!"  yelled Iniro.  "Be .  . . ready!"

As he had promised, the next instant the TIE fighter and the Take
That!

were in a straight line with nothing in between them.  Another red bolt
tore through vacuum, and this time it impaled the recon TIE fighter
dead center!

For a moment the explosion flared out, yellow, then white, expanding,
expanding .  . .

Then the TIE was gone, and there were only sparkles of blazing debris
and ash drifting in vacuum .  . .

But before Iniro could celebrate his victory, his eye was caught by his
tactical display.  The something big was closing on him!  In a second
it would be right on top of him!

Captain Iniro twisted frantically in his pilot's seat, slapping his
controls, trying desperately to evade, trying to see it.  He caught
just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.  Minions of Xendor, it's
Falan Iniro never had time to complete the thought.  The Carrack- class
light cruiser's heavy turbolasers engulfed the little freighter in a
wash of green fire, utterly obliterating the Take That!  in less time
than it takes for a human eyeblink.

Ten seconds later not even spacedust remained.

Within seconds of following Falan Iniro's Take That!  out of hiding,
Niev Jaub knew that he'd made a terrible mistake.  The little Sullustan
was flying his small light freighter (modified, of course), the Bnef
Nlle, and when he'd seen the Take That!  blast out of hiding, he'd
assumed he'd missed Mako's order, and followed the other vessel.  The
moment he was out in the "open," Jaub noted that only one other ship
was with them.  They'd obviously jumped the gun and the attack hadn't
started yet.

For a moment Jaub considered trying to swoop back and hide again, but
it was too late.  A green blast from a TIE fighter nearly singed his
whiskers.

Jaub sent his small freighter (which rather resembled one of the
shelled reptiles of his homeworld) skittering to his right in an
evasive maneuver.

Unlike most of the defenders of Nar Shaddaa, Jaub was an honest trader,
who happened to do business on the Smuggler's Moon, delivering exotic
foodstuffs to the once-elegant hotel-casinos.  There was a sizable
Sullustan enclave on Nar Shaddaa, and the little sentient had kin and
friends living there.  So, when Mako's call for help had gone out, Jaub
had figured it was his responsibility to respond.  He couldn't let his
friends and family be injured, and not try to help them!

Now what?  he wondered, firing at a TIE fighter.  I can't compete with
these pilots!  I've never even fired my weapons before, except in
target practice!

But there was no turning back now.  The Carrack-class light cruiser had
entered the fray.  Jaub's already huge eyes went even wider as he saw
the Take That!  impaled in a green burst of turbolaser fire.

Sickened, he watched as the Corellian's ship was vaporized.

If Jaub had thought he could outrun any of these ships, he might have
tried.  But he knew better.  All he could try to do, he figured, was to
stay alive and maybe get in a lucky shot.  Mako was bound to order the
real attack any second now!

Jaub zigged again as a TIE roared by him, seemingly out of nowhere.

The evasive maneuver brought him within range of the Carrackclass
ship's turbolasers.  The Sullustan pilot squeaked in utter terror as
the barest edge of green licked past his vessel.

I'm all right, he didn't hit me, he didn't hit me, he didn't.., oh,
gods · .  . he hit me... the Sullustan thought.

His power indicators were dropping.  That blast had barely brushed him,
but it must have wiped out his stern shields and disabled his
engines.

The Bnef Nile was still hurtling along, still in the grip of inertia,
but his engines were dead.

Jaub tested his maneuvering thrusters and realized they still
functioned.

He couldn't brake, or speed up, but he could turn his vessel.

He looked around, saw that two TIEs were bearing down on him from the
rear.  In seconds, they'd catch him and blast him into atoms.

The Carrack-class ship was obviously content not to have to waste its
heavy turbolasers on the likes of one small, crippled freighter.  The
big Imperial ship was sailing serenely along, parallel to and a little
behind Jaub's flight path.

Seconds .  . . I've got only seconds.  Make them count, Jaub thought.

He didn't think of himself as particularly brave, but Sullustans were
known to be a practical species.

Jaub sent his ship rolling over, using his maneuvering thrusters hard,
deliberately sending the Bnef Nlle into an uncontrollable spin.  Stars
and space debris revolved in his viewport, making his stomach flip
over.

"Bnef nile, everyone!"  he screamed as he hurtled toward the flank of
the Carrack-class ship.

"Bnef nlle" meant "good luck" in Sullustan.

At first Jaub thought he wasn't going to make it, that the Carrackclass
vessel was going too fast--but then he had one final second to realize
that he was, indeed, going to impact against the big vessel's port
shields.

Joy filled him, and then there was nothing but fire .  . .

"Blasted, stupid fools!  Why didn't they wait for my order?"  Mako
shouted as he stared into his tactical screen.  Why did they jump the
gun?

Maybe they'd misunderstood him.  Mako had said, "Prepare to evade," and
just as he finished speaking, those three impetuous freighters went
streaking out of cover.  Mako had stared at the screen, cursing
steadily in many languages, as he watched two of the errant ships get
blown up.

At least that second guy, whoever he was, had made his exit count for
something.  And even the fool that had started the whole mess had
nailed a recon TIE.

Now the third vessel was streaking back toward him, with a TIE fighter
in hot pursuit.  "Great!"  Mako yelled.  "Just lead 'em right to where
we're hiding!  If you live through this, I'm gonna personally hunt you
down and strangle you!"

"Mako, he's gonna buy it if we don't do something," Blue said
tensely.

"I oughta let the fool pay for his mistake," Mako growled, but a last
check on his tactical screens convinced him that the Carrack-class
vessel was far enough into the debris to be unable to turn quickly and
get out of range.  Close enough, Mako thought.

"All right," he said to Blue and the gunnery crew, "let's go save his
worthless hide!"

Snapping on his comm, Mako said, "All right, commence attack!  First
Strike Element, attack now, boys and girls!  Get those TIEs, and I'll
move in on that Carrack-class.  Be prepared to back me up!  We're gonna
nail that sucker!"

Blue was taking the Dragon Pearl out of hiding now, and the racing

freighter saw them and swung toward them, like a child running to hide
behind mama's skirts.  Blue gave a tense order to the gunnery crew, and
the Hutt yacht's six powerful turbolasers sent green blasts of
destruction to impale the TIE fighter.

The TIE blew up spectacularly.  "Waste of power," Mako grunted.

"Stupid ships don't even have shields."

The Pearl was now moving toward the Carrack-class ship, which was only
then realizing it was being challenged.  "Blue, launch those
Headhunters!"  Mako yelled.

"Already did it two minutes ago!"  she shouted back.  "Quit tellin' me
my job!"

The Vigilance swung toward the yacht, and the two vessels engaged.  The
Carrack-class, of course, had the advantage in the fight.  It was
armored much more heavily than the yacht, had better shielding, and
more weaponry.

It was also faster, but not by much.

However, Mako's crew had two major advantages over the Vigilance.  Blue
was used to maneuvering through Nar Shaddaa's debris, while the
Carrack-class vessel's pilot was not.  The Hutt yacht was also smaller,
thus far more agile.

Blue pressed that advantage for all she was worth, darting in to shoot,
then straining every rivet in the big ship to evade the returning
fire.

After being flung to the deck when the artificial gravity shorted out
for a second from a hit, Mako got smart and strapped himself into his
seat.  He saw bursts of color reflected against the viewport from laser
fire and turbolaser fire reflecting off shields, but he couldn't see
the Vigilance from his command center.

He had been worried that Vigilance might be one of the new, refitted
models that were equipped with tractor beams, but apparently it was
not.

The Hutt yacht shuddered with the blasts, over and over.  "We're losing
the starboard shielding," Blue said tersely.  "Another hit there,
and--" WHAM!

The Pearl lurched horribly, like a wounded animal dragged down by a
predator's claws.  Blue swore.  "Fire!  Hit 'em again!"

Jiliac's yacht shuddered as the turbolasers fired again, then again.

Mako was dying to get up and see for himself what was happening, but
the ship was pitching so violently that it would have been dangerous.

All he needed was a broken arm--or neck.

WHAM- WHAM!

"Blast," Blue said.  "We've lost three turbolaser mounts."

WHAM!

"Make that four."

"Blue, what in blazes is going on?"  Mako yelled over the next
volley.

"Are we hurtin' them at all?"

"Yeah," she grunted.  "We're hurtin' 'em.  Fire, boys!  Again!"

Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Mako unsnapped his harness and
staggered across the heaving deck to see what was going on.

"His port shields are weakening," Blue told him.  "Our starboard
shields are gone."  She maneuvered the Hutt yacht so the relatively
intact bow shielding was pointing toward the Vigilance.

"Engines are sluggish," Mako said, feeling the ship strain to move.

"Tell me about it," Blue snapped.

The Pearl fired again, then again, and then-Mako let out a whoop of
glee as he saw, instead of the splash of turbolaser fire against a
shield, a big charred mark appear on the Carrackclass ship's armored
hide.  "His port shields are down!"  "So are our starboard ones," Blue
snarled.  "But, baby, we've got him now!  Disengage!"

Mako raced back to his comm center.  "All right, listen up!  Too Late
Now!

Minestra!  Defense Central calling.  Come in, over!"

Mako was addressing two of the merc vessels that he knew had been
assigned to these coordinates.  Too Late Now was a captured and
modified Imperial patrol craft, and Minestra was a captured Imperial
light corvette.  Both vessels now sported the "blazing daw" insignia
that marked them as pirates.

"Minestra, we read you, Mako," said a voice.

"Too Late Now, likewise."

"Listen up, guys, good news!  We just took down Vigilance's port
shields!"

"We're already moving in to finish him off," said the voice of
Minestra's captain.  "Mako, we saw the pounding you took.  You'd better
get out of here before more Imps show up."

"We're only too happy to," Blue said, and with painful slowness, the
Dragon Pearl limped away.  Mako glanced at her diagnostic sensors, and
cursed.  No starboard shields, sublight engines crippled, hull damage,
and we're leakin' some atmosphere.  Jiliac's gonna be right irritated
'bout this...

The two pirate ships had arrived by now, and they and the freighters
were ganging up on the injured Vigilance, drawing in like scavengers
toward a staggering prey.  Mako saw the Carrick-class ship take hit
after hit, until finally the armor couldn't take any more, and a huge
hole was blasted in her port side.  The smugglers targeted her engines,
then her bridge, and within minutes, she was drifting helpless in
space.  Lifepods launched from the Carrack as some of the crew began
abandoning ship.

Mako grinned.  "You did good, guys!  Okay, my ship's out of it, at
least until we do some damage control, so I'm heading for Illusion
Point ahead of schedule.  You guys stick it out.  Those skirmish ships
should be arrivin' any minute!"

Admiral Greelanx stared at Commander Jelon, taken aback by his
subordinate's report.  "You say that the Vigilance is out of the
battle?

Captain Eldon is dead?"

"Yes, Admiral.  I regret to say it, sir."

"What about his TIEs?"  "All destroyed, sir."

Greelanx was too disciplined to swear aloud, but he did so mentally.

"Order the skirmish ships to full speed.  Order two squadrons of TIEs
to accompany them.  Instruct them to engage the enemy at will."

"Yes, sir!"

For a moment Greelanx considered bringing the other Carrack-class, the
Outpost, into combat, but he decided against it.  The Outpost might be
needed for mopping up, later.  He didn't want to risk his only
remaining recon vessel.

We'll show these wretched criminals, Greelanx thought angrily,
completely forgetting, for the moment, that he was supposed to lose
this battle .  . .

Captain Soontir Fel stared at Admiral Greelanx's tiny holo-figure as it
seemingly stood perched atop the Pride of the Senate's comm board,
feeling as though someone had punched him in the stomach.  "Eldon is
dead?"

Greelanx nodded shortly.  "Unfortunately, yes."

"I see, sir.  Permission to speak, Admiral?"

"Go ahead."  Greelanx was anything but welcoming.

"Perhaps we should take these smugglers a bit more .  . . seriously .

. .

sir?  They apparently are capable of mounting a coordinated attack, as
opposed to simply shooting at random."

"Your comment is noted, Fel.  Greelanx out."

The tiny holo-figure popped out of existence.

Soontir Fel stood for a moment, head bowed.  Captain Darv Eldon

had been one of his classmates in the Academy.  They had been close
friends for nearly ten years.  His death was like a vibroblade wound.

Fel swallowed, then straightened his shoulders.  He would have time to
grieve later.  Right now, it was his duty to kill as many of these
smugglers as he could .  . .

At first, Han Solo found it very strange to shoot at TIE fighters,
rather than fly them.  As soon as Mako had ordered in the First Strike
Element, Han, with Chewie and Jarik in the Bria's wing-mounted gun
turrets, had gone after and engaged several TIEs.  He'd nailed two, so
far, and was cruising through the debris, looking around for more.

The Bria had one weakened rear shield, which put her engines in
possible jeopardy should she take another big hit there, but was
otherwise undamaged, due largely to Han's flying expertise.

Han was one of the few smugglers who was flying without a partner.

Mako wanted him free to keep watch over the fleet, to go where he was
needed without encumbrances.  Han recognized that Mako's decision was a
testament to his own flying skill and was pleased.

Han glanced over at the left gun turret on the Bria's wing, and saw
Jarik in the movable seat, headset in place.  So far, the kid hadn't
done well.

He'd been overeager, nervous, and had managed to miss everything he'd
aimed at.  Han was beginning to think he shouldn't have encouraged him
to come along for the ride.

Chewbacca had done considerably better, hitting one TIE fighter and
sending it wheeling away.  Seconds later it had crashed into a large
piece of debris and exploded.

Han himself had gotten another TIE with his bow-mounted twin lasers.

Mako's voice came over his headphones.  "Listen up!  Those skirmish
ships are arrivin' and engaging at will!  Everyone stay sharp!"

Han had just decided to go hunting for one of the skirmish ships, when
suddenly a TIE fighter swooped toward them, lasers blasting.

"Chewie, Jarik!"  Han yelled.  "Look sharp!"  Automatically he evaded
the blasts, and triggered a shot with his bow guns.

A clean miss.  Han swore.

Another TIE was swooping toward them, eager to catch the Bria in a
crossfire.  Han snapped off a shot at it as he sent his ship swooping
away, and saw the TIE wobble.  He'd hit it!

The other TIE came in again, and this time Chewbacca was right there,
firing, firingA sudden Wookiee howl of rage and frustration echoed in
Han's headphones.

He's been hit!  was Han's first thought, and his breath caught in his
chest, but when he looked to his right, he saw Chewie bouncing up and
down in his movable seat, roaring, cursing, and waving his long, hairy
arms, obviously furious--but unhurt.

What's got into him?  Han wondered, then he looked again, and saw what
had happened.

The Bria's gun-control yoke, wires dangling, was clutched in Chewie's
paw-hands.  In his enthusiasm to nail the TIE, Chewbacca had forgotten
to ration his great Wookiee strength; he'd ripped the control yoke
clean out of the gun mount!

Now it was Han's turn to swear.  "Chewie, you big furry oaf!  Look what
you did!"

Chewbacca snarled in Han's headphones that he was only too aware of
what he'd done.  Han had never heard his hairy friend use language like
that before.

Whump!  A shot from the TIE had impacted on the Bria's amidships
shield.

Hey, Solo--Concentrate on your flying, or you're gonna be dead--Han
shook his head, realizing that from now on, he'd have to consider his
right side as crippled, and shield it as best he could.

He spoke into his headset.  "Jarik, listen up, kid!  Chewie broke off
the blasted gun yoke in the right turret!  It's all up to you to nail
these TIEs!"  Jarik's voice was faint and shaky.  "Mmmm .  . . me?"

"Yeah, you!  Now look sharp!  He's comin' in again!"

Jarik crouched in his movable seat in the left gun turret, frozen with
terror.  My worst nightmare come true!  I'm going to kill us all!

He forced himself to straighten up and swiveled, looking for the TIE.

The targeting grid hung before him.  Would he be able to zero in on
anything?  He didn't know.  He'd failed miserably, so far.

Where is it, where Suddenly he saw it.  There it was, coming in a
looping path from overhead that would allow it to flip over and then
get off a shot at the Bria's bow.

I can't do it .  . . what if I can't do it?  Jarik's mind screamed, but
somehow his hands were moving, and then his body was following suit as
he swiveled in his seat.  There was the targeting grid, there was the
TIE and suddenly---the two images were one.

Without conscious volition, Jarik's thumb squeezed the firing
trigger.

A red beam shot out, catching the TIE in the middle of its small
body.

In magnificent silence, the TIE blew up.

Jarik sat there, staring in shock.  Did I do that?

Han's voice in his ears.  "Great shootin', kid!  Let's go do it
again!"

Did I do that?  I did!  I did it!  I can do it!

Jarik "Solo" grinned, felt a wave of satisfaction and pride.  "Okay,
Han!"

Jarik checked the charges on his gun, then, as the Bria swooped off,
began searching their surroundings for more targets .  . .

Aboard the Rimrunner, Salla Zend checked her position, then glanced
quickly out of her viewport to make sure her flying partner was in
correct position.  Because the Rimrunner equaled the Millennium Falcon
in speed, she'd been paired with Lando and his odd little droid
pilot.

Salla had to hand it to Vuffi Raa.  She's never before heard of a droid
that could pilot, but she gathered that Vuffi Raa was some special type
of droid, from some completely different part of the galaxy.  Obviously
not your everyday astromech.  From the moment they'd deployed, Vuffi
Raa not only had kept formation with her, the droid had occasionally
outflown her!

She spoke into her headset.  "Any of those skirmish ships on your
sensors, Vuffi?"

"Nothing so far, Lady Salla," the little droid replied.  "And my name
is Vuffi Raa, please."

"No problem, Vuffi Raa," she replied.  "So what does that name mean,
anyhow?"

"In the language of those who programmed me, it is a number, Lady
Salla."

"Huh."  Salla was doing a visual inspection as she flew through the
debris.

No skirmish vessels so far, but her sensors showed a large group of
vessels moving through the "cloud" of debris surrounding Nar Shaddaa.

It was only a matter of time.  "Lando, stay sharp with your guns.  I
see Imp slugs everywhere."

"Right, Saila," Lando said.

"Rik, Shug?  We could have incoming any second.  You guys ready?"

"Ready, Salla," Shug replied.

"We are ready, pretty lady," Rik Duel said, in a manner that he fondly
imagined to be charming.

Salla grimaced and rolled her eyes.  "Can it, Rik.  Stay sharp.  This
is no time to get cute."

"Hey, Salla, I can't help it if I've got eyes!"  Rik said, in
mock-injured tones.  "That jerk Solo doesn't appreciate you, you
know.

You deserve better than that Corellian creep.  You are one fine woman,
and he--" "Stow the chatter, Rik," Salla snapped, tiring of the
banter.

"And rein in your hormones.  Your routine is getting real old."

"But, Salla--" he protested, sounding very, very injured, "I fell for
you the moment I--" "Lady Saila!"  Vuffi Raa broke in.  "Incoming!"

Salla checked her sensors and ship ID codes.  An Imperial Customs
Guardian-class light cruiser, the Lianna Guard!  She altered her flight
path to challenge the newcomer head-on, and was impressed to see how
quickly Vuffi Raa followed her lead.

Seconds later the Lianna Guard came zipping toward them, firing its
laser cannons.  Salla took a minor hit, but the shields deflected it.

The Imp vessel was fast, and as maneuverable as the freighters--matter
of fact, the ship was a Customs patrol ship, designed to stop smugglers
cold.

Shug took a shot with his quad lasers, but scored a clean miss as the
Imp pilot evaded.  He's really good!  Salla thought.  But we'll get
him.  He's outnumbered.

She'd been so occupied with engaging the Lianna Guard that Salla failed
to notice three slug blips on her sensors, all coming in incredibly
fast.

Vuffi Raa squeaked, "Lady Salla!  TIE fighters!"

Salla took a hit in her bow, but the shields handled it.  Shug was
shooting steadily now, and so was Lando.  One TIE was hit, and promptly
exploded.

Salla couldn't tell who had made the kill.

Evasive!  Salla flipped Rimrunner up on her side, but took a hit
anyway.  Her shields took the brunt of it, but the freighter shuddered
violently.

"Get those TIEs!"  she yelled.

"I'm trying!"  came both Lando's and Shug's voices at the same time.

Salla swore grimly.  Where's the Lianna Guard?  She'd lost track of the
Guardian-class ship in the melee.

The Rimrunner shuddered again.  Salla struggled to hold her bucking
ship, narrowly missed crashing into a huge piece of space debris.

They'd been hit in the flank, and her shields were weakened back
there.

From the strength of the blast, it must have been the patrol ship, not
a TIE.

"AWriiiiight!"  Lando shouted in her headset, and she saw another TIE
wiped out.

Two to two.  Much better odds!

Okay, now .  . . where was the Lianna Guard?  On Lando's tail?  No!

Coming up directly behind her!

Lando said urgently, "Evasive, Salla!"

"Not on your life!"  she bellowed.  "This is what I've been waiting
for!

Rik, blast your worthless hide, get him!"

Captain Lodrel of the Imperial ship Lianna Guard smiled grimly as his
ship streaked toward the mynock-shaped freighter's stern.  I've got
you!  he thought smugly, and opened his mouth to give the order to
destroy the helpless vessel.

But before he could speak, Lodrel noticed something strange about the
rear of the CorelliSpace ship.  Two camouflaged gun ports had just slid
open in the ship's stern!

Instead of shouting "Fire!"  Lodrel screamed, "Evasive!"

But two concussion missiles were already streaking toward him.  Hey!

That's not fair!  Lodrel thought indignantly.

It was his last thought .  . .

"Yahooooooo!"  shouted Salla as she saw the patrol ship blown to atoms
on her rear sensors.  "We got him!  Sweet shooting, Rik!"

"Does that mean you'll kiss me when we get back to base?"  he demanded
in her headset.

"Not a chance," Salla said cheerfully.  "But I'll buy you a drink!"

"Congratulations, Lady Salla," Vuffi Raa said, in his prissy, overly
refined tones.

"Great going, Salla!"  Lando shouted.  "In all the excitement, I
totally forgot about those missile launchers.  Shug, you are the
best!"

"Yeah, Shug, we all owe you," Salla agreed.

"That was fun," Shug said, chuckling.  "Want to do it again?" 
"Sure!"

Salla and Lando chorused.

Mako Spince heaved a sigh of relief when the crippled Dragon Pearl
managed to reach Illusion Point, and the relative protection offered by
the bigger ships in Drea Renthal's mercenary fleet.  He checked his
sensors, all the while listening to his ships report in.

The smugglers were doing well against the Imp skirmish vessels.  They
were taking losses, though, ships they couldn't afford to lose.  Mako
frowned as he checked ship after ship.  I'm losing a lot of friends
today, he thought sadly.  Too many good ships and people gone...

He ran a status check.  Almost twenty-five percent of his smuggler
vessels .

. . gone.  Even if they won this battle, the smuggling operations out
of Nar Shaddaa were going to be affected for a long, long time.

But the Imps had probably lost half their TIE fighters, and nearly
fifty percent of their skirmish ships.

The big question is, Mako thought, when is Greelanx gonna move in with
his capital ships?  The big ships were approaching steadily, but were
still out of range.

Mako glanced nervously at his sensors, saw two skirmish vessels
converge on a smuggler ship.  Oh, no!

A panicked voice erupted in Mako's headset.  "Defender Central!  Can
you get me some help?  I'm crippled, and--" The voice scaled up into an
agonized scream, and abruptly stopped.  Mako watched as the blip on his
sensors winked out.  He cursed softly, helplessly.

"Commander Jelon," Admiral Greelanx said, "order the remainder of the
TIEs to deploy and engage at will."

"Yes, sir."

The big Imperial ships were now within five hundred kilometers of the
Nar Shaddaa debris shell.  Greelanx took a sip of stim-tea, then
checked their sensors again.  He could see the remaining twelve TIE
fighters streaking toward the battle.

"Commander, instruct the capital wedge to assume an external-approach
orbital pass.  We're going to avoid that debris."

"Yes, sir."

"And order the wedge to accelerate to full speed.  We are starting our
attack."

"Yes, sir!"

Greelanx checked the status of his squadron again.  He was impressed by
the smugglers' tenacity.  He'd expected them to break and run before
now.  But they were still fighting, and doing significant damage to his
skirmish vessels.

Still, losing wasn't going to be easy.  The smugglers were fighting
bravely, granted, but those little freighters were no match for his
capital ships.

Greelanx sighed.  It was possible that he'd have to order one of his
ships to do something that would be guaranteed to cause its
destruction.

The admiral swallowed another sip of tea, feeling as though a fist

were closing around his throat.  He'd sent troops to their deaths
before, many times, but never on purpose.  He wasn't sure he could do
it .  . .

But what choice did he have?

They're making their move!  Accelerating to attack speed!  Mako
realized as he stared into his sensors.  He keyed his comm to a
special, private frequency.  "Han, Mako here.  You read me?"

"Yeah, Mako," came the voice of his friend, garbled but
understandable.

"I read you.  What's happening?"

"Greelanx is starting his move with his capital ships.  I'm going to
order the retreat.  Do me a favor, pal?"

"Sure."

"You and Chewie play rear guard during the retreat.  Hang back and ride
herd on those spacebums, okay?  Keep 'em on track, Han.  Don't let 'em
go too slow, but keep on their tails about goin' too fast.  We want
those Imps following right on their heels."

"Will do," Han said.  "How're we doing?"

"Overall, not bad.  But we've lost some friends."

"I know.  I've seen wreckage," Han agreed, sounding bleak.  "Mako
out."

Mako keyed in another special frequency.  "Captain Renthal?"  "Renthal
here."

"I'm going to order the retreat now.  Be ready."  "We are ready.  I'll
recall Minestra."

"What about Too Late Now?"

"She's gone."  "Oh .  . ."  "Renthal out."

Mako keyed his general frequency.  "Boys and girls, this is Defender
Central.  You done good, fellow spacebums.  Now it's time to leave the
party.  All vessels, retreat along assigned vector.  Remember your
drills.

Repeat, you are to retreat along your assigned vector, starting now.

Defender Central out."

Xaverri stood in a cordoned-off section in Shug Ninx's spacebarn,
intent on the tactical display she was receiving, transmitted by Dragon
Pearl.

She watched as the smugglers turned tail and raced away from the
oncoming Imperial capital ships and remaining skirmish vessels.  Her
friends were fleeing in what seemed to be a panicked rout, but was, in
actuality, a carefully coordinated and rehearsed withdrawal under
fire.

Mako and Han had drilled and drilled them in just how far they should
stay ahead of the Imperial vessels--tantalizingly within weapons range,
so the "stragglers" would have to take evasive maneuvers to avoid being
blasted if the Imperials got lucky.

The magician licked her lips in anticipation, thinking that this was
her big chance, the chance to wipe out more Imps at one time than she'd
probably ever get again.

That's right, she thought, watching the wedge move closer and closer to
the Illusion Point coordinates.  That's right, come along, chase them,
yes, chase them right into the trap .  . .

Poised like a hunting Togorian, she stared fiercely into the tactical
display until her eyes burned and she was forced to blink.

When her vision cleared, there they were!  The entire capital wedge was
right in the middle of the IP coordinates!

Xaverri grinned, a predatory smile that had nothing pleasant about
it.

She activated her comm, spoke on a special frequency.  "Mako, Xaverri
here."

"This is Mako.  Xaverri, I read you."

"Activating illusion.., now," she said, and broke contact.  Then,
slowly, deliberately, she pressed the big red button on her console,
the one marked, DON'T TOUCH UNLESS YOU'RE XAVERRI!

"Now you die," she whispered.

Imperial Destiny rounded the limb of Nar Shaddaa, swinging wide as
ordered, in order to avoid the floating debris surrounding the
Smuggler's Moon.  As it did so, Admiral Greelanx could finally see Nal
Hutta, large even at a distance of over 123,000 kilometers.  His
flagship was leading the charge against the fleeing smugglers, his
capital ships moving in perfect formation, with his remaining TIE
fighters and skirmish ships flanking the wedge.

Greelanx stood on his bridge, watching them close on their prey, seeing
the red and green trails of Imperial lasers and turbolasers blasting at
the motley assortment of freighters, wondering once again how he was
going to manage to stage a realistic defeat and retreat.

The smugglers had fought hard, Greelanx had to admit that, but the
sight of his big ships had obviously terrified them, frightened them so
badly that any fighting spirit they'd had was gone.

Now they were running like Corellian vrelts before a pack of canoids.

"Admiral Greelanx, sir!"  the sensor operator spoke up urgently.

"Sir, I'm getting something, but where did it-- We've got incoming,
sir!"

Greelanx took a quick glance at the sensors, then turned to look out
the viewport.  His eyes widened.

Coming straight at them from the direction of Nal Hutta were hundreds
of smuggler ships of assorted sizes--including several Corellian
corvettes!

Mercenaries, Greelanx thought.  The smugglers don't have anything that
large!

"Where did they come from?"  Jelon demanded of the sensor operator.

"Why weren't you tracking them?"

"Sir, they must've just launched from Nal Hutta!  Sir, I was
concentrating on tracking the smuggler fleet, as ordered, Commander!"

Greelanx frowned.  His instincts, honed after decades in the Imperial
Navy, made him wonder if this could be some kind of a trick.  "Full
sensor scan!"  he snapped.  "Yes, sir!"

Moments later the sensor operator displayed the results of his check.

Greelanx studied it.  The Hutts must have held these mercenaries in
reserve, then launched them in desperation, he decided.

Greelanx cleared his throat.  "Commander Jelon, instruct the wedge and
our fighters to execute a one-hundred-and-ten-degree turn, Y axis, and
engage the newcomers.  When they have completed their maneuver, they
may fire at will!"

Mako Spince let out a yell of triumph as he watched the phantom fleet
appear, and saw the Imperial ships begin their turn.  "Yes!  They're
fallin' for it!"  He keyed his comm.  "Captain Renthal!"

"I see it," she said tersely.  "I didn't believe it would work until
now, but I gotta admit .  . . I'm attacking, full speed!"

"Go get 'em!"

As Mako had requested, Han Solo had stayed back, behind the other
smugglers, as they wove their way out of the debris during the
retreat.

Once past the limb of Nar Shaddaa, Han had ordered them to swing wide,
and get out of the debris.  That way Greelanx would have a clear view
of the fleeing smugglers, and would continue his pursuit, straight into
their trap.

When Han finally emerged from the shell of debris, he found himself
actually trailing the Imperial fleet.  He could see them ahead of him,
and considered trying to loop around them at top speed, so he could
take part in the attack that was planned at the IP coordinates.

Ahead of him, he spotted a pair of vessels on his sensors, and was
surprised when he checked their vessel IDs and found that the wayward
pair was Salla and Lando in Rimrunner and the Falcon.

Han wondered if one of them had taken a bad hit and needed help.

Activating his comm, he said, "Defender Central, this is Han.  Come in,
Mako."

Mako's voice was clearer, now that Han was out of the debris field.

"Mako here, Han.  The Imps have almost reached the IP point."

"I've got Salla and Lando on my sensors, and we're all behind the Imp
fleet, Mako."

"Yeah, I asked 'em to take it easy, figuring you might need some help
if you ran into any stray skirmish vessels," Mako said.  "Okay, so
they're all right?"  "Far as I know."

"Patch me through to them, will you?"

"Sure."

In order to keep the frequencies as clear as possible, all
communications had been routed through Mako, except for designated
pairs like Lando and Salla.  Moments later Han heard Lando's voice.

"Han, old buddy!"

"Lando, I'm behind you, wondering how to get past the Imp fleet so I
can get back into the action."

"Salla and I were just wondering the same thing.  I don't want to miss
out on the chance to score some more hits on those Imp skirmish
ships.

Salla and I got quite a few of them," Lando said proudly.

"Three Guardian-class light cruisers," Salla interjected.

"Hey, congratulations!"

"Master."  Vuffi Raa's precise tones were unmistakable.  "Would you
like me to swing us around so we can fly back to the action with
Captain Solo?"

"Yeah, Vuffi Raa, why don't you do that?  Oh, and .  . . don't call me
master."

"Yes, Master."

Han was now close enough to his friends that he could see them in the
distance as they peeled off and swooped back to join him.  Han
chuckled.

"Where in the galaxy did you pick up that droid, Lando?"

"Long story."

Moments later the three vessels were flying together.  Han was

fiercely glad to find out his friends were okay.  It felt good, all of
them flying together, united against the Imperials.

Han keyed his comm again.  "So, guys, how are we gonna get past the
fleet, back to the IP?"

Suddenly Chewie, who had abandoned his useless gun turret and come up
to serve as copilot and to man the Bria's bow guns, growled urgently
and gestured at the sensors.

Han looked, and saw the wedge of pursuing capital ships slow, then
begin to execute a ponderous turn, all the while remaining in perfect
formation.

"Go, Xaverri!"  he shouted, then he keyed his comm.

"Hey, Lando, Salla!  Check your forward sensors!"

The Imperial ships were just out of visual range by now.  Han found
himself wishing fiercely that he could catch up to them, do some more
damage.

"They can see it!"  Lando said.  "Why can't we?"

"Because we're behind it," Han said.  "It all has to do with the angle
of the light rays.  Complicated, but trust me.  The Imps are seeing a
big fleet comin' straight at them!"

The Imperial fleet continued to execute their turn.  I hate being stuck
back here, out of the action!  Han thought.

Suddenly, seeing the direction in which the fleet was turning, Han had
an idea.  He keyed his comm.  "Lando, Salla!  We're close enough to the
wedge to be able to do a two-second hyperspace microjump right into the
middle of the illusion.  If we alter our approach vector slightly just
before the jump, we'll wind up on the right approach path to come
roaring in with those phantoms, firin'!  Let's give Xaverri's fleet
some real teeth!"

"Han!"  Salla protested.  "We're right in the middle of a gravity well,
in case you haven't noticed!"

"We're close enough to where the two bodies balance each other out,"
Han insisted.  "We can do it, guys!  C'mon!  Follow me!"

He altered his flight vector slightly, and was pleased to note that
Rimrunner and the Falcon followed him.

"Okay, we're all set!"  Han said tensely.  "Now for the microjump!"

"Hey, Han, that illusion is only going to be good for another couple of
minutes!"  Lando protested.  "We can't possibly get a course out of the
navicomputers in time!"

"I got it covered," Han said.  "You just order that fancy little droid
of yours to compute our microjump and put the three of us right in
the

forefront of that fleet.  He can dump the figures into our
navicomputers over the comm.  Can't you, Vuffi Raa?"

"I am a class two droid, of course I can make such an elementary
calculation," Vuffi Raa said, sounding affronted at having his
abilities questioned.  "But, Captain Solo, I must point out that what
you are suggesting presents a considerable risk."  From the way the
little droid spoke, Han could picture it wringing its tentacles at the
very idea.

"Lando, c'mon!  Order him to do it!"

Han could hear Lando sigh even over the comm, "All right, you crazy
Corellian.  Vuffi Raa, you mechanical mastermind, do what Han says!"

Moments later Vuffi Raa said, in a subdued voice, "Course laid in."

"Punch it!"  Han yelled, suiting his actions to his words.  The stars
striated around him for a brief second, then he found himself racing
straight at the Imperial fleet!

He glanced from one side to the other, saw that Lando and Salla were
still in formation with him.  And, behind them and to either side of
them, stretched Xaverri's illusion.  Han could see it now, and even
though he'd been prepared for something big, he was impressed.

"All right!"  he yelled.  "Thanks, Vuffi Raa!"

As the phantom fleet drew nearer the Imperial wedge, the big capital
ships began blasting away.  Han realized immediately that there was a
huge advantage to being part of an illusion.  With this many ships to
shoot at, chances were pretty good that none of the three solid vessels
would be targeted.

Nevertheless, he prepared quickly for evasive.  "Jarik, you ready,
kid?"  he called.

"Ready, Han!"

"Chewie, you ready with those twin lasers?"

"Hrrrrrmnnnnnnn!"

Han chose a target--the leftmost Dreadnaught, which was the one closest
to him.  "I'm going after that Dreadnaught dead ahead," he said over
the comm.

He glanced at the vessel ID.  "The Peacekeeper."

"We'll stay with you," Lando said.  "We can cover each other."

"Great!"  Han was having the time of his life.  "Ain't this fun,
guys?"

"Han, what are you planning to do?"  Salla inquired apprehensively.

"Oh, I just thought I might zip by the Peacekeeper's bridge and wave at
the captain," Han said with cheery good humor.  "Just a friendly little
visit .  . ."

"Han!"  Saila protested.  "I'd rather we all lived through this!"

"Crazy Corellian .  . ."  Lando muttered.

"Hey," Han said.  "What are you worryin' about?  It's me!"

Captain Reldo Dovlis, in command of the Imperial Dreadnaught
Peacekeeper, shook his head in disgust.  "Cease fire!"  he snapped.

"It's not real.  It can't be.  Our shots haven't taken out a single
ship.  And none of their shots have done us the slightest bit of
harm.

We're just wasting our fire and our time."

His sensor operator looked up.  "Sensors still indicate that what we
are seeing is real, sir."

"Sensors are lying, then," Dovlis snarled.  He studied the tactical
array, and saw a number of ships heading for Peacekeeper's stern,
coming fast.

"Vessels approaching from the rear," he said.  "Turn to bring our
forward turbolaser battery to bear on them.  Lock in weapons.  Prepare
to fire on my order."

Slowly the big ship began to swing around.  Dovlis kept a sharp watch
on the approaching vessels, and was relieved to see that he'd have time
to fire several salvos at them.  From the size of them, that ought
to-His pilot gave a strangled yelp, and the Peacekeeper shuddered.  Red
laser fire spattered against Peacekeeper's forward shield.

A bare second later a ship swooped by, so close to the bridge
viewscreen that even Dovlis yelled and ducked.  The ship, a small,
battered SoroSuub freighter, executed a perfect inside loop and came
back for a second run.

They're not all phantoms!  Dovlis realized.  "Turn back!"  he
shouted.

"Fire on that ship!"

Peacekeeper began turning back again.  Now Dovlis could see the
smuggler fleet again, and he gasped at how close they were.  Two more
beat-up freighters strafed the Peacekeeper.  "Target those vessels!"

the Captain ordered.  "Fire!"

Mako Spince's crew had managed to jury-rig some repairs to the Dragon
Pearl, so the Hutt yacht now had partial starboard shielding, and her
hull leaks had been sealed.  Her sublight speeds were still impaired,
but Mako was willing to risk taking her back into battle.  Captain
Renthal had assigned a Y-wing fighter to accompany him, and the swift,
powerful little ship now cruised beside him, prepared to keep incoming
off his weakened starboard side.

Scanning the tactical and sensor arrays, Mako saw that he was now in
range of his target, the Imperial bulk cruiser Liquidator.  The ship
was still pointing its stern toward the oncoming smuggler and pirate
vessels, still vulnerable to attack.

"Mako," Blue said, "we're within firing range."

Mako nodded at the beautiful smuggler pilot.  "Great!  I'm going to let
the Y-wing have first pass, then we'll get in our licks.  Instruct the
gunnery crew to target his left rear deflector, right over his engine
room.  We want to hit him in the same place as the Y-wing."

"Right," Blue muttered, and relayed the order.

Mako was grateful to have that Y-wing to help cover his starboard
side.

The swift, modern little fighter was not only equipped with lasers, but
with proton torpedoes, which were bound to come in real handy.

He keyed his comm, spoke to the pirate gunner aboard the Y-wing.

"Mako here.  You ready?"  "We're ready!"  "Go for it!"

Mako watched the Y-wing on his sensors.  The little ship made its run,
slamming four proton torpedoes into the designated target before
sheering off.  "Okay, Mako," the gunner said, circling back to join the
yacht, "shields are either down or barely holding.  Your turn!"

"My pleasure!"

Mako turned to Blue and gave her a nod.  She increased speed to maximum
(which still wasn't very good) and headed for the Liquidator,
turbolasers blasting away.

With their first blast, Mako knew the bulk cruiser's shields were
already down.  The Pearl's gunners pummeled their target repeatedly
with the two remaining turbolasers, before the cumbersome Imperial
vessel could turn to bring her heavy forward guns to bear.

Moments later the Imperial ship's right flank, and the engine room
beneath it, was a blown-out wreck.  The Liquidator spun slowly in
space, helpless, leaking atmosphere.

Captain Drea Renthal leaned forward excitedly in her command seat.

Finally!

A little action of my own!  Guiding her ships throughout the battle had
been challenging, but not like this.  Now she was flying her own
vessel, and she was going in for the kill.

Her target was another of the big bulk cruisers, the Arrestor.  These
ships were outdated, clumsy, and not heavily shielded enough.  By
comparison with Arrestor, Renthal's Fist was a heavily armed, sleek
engine of destruction.

In addition to its two twin turbolasers in top and bottom turrets her
Corellian corvette had four twin laser turrets on the sides for

shooting fighters, and a pair of capital-ship proton torpedo launchers
in the front, beneath her bridge.

Her supply of proton torpedoes was limited, as Han had predicted.

Renthal had only four.  They were extremely hard to come by.

But as she closed in on Arrestor, Renthal was determined to make every
one of them count.

As she neared firing range, she spoke to her gunnery crew.  "Prepare to
launch torpedo one and two.  Target her stern.  I'd love to get a
reactor overload going!"

"Yes, sir!"

Renthal smiled.  She liked being called "sir."

As Renthal's Fist swooped by, she shouted, "Fire!"

Her ship lurched slightly, once, twice, as the proton torpedoes went
streaking out in a blaze of blue fire.

The first torpedo took out the cruiser's shields.  The second bored
into the hull and caused damage.

"Fire turbolasers!"  Renthal ordered, coming around for another pass.

The Arrestor was lurching now with the impacts.  The turbolasers bored
ever deeper into her vitals, seeking her heart--the reactor that
powered her engines.

Renthal was never quite sure what warned her.  Instinct, perhaps,
developed after twenty years of fighting.  She turned her ship sharply,
and accelerated away at top speed.

Behind her, Arrestor exploded as thoroughly as any fragile TIE
fighter.

Renthal smiled seraphically.  My, that was fun!

Mako cheered as he watched five of Renthal's Y-wings strafe the
Dreadnaught Peacekeeper's stern, targeting its vulnerable engine area,
volleying it with proton torpedo salvos.

The Dreadnaughts were a lot tougher targets than the clumsy bulk
cruisers, but he thought they might have a chance to kill this one.

Apparently Han, Salla, and Lando had pulled some typically harebrained
stunt to keep the Peacekeeper occupied until the Y-wings could move
in.

Mako could make out their blips, following the Y-wings, waiting for
those proton torpedoes to deal with the shields before wasting shots on
the big vessel.

Mako found himself doing some mental figuring as the Y-wings strafed
the Imperial Dreadnaught.  Two salvos of two torpedoes each, from five
Y-wings .  . . that equals twenty torpedo hits!

It sounded like a lot, but Mako had trained aboard an Imperial
Dreadnaught, and knew how tough the old ships were.

There goes the first salvo .  . . ten torpedoes .  . . ten hits .  .

.

Mako did some rough calculations, figured that the Peacekeeper's stern
shields ought to be in real trouble by now.

As the Y-wings swooped by on their second pass, blackened holes began
appearing in the Dreadnaught's starboard flank, where its massive
engines were.

Now that the shields were down, other smugglers were attacking the
Dreadnaught's stern with abandon.  The Imp Captain tried to turn his
ship so he could fire on them, Mako could tell, but the ship was
already sluggish, unresponsive.

And then, suddenly, there was a bright flare on the starboard side, and
then the light from the Peacekeeper's engines went out.

Mako whistled softly.  I think he's in trouble...

"Sir, the starboard reactor overloaded!  The safeties shut it down!"

Reldo Dovlis's second-in-command reported.  "No engine power remaining,
sir!"

Dovlis looked around, feeling desperate.  Without engines, he couldn't
escape.  The smuggler ships were too small to do him much damage
quickly, but over time they could cut his ship to ribbons, starting
from the unprotected starboard stern, and working their way up, toward
the bridge, destroying shields piece by piece, boring into his ship
with their little lasers .  . .

"We've got to restart those engines, or we've had it," Dovlis said,
knowing he spoke the truth.  "Override the fail-safe.  We need
power!"

"But, Captain--" The young man's face was ashen with fear.  Dovlis
didn't blame him.  Reactors weren't something to mess around with.  But
what other alternative did he have?  All the other Imperial vessels
were engaged--it was unlikely that an appeal to Greelanx would bring
help quickly enough.

Dovlis was counting on the fact that the override on the reactor was
designed to trip long before there was actual danger of an explosion.

He fixed his subordinate with a steely gaze.  "I gave you an order,
Commander."

"Yes, sir!"

If only we can fire the engines for long enough to get closer to the
other

ships!  Dovlis thought.  Drifting, the Peacekeeper would tend to be
pulled in by Nar Shaddaa's gravity.

Dovlis heard his ship's engines fire, strain, and his heart ached at
what he was having to do to her.  But all their lives were at stake.

Peacekeeper strained, lurched, then crept slowly forward----and then
shuddered in agony as her starboard engine exploded.  The port engine
was still firing, however, and the unequal thrust sent the Dreadnaught
into a dizzying spin!

"Engines off?  shouted Dovlis, but found that the Commander had already
anticipated his order.  Peacekeeper spun now in silence, whirling over
and over.

The artificial gravity was still functioning because of the emergency
power cells.  But they weren't enough to power the ship's maneuvering
thrusters.  They had no way to pull out of this spin.  Firing the port
engines again would only make them spin harder, faster.

Reldo Dovlis watched in utter terror as the stars whirled by, then the
surface of Nar Shaddaa, hazy because of the moon's planetary shield,
then the stars, then the moon .  . .

Do something!  his mind screamed.  We're being drawn by the moon's
gravity!  In about a minute, we're going to hit Nar Shaddaa's energy
shield!

And what an explosion that would be!

Stars .  .. moon .  . . stars .  . . moon .  . .

Whirling in a dizzying spin, whirling, spinning, utterly powerless to
stop .  . .

Stars... moon.., stars.., moon.., stars.., moon very close now...

Dovlis strove for dignity.  He was, after all, an Imperial officer.

"Can anyone think of anything that might help?"  he asked, keeping his
voice steady and calm.

His bridge crew looked at him silently.  The law of gravity was, in
this case, as cruel and inexorable as any of those imposed by the
Emperor.

Stars... moon.., stars.., moon so close now... Stars ... moon ...

And then there was only the moon, clutching them to her, dragging them
into her shield.

And then there was nothing at all .  . .

One of the smugglers who had darted in to take shots at the dying
Peacekeeper was Roa, who was feeling pretty cocky.  Lately he'd been

wondering if he wasn't getting old, losing his edge, but today he'd
engaged in two dogfights with TIE fighters, and come out victorious.

Hey, I've still got it!  he thought, sending the Lwyll darting after
the spinning Dreadnaught.  Just for the thrill of it, he sent the Lwyll
hurtling beneath the plummeting Imp, pulling out steeply, feeling the
gee forces grip him, so strong was the pull---and then the Peacekeeper
hit Nar Shaddaa's shield.

Even climbing as he was, the shock wave threw Roa forward.  He smashed
into his control yoke with bruising force.  Parts of his instrument
panel shattered, sending shards of glassine to impale his arms and
chest like tiny daggers.

As the big ship exploded, it wiped out a section of the planetary
shield, and flaming debris was sucked through, down into the upper
atmosphere.

And so was Roa.

The concussion shock wave had stunned him, and he struggled to regain
full consciousness.  It wasn't easy.  Waves of blackness rolled over
him like a night sea.

But Roa was a fighter.  He didn't give up his struggle to open his
eyes, to blink, to raise his head.

Seconds later he was able to focus again, and realized where he was and
what he was doing.  He was falling like a stone, down and down,
hurtling through Nar Shaddaa's grimy atmosphere.

Roa blinked.  There was something in his eyes.  Blood?  Most likely.

He shook his head, and pain stabbed.  Trying to move brought agony.

His instrument panel was a mess, but some parts were still lit and
functioning.  His flight suit was no longer vacuum-proof, but he wasn't
in a vacuum any longer .  . .

Forcing himself to move, to take control, Roa grabbed the controls and
began to wrestle the little scout craft down through the atmosphere,
using every bit of skill he had to achieve a soft landing.  Or even a
hard landing.  Any kind of landing!

The Lwyll tried valiantly to respond to his commands.  He brought her
nose up, got air beneath her wings.  His headlong fall slowed.

Roa began testing his braking and maneuvering thrusters, and they
responded sluggishly.  He was still falling, but now it was a
relatively controlled fall.

Beneath him, he could see a landing platform.  Using his maneuvering
thrusters, he managed to edge the Lwyll over, until he was certain
he'd

land on it, as opposed to tumbling over the side, down into the abyss
between buildings .  . .

The permacrete was rushing up at him, fast .  . .

Too fast!

Roa fought gravity as he would have fought a human opponent in a
wrestling match, using every bit of skill he possessed.

As the permacrete hurtled up at him, Roa braced himself...

He never remembered the moment of impact.

How much later did he blink, swim back to consciousness?  Seconds?

Minutes?

Hours?

Roa didn't know and didn't care.  He hurt in a hundred places, but a
more visceral fear than any he'd ever known drove him to full
consciousness.

The smell of burning.  The Lwyll was burning.  Any moment now, she
might explode, and all his struggle to land her would be for nothing
.

. .

Ignoring the stabbing glassine shards that still impaled him, Roa
reached up and stabbed the control that would pop his cockpit.

Clumsily he unsnapped his flight harness.  He managed to pull himself
up, out of his seat, then half fell over the side.  He kicked weakly,
trying to get the strength to draw his legs over.

Suddenly hands grabbed him, lifted him.  Voices babbled in his ears,
faint because of the helmet.

He was being lifted, carried.

He heard steps on the permacrete.  They were hurrying, running steps.

He was being shaken, jounced, almost as badly as when the explosion had
hit him.

Roa raised his head slightly, looked back at the Lwyll, just in time to
see his beloved little ship blow up.

But I'm alive, he thought foggily.  I'm alive, and I still have the
real Lwyll .  . .

And with that thought, he blacked out.

For a man who had been granted his wish, Admiral Winstel Greelanx was
remarkably unhappy.  The Admiral stared at his tactical screens, his
sensors, saw the damage his squadron had taken, and was absolutely
furious.

How dare those smugglers?  How dare they?

One Dreadnaught utterly destroyed.  A Carrack-class cruiser fit only
for salvage.  One bulk cruiser a helpless cripple, another that was now
part of the debris and spacedust floating around Nar Shaddaa .  . .

Greelanx fought back the urge to rally his troops and continue the
battle.

He still had a formidable force, especially against these smugglers.

There was a decent chance, perhaps more than fifty-fifty, that he would
be able to achieve victory and implement his orders.

But he couldn't do that.  He had been looking for a way to justify
withdrawal, and now it had been handed to him.

He turned to Commander Jelon.  "Order our ships to fall back in an
orderly fashion.  When they have disengaged, order them to rendezvous
at our hyperspace rally coordinates."

Jelon stared at his commanding officer in open surprise.  "Retreat,
sir?"

"Yes, retreat," Greelanx said harshly.  "We cannot achieve our
directive here in the Y'Toub system.  Approved tactical wisdom dictates
an orderly retreat, while we still have some control over the
situation."

Usually Greelanx would no more justify his orders to a subordinate than
he would step out an airlock without a spacesuit, but in his mind he
was composing his official report, trying those phrases on for size.

Jelon snapped to attention and saluted formally.  "Yes, sir!"

Retreat?  thought Captain Soontir Fel in blank astonishment. 
Retreat?

We can still win!

It wouldn't be easy, but it was do-able.  Fel was sure of it.  He
simply couldn't believe that Greelanx had so little backbone.

"Retreat in orderly fashion," Commander Jelon repeated.  "Those are the
admiral's orders."

Fel outranked Jelon, and that gave him the courage to speak his mind
more bluntly than he would have dared to the admiral.  "But there are
still unrecalled TIEs out there.  We can't abandon them!"

"The admiral is expecting the squadron to make the jump to hyperspace
at the rally coordinates within the time he specified," Jelon said
stiffly.

Fel's mouth tightened.  "Fel out," he said curtly, and the tiny
holographic image of Jelon vanished.

Soontir Fel turned to his second-in-command.  "Broadcast an emergency
recall to all TIE fighters to rendezvous with the Pride.  I will take
as many as I can, until the docking bays and shuttle bays are full.  At
the same time, we will disengage and withdraw, Commander Toniv."

"What speed, sir?"

"One-quarter speed, Commander."

"One-quarter speed, sir?"

"You heard me."

"Yes, sir!"

Fel had ordered such a ridiculously low speed in order to give as many
TIEs as possible the chance to get aboard his vessel.  Technically, he
was obeying his orders--Greelanx had neglected to specify a speed--but
he was disobeying them in spirit.

Frankly, at the moment, Soontir Fel could have cared less about his
orders.

He wasn't going to abandon those TIE pilots!

Five minutes later his docking bays were full of the regulation twelve
TIE fighters, and his shuttle bay contained another three.  Sensors
didn't indicate any other TIEs out there to be picked up, so Fel
ordered Pride up to full speed to catch up to the rest of the
squadron.

A minute later the tiny holographic image of Admiral Greelanx
materialized on his comm board.  "Captain Fel!"

Fel had no trouble staying cool.  He was still too angry to be
apprehensive.

"Yes, Admiral?"

"You deliberately disobeyed my order!"

"I retrieved our fighters, Admiral.  And their pilots.  I considered
that · .

. important."

Greelanx's little image bristled.  "Captain, this decision on your part
could wind up costing you your command.  I shall make a full report."

Fel swallowed, but his gaze did not waver.  "And I shall, of course,
make my full report," he said.  "As per regulations, I intend to offer
all the facts of the battle as I observed it."

Greelanx stared at Fel for a long moment.  Neither gaze wavered.

Finally, the admiral nodded.  "As you wish, Captain."

The tiny image vanished.  Soontir Fel dropped into a seat, resisting
the urge to hold his head in his hands.  Were the lives of those TIE
pilots worth a career?

It was entirely possible that he was about to find out.

Soontir Fel sighed.  Life could be very complicated, at times.  But
then a thought occurred to him, and it cheered him considerably .  .

.

At least I didn't have to execute Base Delta Zero .  . . that's worth
something, too .  . .

fifteen

Leavetakings Twenty-four hours after Han and Chewie had brought the
Bria safely back to Nar Shaddaa, undamaged save for the gun mount and a
weakened stern shield over her engine housing, Han and Xaverri stood
together on the windswept landing platform beside The Phantasm's
landing ramp.  Salla and Chewie had accompanied them most of the way,
but had discreetly fallen back, to allow them to say a private
farewell.

Now Han looked at Xaverri, who had once more assumed her colorful,
stylish clothes, and shook his head.  "I hate good-byes," he said
miserably.  "I can never think of anything to say, and this is worse
than usual· How can I find words to thank you, Xaverri?  Your illusion
saved us.  Without you, we wouldn't have been able to do it."

She smiled at him, her dark eyes full of affection.  "Hey, Solo .  .
.

I wouldn't have missed it for all the credits in the galaxy.  I just
wish I'd been on the bridge of a few of those Imperial ships to see
their reaction."

Han laughed.  "They had to have been surprised, that's for sure."

Impulsively he reached out and took her hands, then found himself
hugging her fiercely.  "I'm gonna miss you," he said, his voice muffled
by her hair.  "Just when I thought I'd gotten used to living without
you, here I have to do it all over again.  It ain't fair, Xaverri."

When he pulled back a bit, she reached up and kissed him firmly on the
mouth.  "Don't worry," she said with a smile, "Salla won't mind.  She's
a classy lady."

"She is," he agreed.  "We think a lot alike."

Xaverri nodded.  "I hope you two are happy, Solo.  You take care of
each other, okay?"

Han nodded.  "You, too."

"I will, Solo.  Don't forget me .  . ."

"Never," he said, his throat tight.  "I could never forget you,
Xaverri."

Xaverri pulled away, and he let her go.  She ran up the ramp, into her
ship, and did not look back .  . .

Three days after the Battle of Nar Shaddaa (as it was coming to be
known), Han, Chewie, Salla, and Lando attended Roa's wedding.  The
aging smuggler was nearly healed, thanks to a prolonged dunk in a bacta
tank, and Lwyll looked radiant in an elegant gown.

It was generally known that the four smugglers had been instrumental in
turning the tide of battle in Nar Shaddaa's favor.  Han and his friends
were the toast of the party.  They wandered around, sipping drinks,
scarfing appetizers, shaking hands, and being congratulated by all and
sundry.

Lando came up to Roa, threw an arm around the smuggler's shoulders, and
said, "I understand that getting out of the smuggling business is one
of the conditions to this wedding, Roa."

"That's right."

"Well, you're going to need honest employment, then.  Would you like to
work for me?"

"Doing what?"

Lando laughed.  "Don't look so suspicious!  Managing my used spaceship
lot.

I'm going on an extended trip back to the Centrality, and I need
someone reliable to look after the business."

Roa looked very thoughtful.  "Well .  . . sure!  I think I'd like
that.

Thanks, Lando.  So... why are you heading out?  Got something
planned?"

"Vuffi Raa and I are heading back to the Centrality because I've got a
hunch I could make a quick fortune running cargo to those backward
planets.  And"--Lando smiled and stroked his fledgling mustache--"if
that doesn't work, there are always the casinos in the Oseon system.

It'll do me good to polish up my sabacc game.  When you don't play, you
get rusty.

The games here on Nar Shaddaa are pretty small, credit-ante.  I need
some real high-stakes action to get ready for the real action."

Han, who had been wandering past, stopped when he heard Lando's
speech.

"Sabacc game?  Real action?  What's going on?  Whose sabacc game needs
polish?"

Lando laughed.  "Mine does.  If I can raise the stake, I'm going to
get

myself into the big sabacc game that's being held on Bespin in six
months.

Ante's ten thousand credits."

"Ten thousand credits!"  Han whistled softly.  "That's a big game, all
right."

Lando smiled at his friend.  "Hey, you're a pretty decent sabacc
player, Han.  You ought to consider getting together your own stake."

Han shook his head.  "No way!"  "Why not?"

"Too rich for my blood!"  Han said.  "If I could manage to scrounge up
ten thousand credits, I'd put it toward a ship of my own."

"Yeah, but you might win enough to buy one," Lando pointed out.  "I'm
not that lucky," Han said.

"Oh, c'mon, Han," Lando urged, "you could raise the credits."  He
looked over at Chewbacca.  "Chewie would loan 'em to you, wouldn't you,
Chewbacca?

He's your best friend, right?"

Chewbacca gave an eloquent growl, then shook his head emphatically.

Han laughed.  "Not a good enough friend to risk ten thousand credits,
Lando!"

Durga the Hutt crouched beside his parent's repulsor sled,
griefstricken, watching the med droids and Grodo, the Hutt physician,
work desperately to save Aruk.  But even he could tell that their
efforts were doomed to failure.

Aruk had collapsed minutes ago, gasping in pain, retching, moaning,
then jerking in frenzied spasms.  Durga had never felt so helpless as
he watched his parent struggle for life and breath.

Aruk the Hutt had always been strong, strong and stubborn.  It took him
four hours to die, four agonizing, pain-filled hours.  Durga crouched
by him the entire time, hoping that his parent would regain
consciousness, but Aruk never did.

It was a relief when the Besadii Lord's straining heart finally gave up
the struggle, but even though he was glad that his parent was free of
the terrible pain, Durga was devastated.  He had lost his best friend,
as well as his parent.

He clutched Aruk's limp hand, seeing the rivulets of green slobber
running out the slack, dead mouth, and knew, without knowing how he
knew, that this death was murder.

Who had done this?

Who else but Desilijic stood to profit by Aruk's death?

For days Durga was too devastated to function, barely eating, dragging
himself around like a lost spirit.  He refused to let his parent's body
be interred.  Even though the physician's tests on the contents of
Aruk's stomach indicated that there was no poison, that the Hutt Lord
had died of natural causes, Durga was convinced that there had been
foul play.  He had Aruk's massive corpse frozen, and resolved to hire a
team of forensic specialists from Imperial Center to perform a thorough
autopsy as soon as things settled down.

The Besadii kajidic was in an uproar.  Two factions emerged, the
proDurga and the anti-Durga faction.  Durga took steps to consolidate
his power.  He contacted an infamous crime syndicate, Black Sun, that
was owned and commanded by the powerful prince Xizor, and explained to
the prince how their organizations might prove beneficial to each other
. . .

Over the next three weeks, three powerful Besadii Lords died--two in
shuttle crashes, one by drowning when his river barge struck an
uncharted rock and sank.

After that, the anti-Durga faction became far less vocal.

While he waited for the forensic specialists to arrive from Imperial
Center, Durga made a list of possible suspects.  Surely there would be
some clue, somewhere, as to who had done this--and how.

Durga resolved to start with the financial records.  As a Hutt, he
understood finances, and profit.  He would check the finances of every
member of Desilijic, then go on to Besadii, then the other clans.  He
would look for a pattern.  There was always a pattern to finances, if
one knew how to see it .  . .

Slowly, day by day, the young Hutt Lord found the strength to carry on
without his parent.

Someone is going to pay for this, he vowed every morning when he looked
at Aruk's holo hanging on the wall in his chamber.  And they will pay
dearly .

. .

sixteen

The Payoff

This time around, the snooty administrative aide waved Han into Admiral
Greelanx's private sanctum without question.  It was obvious to Han
that his arrival was eagerly awaited.  The Corellian smiled grimly as
he walked in.  He supposed he'd be glad to see someone who was going to
give him a fortune, too .  . .

The admiral was standing by the viewport, staring out moodily.  He
turned as Han came in, nodded, but did not smile.  "Did you bring
them?"  he asked.

"Yes, sir, they're all here, exactly as specified," Han said.

Carefully he pushed items away from the center of Greelanx's desk and
then emptied the small pouch he carried into the cleared spot.

Greelanx stared down at the sparkling fortune in assorted untraceable
gems, and his eyes lit up.  "The Hutts are true to their word," he
said.

"But you won't mind if I--" He gestured with a magnifier.

"Go right ahead," Han said.

The admiral spent the next few minutes examining several of the
largest, most beautiful gems--Gallinorean rainbow gems, corusca stones,
and Krayt dragon pearls of various sizes and hues.  "I assume you found
your shuttle at the rendezvous point," the admiral said, "since you are
here exactly on time."

"Yes, sir, everything was just like you said it would be, Admiral."

Greelanx glanced up, still holding the magnifier up to his face.  His

right eye was enormous, as seen through the lens.  "How are you
planning to get off my ship?"  he asked, as if only mildly curious.

Han shrugged.  "I have a partner who will pick me up."

"Very well.  Young man, these stones are exactly as specified.  Please
tell your Hutt masters that I am satisfied."

Han nodded, but said, "They aren't my masters.  I just work for
them."

"Whatever," Greelanx said.  He hesitated, then said, "I didn't believe
you could do it, you know.  Even with the battle plan."

"I know," Han said.  "But it was that or die.  We were fighting for our
lives.  You were fighting for credits.  Makes a big difference."  "That
holo-illusion was a brilliant tactical stroke."  Han smiled and
executed a slight bow.  "Thank you."  Greelanx seemed taken aback.

"You did it?"  "No, I had an expert do it.  But it was my idea."

"Ah."  The admiral seemed to consider for a moment, then said, with a
trace of wistfulness, "You despise me, don't you, young man?"

Han stared at him in surprise.  "Not at all.  I do lots of things I'm
not tickled about for credits."

"But there are some things you will not do."  Han considered.  "Yeah,
that's true."  "Well, I--" Greelanx broke off as the door suddenly
opened, and his aide stood there, eyes wide and frightened. 
"Admiral!

Sir!"

"What is it?"  Greelanx was annoyed.

"Sir, I was just advised by the docking-bay crew .  . . he has just
landed.

An unscheduled inspection, apparently.  He is on his way to speak with
you at this moment!"

Greelanx took a deep breath, then waved the man out.  "I suppose I
should have anticipated this, under the circumstances," he muttered,
racing over to the wall.  Behind a Certificate of Merit, there was a
wall lockup unit.

Greelanx stood for a moment, letting the unit scan his retinas.  The
door swung open.  The admiral grabbed a double handful of jewels, raced
over, dumped them in, then came back and brushed the last of the gems
into his palm, dumped them, too.

While all this was going on, Han was standing there, totally bemused by
the admiral's actions.

"What's going on?"  he asked.

"No time," Greelanx said, shutting the lockup.  "Here, you'll have to
wait in here.  You can't let him see you.  If he did--" The admiral bit
his lip, yanked open the other door, the one leading to his secretary's
office.

The room was vacant, dark.  "In here.  Don't make a sound.  Not a
sound, understand?"

"No," Han said, totally confused.  "I don't."

Greelanx did not bother to reply.  Grabbing Han's arm, he shoved him
into the office, then shut the door.

Han stood there in the dark office, wondering what in blazes was going
on.

Who was he?  It sounded like Greelanx was expecting some kind of
monster out of a kid's adventure tridee!

Half-tempted to storm back out and just say "good riddance," Han
tiptoed over to the door.  The doorseal, he discovered, hadn't quite
caught.  He was able to hear Greelanx moving around, and then came some
small thumps and rustles.

Putting his desk back to rights, Han realized.

Then came a squeak, as Greelanx sat back down in his luxurious
lizard-hide chair.  Han could almost picture him, being elaborately
casual.

The doorseal to the outer office hissed.  Han heard a heavy, measured
tread and the whisper of something that might have been fabric.  Was
the newcomer wearing long robes?  A cloak?

Then came another sound that the Corellian recognized--loud, stentorian
breathing, respirations that were artificially stimulated because the
wearer was unable to breathe on his own.  A respirator mask .  . . the
visitor was wearing a respirator mask.

Somehow the sounds of those loud, hissing breaths was ominous.  Han
swallowed and didn't make a sound.

Greelanx said, in a deliberately bright, pleasant tone that was
supposed to sound casual, but instead sounded terrified, "Lord, what an
unexpected pleasure!  The Outer Rim is honored by your presence.  I
gather you wish to conduct an inspection.  You must understand that we
have just recently been engaged in battle, so--" "Greelanx," said a
deep, mechanically enhanced voice that made Han's skin crawl, "you are
as stupid as you are greedy.  Did you imagine that the High Command
would remain unaware of your treachery?"

Now Greelanx made no attempt to hide his fear.  "Lord, please!  You
don't understand, I was ord--" His voice broke off in a choked cry.

Han's eyes widened, and he wouldn't have opened that door into
Greelanx's office for all the dragon pearls in the galaxy.

Silence, except for that loud, harsh breathing.  Silence, for many
seconds.

Then .  . . a heavy thump as something landed on the thick carpet.  The
voice said, "Ah, but I understand perfectly, Admiral."

The heavy footsteps came again, passed the door where Han was hiding,
did not pause.  Then came the sound of the doorseal activating.

Silence.

Han waited a good five minutes before he dared to unseal the door and
peer out.  He wasn't particularly surprised to find Greelanx sprawled
on the carpet.  He checked for a pulse, found none, which also wasn't
surprising.

What was surprising was that there wasn't a mark on the body.  When Han
hadn't heard a blaster, he'd assumed the visitor had used a
vibroblade.

An expert assassin could use one to kill with little blood, and no
struggle.

But Greelanx didn't have a mark on him .  . .

Han stood there, looking down at the admiral's dead features, which
were frozen in a look of utter terror.  He shivered.  Who was that
guy?

Han walked over to the wall, took a cursory glance at the lockup, but
it was as he'd expected--a good unit, retinally activated.  And even if
he were to dig Greelanx's eyeball out of its socket--a grisly task, all
right--the admiral had already been dead too long.  The retinal
patterns wouldn't work right.

I'm gettin' outta here .  . . Han decided.  He walked back, stepped
over Greelanx's outflung hand, and then stopped when something his toe
had kicked rolled across the carpet.

Han stooped, grabbed it exultantly.  A Krayt dragon pearl!  Small, but
it seemed, to the naked eye, flawless.  Opalescent black.  A valuable
color.

Sealing the jewel in an inside pocket, Han hurried out.

Ten minutes later he'd finished making his preparations for his
escape.

He stood by the hatch on the lifepod deck, hastily finishing a rewiring
job on the pod-ejection controls.  Then he pressed a button, and the
lifepod hatch hissed open softly.

He froze as he heard a step, then a familiar voice.  "Stop right there,
Han.  Turn around .  . . slowly."

Han did so, and found, as he'd expected from the voice, his old friend
Tedris Bjalin.

The man stood there, holding a blaster aimed at Han.  "What are you
doing here?  I saw you in the corridor, saw you go into the admiral's
office.  Why were you talking to the admiral?  What's going on?"

They're going to think I murdered Greelanx, Han realized.  They'll
shoot me first and ask questions later!

"Hey, Tedris, take it easy," he said, smiling crookedly.  He took a
slow, careful step forward.  "You know you couldn't shoot your old
pal."

"Stop it right there, Solo," Bjalin said, but his hand wasn't quite
steady on the blaster's grip.  They had, after all, been close
friends.

"What are you doing wearing that uniform?  Who are you--"

"Hey, pal, you got questions, let's go somewhere and talk about this,"
Han said.  "I can answer every--" Breaking off in midword, Han flung
himself at Tedris, using a very dirty Corellian street-fighting
trick.

Bjalin went down, then lay on the deck, wheezing for breath, his eyes
accusing.  Han stooped down, appropriated his old friend's blaster.

He went down on one knee beside his friend.  "Listen to me, Tedris," he
said softly.  "You're not gonna die, though you won't be real comfy for
a while.

I want you to know something.  I didn't do it.  Okay?  Just remember
that, later on.  And you know something, Tedris?  You're too nice a guy
to stay in this lousy, massacre-happy Imperial Navy.  Take my advice
and get out while you can."

With that, Han stunned Tedris, then stepped over his friend's
unconscious form.  Hastily he dragged Bjalin into one of the other
lifepods, making sure the hatch wasn't fastened, so there was no way he
could accidentally be ejected.

Then he ducked through the hatch of the lifepod he'd rewired.  Moments
later he was ejected into space.  He'd rigged the lifepod so it would
look like an accidental ejection.  Not surprising, under the
circumstances.  After all, the Destiny had just been through a battle
.

. .

He worried for a while that the Imps might retrieve his pod, but they
did not.  Han figured that Greelanx's murder was occupying everyone's
attention.

Chewie picked him up an hour later, as he drifted, still puzzling over
what had happened to Greelanx.

The Wookiee scooped Han's stolen lifepod into the Bria's cargo bay,
whining and growling that they had to get out of here, fast, there were
recon TIE fighters prowling around.

Han agreed.  Hastily he and Chewie headed for the bridge.  They were
halfway there when they heard the WHUMP!  Seconds later another
followed, this one so strong it knocked both of them to the deck.

"Chewie, we're under fire!"  Han yelled.  "Get to the gun mount!"  Han
hastily slipped into the pilot's seat, saw two recon TIEs circling back
for a second pass--and then he saw the blinking red light on his
control board.

"Chewie!  Reactor overload!  They hit us right in that weak shield!

We've gotta abandon ship!"

Leaping up, he ran to the gun turret, then grabbed the Wookiee and
began dragging him out.  Chewbacca shook his head, arguing, but Han
screamed, "Run, you big oaf!  This ship is gonna blow!"

When they reached the cargo deck again, the Wookiee was hesitant about
crawling into the Imperial lifepod, but Han insisted.  "Don't you get

it, Chewie?  The Bria is finished!  This is our only chance!  Now get
inside and put on this respirator mask!"

Once Chewie was safely inside, Han hastily donned a spacesuit, then
opened the cargo-bay doors wide.

WHUMP!  WHUMP- WHUMP!

Give up, Han thought at the TIEs as he attached an anti-grav unit to
the lifepod, then floated it over to the cargo door.  We're doomed
anyhow · .  .

Tapping on the viewport, he gestured out what he planned.  Chewie, now
wearing the respirator, nodded.

Then, in one smooth motion, Han slid the pod toward the opening, just
as Chewie popped the hatch and yanked him inside.

The entire sequence took maybe six seconds.  Not enough time for
explosive decompression to rupture tough Wookiee hide.  A second later
the hatch was closed and dogged, and atmosphere was again filling the
pod.

The pod had barely cleared the cargo-bay doors when the Bria blew up.

The concussion knocked the little lifepod spinning.  Han braced
himself, half expecting one of the TIEs to attack them, but as he'd
hoped, their escape was covered by the explosion.

The lifepod was very, very cramped.  Han managed to get his helmet off,
then he and Chewie just crouched there, almost in each other's arms,
and stared at each other, then back at the flaming debris that had been
their ship.

"Lando isn't gonna like this," Han said ruefully.  The Bria had been a
cranky, temperamental ship, but he'd kind of gotten used to her.

Chewie growled softly in Wookiee.  Han looked at him and shrugged.

"What do we do now?  Your guess is as good as mine, pal.  This is an
inhabited system, so the lifepod controls ought to soft-land us
somewhere near where we can get a transport ..."

Chewie whined.  "Oh, you mean what will we do for a ship?"  Han
sighed.

"That's a real good question, pal .  . ."

He's dead, Teroenza thought in disbelief, looking at the message from
Nal Hutta.  It worked.  I can't believe Aruk's really gone!

For just a moment he felt a tiny prickle of guilt, but it was swiftly
drowned in excitement.  With Aruk out of the way, and Desilijic's
credits pouring in, nothing could stop him from taking over complete
control of the entire Ylesian operation.  Durga was back on Nal Hutta,
with his hands full trying to control Besadii.  Kibbick was, as
everyone knew, an idiot.

Teroenza pictured his collection, and then pictured it as it would be
soon.

He would build a separate building to house it!

And he would bring his mate here.  No more lonely days and nights.

They would slosh in the mud wallows together, rich beyond their wildest
dreams .  . .

Teroenza spent several minutes putting on a suitably lugubrious
expression, then the t'landa Til went off to find Kibbick, and inform
him that his uncle was dead .  . .

Moff Sam Shild sat alone in his palatial home on Teth, wondering just
what had gone wrong.  The attack on Nal Hutta had obviously been a huge
mistake.

Greelanx---Greelanx had failed, and now the admiral was dead under
suspicious circumstances.

Shild was alone in his house, save for the droids.  All his living
servants were gone, he knew not where.  Bria .  . . she was gone, too,
had disappeared days ago.

She hadn't even said good-bye .  . .

Yesterday, the Emperor had summoned Shild back to Imperial Center, to
face a board of inquiry about the ill-fated attack on the Y'Toub
system.

Palpatine's message had made it clear that the Emperor was most
displeased.

Shild sat alone, struggling to comprehend it all.  Scant days ago, he'd
been on top of the galaxy.  Now he couldn't even remember why he'd done
the things he'd done.  It was almost as though he'd been possessed by
an alien entity.

Shild stared down at his ornate desk.  Before him lay a blaster, side
by side with a vial of poison.  Shild took a deep breath.  He had no
illusions anymore.  Traveling to Imperial Center would only prolong the
inevitable.

Anything would be better than facing Palpatine's wrath.  But which
should he use, the blaster or the poison?

Shild considered for a while, but couldn't make up his mind.  Finally,
in desperation, he fell back on a childhood memory.  Moving his finger
from one means of death (and escape) to the other, he began to chant
aloud: "Wonga, winga, cingee wooze .  . . which of these do I
choose?"

REBEL DAWN

This book is dedicated to the memory of Brian Daley.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Just about two years ago now, Bantam asked me to write the story of Han
Solo's life in the ten years before Star Wars: A New Hope.  I felt so
honored, and a bit intimidated by the scope of the task that lay before
me.

And now .  . . it's behind me.  I can hardly believe it.  For two
years, I've "lived" in the Star Wars universe, watching the films over
and over, reading the reference books, the other novels, and talking to
Star Wars fans at conventions, in online chat rooms, and at book
signings.  Star Wars has, quite literally, been my life.

It feels funny to say good-bye to all of that, at least for the
immediate future.  I'm looking forward to getting back to my big
fantasy trilogy for Avon, a project I interrupted (Thank you, John and
both Jennifers!) to do these Han Solo novels.  There's sadness, too, in
leaving behind this universe that I've enjoyed so much.  But I've made
so many new friends that I'm sure they'll keep me up on Mr. Lucas's
universe.

The list of people who helped me with these books continues to grow.

Rebel Dawn was a tough book to write.  I felt as though I had a
responsibility to "set the stage" for Han's role in the Star Wars
films--and that's a tall order.  I couldn't have produced this novel
without the help of many people.  I tried hard to avoid any mistakes in
Star Wars continuity, but if they exist, they're my own.  Many grateful
thanks to the following folks:

First and foremost, my dear friend and crackerjack military expert,
Steve Osmanski.  Steve and his wife Mary have been my staunchest
supporters and I could not have done it without you both.

Michael Capobianco, sweetheart, friend, partner.  As always, Michael
kept me on track, and spotted about a zillion plot holes before they
became problems.  I suspect at this point we've become two of the
world's foremost authorities on Hutts.  A distinction to be proud of,
truly!

Rich Handley, Craig Robert Carey (godfather of Wookiees!), Mike
Beidler, and Pablo Hidalgo, for vital information regarding the Star
Wars universe.

Thanks, guys.

Peter, Paul, Eric, and Tim of West End Games.

Rob Brown and Curtis Saxton for information regarding the Millennium
Falcon, "the fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy."

R. Lee Brown of Echo Station and Peet Janes of Dark Horse Comics.

My editor, Pat LoBrutto, who is one in a million, and to whom I owe a
homemade lasagna dinner with all the trimmings.  Also, Tom Dupree, for
choosing me to work on the project in the first place.  And Evelyn
Cainto, who keeps the Star Wars editorial department running, and who
is always a sympathetic ear.

Sue Rostoni of the Lucasfilm Licensing department, who helped
immeasurably, keeping me consistent with the rest of the Star Wars
universe.

My fellow Star Wars novelists, who created material I "borrowed" for
Rebel Dawn: L. Neil Smith, Brian Daley, Kevin J. Anderson, Kristine
Kathryn Rusch, Steve Perry, Mike Stackpole, Timothy Zahn, Rebecca
Moesta, and Michael P. KubeMacDowell.

The Star Ladies and all my on-line friends, who made suggestions and
took such a keen interest in Han Solo's further adventures.  You all
know who you are.

Cathy Cathers, Chris Petescia, Roseann Caputo, Glenn Thibert, Linda
Jean Weldon, Tim, and Aaron.

Drew Struzan, who designed and painted the great book covers.  I loved
every one!

And, of course, George Lucas, who started it all.  Thank you, Mr.
Lucas.  It has truly been an honor.

May the Force be with you all .  . .

one

Winners and Losers

Han Solo leaned forward in the pilot's seat of the Wayward Girl.

"Entering atmosphere, Captain," he said.  He watched the system's big,
pale sun slip into the great curve of ruddy light at the world's edge
and disappear behind the planet's limb.  Bespin's huge, dark nightside
loomed up to blot out the stars.  Han checked his sensors.  "They say
Bespin's got some big flyin'--or should I say, floatin'--creatures in
its atmosphere, so keep those forward shields at maximum strength."

One-handed, his co-pilot made an adjustment.  "What's our ETA to Cloud
City, Han?"  she asked, a hint of strain in her voice.

"Not long now," Han replied reassuringly, as the Girl sliced into the
upper atmosphere, swooping over the planet's dark pole, lightning far
below making a flickering fog of dim light.  "ETA twenty-six minutes.

We ought to be in Cloud City in time to catch a late dinner."

"The sooner the better," she commented, grimacing as she flexed her
right arm in its pressure-sling.  "This thing itches like fury."

"Just hang on, Jadonna," Han said.  "We'll get you straight to the med
facility."

She nodded.  "Hey, Han, no complaints from me.  You've done great.

I'll just be glad to get this arm into bacta."

Han shook his head.  "Ripped cartilage and ligaments ... that's gotta
hurt," he said.  "But Cloud City's sure to have adequate meds."  She
nodded.  "Oh, they do.  It's quite a place, Han.  You'll see."  Jadonna
Veloz was a short, stocky, dark-skinned woman with long, straight
black hair.  Han had met her two days ago, after she'd advertised from
Alderaan on the spacer-nets for a pilot to fly her ship to Bespin.

Veloz's arm had been injured when it was struck by a malfunctioning
antigrav loader, but, determined to meet her tight shipping deadline,
she'd postponed real treatment until she delivered her cargo.

After paying Han's passage from Corellia on a fast shuttle to Alderaan,
he'd taken over as pilot, and brought them to Bespin right on
schedule.

The Wayward Girl was through the wispy exosphere now, and plunging
deeper, moving toward the evening twilight, blue sky building above
them.  Han altered course, heading southwest, toward where the setting
sun must be.

As they streaked along, the tops of the piled, puffy masses of clouds
far below began taking on colors, deep crimson and coral, then
yellow-orange.

Han Solo had his own reasons for needing a ride to Bespin.  If it
hadn't been for Jadonna's ad on the nets, he'd have had to dip into his
rapidly dwindling stash of credits to buy passage for himself on a
commercial vessel.

Veloz's accident couldn't have come at a better time, far as Han was
concerned.  With the credits she'd promised him, he'd be able to afford
a cheap room and a few meals during the big sabacc tournament.  The
buyin alone was a staggering ten thousand credits.  Han had barely
managed to scrape those credits together by fencing the small golden
palador figurine he'd stolen from the Ylesian High Priest Teroenza,
plus the dragon pearl he'd discovered in Admiral Greelanx's office.

The Corellian wished for a moment that Chewie was here with him, but
he'd had to leave the Wookiee behind in their little flat on Nar
Shaddaa because he couldn't afford to buy his passage.

They were deep into the atmosphere now, and Han could actually see
Bespin's sun, a squashed looking orange ball just clearing a massive
bank of clouds.  The Girl was surrounded by a golden glory of heaped
clouds--as golden as Han Solo's dreams of wealth.

Han was staking everything on this big gamble .  . . and he'd always
been lucky at sabacc.  But would luck be enough to let him win?  He'd
be playing against professional gamblers like Lando.

The Corellian swallowed, then resolutely concentrated on his
piloting.

This was no time to get an attack of nerves.  Han made another
adjustment to the Girl's approach vector, thinking that he ought to be
within range of Cloud City traffic control any time now.

As if in answer to his thoughts, a voice spoke up from his comm.

"Incoming vessel, please identify yourself."

Jadonna Veloz reached left-handed to activate their comm.  "Cloud City
traffic control, this is the Wayward Girl out of Alderaan.  Our
approach vector is .  . ."  she glanced at Han's instruments and reeled
off a string of numbers.

"Wayward Girl, we confirm your vector.  Cloud City is your
destination?"

"That's an affirmative, traffic control," Jadonna said.  Han grinned.

From what he'd heard, Cloud City was about all there was to Bespin.

There were the mining facilities, of course, and gas refining, storage
and shipping facilities, but more than half of all incoming traffic was
probably bound for the luxurious resort hotels.  In the past few years,
bored tourists had made the city in the clouds one of their favorite
vacation playgrounds.

"Traffic control," Jadonna continued, "we have a priority shipment for
the Yarith Bespin kitchens.  Nerf tenderloins in stasis.  Request a
landing vector."

"Permission granted, Wayward Girl," came the voice of the traffic
controller.  The controller's voice took on a more informal note.

"Nerf steaks, eh?  I'll have to take my wife out this week.  She's been
wanting something fancy, and that's a treat we don't get too often."

"These are prime cuts, traffic control," Veloz said.  "Hope the chef at
the Yarith Bespin appreciates them."

"Oh, he's good," the voice said, then the controller reverted to his
official tones.  "Wayward Girl, I have you slotted in at Level 65,
Docking Bay 7A.  Repeat.  Level 65, 7A.  Do you copy?"

"We copy, Cloud City Controller."

"And your assigned landing vector is .  . ."  the voice hesitated, then
gave them more coordinates.

Han punched them into the navicomputer, then they settled back to enjoy
the ride.  He found himself looking forward to seeing the fabled Cloud
City.

Bespin itself had already been famous, even before the resort was
built.

They mined tibanna gas here, which was used in starship engines, and in
powering blasters.

Han wasn't sure how they actually mined the gas, but he knew that
tibanna gas was very valuable, so the miners must be doing well.

Before it was discovered in Bespin's atmosphere, tibanna gas had
usually been found in stellar chromospheres and nebular clusters--which
made harvesting it hazardous, to say the least.  Then somebody had
stumbled across the fact that Bespin's atmosphere was loaded with it.

Picking up a sudden burst of electrical activity on his sensors, Han
hastily changed course.  "Hey--what's that?"  He pointed at the
viewscreen.  To their right now, was a monstrous, half-seen shape,
drifting amid those incredible aurulent clouds.  The thing was so large
that it would have dwarfed many small Corellian cities.

Jadonna leaned forward.  "That's a beldon!"  she exclaimed.  "They're
really rare.  In all the years I've been flying through these clouds,
I've never seen one."

Han squinted at the mammoth creature as the Girl streaked by it.  The
beldon resembled some of the gelatinous ocean creatures he'd seen on
some worlds, with a huge, dome-like top, and many small feeding
tentacles hanging down beneath it.

Han checked his landing vector.  "Right on the credits, Captain," he
said.

Behind them, the leviathan faded into the distance.  Han saw another,
smaller shape ahead of them that almost resembled an upsidedown beldon,
and realized it was Cloud City.

It hung in the clouds like some kind of exotic wineglass, topped with a
jeweled crown of rounded towers, domed buildings, communication spires,
and refinery stacks.  In the last wash of sunset, it glowed like a
corusca gem.

Staying on their approach vector, Han sent them skimming over the domed
buildings of the cityscape in the clouds.  Moments later, he brought
the Girl down in a perfect landing on their assigned spot.

After receiving his pay, and saying farewell to Captain Veloz, Han went
looking for a robo-hack to take him to the posh Yarith Bespin hotel,
where the sabacc tournament was being held.

Moments later he was punching in his destination on a keypad, sending
the little robo-hack zipping through the city streets, up and down
levels, traveling at a pace that would have made most humans
dizzy--especially when the little vehicle "hopped" low-lying buildings,
giving Han a glimpse of the clouds surrounding them and the yawning
depths below them.  It was almost full night now, and the city sparkled
like a lady's open jewel box.

Minutes later the robo-hack pulled up before the Yarith Bespin.  Han
waved the luggage droid aside and walked through the massive
entrance.

He'd been in posh hotels before, while touring with his magician
friend, Xaverri, so the opulent interior with its spidery,
crisscrossing glidewalks that spanned the stories-high atrium didn't
phase him.  He saw a sign reading "Tournament Registration" in at least
20 languages, and followed the arrow up the glide-lift to the
mezzanine.

When he stepped off the floating walkway, he headed purposefully toward
the large tables.  The place was thronged with gamblers of all species,
sizes and descriptions.  Han registered, checked his blaster (all

weapons had to be checked), received an ID badge, and a voucher that
he'd cash in as he needed betting chips.  The first game would start
tomorrow at midday.

Just as he turned away from the registration area, chip voucher tucked
securely into a pocket inside his shirt, next to his skin, Han heard a
familiar voice.

"Han!  Hey, Han!  Over here!"

He turned and saw Lando Calrissian waving to him from across the
mezzanine.

Waving to show he'd heard, Han jogged over to the glidewalk and hopped
aboard, even as Lando leaped aboard the one coming toward Han's side of
the enormous room.

When he'd last seen Lando, the gambler was heading off for action in
the Oseon system.  But he'd been talking about this tournament for
months, so Han had been expecting to run into him here.

"Hey, Han!"  Lando's dark features broke into a wide grin as their
respective glidewalks brought them face-to-face.  "Long time no see,
you old rascal!"

Han leaped nimbly across open air from his glidewalk to the one Lando
was standing on.  He'd barely landed before Calrissian grabbed him in a
hug that would have done Chewbacca credit.  "Good to see you, Lando!"

he gasped, as Calrissian thumped him on the back one final time.

The friends stepped off the glidewalk back at the registration area,
and stood there a moment, eyeing each other.  Han studied his friend,
realizing that Lando looked very prosperous--the gambling tables out in
the Oseon must be loaded with easy marks.  The gambler was wearing an
expensive outfit made from Askajian fabric, the best in the galaxy.  A
new black and silver cape swung behind him, draped in the latest
fashion.

Han smiled.  The last time he'd seen Lando, the gambler had barely
begun growing a mustache.  Now his facial adornment was mature, though
trimmed.

It lent his features a rather piratical air.  Han pointed at it.  "I
see you decided to keep the lipfur."

Lando stroked the mustache proudly.  "Every woman I've met has been
most complimentary," he said.  "I should have done it long ago."

"Some people need all the help they can get," Han teased.  "It's a
shame you don't have my way with the ladies, old pal."

Lando snorted derisively.

Han looked around.  "So .  . . where's your little red-eyed droid
buddy?

Don't tell me you went and lost Vuffi Raa in a sabacc game?"

Lando shook his head.  "Han, it's a long story.  To tell it properly, I
need a tall glass of something refreshing in front of me."

"Well, what's the short version, then?"  Han asked.  "Don't tell me
the

little guy got tired of calling you 'Master' and decided he could do
better selling his Class Two abilities somewhere else?"

Lando shook his head, his expression suddenly serious.  "Han, you're
not going to believe this, but Vuffi Raa decided to go back to his
people and grow up.  Fulfill his destiny."

Han grimaced.  "Huh?  He's a droid.  What do you mean, destiny?"

"Vuffi Raa is .  . . was .  . . a baby starship.  I know it sounds
crazy, but it's true.  He comes from a .  . . unique .  . . species.

Gigantic droidships that roam the stars.  Sentient, but not biological,
life-forms."

Han stared at his friend.  "Lando, you been sniffing ryll?  You sound
like you spent the whole day in the bar."

Lando held up a hand.  "It's the truth, Han.  You see, there was this
evil sorcerer named Rokur Gepta, who turned out to be a Croke, and
these vacuum breathers, and a big fight in this huge Star Cave, and--"
"Cheater!"  A deep, raspy voice shouted, startling the friends.  "Get
him!

Don't let him play!  That's Han Solo, and he cheats at sabacc!"

Han wheeled around to find an enraged Barabel female bearing down on
him.

The alien limped slightly from a stiff knee, but she was closing at a
respectable clip, massive teeth bared.  Barabels were huge, black
reptiloids, and Han had only met a few of them in his travels.  And
only one female.

This female, as a matter of fact.

Han gulped and his hand went down to his blaster, only to slap
impotently against his thigh.  Damnation!  He began backing up, holding
up his hands placatingly.  "Now, Shallamar .  . ."  he began.

Lando, always quick on the uptake, made sure he was nowhere near the
Barabel's approach vector.  "Security!"  he shouted.  "We need security
here!

Somebody call security!"

The Barabel sputtered and hissed with rage.  "He uses skifters!

Cheats!

Arrest him!"

Han backed up until he bumped into one of the registration tables,
then, one-handed, he vaulted it.  The Barabel's teeth flashed.

"Coward!  Come out from behind there!  Arrest him!"

"Now, Shallamar," Han said.  "I beat you fair and square that time.

Holding grudges isn't very sportsmanlike " With a bellow, she rushed
him---only to stop and fall heavily to the floor as a tangle-field
encased her feet.  Shallamar thrashed, slapping the carpet with her
tail, cursing and bellowing.

Han looked over at the hotel security forces, and drew a long breath of
relief.

Ten minutes later, with the Barabel still under restraints, Han, Lando
and Shallamar were in the security offices, facing the security
chief.

Shallamar was sulking, because the chief had sensor-scanned Han from
the tips of his toes to the top of his head, and the Corellian had
proved to be absolutely free of any cheating devices.

Now the Barabel hunkered uncomfortably, her feet still restrained in
the tangle-field, as the security chief warned her that any further
displays would get her ejected from the competition.  "... and I think
you owe Solo here an apology," the chief concluded.

Shallamar snarled .  . . but softly.  "I will not molest him further.

You have my honorword."

"But--" the security chief started.

Han waved a hand at him.  "Let's not push it, sir.  If Shallamar leaves
me alone, that's fine with me.  I'm just glad to prove that I'm an
honest player."

The chief shrugged.  "Whatever you say, Solo.  Okay, you two are free
to go."  He glanced at Han and Lando.  "I'll release the tangle-field
and turn her loose in a couple of minutes."  He turned back to the
Barabel.  "And you, my lady, will be under surveillance.  Please keep
that in mind.

We're running a tournament here, not a free-for-all.  Is that clear?"

"Clear," she rasped.

Han and Lando left the office.  Han didn't say anything, but he knew
Lando too well to think that his friend would let this pass.  Sure
enough, when they stepped onto the glidewalk leading to the cafe, Lando
grinned broadly.  "Han, Han.  . . yet another old flame, eh?  You're so
right .  . .

you certainly have a way with the ladies, you old rogue!"

Han bared his teeth in a snarl nearly as fearsome as Shallamar's.

"Shut up, Lando.  Just .  . . shut up."

By then, Lando was laughing too hard to speak anyway .  . .

It took the two friends several hours to catch up on events.  Han heard
the whole story of Lando's adventures in the Oseon system.  He
discovered that since he'd last seen his friend, Lando had won and lost
several fortunes, most recently a cargo of gemstones.  "You should have
seen them, Han," Lando said, mournfully.  "They were gorgeous.  Filled
half the Falcon's cargo bay.  If only I'd hung onto them, instead of
using most of them to buy half of that dratted berubian mine!"

Han looked at his friend with mingled sympathy and exasperation.

"Salted, right?  Proved to be worthless."

"You got it.  How did you know?"

"I knew somebody once who ran that scam.  Only it was a duralloy
asteroid."

Han neglected to mention that he'd once lost out on a
half-million-credit uranium mine that he'd won in a sabacc game.  The
mine had been genuine, but the books had been so cooked that he'd been
lucky to escape prosecution when the stockholders began their
investigation ....

But all that was in the past, and Han Solo made it a policy never to
indulge in regrets over failed ventures.

"Speaking of the Falcon," he said, "where've you got her docked?"  "Oh,
she's not here," Lando said.  "I left her back at the lot on Nar
Shaddaa.

Half the trick to winning big at the tables is being able to psych your
opponents out, presenting yourself as someone who can afford to play
big, win big and lose big.  Makes bluffing much more effective .... "
"I'll remember that," Han said, filing away the advice.  "So, how'd you
get here?"

"I came in on one of those big luxury liners, the Queen of Empire,"
Lando said.  "Arrived in style.  Not to mention that the ship's casino
is one of the finest I've encountered.  The Queen and I go way back."

Han smiled slyly.  "I ran into Blue a few weeks ago, and she told me
that you were traveling in style aboard that new ship of Drea
Renthal's.

Renthal's Vigilance, that Carrack-class picket ship she salvaged after
the Battle of Nar Shaddaa."

Lando cleared his throat.  "Drea's a great lady," he said.  "For a
pirate, she's surprisingly .  . . refined."

Han snickered.  "Whoa, Lando!  Isn't she a little old for you?  She's
gotta be at least forty!  How'd you like being' a pirate queen's
favorite plaything?"

Lando bristled.  "I wasn't .  . . She's not .  . ."

Han laughed.  "Almost old enough to be your mother, huh?"

Lando's teeth flashed beneath his mustache.  "Hardly.  And Han.  . . my
mother was nothing like Drea.  Trust me."

"So why'd you break up?"  Han wanted to know.

"Life aboard a pirate vessel is .  . . interesting," Lando said.  "But
a little too .  . . coarse .  . . for my taste."

Han, eyeing his friend's dandified clothes, nodded.  "I'll bet."  Lando
sobered.  "But, hey... Drea and I parted friends," he added.  "These
last few months I needed .  . . I was .  . ."  he shrugged, obviously
uncomfortable.  "Well, Drea came along at a good time.  I was · .  .

Well, it was nice having the company."

Han eyed his friend.  "You mean you missed Vuffi Raa?"

"Well .  . . how can you miss a droid?  But .  . . you know, Han, he

was really a companion.  There were times I didn't even think of him
as mechanical.  I'd gotten used to having the little guy around, you
know?  So when the little vacuum cleaner went off with his kinfolk, I
did find myself actually .  . . missing him."

Han thought about what it would be like to lose Chewie, and could only
nod in silent agreement.

The two sat quietly for a moment, sipping their drinks, enjoying the
companionship.  Finally Han fought back a yawn, and stood up.  "Gotta
get some sleep," he said.  "Tomorrow's going to be a big day."

"See you at the tables," Lando said, and they parted.

Sabacc is an ancient game, dating back to the early days of the Old
Republic.  Of all the games of chance, sabacc is the most complex, the
most unpredictable, the most thrilling--and the most heartbreaking.

The game is played with a deck of seventy-six card-chips.  The value of
any card-chip can alter throughout the game at random intervals, via
electronic impulses transmitted by the "randomizer."  In less than a
second, a winning hand can change to a "bomb out."

There are four suits in the deck: sabers, staves, flasks and coins.

Numbered cards range from positive one to positive eleven, and there
are four cards of "rank:" the Commander, the Mistress, the Master and
the Ace, with numerical values of positive twelve to fifteen.

Sixteen face cards complete the deck, two of each type, with assorted
zero or negative values: the Idiot, the Queen of Air and Darkness,
Endurance, Balance, Demise, Moderation, the Evil One and the Star.

There are two different pots.  The first, the handpot, is awarded to
the winner of each hand.  In order to win the hand pot, a player must
have the highest card total that is less than or equal to
twenty-three--either positive or negative.  In case of a tie, positive
card value beat negative card value.

The other pot, the sabacc pot, is the "game" pot, and can only be won
in two ways--with a pure sabacc--that is, card-chips totaling exactly
twenty-three, or an idiot's array, consisting of one of the Idiot face
cards, plus a two, and a three--literally, 23--of any suit.

In the center of the table is an interference field.  As the rounds of
bluffing and betting proceed, sabacc players can "freeze" the value of
a card by placing it into the interference field.

The Cloud City Sabacc Tournament had attracted over one hundred
high-rollers from worlds all over the galaxy.  Rodians, Twi'leks,
Sullustans, Bothans, Devaronians, humans .  . . all these and more were
represented at the gaming tables.  The tournament would last for four
intensive days of play.  Each day, roughly half of the players would be
eliminated.

The number of tables would dwindle, until only one table remained,
where the best of the best would compete during that last hand.

Stakes were high.  Winners stood a good chance of walking away with two
or three times the ten-thousand-credit buy-in--or even more.

Sabacc was not traditionally a spectator sport the way mag-ball or
null-gee polo was, but, since only players were allowed in the
tournament hall, the hotel had arranged a huge holo-projection lounge
for those who wished to watch the tournament.  Companions of players,
hangerson, eliminated players and other interested sentients wandered
in and out of the lounge, keeping an eye on the tournament, silently
rooting for his, her or its favorite to win.

There was a ranking list displayed beside the holo, IDing the players,
and showing the progress of the play.  On this, the second day of the
tournament, about fifty players clustered around ten tables.  The
ranking beside their names showed that Han Solo had made it through the
first day of play on luck and by the skin of his teeth.  He'd lost the
sabacc pot, but had won enough hand pots so that he was still a
contender.

One of the onlookers in the lounge was rooting for Han to win, though
the Corellian had no idea she was anywhere within parsecs of
Bespin--and, if Bria Tharen had anything to say about it, he wouldn't
find out.  In her years of working with the Corellian resistance, Bria
had become an expert at disguise.  Now her long, red-gold hair was
hidden beneath a short black wig, her blue-green eyes covered by
bio-lenses that turned them as dark as her hair.  Carefully inserted
padding in her elegant business outfit made her look voluptuous and
muscled instead of slender and wiry.  The only thing she couldn't
disguise was her height--and there were many tall human women.

She stood at the back of the lounge, watching the holo intently, hoping
for another close-up of Han.  Silently, she rejoiced that he'd made it
this far.  If only he'd win, she thought.  Han deserves a big break.

If he had a lot of credits, he wouldn't have to risk his life as a
smuggler....

For a moment, the holo showed a close-up of Han's table.  Bria saw that
his opponents today were a Sullustan, a Twi'lek, a Bothan and two
humans, one male and one female.  The woman was evidently from a
heavy-gee planet, judging from the thick, corded muscles in her neck,
and her short, stocky build.

Bria knew little about sabacc, but she knew Han Solo--even after being
separated from him for seven years now, she knew him.  She knew every
line of his face, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he

smiled, or narrowed when he was angry or suspicious.  The shaggy tufts
of his hair, perennially overdue for a haircut.  She could still recall
the shape of his hands, the fine hairs on the backs of them ....

Bria knew Han Solo so well that she realized she could still tell when
he was bluffing .  . . as he was at the moment.

Smiling confidently, Han leaned across the table to push another heap
of chips into the center.  Seeing the size of his bet, the Sullustan
hesitated, then threw in her hand.  The two humans also folded, but the
Bothan was made of sterner stuff.  He met Han's bet, and then,
ostentatiously, raised it by a goodly amount.

Bria's expression didn't change, but her hands curled into fists at her
sides.  Will he fold, or play the hand through and hope his bluff will
work?

The Twi'lek pushed another card-chip into the interference field, and
matched the bet.

All eyes turned to Han.

The Corellian grinned as though he hadn't a care in the world.  Bria
could see his lips move as he issued some verbal challenge or
wisecrack, then he pushed forward another stack of credit-chips .  .
.

such a huge bet that Bria bit her lip.  If he lost his hand, he'd bomb
out.  There was no way he could cover it!

The Bothan glanced from side to side, for the first time seeming
uncertain.

Finally, he tossed in his hand.  The Twi'lek's head-tails twitched with
frustration and nerves.

Finally, slowly, the Twi'lek laid his hand down.  Han's grin broadened,
and he reached forward to scoop up yet another hand pot.  Did he
genuinely have a winning hand, Bria wondered, or was I right?  Was it
all a bluff?.

The Sullustan, her droopy jowls working, made a sudden grab for Han's
card-chips, but the dealer spoke up, clearly warning her against such
an action.  By now the dealer would have signaled for a change in the
card-chip values, anyway.

Bria nodded emphatically at the holo.  Great!  Keep it up, Han!  Beat
them!

Win!

Beside her, someone snarled, then spoke in raspy, hissing tones, "May
all the Blights of Barabel curse that villain Solo!  He wins again!  He
must be cheating!"

Bria glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw a huge Barabel
female, obviously a very irritated Barabel.  The corners of her mouth
twitched.  Han has such a way with people .  . . what do you suppose he
did to make her so mad?

Something rustled on Bria's other side, and she turned to find her
aide, a Corellian named Jace Paol, beside her.  The man lowered his
voice

until even Bria could barely hear him, though his mouth was barely a
handspan from her ear.  "Commander, the representatives from Alderaan
have arrived.  They are on their way to the meeting site."

Bria nodded.  "I'll be right up, Jace."

As her aide left the lounge, Bria checked her expensive datapad (a
dummy, she committed as little as possible of her real business to any
readable form), smiled vaguely at the Barabel, and left the lounge.

Time to get on with her mission here in Cloud City.

When she'd discovered that Cloud City would be hosting the big sabacc
tournament, Bria had realized that this was the ideal location for a
top-secret meeting between representatives of several of the
rebellions.

Resistance groups were growing by leaps and bounds on many Imperial
worlds, and it was essential to establish links between them.  But such
meetings had to be kept clandestine.  The Imps had spies everywhere.

Any intelligence operative knew that the easiest place to hide was in a
crowd.  And Cloud City was pretty far from the Imperial Core, so the
Imps didn't pay it much attention.  A big tournament provided perfect
cover.

With so many ships coming and going, both alien and human, a few
humans, a Sullustan and a Duros meeting in a hotel conference room on
Cloud City would arouse little interest from anyone.

Bria wouldn't admit even to herself that part of her reason for
selecting Cloud City during the tournament was that she'd hoped to
catch a glimpse of Han Solo.  She couldn't be sure he'd attend, of
course, but knowing Han, when there was the chance of winning big, he
was there, ready and eager.

As she rode the glidewalk to the nearest turbolift, Bria imagined
removing her disguise, then going to Han's room late that night.  He
would still have vivid memories of the last time he'd seen her, when
she'd been posing as Moff Sam Shild's mistress, but surely he'd believe
her when she explained--that she'd been spying for the Corellian
resistance, and that there had been nothing between her and Shild.

So after she'd told him the truth about their last encounter, they
would talk.  Perhaps they'd sip some wine.  After a while, they'd hold
hands.  And then .  . .

The Rebel operative closed her eyes as the turbolift swept her upward
amid the crystalline and pastel splendor of the Yarith Bespin's
fifty-story atrium.  Perhaps, when she'd explained everything, Han
would want to join the resistance, help his fellow Corellians as they
plotted to free their planet from that tyrant Emperor who held so many
worlds in a deathgrip.

Perhaps .... Bria envisioned the two of them, doing battle shoulder

to shoulder on land or in space, fighting bravely, covering each
other's backs during the battles, winning victories over the Imperial
forces .  . .

then holding each other close when the day's fighting was over ....

Bria couldn't imagine anything better than that.

Feeling the turbolift decelerate, she sighed and opened her eyes.

Fantasies were all very well .  . . sometimes they were all that kept
her going.  But she couldn't allow them to interfere with her
mission.

As the turbolift doors slid open, she was ready.  Moving with confident
strides, she exited the lift and headed down the carpeted corridor.

When she reached the meeting room, she tapped out her coded signal, and
was admitted.  She glanced at Jace, and his nod confirmed that he'd
checked the room for surveillance devices and found it safe.  Only then
did Bria turn to greet the other members of the conference.

The first representative to step forward was a typically
mournful-faced, blue-skinned Duros, Jennsar SoBilles.  He had come
alone, as had Sian Tevv from Sullust.  Bria greeted the two aliens
warmly, thanking them and their respective groups for allowing them to
make the dangerous journey--and it was dangerous.  Just last month one
of the highranking Rebel leaders from Tibrin had been captured while on
his way to such a conference.  The Ishi Tib was forced to suicide in
order to avoid the Imp mind-probes.

Alderaan had sent three representatives, two human and one Caamasi.

The senior member of the delegation was a middle-aged man with grizzled
hair and beard, one Hric Dalhney, Deputy Minister of Security, and a
trusted member of Viceroy Bail Organa's cabinet.  Accompanying him was
a young girl, not even out of her teens, with long, crystal white
hair.

Dalhney introduced her as "Winter," commenting that they were posing as
father and daughter as their "cover" during this trip.  The non-human
member of the delegation was a Caamasi.  Bria was intrigued by him,
never having met one before.  Their species was now somewhat rare in
the galaxy.

Caamas had been essentially destroyed after the Clone Wars, thanks to
the efforts of the Emperor's minion, Darth Vader, but it was a
littleknown fact that many of its people had managed to flee to
Alderaan and lived there, mostly in seclusion.

The Caamasi's name was Ylenic It'kla, and he introduced himself as an
advisor to the Viceroy of Alderaan.  Tall, even taller than Bria, the
Caamasi wore a single kilt-like garment and jewelry.  Generally
humanoid in appearance, Ylenic was covered in golden down, with purple
stripes marking his face.  His eyes were large, dark and held a faint
air of calm

sadness that touched Bria, knowing what sufferings this being must
have witnessed.

Ylenic said little as the delegates exchanged greetings, but something
about him impressed Bria.  She resolved to seek out his opinions if he
did not offer them.  The Caamasi had an air of quiet power, of
confidence, that told the Rebel Commander that this was a being to be
reckoned with.

After a few minutes of chitchat, Bria seated herself at the long table,
and formally brought the meeting to order.  "Fellow Rebels," she said,
speaking with the quiet authority of someone who had done this many
times before, "I thank you for risking your lives in our cause.  We of
the Corellian Rebel movement are contacting other underground groups
like our own, urging all the various Rebel groups to unite.  Only as a
strong, cohesive group can we have any hope of confronting the Empire
that is strangling our worlds, and killing the spirit of our
peoples."

Bria took a deep breath.  "I know what a daunting and dangerous
proposal this is, believe me.  But only if we can unite, form an
alliance, can the Rebel groups have any hope of eventual victory.  As
long as we remain fragmented, planet-bound groups, we are doomed to
failure."

She paused.  "The Corellian movement has long considered this
proposal.

We are fully aware what a radical change this would entail--and how
difficult such an alliance would be.  As long as we are individual
groups, the Empire cannot wipe us all at one blow.  If we were to
unite, they might conceivably be able to destroy all of us in one
battle.  We also know how taxing it can be for different species to
work together.  Disparate ethical and moral systems, ideologies,
religions--not to mention equipment and weapon design differences--all
of these things can present problems."

Bria faced her onlookers steadily.  "But, my friends, unite we must.

Somehow we must find ways to work around our differences.  Surely we
can do that .  . . and that's the subject of this conference."

The Duros representative tapped his fingers on the table.  "Your words
are stirring, Commander.  In spirit, I agree with them.  But let us
face facts here.  In asking the non-human worlds to ally with you, you
are asking us to put ourselves at far greater risk.  Everyone knows the
Emperor's disdain for non-humans.  If an alliance challenged
Palpatine's forces, and lost, the Emperor's wrath would be mostly
directed at the non-human worlds.  He might well destroy us as a lesson
to the human Rebels."

Bria nodded.  "Your point is well taken, Jennsar."  She glanced around
the table.  "Minister Dalhney, what are your thoughts?"  "We of
Alderaan have supported the Rebel movement from the beginning," the
man said.  "We have provided intelligence, funding, and technical
expertise.  But this talk of battles is anathema to us.

Alderaanian culture is built on the absence of weapons and violence.

We are a peaceful world, and the way of the warrior is abhorrent to
us.

Count on us to support your efforts--but I cannot imagine that we would
ever be able to join you as combatants."

Bria gazed at Dahlney somberly.  "It is possible, Minister," she said,
"that Alderaan may not have the option to refrain from violence."  She
turned to the little Sullustan.  "Sian Tevv, what are your initial
thoughts?"

"Commander, my people are so crushed beneath the heel of the Empire
that few of them have the wherewithal to plot any kind of rebellion."

The little alien's jowls quivered, and his dark, liquid eyes were
sorrowful.

"Though many complain about the Imperial troops under their breaths,
only a handful of my people have ever dared to openly resist.  Our
caves are places of fear.  The Soro Suub Corporation essentially
controls my world, and their biggest client is the Empire.  If we were
to join a Rebel Alliance, it would cause civil war!"

Bria sighed.  It's going to be a long conference, she thought
bleakly.

"I recognize that all of you have valid concerns," she said, keeping
her voice level and neutral.  "But it won't hurt anything, or commit
you to anything, simply to discuss these issues, right?"

After a moment, the delegates from the three worlds agreed to talk.

Taking a deep breath, Bria started in ....

I can't believe I've made it this far, Han thought wearily, as he eased
himself into the seat at the one remaining sabacc table.  It was night
on the fourth day of the tournament, and only the finalists were
left.

If only my luck holds out a little longer...

Slowly he stretched the kinks out of his back, wishing he could sleep
for about twenty hours.  The past few days had been grueling .  . .

hours of unending play, with only a few breaks for meals or sleep.

The other finalists had also taken their places around the table.  A
diminutive Chadra-Fan, a Bothan male, and a Rodian female.  Han wasn't
sure whether the Chadra-Fan was a male or a female.  Both sexes wore
the same long robes.

As Han glanced around at his fellow players, the last player, another
human, sat down opposite Han in the last empty chair.  Han groaned
inwardly.  Somehow I knew this would happen.  What chance can I have
against a professional like Lando?

Han was very conscious of the fact that he was probably the only

"amateur" player at the table.  It was a fair bet that the others,
like Lando, made their primary living by winning at sabacc.

For a moment he was tempted to just call it quits, walk away.  To lose
now, after all these days of play .  . .

Lando nodded tightly to his friend.  Han nodded back.

The dealer approached.  In most games of sabacc, the dealer actually
played for credits, but in tournament games, the dealer only dealt the
card-chips and monitored the game .  . . he or she was prohibited from
playing.

The dealer was a Bith.  The alien's large, five fingered hands featured
both an opposable thumb and little finger, giving the dealer
considerable dexterity as he dealt.  The lights of the monstrous
chandelier in the ballroom gleamed on the alien's large, bare,
cranium.

The dealer ostentatiously opened a fresh pack of card-chips and riffled
them, then triggered the randomizer several times, thus demonstrating
that nobody could predict the order the card-chips would be dealt.

After this initial demonstration, the randomizer itself altered the
values of the card-chips at random intervals.

Han looked over at Lando, and was cheered to note that his friend was
showing signs of strain.  Lando's natty outfit was creased, and there
were dark circles beneath his eyes.  His hair looked as though it
hadn't been combed all day.

Han knew he was no prize himself.  He rubbed his hand blearily across
his face, and only then realized he'd forgotten to shave.  Stubble
rasped his fingernails.

Forcing himself to sit up straight, Han picked up his first hand of
card-chips ....

Three and a half hours later, the Bothan and the Rodian had been
eliminated.  They'd left without a backward glance.  The Bothan male
had "bombed out"--bet his entire trove of credit-chips on the game.

When Lando took that hand, the alien had stalked away without a
farewell.  The Rodian female had folded, but she hadn't bombed.  Han
figured that she'd decided to cut her losses and get out while she
still had a profit.  The stakes were getting very high.  The sabacc pot
alone contained nearly twenty thousand credits.

Han's luck had held.  He had enough credit-chips to cover any of the
bets he'd seen tonight.  Mentally, he added them up.  If he folded now,
he'd leave Bespin with twenty-thousand credits give or take a couple
hundred.

His eyesight was getting blurry, and card-chips were hard to count when
they were in stacks.

The Corellian considered.  Twenty-thousand was a lot of money.  Almost
enough to buy a ship of his own.  Should he fold?  Or should he stay
in?

The Chadra-Fan raised the bet another five thousand.  Han covered it.

So did Lando, but it took nearly all his credit chips Han assessed his
hand.  He had the card-chip for Endurance, which had the value of
negative eight.  Appropriate, Han thought.  This battle is becoming one
of endurance .... He also had the Ace of Staves, with a value of
positive fifteen.  And the six of flasks.  Value, positive six.

Thirteen.  He needed to take another card, and hope that he didn't get
a ranked card, which would put him out of the game.  "I'll take a
card," Han said, The dealer tossed one down on the table.  Han picked
it up, saw with a sinking feeling that it was Demise, which was
negative thirteen.  Great!

I'm farther away than ever!

And then the cards rippled and changed before his eyes ....

Han now had the Queen of Air and Darkness, with a value of negative
two, plus the five of coins, the six of staves, and the Master of
coins, with a value of fourteen.  Total value .  . . twenty-three.  His
heart leaped.  Pure sabacc!

With this hand, he could take both the hand pot and the sabacc pot ·
.

. to win the tournament.

There was only one hand that could beat him, and that was an idiot's
array.

Han took a deep breath, then pushed forward all but one of his stacks
of credit-chips.  For a moment he considered tossing all his cards into
the interference field, but then his opponents would know for sure he
wasn't bluffing.  He needed them to cover his bet if he was going to
clean up.

Hold steady, he thought to his card-chips, willing the randomizer not
to change the patterns.  Honest randomizers truly were random.

Sometimes they changed card-chip patterns multiple times per game.

Other times, they did so only once or twice.  Han figured the odds for
his ccard chips changing within the next three minutes--the average
time for a round of betting with this many players--were about 5050.

Han kept his features composed, his body relaxed, with an effort of
will that was nearly painful.  He had to make them think he might be
bluffing!

On Han's right, the little Chadra-Fan's huge ears flickered rapidly
back and forth, then he (Han had learned that he was male during the
hours of play) uttered the faintest of squeaks.  Deliberately,
precisely, the alien folded his card-chips and placed them on the
table, then got up and walked away.

Han stared at his card-chips.  Hold... hold!  His pulse was hammering,
and he hoped Lando couldn't see it.

The professional gambler hesitated for a long second, then requested a
card.  Han's blood rushed in his ears as, slowly and deliberately,
Calrissian extended a hand, and placed a card-chip facedown into the
interference field.

Han stiffened.  He'd caught just a glimpse of the primary color of the
card-chip reflected against the faint ionization of the field. 
Violet.

If Han's bleary eyes weren't playing tricks on him, that meant the card
chip was the Idiot.  The most vital card in the Idiot's Array.

Han tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.  Lando is an expert at
this, he thought.  He could have put that card down in just that
manner, knowing I'd see its telltale color, and guess that he's holding
the Idiot.

But why?  To bluff me?  Scare me into folding?  Or am I imagining
things?

Han looked back up at his opponent.  Lando was holding two cards in his
hand now.  The professional gambler smiled at his friend, then, quickly
punching a notation onto a data-card, he pushed it and his few
remaining credit-chips toward Han.  "My marker," he said, in his
smoothest, most mellow tones.  "Good for any ship on my lot.  Your
choice of my stock."  The Bith turned to Han.  "Is that acceptable to
you, Solo?"  Han's mouth was so dry he didn't dare speak, but he
nodded.  The Bith turned back to Lando.

"Your marker is good."

Lando was holding two cards plus the Idiot, which was safely in the
interference field.  Han fought the impulse to wipe his hand across his
eyes.  Could Lando see him sweating?  Have to stay calm, think, Han
ordered himself.  Does he have the Idiot's Array .  . . or... is he
bluffing?  There was only one way to find out.

Hold, hold, he ordered his hand, and slowly, deliberately, he pushed
forward his last stack of chips.  "I call," he said.  His voice emerged
as a strained croak.

Lando stared at him across the table for an endless second, then the
gambler smiled slightly.  "Very well."  Slowly, he reached over and
turned up the card in the Interference field.

The Idiot stared up at Han.

Moving deliberately, Lando took his next card-chip, and laid it down
beside the Idiot, face up.  The Two of Staves.

Han couldn't breathe.  I'm dead .  . . I've lost everything.... Lando
turned over the last of his cards.  The Seven of Flasks.

Han stared unbelievingly at the losing hand, then, slowly, he raised

his eyes to regard his friend.  Lando smiled wryly and shrugged.

"Gotta hand it to you, buddy," the gambler said.  "I thought I could
bluff you."

Lando was bluffing!  The Corellian's head whirled as it sank in.  I
won!  I can't believe it, but I won!

Slowly, deliberately, he laid down his card-chips.  "Pure sabacc," he
said.

"The sabacc pot is mine, too."

The Bith nodded.  "Captain Solo is our tournament winner,
gentlebeings," he said, speaking into the tiny amplifier attached to
his collar.

"Congratulations, Captain Solo!"

Dizzily, Han nodded at the Bith, then he noticed that Lando was leaning
across the table, his hand out.  Excitedly, Han reached over and wrung
his friend's hand.  "I can't believe it," he said.  "What a game!"

"You're a better player than I ever gave you credit for being, old
man," Lando said genially.  Han wondered how Lando could be so composed
when he'd just lost so much, then he reflected that the gambler had
probably won and lost fortunes before.

Han picked up the data-card that was Lando's marker, and studied it.

"So, what ship are you going to claim?"  Lando asked.  "I've got an
almost new YT-2400 Corelli-systems light stock freighter that would be
your best bet.

Wait'll you--" "I'm taking the Falcon," Han said, in a rush.

Lando's eyebrows went up.  "The Millennium Falcon?"  he said, obviously
dismayed.  "Oh, no.  Han, that's my own personal vessel.  That was
never part of the deal."

"You said any ship on your lot," Han reminded him, levelly.  Their eyes
locked.  "You said any of your stock.  The Falcon's sitting on your
lot.  I claim her."

"But--" Lando's mouth tightened, and his eyes flashed.

"Yeah, buddy?"  Han said, letting an edge creep into his voice.  "You
gonna honor this marker, or what?"

Slowly, deliberately, Lando nodded.  "Nobody can say I don't honor my
markers."  He drew a long breath, then let it out in an angry hiss.

"All right then .  . . the Falcon's yours."

Han grinned, then threw both arms up into the air and whirled around in
an impromptu dance, giddy with joy.  Wait'll I tell Chewie!  The
Millennium Falcon's mine!  At last!  A ship of our own!

two

Promises to Keep

Bria Tharen stood alone in the deserted holo-lounge, watching Han Solo
as he rejoiced in his victory, wishing she could be there to hug him,
kiss him, celebrate with him.  This is wonderful--she thought
exultantly.  Oh, Han, you deserved to win--You played like a
champion!

She wondered what the dark-skinned gambler had given the Corellian as a
marker.  Something valuable, obviously.  Han was clutching the
data-card as though it were the key to the most wonderful treasure in
the universe.

It was late on the night of the fourth day, and the Corellian
Commander's meetings with the Duros, the Sullustan and the Alderaanians
would be concluded tomorrow morning.  They'd made progress in reaching
some agreements, and all of them had learned a great deal about each
other's culture, but nothing major had been decided.  None of the three
other Rebel groups had been willing to commit to Corellia's proposed
Rebel alliance.

Bria sighed.  She'd done her best, but it was obvious that there was
still a long way to go.  She supposed she shouldn't blame the other
groups for their caution, but she couldn't help it.  The situation with
the Empire was only going to get worse, and the others were blind if
they couldn't see that for themselves.

Hearing the sound of footsteps, Bria turned, to find the Alderaanian
girl, Winter, coming toward her.  She was a lovely young woman with her
crystal-colored hair and pale green eyes.  Her simple, modestly cut
green

dress revealed a slender, regal figure.  She was tall, though not as
tall as Bria.

The Corellian Commander nodded, and the two of them watched the action
from the tournament ballroom for a few minutes.  Han was in the midst
of other players now, mingling, being congratulated.  Food and drink
were circulating, and tournament officials, dealers, and hotel staff
were now part of the crowd.  A party atmosphere reigned.

"It looks like they're having more fun than we are in our meetings,"
Bria said dryly.  "I envy them.  Not a care in the world."

"Oh, I'm sure they have cares," Winter said.  "But at the moment
they've thrown them aside so they can exist only in the present."

Bria nodded.  "Quite the philosopher, aren't you?"

The girl laughed a little, a musical, pleasant laugh.  "Oh, we
Alderaanians have a long tradition of debating philosophy, ethics, and
morality.  There are cafes in Aldera where citizens sit and argue
philosophy all day long.

It's a planetary tradition."

Bria chuckled a little.  "Corellians have more of a reputation for
being hot-headed doers, who get things accomplished, but love taking
risks."

"Perhaps our two worlds need each other as a balance," Winter
observed.

Bria gave her a thoughtful glance.  "Winter, would you like to go over
to the bar and get a cup of vinecoffeine?"

"I'd like that," the girl said, nodding.  Her crystalline hair rippled
over her shoulders with each movement.  Bria had heard that adult
Alderaanians didn't cut their hair.  Winter's cascaded down her back
like a glacier.

When they were comfortably seated, with cups of the steaming, fragrant
brew before them, Bria discreetly pressed a button on her golden
bracelet, and aimed the corusca jewels that studded it outward into the
room, then she turned her wrist upward, all the while studying the
jewels.  When no light flashed amidst them, she relaxed.  No spy
devices.  Not that I expected any, but better to be safe than sorry
....

"So, Winter, tell me about yourself," Bria said.  "How did you happen
to come on this mission?"

"The Viceroy has been like a father to me," the girl said, quietly.

"He raised me with his own daughter, Leia.  I've been the princess's
companion ever since we were little children."  She smiled faintly, and
Bria was struck once again by how poised, how mature, she was for her
age.  "There have been times when I've actually been mistaken for the
princess.  But I'm glad I'm not royal.  It's hard being in the public
eye all the time, the way the Viceroy and Leia are.  Constant
pressures, being hounded by the press .  . . your life isn't your
own."

Bria nodded.  "I suspect it's worse than being a vid-star, being
royalty."

She took a sip of her vine-coffeine.  "So Bail Organa raised you .  .
.

and yet he allowed you to come on this mission, knowing there could be
danger, if we were discovered?"  Bria raised her eyebrows.  "I'm
surprised.  You seem a little young to have to endure such risks."

Winter smiled.  "I'm a year and a few months older than the princess.

I just turned seventeen.  That's the age of responsibility on
Alderaan."

"Same as Corellia," Bria said.  "Too young.  When I was seventeen, I
didn't have a bit of sense."  She grinned ruefully.  "That's so long
ago .  . . it seems like a million years, instead of nine."

"You seem older than that," Winter observed, "even if you don't look
it.

Twenty-six and a Commander?  You must have started young."  She stirred
traladon milk into her vinecoffeine.

"I did," Bria agreed, lightly.  "And if I seem older than my age, well
· .

. a year as a slave on Ylesia will do that to a girl.  Those spice
factories take a lot out of you."

"You were a slave?"  Winter seemed surprised.

"Yes.  I was rescued from Ylesia by a .  . . friend.  But physically
getting off the planet was the easy part," Bria admitted.  "Long after
my body was free, my mind and spirit were still enslaved.  I had to
learn to free myself, and it was the hardest thing I've ever done."

Winter nodded, her gaze sympathetic.  Bria was a bit surprised at
herself for opening up to the girl this way, but the Alderaanian
teenager was amazingly easy to talk to.  It was obvious that she wasn't
just making conversation, she really cared about what Bria was
saying.

The commander shrugged slightly.  "It cost me everything that was
important to me, basically.  Love, family .  . . security.  But it was
worth it, to be myself.

And it brought me a new purpose in life."

"Fighting the Empire."

The older woman nodded.  "Fighting the Empire that condones and
encourages slavery.  The filthiest, most degrading practice ever
developed by supposedly civilized sentients."

"I've heard about Ylesia," Winter said.  "The Viceroy ordered an
investigation of the place a few years ago, when a few unpleasant
rumors surfaced.  Since that time, he's kept up a public information
campaign to let Alderaanians know the truth about the place--about the
spice factories, the forced labor."

"That's the worst thing about it," Bria said, bitterly.  "They don't
force you.  People work themselves to death there, and they do it
willingly.  It's horrible.  If only I had the soldiers and weapons, I'd
head for Ylesia

tomorrow with a couple of squadrons.  We'd shut that stinking mudhole
down for good."

"It would take a lot of troops."

"Yes, it would.  They have eight or nine colonies there, now.

Thousands of slaves."  Bria cautiously sipped the hot beverage.  "So
.

. . are you looking forward to tomorrow's session?"

Winter sighed.  "Not really."

"I don't blame you," Bria said.  "It must be pretty boring, hearing us
wrangle all day over whether or not a Rebel Alliance is the right
course of action.  You ought to skip tomorrow's session, and go have
some fun.  Cloud City has tours to go watch the beldon herds, and there
are aerial rodeos where thranta riders do stunts.  I've heard it's an
amazing thing to watch."

"I have to be at the conference tomorrow," Winter said.  "Minister
Dahlney needs me."

"Why?"  Bria was puzzled.  "For moral support?"

The girl smiled faintly.  "No.  I am his recorder.  He needs me to help
him prepare his report for the Viceroy."

"Recorder?"

"Yes.  Everything I see, or experience, or hear, I remember," Winter
said.

"I cannot forget, though sometimes I wish I could."  Her lovely
features grew sad, as though she was recalling some unpleasant scene
from the past.

"Really?"  Bria was thinking how handy that would be, to have someone
like that on staff.  She herself had taken lessons and
hypno-conditioning to improve her own recall, because so little of what
she did could be entrusted to datafiles or flimsies.  "You're right,
that would make you invaluable."

"The reason that I said I wasn't looking forward to tomorrow's
session," Winter said, leaning forward across the table, "wasn't that I
was bored, Commander.  What I meant was that it's hard for me to listen
to Hric Dahlney stubbornly insist that Alderaanian ethics are more
important than defeating the Empire."

Bria cocked her head.  "Oh .  . . now, that's interesting.  What makes
you say that?"

"Twice, when I accompanied Leia and the Viceroy to diplomatic functions
on Coruscant--" she stopped herself, then smiled ruefully, "I mean, to
Imperial Center--I saw the Emperor.  One of those times, Emperor
Palpatine stopped and spoke to me, just a perfunctory greeting, but .

. ."  She hesitated, biting her lip, and for the first time, Bria saw
her maturity slip, and a frightened child in those youthful features.

"Bria, I looked into his eyes.  I cannot forget them, no matter how I
try.

Emperor Palpatine is evil.  Unnatural, in some strange way .... "The
girl shuddered, despite the cozy warmth of the bar.  "He frightened
me.

He was .

. . malevolent.  That's the only word that fits."

"I've heard stories," Bria said.  "Though I've never met him.  I've
seen him from a distance, but that's all."

"You don't want to meet him," Winter said.  "Those eyes of his .  . .

they fasten on you, and you feel as though they will drink up your
spirit, all that makes you what you are."

Bria sighed.  "That's why we must resist him," she said.  "That's what
he wants, to engulf us all .  . . planets, sentients .  . .

everything.

Palpatine is determined to become the most absolute despot in
history.

We have to fight him, or we'll all be ground to dust."

"I agree," Winter said.  "And that's why I'm going to go back to
Alderaan and tell the Viceroy that we of Alderaan must arm ourselves
and learn to fight."

Bria blinked, startled.  "Really?  But that's not the way Minister
Dahlney thinks."

"I know," the girl said.  "And I know that the Viceroy is opposed to
taking up arms.  But your words over the past few days have convinced
me that if Alderaan doesn't fight, we'll be destroyed.  We'll know no
true peace as long as the Emperor rules."

"Do you think Bail Organa will listen to you?"  Bria said, feeling a
spark of hope.  At least I reached one person these past few days . 
.

. it wasn't a complete waste ....

"I don't know," Winter replied.  "Perhaps.  He is a good man, and
respects those who can make their points well, even if they are
young.

He does believe in resisting the Empire.  He has already arranged for
me and his daughter to be given special training in
intelligence-gathering techniques.

He's aware that two young, innocent-seeming girls may be able to go
places and do things where seasoned diplomats would fail."

Bria nodded.  "I've found that out myself," she said.  "It's a sad but
unfortunate fact that a pretty face and a sweet smile can provide a
passport to places inside the Imperial bureaucracy and the High Command
where other efforts would be doomed to fail."

The attractive Commander smiled wryly as she poured another cup of
vine-coffeine.  "As you've no doubt noticed, the Empire is a
male-dominated, human-dominated organization.  And human males can be
.

. . manipulated .  .

. by woman, sometimes all too easily.  I don't like it, and it doesn't
make it right, but it's the results that count.  I've learned that,
over the years."

"Even if Viceroy Organa won't listen to me," Winter said, "I'm sure
Leia will.  She insisted that our Intelligence training include lessons
in how to use weapons effectively.  Both of us have learned to shoot,
and to hit what we aim at.  The Viceroy didn't like the idea, at first,
but when he thought it over, he agreed, and even chose a Weapons Master
for Leia.  He's an intelligent man, and he could see that there might
be situations where we'd need to know how to defend ourselves."

"What good will convincing the princess do?"  Bria asked.  "I know
she's supposed to be well-loved, but she's still just a young girl."

"The Viceroy is considering appointing her Alderaan's representative to
the Imperial Senate next year," Winter said.  "Don't underestimate
Leia's strength of purpose or influence."

"I won't," Bria said.  She smiled at Winter.  "I'm so glad we had this
talk.

I was feeling so discouraged, and you've lifted my spirits.  I'm very
grateful."

"I'm grateful to you, Commander," Winter said.  "For speaking the truth
in my hearing.  The Corellian resistance is right.  Our best hope is a
Rebel Alliance.  I only hope it can happen one day ...."

As the post-tournament party began to wind down, Han found himself
beside Lando.  He gestured at the door.  "C'mon, I'll buy you a
drink."

Lando smiled wryly.  "You'd better be buying, old buddy.  You've got
all my credits."

Han grinned.  "I'm buying.  Hey .  . . Lando, need a loan?  And do you
want to book passage back to Nar Shaddaa on that liner that's leaving
tomorrow?"

Lando hesitated.  "Yes .  . . and no.  I'd like to borrow a thousand,
and I'm good for it.  But I've decided to stay here on Bespin for a
while.  Some of the sentients who didn't make it to the finals of the
tournament are bound to be hitting the casinos here on Cloud City,
trying to recoup some of what they lost.  I should do all right."

Han nodded, and counted out credit vouchers equaling fifteen hundred
credits, then handed them to Lando.  "Take your time, buddy.  No
hurry."

Lando gave his friend a grin as they approached the bar.  "Thanks,
Han."

"Hey .  . . that sabacc pot added to my other winnings .  . . well, I
can afford it."  The Corellian felt physically tired, but so
exhilarated that he knew he couldn't sleep--not yet.  He had to savor
his victory, his ownership of the Falcon, just a little bit longer.

"Well, I'm headin' back tomorrow.  No reason to stick around, and
Chewie'll be wondering how I am."

Lando glanced across the bar and raised an eyebrow.  "Oh, I see at
least two reasons to stick around."

Han followed his friend's glance, saw the two women who were leaving
the bar through the lobby exit.  One was tall and full-bodied, with
short black hair, the other was little more than a girl, slender, with
long white hair.  He shook his head.  "Lando, you never quit.  That
tall one could put you on your rear, she's built like a null-gee
wrestler, and the other is an invitation to a nice jail cell for
corrupting a minor."

Lando shrugged.  "Well, if not those two, then there are plenty of
other lovely ladies here in Cloud City.  And I want to check out the
business opportunities here.  I kind of like the place."

Han grinned smugly at his friend.  "Suit yourself.  Myself, I can't
wait to get home and take my ship out for a spin."  He signaled the
robobartender.

"What's your pleasure, my friend?"

Lando rolled his eyes.  "Polanis red for me, and a nice shot of poison
for you."

Han laughed.

"So .  . . where are you going first in your new ship?"  Lando asked.

"I'm gonna keep a promise I made to Chewie almost three years ago and
take him to see his family on Kashyyyk," Han said.  "With the Falcon I
ought to be able to slip past those Imp patrols, no sweat."

"How long has it been since he was on Kashyyyk?"

"Almost fifty-three years," Han said.  "A lot could have happened in
that time.  He left a father, some cousins, and a lovely young Wookiee
female behind.  'Bout time he went home and checked up on 'em."

"Fifty years?"  Lando shook his head.  "I can't think of any human
woman that would wait fifty years for me .... " "I know," Han said.

"And apparently Chewie never did have an understanding with
Mallatobuck.  I warned him he'd better expect to find her married and a
grandmother."

Lando nodded, and, when the drinks arrived, raised his in a toast.  Han
lifted his glass of Alderaanian ale.  "To the Millennium Falcon," Lando
said.  "The fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy.  You take care of her,
now."

"To the Falcon," Han echoed.  "My ship.  May she fly fast and free, and
outrun every Imp vessel in existence."

Solemnly, they clinked their glasses, then together, they drank.

It was a sultry day on Nal Hutta, but, then, almost every day was
sultry there.  Sultry, rainy, damp and polluted .  . . that was Nal
Hutta.  But the Hutts liked it that way; they loved their adopted
homeworld.  "Nal Hutta" meant "Glorious Jewel" in Huttese.

But one Hutt was too intent on his holo-cast unit to even notice the
weather.  Durga, the new leader of the Besadii clan since his parent
Aruk's untimely death six months ago, had eyes and attention only for
the full-sized holo-image projected into his office.

Two months after Aruk's death, Durga had hired a team of the best
forensic examiners in the Empire to journey to Nal Hutta and conduct a
rigorous autopsy on his parent's bloated corpse.  He'd had Aruk frozen,
then placed in a stasis field, because Durga was convinced that his
parent had not died from natural causes.

When the examiners had arrived, they'd spent several weeks taking
samples of every kind of tissue to be found in the Hutt leader's
massive corpse, and running tests on them.  Their early results had
turned up nothing, but Durga insisted that they keep on looking--and he
was the one paying, so the forensic specialists did as ordered.

Now Durga stared at the coalescing holo-image of the leader of the team
of forensic specialists, Myk Bidlor.  He was human, a lightskinned,
slightly built male with pale hair.  He wore a lab coat over his
rumpled clothing.

As Bidlor saw Durga's image forming before him, he bowed slightly to
the Hutt Lord.  "Your Excellency.  We have received the results from
the latest round of tests on the tissue samples we brought back to
Coruscant ... I mean, to Imperial Center."

Durga waved a small, impatient hand at Bidlor, and addressed the man in
Basic.  "You are late.  I was expecting your report two days ago.  What
have you learned?"

"I regret, Your Excellency, that the test results were somewhat
delayed," Bidlor apologized.  "However, this time, unlike our other
rounds of tests, we have discovered something I believe you will find
very interesting.

Unexpected, and unprecedented.  We had to contact specialists on
Wyveral and they are currently checking to see if they can discover
where it was manufactured.  The morbidity factor has been difficult to
test, since we have no pure quantities, but we are persisting, and when
we tested the PSA count of the specimen's--" Durga slammed his small
hand down on a nearby table, sending it crashing over.  "Get to the
point, Bidlor!  Was my parent murdered?"

The scientist drew a deep breath.  "I cannot say for certain, Your
Excellency.  What I can tell you is that we have discovered a very rare
substance concentrated in the tissues of Lord Aruk's brain.  The
substance

is not natural.  None of my team has ever encountered it before.  We
are running tests even now to discover its properties."

Durga's birthmarked face grew even uglier as his scowl deepened.  "I
knew it, he said.

Myk Bidlor raised a cautioning hand.  "Lord Durga, please .  . . allow
us to finish our tests.  We will continue our work, and we will report
back as soon as we have something definitive to report."

Durga waved a dismissive hand at the forensics expert.  "Very well.

See that you report to me instantly when you discover what we are
dealing with here."

The man bowed.  "You have my assurance, Lord Durga."

With a muttered curse, the Hutt Lord broke the connection.

Durga was not the only unhappy Hutt on Nal Hutta.  Jabba Desilijic
Tiure, second-in-command of the powerful Desilijic clan, was both
depressed and displeased.

Jabba had spent the entire morning with his aunt, Jiliac, the leader of
Desilijic, trying to finish the final report on the losses to Desilijic
that had resulted from the Imperial attempt to raze Nar Shaddaa and
subjugate Nal Hutta.  The Empire's attack had failed, mostly due to
Jabba and Jiliac's successful bribe of the Imperial Admiral, but it
would be a long time before business on Nar Shaddaa was back to
normal.

Nar Shaddaa was a large moon that orbited Nal Hutta.  The other name
for Nar Shaddaa was "the Smuggler's Moon," and it was apt, for most of
its denizens lived there because they were connected with the illegal
trade that moved through Nar Shaddaa every day.  Running spice, running
guns, fencing stolen treasures and antiquities .  . . Nar Shaddaa saw
all of that and more.

"Shipping is down forty-four percent, Aunt," Jabba said, his
comparatively small, delicate fingers touching the data-pad expertly.

"We lost so many ships, so many captains and crews when that
thrice-cursed Sam Shild mounted that attack.  Our spice customers have
been complaining that we can't move our product the way we used to.

Even Han Solo lost his ship, and he's our best pilot."

Jiliac glanced at her nephew.  "He has been flying our ships ever since
the attack, Nephew."

"I know, but most of our ships are older models, Aunt.  Slower.  And,
in our business, time equals credits."  Jabba did another calculation,
then made an exasperated sound.  "Aunt, our profits this year will be
the lowest we've experienced in ten years."

Jiliac replied with a mighty belch.  Jabba looked up and saw that she
was eating again, some high-sustenance goop she smeared on the backs of
her swamp-wrigglers before stuffing them into her enormous mouth.  Ever
since becoming pregnant last year, Jiliac had been undergoing one of
the typical Hutt growth spurts most adult Hutts experienced several
times in their adult lives.

In the space of a year, Jiliac was nearly a third again the size she
had been before her pregnancy.

"You'd better be careful," Jabba warned.  "Those wrigglers gave you
terrible indigestion the other day.  Remember?"

Jiliac belched again.  "You're right.  I should cut back .  . . but the
baby needs the nourishment."

Jabba sighed.  Jiliac's infant was still spending much of its time
inside its mother's pouch.  Baby Hutts depended upon their mothers for
all their nourishment for the first year of their lives.

"Here is a message from Ephant Mon," Jabba said, seeing that his
"message" indicator was blinking on his comlink.  Quickly the Hutt Lord
scanned the communique.  "He says I should return to Tatooine.  He is
running my business interests as ably as he can, I am sure, but the
Lady Valarian is taking full advantage of my prolonged absence to try
and move in on my territory."

Jiliac turned her bulbous eyes on her nephew.  "If you must go, Nephew,
go.

But see that it is a quick trip.  I will need you to handle the
conference with the Desilijic representatives from the Core Worlds in
ten days."

"But, Aunt, it would do you good to handle it yourself.  You have
gotten rather out of touch with those reps," Jabba pointed out.  Jiliac
burped delicately, then yawned.  "Oh, I shall plan to attend, Nephew.

But the baby is so demanding I will need you to be there and handle
things when I must rest."

Jabba started to protest, then forced back the words.  What good would
it do?  Jiliac simply wasn't interested in the affairs of Desilijic the
way she had been before motherhood.  It was probably hormonal ....

For months now, Jabba had been working to recoup the losses the
Desilijic kajidic suffered in the Battle of Nar Shaddaa.  He was
getting tired of shouldering--speaking figuratively, of course, for
Hutts did not really have shoulders--the burden of running Desilijic.

"Here is a note that should interest you, Aunt," Jabba said, examining
another message.  "Repairs to your yacht have been completed.  The
Dragon Pearl is fully operational again."

In the old days, Jiliac's first question would have been "how much?"

but she did not ask it.  The bottom line was no longer her primary
interest in life ....

Jiliac's yacht had been hijacked by some of the defenders of Nar
Shaddaa, and had suffered considerable damage in the battle.  For a
long time Jabba and his aunt had thought the ship lost altogether, then
a Hutt smuggler had spotted the vessel drifting among the abandoned
hulks that were scattered in orbit surrounding the Smuggler's Moon.

Jabba had ordered the Pearl towed into spacedock, and had spent a
goodly sum in bribes, but he'd never been able to discover which of the
smugglers had hijacked the vessel and used it in the battle.

In the old days, Jabba reflected sadly, news of her precious ship would
have been of major concern to his aunt.  But the Dragon Pearl had been
damaged because Jiliac had forgotten to have the ship brought safely to
Nal Hutta before the battle.  "The stress of motherhood," as she'd put
it.

Well, the "stress of motherhood" had cost Desilijic well over fifty
thousand credits in repairs.  Just because Jiliac had been careless.

Jabba sighed, and absently reached for a wriggler from his aunt's
snackquarium.  He heard a snort, then a buzzing nasal rumble, and
turned to see that Jiliac's massive eyes were closed, and her mouth was
half open as she snored.

Jabba sighed again, and went back to work ....

That same night, Durga the Hutt was eating his evening repast with his
cousin, Zier.  Durga did not like Zier, and he knew that the other Hutt
lord was his chief rival for the leadership of Besadii, but he
tolerated him because Zier knew better than to oppose Durga in any
overt fashion.

Remembering Aruk's advice to "keep your friends close .  . . and your
enemies even closer," Durga had informally made Zier his lieutenant,
entrusting him with matters pertaining to the administration of Besadii
clan's vast Nal Hutta enterprises.

Durga kept Zier on a very short leash, however, and trusted him not at
all.  The two Hutt lords fenced back and forth verbally as they ate,
each watching the other as a predator regards prey.

Just as Durga was lifting a particularly succulent morsel to his mouth,
his majordomo, a servile, pale Chevin humanoid, appeared.  "Master,
there has been a message sent.  You are to expect an important
holotransmission from Coruscant within a few minutes.  Do you wish to
take it here?"

Durga gave Zier a quick glance.  "No.  I'll take it in my office."

He undulated after the Chevin, Osman, until he reached his office.

The "connection" light was just beginning to flash.  Is it Myk Bidlor
with news about the substance found in my parent's brain tissues?  the
Hutt wondered.

He had clearly gained the impression from the human that it would be
some time, perhaps months, before they would complete their
investigation.

Waving the bowing Chevin humanoid out of the room, Durga activated the
security locks, keyed on the "shielded frequency" field, and then
accepted the communication.

A blond human female suddenly stood before him, nearly lifesized.

Durga wasn't very familiar with human standards of attractiveness, but
he recognized that she appeared fit and limber.  "Lord Durga," she
said.  "I am Guri, aide to Prince Xizor.  The prince would like to
speak with you personally."

Oh, no!  If Durga had been human, he would have broken out in a
sweat.

But Hutts did not sweat, though their pores did secrete an oily
substance that kept their skin comfortably moist and slick.

Aruk the Hutt had not raised a fool, however, so none of Durga's unease
showed.  Instead he inclined his head, the closest a Hutt could come to
a humanoid bow.  "The prince honors me."

Before Durga's eyes, the figure of Guri stepped to one side of the
transmission field, and was almost instantly replaced by the tall,
imposing form of the Falleen prince, Xizor, the leader of the huge
criminal empire known as Black Sun.

Xizor's people, the Falleen, had evolved from a reptilian species,
though the prince was very humanoid in appearance.  His skin had a
definite greenish cast, and his eyes were flat and expressionless.  His
body was muscled and lithe, and might have been in his mid-thirties
(though Durga knew his age was closer to one hundred).  Xizor's skull
was bare save for a topknot of long black hair that fell to his
shoulders.  He wore an expensive surcoat over a one-piece garment that
resembled a pilot's jumpsuit.

As Durga gazed at Xizor, the leader of Black Sun inclined his head in a
faint nod.  "Greetings, Lord Durga.  It has been several months since I
have heard from you, so I thought it best to see for myself that you
are well.

How is Besadii doing in the wake of your esteemed parent's untimely
death?"

"Besadii is doing well, Your Highness," Durga said.  "Your help was
most appreciated, I assure you."

When Durga had first succeeded to the leadership of Besadii, he'd faced
so much opposition from other leaders in the clan--mostly due to the
young Hutt's unfortunate facial birthmark, which Hutt lore held to be

an extremely bad omen--that he'd had to ask Prince Xizor for help.

Within a week after his request, Durga's three main opponents and
detractors had died in "unrelated" accidents.  Opposition had grown far
quieter after that ....

Durga had paid Xizor for his help, but the prince's fee had been so
modest, so much less than the young Hutt lord was expecting, that
Aruk's heir knew he hadn't seen the last of Black Sun.

"I was only too glad to provide whatever assistance you needed, Lord
Durga," Xizor said, spreading his hands apart in a gesture that
conveyed sincerity.  Durga didn't have any trouble believing the
Falleen Prince was sincere.  The Besadii Lord had known for a long time
that Black Sun would be only too happy to gain a foothold in Hutt
space.  "And I must say, it is my most humble wish that we will have
cause to work together again."

"Perhaps we will, Your Highness," Durga said.  "At the moment, all my
time is taken up with running the affairs of my clan, and I have little
time for anything outside Nal Hutta."

"Ah, but surely you have time for Besadii's Ylesian interests," Xizor
said, as if doing nothing more than musing aloud.  "Such an impressive
operation, such efficiency, all of it achieved in such a comparatively
short span of time.  Most impressive."

Durga felt his stomach contract around his supper.  So that is what
Xizor wants, he thought.  Ylesia.  He wants a share of the Ylesian
profits.

"Of course, Your Highness," Durga said.  "Ylesia is essential to
Besadii's business interests.  I take my duties toward our Ylesian
enterprise most seriously."

"That does not surprise me at all, Lord Durga," the Falleen Prince
said.

"I would have expected no less.  Your people are akin to mine in their
efficiency in running their business affairs.  So much better than many
of the other species that pride themselves on their business acumen,
frankly.., like the humans, for instance.  All their dealings colored
by emotion, rather than remaining rational and analytical."

"Indeed, Your Highness, you are entirely correct," Durga said.

"However, both our peoples have regard for family ties," Xizor said,
after a moment's pause.

What in the name of all the denizens of space is he getting at?  Durga
wondered.  The Hutt Lord was completely in the dark, and that irritated
him greatly.  "Yes, that is also true, Your Highness," Durga agreed
after a moment, keeping his voice neutral.

"My sources reveal that you may need some assistance in discovering

the truth behind your parent's death, Lord Durga," Xizor said.

"Apparently some .  . . irregularities have surfaced."

How did he learn about the forensic report so quickly?  Durga wondered,
then he mentally shook himself.  This was Black Sun he was talking to,
the greatest criminal organization in the entire galaxy.  It was
possible that not even the Emperor himself had better spy networks.

"My people are conducting investigations," Durga said, neutrally.  "I
will let you know if I require assistance, Your Highness.  But I am
gratified by your wish to help me in my bereavement."

Xizor inclined his head respectfully.  "Family must be honored, debts
must be paid, and, when necessary, vengeance must be swift, Lord
Durga.

I am sure my sources could be of considerable assistance to you."  He
looked Durga square in the eye.  "Lord Durga, let me be frank.  Black
Sun's interests in the Outer Rim are not being served as capably as
they could be.  It seems to me that we would do well to ally ourselves
with the natural masters of that region of space--the Hutts.  And it is
very evident to me that you, Lord Durga, are Nal Hutta's rising
star."

Durga was not flattered by Xizor's words, nor reassured.  Instead he
flashed back to a conversation with his parent.  Prince Xizor had
contacted Aruk several times in the past two decades, and had made the
Besadii lord several similar offers.  Aruk had always refused as
gracefully as possible.

The Besadii lord knew better than to anger Xizor, but he did not want
to become one of the Falleen prince's lieutenants, or, as Xizor termed
them, "Vigos."

"The power of Black Sun is seductive, my child," Aruk had said.  "But
beware it, for there is no turning back as long as Prince Xizor is
alive.

Easier in some way to say no to the Emperor himself.  Give Black Sun a
kilometer, and they will take a parsec.  Remember this, Durga."

I remember, Durga thought, and faced the holo-image squarely.  "I will
think upon your words, Prince Xizor," Durga said.  "But at the moment,
Hutt custom demands that I pursue my investigations and possible
vengeance as a sacred .  . . and solo .  . . trust."

Xizor inclined his head again.  "I quite understand, Lord Durga.  I
shall look forward to hearing from you when you have had the time to
ponder my proposal."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Durga said.  "Your concern honors me, and
your friendship pleases me."

For the first time, Xizor smiled faintly, then he reached out and broke
the connection.  The moment the prince's holo-image vanished, Durga let
himself

slump.  He felt exhausted after fencing with the Falleen prince, but
congratulated himself that he'd held up rather well.

Ylesia.  He wants a share in Ylesia, he thought.  Well, Xizor could
want all he pleased, but wanting wasn't the same thing as getting, as
every sentient child soon discovers.

If Xizor knew that I had authorized another colony on Ylesia, and sent
survey teams to Nyrvona to begin choosing the best spot for a new
Pilgrim planet, he'd be twice as eager, he thought.  Good thing he'd
been very closemouthed about his ambitions for the new Besadii
expansion.

Durga had a sudden, vivid vision of a whole handful of Ylesias, worlds
where raw spice was turned into pure profit by contented, happy
Pilgrims.

Perhaps I could even expand into the Core Worlds, he thought· Palpatine
would not stop me, he values the slaves I sell his minions.  ·..

The Hutt lord smiled, and went gliding back to his interrupted dinner,
appetite fully restored.

Far away, on Imperial Center, Prince Xizor turned away from his comm
unit.

"Not just a crafty Hutt, but an eloquent one, it seems," he commented
to his human-replica assassin droid, Guri.  "Durga is proving more of a
challenge than I expected."

The HRD--who bore the seeming of a surpassingly beautiful human
woman--made a very subtle movement of one hand.  Yet the meaning--and
menace--in her gesture were unmistakable.  "Why not eliminate him,
then, my prince.  Easy enough to do .... " Xizor nodded.  "For you,
Guri, not even a Hutt's thick skin would prove a challenge, I know," he
said.  "But killing a potential opponent is not nearly so efficient and
effective as making him a dedicated subordinate."

"The young Besadii lord's control of his clan and his kajidic is still
tenuous, by all report, my prince," Guri said.  "It is possible that
Jabba the Hutt might prove a better candidate.  Xizor shook his head.

"Jabba has been of use to me in the past," he said.  "We have traded
information--almost all of which I already knew-- and I have done him
some favors.  I would rather have him beholden to me, so that when I
choose to have him return these favors, he will do so with .  . .

enthusiasm.  Jabba respects Black Sun.

Fears it, too, though he would never admit it."  Guri nodded· Most
beings in the galaxy who had any sense--and any knowledge of Black Sun,
which the vast majority of sentients did not-- were afraid of Black
Sun.

"Also, Jabba is too .  . . independent, too used to having his own
way," Xizor continued, thoughtfully.  "On the other hand, Durga is
equally intelligent, and, unlike Jabba, he is still young enough to be
effectively .  . . molded .  . . into what I wish him to be.  He would
make a valuable addition to Black Sun.  Hutts are ruthless and venal.

In short, ideal."

"Understood, my prince," she replied, composedly.  Guri was always
composed.  She was, after all, an artificial creation--though she was
as far above most of the clanking, clumsy droids most people thought of
when they thought of droids as Prince Xizor was above one of the
slithering creatures that were his distant evolutionary cousins.

Xizor walked over to his form-chair and dropped into it, stretching
almost lazily while the chair hastily conformed to his every move.

Thoughtfully, he stroked one sharp-nailed finger down his cheek, the
talon barely grazing his greenish skin.  "Black Sun needs a foothold in
Hutt space, and Durga is my best chance of gaining it.  Also .  . .

Besadii controls Ylesia, and that operation, though small in scale
compared to most of Black Sun's enterprises, impresses me.  Lord Aruk
was a most cunning old Hutt.  He would never work for me .  . . but his
son may be a different matter."

"What is your plan, my prince?"  Guri asked.

"I shall give Durga time to realize just how much he needs Black Sun,"
Xizor replied.  "Guri, have Durga's investigations into Aruk's death
closely monitored.  I want our operatives to stay ahead of Durga's own
knowledge of the forensics team's findings.  I wish to know how Aruk
died before the Besadii lord does."

She nodded.  "As you wish, my prince."

"And if the discoveries of Durga's forensics team provide links back to
Aruk's murderer--most likely Jiliac or Jabba--then I want that link
eliminated in the most subtle way.  I do not want Durga to realize that
he is being deliberately thwarted in his search for his father's killer
. . .

is that clear?"

"It is, my prince.  It shall be as you wish."

"Good."  Xizor looked pleased.  "Let Durga play detective if he wishes
for a few months .  . . even a year.  Let him chase his own slimy
tail.

The frustration will build, until he is only too happy to throw in his
lot--and a goodly percentage of Ylesia--with Black Sun."

Han Solo arrived back at his shabby flat on Nar Shaddaa in the early
hours of the morning to find the assorted denizens of his motley
household still fast asleep.  That didn't last long, though.  "Hey,
everyone!"  the Corellian bellowed.  "Chewie!  Jarik!  Wake up!  I
won!

Lookit this!"  He ran through the apartment, yelling and waving a stack
of credit vouchers thick enough to choke a bantha.

Han and Chewie shared their dilapidated flat with his young friend
Jarik and an ancient droid named ZeeZee Han had "won" off Mako Spince
in a recent friendly game of sabacc.  After spending a month or two in
ZeeZee's company, however, Han was pretty sure that Mako, an
experienced card sharp, had "cooked" that deck to make sure he lost.

As a house-droid, ZeeZee had proved a twittery, stammering nuisance
rather than a help.  Han had gotten so annoyed with the droid's efforts
to clean up the place that several times he'd considered junking the
blasted antique, but somehow he'd never gotten around to it.  Finally,
in disgust, Han had ordered ZeeZee to "leave everything the way it
is!"

Jarik "Solo" was a street kid from the depths of Nar Shaddaa.  About a
year ago he'd introduced himself to Han as a distant relative.  He'd
obviously been in awe of Han, who was known far and wide as one of the
hottest pilots around.  Jarik was a brash, good-looking kid, and he
reminded Han a little of himself when he'd been in his late teens.  The
Corellian had had Jarik's claim investigated, and turned up the
truth--Jarik had no more right to the name "Solo" than Chewie did.  But
by the time Han knew for sure they weren't related, that Jarik was
lying, he'd gotten kind of attached to the boy.  So he'd let him hang
around, even fly with them, and Jarik had turned into a pretty fair
gunner.

Despite the youth's fears, he'd proven himself at the Battle of Nar
Shaddaa, shooting down several TIE fighters, and helping Han, Lando and
Salla Zend turn the tide of the engagement.  So Han had never told the
youth that he knew the truth.  It was important for Jarik to have a
sense of identity, even if it was a false one.  And Han was willing to
let the kid "borrow" his last name.

Now, as he raced around his apartment, Han was bouncing off the walls
with excitement as his groggy friends gathered around.  "C'mon, wake
up!"  Han shouted.  "I won, guys!  And I won the Falcon from Lando!"

Hearing the exciting news, Chewbacca roared, Jarik cheered, and poor
ZeeZee was so confused by the excitement that the elderly droid
short-circuited and had to be reset.  After a round of back-slapping
and congratulations, Han, Chewie and Jarik headed immediately for
Lando's used-spaceship lot, with Lando's marker in hand.

After the formalities of ownership exchange had been processed, Han
stood back, just looking at the Millennium Falcon.  "Mine .  . ."  he
said, and grinned until his face hurt.

The Corellian's mind filled with plans for fixing up the Falcon.  There
were so many things he wanted to do, to modify her into being the ship
of his dreams.  And, thanks to the sabacc tournament .  . . he had the
credits to do them!

For one thing, he intended to get Shug and Salla to help him salvage
the military armor plating off the Imperial derelict Liquidator, a bulk
cruiser that had become a casualty of the Battle of Nar Shaddaa.  The
airless hulk was still drifting amidst the space junk orbiting the
Smuggler's Moon.

Better armor plating would be a priority.  Han didn't want what had
happened to the Bria happening to the Falcon.

Another thing, he wanted a getaway blaster he could lower from the
ship's belly.  Smuggling could get risky, sometimes, and a quick exit
was required.  A quick exit with cover fire was even better ....

Yes, and he was going to overhaul the Falcon's hyperdrive, and install
a light blaster cannon under the nose.  Concussion missile launchers,
definitely.  And maybe he'd move the quad laser turrets so they'd be
one on top of the other, instead of on top and on the ship's right
side.  Perhaps stronger shielding, too?

Han stood there with his friends, contemplating his ship, dreaming of
what he could do to her and with her .  . . modifying the YT-1300 into
the perfect ship.  His ultimate smuggling ship.

"Fake compartments," he muttered.

"What?"  Jarik turned to him.  "What did you say, Han?"

"I said I'm gonna build some fake compartments under the decking, kid,"
Han said, throwing an arm around the youth's shoulders.  He grinned up
at Chewbacca.  "And guess who gets to help me?"

Jarik grinned back at him.  "Great!  What's your first cargo going to
be?"

Han thought for a moment.  "Our first port of call is gonna be
Kashyyyk.

I'd say a nice load of bowcaster explosive quarrels would probably do
well, there, what do you think, Chewie?"

Chewbacca voiced his agreement, long and loud.  Now that the Wookiee
knew that he'd be going home, he was more excited at the prospect than
Han had ever seen him before.

Two days later, with the Falcon's new below-decks compartments crammed
with contraband, Han Solo flew his ship out of Shug Ninx's spacebarn
and headed straight up, exulting in the Millennium Falcon's quick
acceleration.

Chewie was in the copilot's seat, and Jarik was riding

along as gunner.  Han hoped to avoid Imperial patrols, but he intended
to be prepared for a fight if one erupted.

Kashyyyk was an Imperial "protectorate" (translation: slave) world.

The Imperials had managed to pacify the inhabitants, though they kept
their forays into Wookiee cities and homes to a minimum, and they
always went heavily armed, and in numbers.  Wookiees were known to have
quick tempers and to act impulsively.

Han managed to dodge the Imp patrols and to stay out of range of any
sensor satellites as he approached the verdant sphere that was
Kashyyyk.

The Wookiee homeworld was mostly forest, covered with monstrous wroshyr
trees, with four continents divided by bands of ocean.  Archipelagoes
of islands dotted the gleaming coastal seas like emeralds scattered
across blue satin.  There were only a few desert regions, mostly on the
rain-shadow side of the equatorial mountain ranges.

When they were within communication range, Chewbacca took over the comm
station, setting a coded frequency, then speaking into the comm in a
series of grunts, growls, hours, barks, and hrnnn's that, to the
untrained human ear, sounded exactly like his usual speech--but
wasn't.

Han frowned, realizing that, although many of the words sounded
familiar, he basically hadn't understood a word that his friend had
said.  When Chewie stopped speaking into the comm, a voice came back,
giving a series of what were obviously directives.

Han, who had been watching the sensors sharply, made a quick course
correction.  There was an Imperial ship taking off, just past the limb
of the planet.

"Jarik, look sharp, kid," he said, keying the ship's intercom.  "I
don't think we've been spotted, but let's be ready."

Several tense seconds later, Han heaved a sigh of relief as the
instruments indicated that the Imp vessel was proceeding serenely on
its way, unaware of them.

When Han turned back to Chewie, the Wookiee launched into a series of
directives and coordinates that his contact had given him.  Han was to
fly low, actually within the boundaries of the tallest wroshyr
treetops, and to be prepared to make precise course changes the instant
Chewbacca told him to.

"Okay, pal," the Corellian said.  "It's your world, and you're the
boss.

But .  . . what was that lingo you were talkin'?  Some kinda Wook
code?"

Chewbacca chuckled, then explained to his human friend that the
Imperials were so stupid that most of them didn't even realize that all
Wookiees were not the same.  There were several related, but somewhat
different, Wookiee sub-species.  Han already knew that Chewbacca was
a

rwook; and bore the typical brown, red and chestnut hair of that
people.

He also knew that the language that he had learned to understand, but
not speak, was called Shyriiwook; which, loosely translated, meant,
"tongue of the tree-people."

Chewie went on to explain that the language Han had just heard him
speak, xaczik; was a traditional tribal language spoken by the Wookiees
indigenous to the Wartaki island and several outlying coastal
regions.

It was seldom heard, since Shyriiwook was the common language of trade
and travel.  So, when the Imperials had taken over Kashyyyk, the
Wookiee underground had adopted xaczik as their "code" language.  They
used it whenever they had to give directives or pass along information
that they didn't want the Imperials finding out about.

Han nodded.  "Okay, pal.  You just tell me how to fly, and where, and
I'll take us where your buddies in the underground tell me."

Flying low, skimming barely above, and, at times, between the tiptop
branches of the wroshyr trees, Han sent the Falcon blasting along in
the precise course and speed Chewie specified.  Every minute or so, the
Wookiee conferred with his underground contact.

Finally, as they neared Chewie's hometown, Rwookrrorro, a
kilometer-wide city set on platforms made by crisscrossing branches of
the wroshyrs, Han's copilot made him shear off in a dangerous swoop and
take them straight down between the branches for a thirty-second
plunge.  Han's heart was in his mouth as the Falcon dived like its
namesake into the green forest, but Chewie's coordinates were right on
the credits.

Even though it looked through the viewport as though they were going to
be engulfed and smashed to flinders, nothing touched the ship.  Chewie
barked an order, and Han shouted, "Hard to port .  . . now!"

He sent the Falcon into a screaming left turn, then, before him, saw
something that the Corellian at first took to be a huge cave, a vast
black hole waiting to swallow them up.

But as he neared it, Han realized that what it was in actuality was a
massive wroshyr branch, balanced across other equally huge branches.

Either by accident or design, the branch had split off from the main
tree, and been hollowed out, to form a "cave" the size of a small
Imperial docking bay.

"You want me to land in there?"  Han hollered at the Wookiee.  "What if
we don't fit?"  Chewie's snarled comment assured Han that of course
they would fit.  Han fired his braking thrusters hard as he neared the
"cave" opening.

They passed through it, and suddenly the muted sunlight was gone, and

the space before them was revealed only by the Falcon's infrared
sensors and the beams of the landing lights.

Han killed the last of their forward motion, then lowered them onto
their landing struts, using his repulsors.

Moments after they touched down, Jarik appeared in the doorway of the
cockpit.  The youth's hair was practically standing on end.  "Han,
you're crazier than I thought!  That landing--!"

"Shut up, kid," Han snapped.  Chewie was howling at him insistently,
demanding that Han immediately turn off all power in the Falcon except
for the batteries to power the airlocks, and to do it now!

"Okay, okay," Han muttered, doing as he was told.  "Keep your fur on
....

"Quickly he killed all the power, save for the batteries.  The interior
of the ship was now lit only by the weak, red-tinted emergency
lights.

"So, want to tell me just what is going on?"  the Corellian grumbled.

"Fly here, turn there, land here, turn off the power .  . . good thing
I'm a sweet-natured guy who learned to take orders while I was in the
Navy.  So what gives?"

Chewbacca urgently beckoned the humans to follow him.  The Wookiee
seemed nearly beside himself with excitement.  He roared his pleasure
and his eagerness to breathe the air of his homeworld.

Outside, something clanged against the Falcon's new armorplating.

"Hey!"

Han yelled, jumping up and elbowing his hairy friend out of the way,
"watch it, that's my hull!"

Hitting the "open ramp" release, Han raced down the ramp, then stopped
in wonder.  When he'd first flown into the "cave" it had seemed a tight
fit, but now he realized the place was so big it had echoes.

Back at the entrance, a hydraulic lift whined as it raised a huge
"curtain" of some kind of camouflage net over the entrance.  Teams of
Wookiees were busily draping the Falcon in more netting.

Chewie came up behind him, and growled a soft apology for not warning
his friend better about what was going to happen.  "Let me guess," Han
said, surveying the "nets."

"Those things contain either jamming nodes or they send out some kind
of camouflage frequency, so the Imps can't trace us here."

Chewbacca confirmed Han's guess.  Local Wookiees used this landing site
to receive smuggled goods, and they knew the drill.

"Wow," Jarik muttered.  The young man was staring around the "cave" in
openmouthed wonder as the lights came up.  The inside of the "cave" was
a well-stocked, completely functional docking site and repair
facility.

"Wow!  This is something!"

Han still couldn't believe they were standing inside a tree.  No, not
a tree, but a tree branch.  If one branch of a wroshyr was this big,
the idea of the whole tree was mind-boggling.  He shook his head.  "I
gotta admit, Chewie, your people have got a slick operation here."

After carefully locking the Falcon, Han and Jarik followed Chewie out
toward the front of the "cave."  There they were introduced to a crowd
of Wookiees.  Han had some trouble following the conversation, because
he wasn't used to hearing seven Wookiees talking rapidly all at the
same time.  Chewbacca was howled at, hugged, thumped, shaken, thumped
some more and generally exclaimed over with great joy.

When Chewie introduced Han as his "honor brother" to whom he owed a
life debt for freeing him from slavery, Han in turn was in grave danger
of being similarly thumped, shaken, etc., but, thankfully, Chewbacca
intervened and provided more conventional introductions.  Not all of
the Wookiees understood Basic, so a lot of translating was necessary.

Three of the Wookiees Han met were relatives of Chewie's .  . . the
Wookiee with the whorls of auburn hair turned out to be his sister,
Kallabow.

Jowdrrl, a smaller, chestnut colored female (Han was surprised to note
that he could actually see a family resemblance!) was a cousin, and
Dryanta, a darker brown male, was another cousin.  The other four were
members of the Wookiee underground resistance movement, who had come in
especially to meet Han and negotiate for his cargo.

Motamba was an older Wookiee, a munitions expert whose blue eyes lit up
when Han revealed how many boxes of explosive quarrels he had to
sell.

Katarra was a young Wookiee, younger than Chewbacca, and she was the
underground resistance's leader, as near as Han could tell.  The
Wookiees listened to her with a great deal of respect.  She consulted
regularly with her father, Tarkazza, a burly male who was the first
Wookiee with black fur Han had ever seen.  He had a stripe of
silver-colored fur running down his back, which was evidently a family
trait, for Katarra had one, too, though her fur was brown and tan.

After several minutes of confusion, Chewbacca roared an order to his
friends.  Han caught most of it.  Something about, "fetch the
quulaars."  What are quulaars?  Han wondered.

He soon found out.  Two long bag-like pieces of woven fabric---or was
it woven hair?--were produced.  Chewbacca turned to Han, and pointed
from the Corellian to the quulaar.  Han stared at his friend,
incredulous, and shook his head.  "Get inside?  You want me and Jarik
to crawl into those things?

So you can carry us up the trees?  No way, pal!  I can climb, just as
good as you can."

Chewbacca looked at his friend and shook his head.  Then he grabbed
Han's arm, and hustled the Corellian over to the entrance to the cave,
and, lifting the camouflage hanging, gestured Han to step outside, onto
the lip of the cave.

Jarik had followed them outside, as had the other Wookiees.  The youth
was confused, having understood almost nothing of what had been said.

"Han?

What do they want?"

"They want us to crawl into these sacks, kid, so they can haul us up
the tree trunks until we can catch the lift for Rwookrrorro.  I just
told Chewie no way, that I can climb just as good as he can."

Jarik walked over to the lip and cautiously leaned over to look down.

Then he walked back to Han, gave him a long, silent look.  Without
speaking, he began climbing into his quulaar.

Out of curiosity, Han walked over to look down, too.

He'd known it intellectually, of course, but it was one thing to know
it with his brain, another to know it in his gut.  He was kilometers
high in the air.  Below him the forest went on .  . . and on .  . . and
on ....

The tree trunks stretched down, past the point where Han's excellent
eyesight could distinguish them from each other.  Despite all his
piloting experience and his outstanding sense of balance, the sight
made Han's head swim for a moment.  He walked back to Chewbacca, who
was helpfully holding out the quulaar.  When Han hesitated, the Wookiee
flexed his powerful hands and made his claws pop out.  They were very
sharp, and, coupled with Chewie's great strength, would enable him to
dig deep into a tree trunk when climbing.

"I'm gonna regret this "Han muttered, and climbed into the sack.

Chewbacca wanted to carry Han, but his relatives convinced him that,
since it had been a long time since he'd done any forest-traversing, it
would be better if he had only himself to worry about.

So Motamba carried Jarik, and Tarkazza carried Han, both humans stuffed
inside their respective quulaars.  Han wanted to look out, but Tarkazza
was firm, pushing the human's head down into the sack, warning him to
keep his arms inside, too, and to stay still, so he wouldn't disturb
his carrier's balance.

Inside the quulaar, Han felt the bag sway as Tarkazza walked to the
edge of the platform lip.  Then, with a grunt and a powerful leap, the
Wookiee launched himself.  They were falling, falling!

Han barely managed to hold back a yell, and he heard Jarik let out a
short, bitten-off cry.

Seconds later Tarkazza smacked into a hard surface, clung, then began
climbing rapidly upward.  Leaves swished against the quulaar.  Han had
just started to relax, when suddenly they leaped again!

The next few minutes, all Han could do was try not to move, and to keep
concentrating on not being sick.  The sack swung and jerked and spun
and slapped against the tree trunks, despite Tarkazza's best efforts.

Swing, scramble, climb.  Leap, grip, swing.

Grab, grunt, swing-climb ....

Han finally had to close his eyes, not that he could see much anyway,
and just try to hang on.  It seemed as though the nightmare journey
took hours, but Han realized when he checked his chrono later, that it
had taken only about fifteen minutes.

Finally, with a last swing and grunt of effort, the movement stopped,
and Han found himself lying on the ground, still inside the quulaar.

When the world around him stopped spinning (which took a moment) the
Corellian began clawing his way out of the sack.

Moments later, he was standing, legs braced wide apart for balance, on
the great platform where the great, mostly enclosed city of Rwookrrorro
was located.  It was a massive, flattened ovoid, with homes studding
the outskirts and scattered all over the platform.  Branches grew
straight up along the avenues, through the material making up the
streets, adding touches of green.

The world steadied around Han, and he drew a deep breath.  The city
before him was beautiful, in a way that was hard to describe.  Not as
pastel as Cloud City, Rwookrrorro had some of the same openness and
airiness.

Perhaps because it was, like Cloud City, so high up?

Some of the buildings were several stories tall, yet they harmonized,
somehow, with the treetops.  All around them the vivid green topmost
branches of the wroshyr trees swayed in the breeze.  The sky overhead
was blue, with a hint of green.  Thick, flattened masses of sparkling
white clouds drifted by.

Hearing a strangled gurgle, Han looked over and saw Jarik, bent over,
clutching his middle, obviously in distress.  He went over and touched
the youth's shoulder.  "Hey, kid, you okay?"

Jarik shook his head, then looked as though he'd regretted doing
that.

"I'm gonna be okay," he mumbled.  "Jus' tryin' not to upchuck .... "
"There's a trick to that," Han said mock-seriously.  "Just don't think
about traladon and tuber stew."

Jarik gave Han a quick, betrayed glance, then, hand over his mouth,
bolted for the edge of the platform.  The Corellian shrugged, then
turned

to find Chewie there.  "Poor guy.  Hey, Chewie, what a way to
travel.

Good thing your people brought those sacks along.  What do you usually
carry in them?  Luggage?"

Chewbacca's lip curled, then he gave a brief, amused translation of the
word "quulaar."

Han bristled.  "Baby-sack?  You haul Wook babies around in 'em?"

Chewbacca began to laugh, and the madder his human friend got, the more
the Wookiee cracked up.  Han was rescued by a roar from a party of
Wookiees coming their way from the city.  There were at least ten of
them, all ages.  Han noted a somewhat stooped, short, graying Wookiee,
and just then Chewbacca took off, racing toward the newcomers with
roars of joy.

Watching Chewie thump and pound and hug the old Wookiee, Han turned to
Kallabow, who, thankfully, understood Basic.  "Attichitcuk?"  he
guessed, naming Chewbacca's father.

Chewbacca's sister confirmed that, yes indeed, that was their father,
Attichitcuk, who had talked of nothing else since discovering that his
son would soon be home.

"There's someone else that Chewie's looking forward to seeing," Han
said.

"Mallatobuck.  She still live here in Rwookrrorro?"

Kailabow's formidable teeth flashed in a Wookiee grin and she nodded,
human-style.

"She married?"  Han asked, dreading the answer.  He had some idea of
how much that question meant to his best friend.

Kallabow's grin widened, as slowly, deliberately, she shook her head,
Han grinned back.  "Whoo-hoo!  That's something to celebrate, I
guess!"

Han felt a touch on his shoulder, and turned to find Katarra standing
there, with yet another male Wookiee.  To Han's profound astonishment,
the tall Wookiee opened his mouth and said, in amazingly understandable
Wookiee, [Greetings, Captain Solo.  I am Ralrracheen.  Please call me
Ralrra.  We are honored, Han Solo, that you have come to Kashyyyk.]
Han's mouth dropped open with surprise.  It had taken him years to
learn to understand Wookiee speech, and he couldn't pronounce it even
after many efforts.  And yet this Wookiee spoke in a fashion that Han
could understand very easily--and could even have reproduced.  "Hey!"

Han blurted.  "How do you do that?"

[A speech impediment,] the Wookiee said.  [Unfortunate for me when
conversing with my own people, but, when humans visit Kashyyyk, it is
useful.] "It sure is .... "Han muttered, still amazed.

With Ralrra's help, Han and Katarra were able to begin negotiations
over the cargo of explosive quarrels.  [We need them desperately,]
Ralrra said.

[But we are not asking for charity.  We have something to trade for
them, Captain.] "And what's that?"  Han wondered.

[Armor from Imperial stormtroopers,] Ralrra said.  [My people began
collecting it from soldiers who had no further use for it, first as
trophies, then because we learned it was valuable.  We have many suits
and helmets.] Han thought about that.  Stormtrooper armor was indeed
made from valuable materials, and could be recycled as other kinds of
body armor.  It also could be chemically melted and then recast.  "Like
to take a look at it," he said, "but we may have ourselves a trade
there."  He shrugged.  "Course .

. . used armor ain't worth much .... " Which wasn't true.  A suit of
stormtrooper armor in good shape was worth well over two thousand
credits, depending on the market.  But hey, Han thought.  They've got
no use for it, and I gotta make a profit on this trip I ain't in the
handout business ....

Katarra hrrrrnnnnned vehemently, then spoke to the interpreter in
rapid, accented Shyriiwook that Han had trouble following.  Something
about a dawn-haired human?

Ralrra turned back to Han.  [Katarra says that she knows that the armor
is valuable.  She knows because the female from your world of Corellia,
with hair the color of sunrise, told her so.] Han's attention was
suddenly focused completely on the underground leader.

"Corellian?"  he said, sharply.  "A Corellian woman?  Fairhaired?"

Ralrra conferred briefly with Katarra.  [Yes.  She came here just after
our most recent Life Day--about a standard year, Captain--and she met
with the leaders of the Underground, advising us on organization,
codes, tactics, and so forth.  She was a member of the resistance
movement on your homeworld.] Han stared at Katarra.  "Her name.  What
was her name?"

Ralrra turned to the underground leader, spoke rapidly, then turned
back.

[Katarra says that she did not know her name, which is standard
procedure, in case of interrogation.  During her visit, we called her
'Quarrr-tellerrra' which means 'sun-haired warrior."" Han took a deep
breath.  "What did she look like?"  he asked.  "I may know this
Corellian.  She may be .  . ."  He hesitated.  "She may be my · .  .

mate.

We were separated long ago, by the Empire."

Which was true, strictly speaking.  Bria had left when Han was
preparing to go into the Imperial Academy, saying she didn't want to
hold him

back.  He still had the flimsy she'd written him.  It was stupid,
keeping it, and every time he ran across it, he resolved to throw it
away, but, somehow, he never had ....

Katarra's wary expression visibly softened upon hearing this.  She put
out a paw-hand and laid it on Han's arm, expressing sympathy.  The
Empire was evil, had torn apart so many families ....

Ralrra made a gesture in the air on the level of Han's nose.  [This
tall,] he said· [Long hair, the color of the sunset .  . golden-red.

Eyes ·

the color of our sky.  Not wide.] His hands described a slender form.

[She was the leader of the team, a person of rank.  She said she had
been asked to come to Kashyyyk because she understood what it was like
to live as a slave.  She told us she had been a slave, on the planet
Ylesia, and she would give her life to free Kashyyyk and any other
world enslaved by the Empire.  She spoke with much passion.] Ralrra's
voice changed slightly, took on a more personal note.  [I, too, was a
slave until my friends freed me from the Empire.  Quarrrtellerrra spoke
truth about having been enslaved.  I could tell.  She knew what it was
like.  We talked much of how much we hate the Empire.] Han's mouth was
dry.  He managed to nod, and mumble, "Thanks for telling me .... "
Bria, he thought, numbly.  Bria, a member of the Corellian rebellion?

How in the galaxy did that happen?

three

Mallatobuck it was wonderful to be back on his own world.  Chewbacca
was taken from home to home, and his father, Attichitcuk, proudly
showed off his son, the adventurer, the former slave, and his human
friends.  All of the Wookiees made much of Han and Jarik.

Of course, Kashyyyk was a world occupied by Imperial forces, so care
had to be exercised to conceal Han's real purpose in coming there.  For
the duration of his stay, Han donned clothing more befitting one of the
human traders who lived in Rwookrrorro.  He and Jarik posed as brothers
who'd come to trade trinkets and household items with the Wookiees.

This fiction was strengthened by the fact that both humans had brown
hair and eyes, and Jarik was only a little shorter than Han.

The Imperial presence of Kashyyyk was mostly confined to the posts
scattered around the planet.  Troopers were sent out in squads, since
single troopers had a disturbing tendency to vanish without a trace.

Han and Jarik were careful to avoid any contact with the Imperial
squads that occasionally patrolled Rwookrrorro.  And, with the
Millennium Falcon concealed in the special "smuggler's dock," protected
by the camouflaged and jamming devices, there was nothing to link them
with any illegal activity.

Han spent time with the Wookiee techs down in the spacedock, tinkering
with his new baby.  Several of the Wookiees were experienced techs, and
they spent hours with the Corellian, checking out every system,
overhauling every bit of equipment.  The Falcon was far from a new
ship, but, under the ministrations of the Wookiee techs, it was now in
better shape than it had been for a long time.

Chewbacca hadn't realized how much he'd missed his home and family.

Seeing them all again made him tempted to come home for good--but that
was not possible.  Chewie owed a life debt, and his place was by Han
Solo's side.

Still, he enjoyed his time on Kashyyyk.  He visited with all his
cousins, with his sister and her family.  Since Chewie had last been
home, Kallabow had married a fine male named Mahraccor.

Chewie loved playing with his nephew· The little Wookiee was smart and
fun to be with, with a lively curiosity about the universe.  He spent
hours getting his uncle to talk about his adventures out in the
spacelanes.

In addition to Chewbacca's family, he saw old friends .  . . Freyrr,
his second cousin, the best tracker in the family, Kriyystak, and
Shoran.  It was a source of sorrow that Salporin, Chewie's best Wookiee
friend, was not there.  He had been captured and enslaved by the
Empire, and there was no news of his fate--no one even knew if he was
alive or dead.

Chewbacca mourned his friend, wondering if he'd ever see him again.

But he didn't have time to mourn very much.  Life on Kashyyyk was too
busy.  In addition to all his friends and family, there was .  . .

Mallatobuck.

The Wookiee female was even lovelier than Chewie had remembered, and
her shy blue glance was even more intriguing.  He saw her their first
night at home, and was pleased to discover that she'd journeyed from a
neighboring village, where she had been working as a teacher and
caregiver in a Nursery Ring.  Malla had many friends in Rwookrrorro,
and it didn't take much urging from Chewie to convince her to extend
her visit there.

The two spent long hours wandering the bough-trails, looking up at the
nighttime sky, hearing the soft sounds of the arboreal dwellers.  They
did not talk much, but their silence was filled with unspoken things.

· .

.

On his third day on Kashyyyk, Chewbacca decided it was time to go
hunting.

Han was busy haggling with Katarra, Kichiir and Motamba about the cargo
of explosive quarrels.  His friend would be occupied for hours.  The
Corellian had taken a sudden, unaccustomed interest in the resistance
here on Kashyyyk, something that Chewie would have found puzzling, and
a bit disturbing, if he'd noticed it.  Usually Han was nothing but
scornful toward sentients who risked their necks (or whatever
equivalent body part) for causes other than their own well being.

But Chewie was too distracted to notice Han's odd behavior.  He was
concentrating on bagging himself a quillarat.  Quillarats are smallish
creatures, standing only half a meter high.  They are reclusive little
animals, hard to find, because they were a mottled brownish-green in
color, and tended to simply melt into the surrounding brush.

The most distinctive feature of the quillarat was the long, needlesharp
quills that studded most of its body.  Capturing and killing a
quillarat was something of a challenge, because the beasts could
actually hurl their quills at a hunter.  Wookiee males (and only males
hunted quillarats) had to approach the creature with some kind of
shield to collect the barrage of quills until the quillarat's supply of
"throwable" quills was exhausted.

To complicate matters, tradition declared that the quillarat must be
hunted bare-handed, and killed by blows delivered by a Wookiee's own
strength, as opposed to quarrels or any other kind of projectile.

Chewbacca did not tell anyone about his quest.  He simply waited until
late in the day, when darkness would be deepening in the lower levels,
then left Rwookrrorro and began his long climb downward.

Even Wookiees never went down all the way to Kashyyyk's surface.  There
were rumored to be night-crawlers down there that feasted on the blood
and spirits of their victims.  It was said that the spirits of those
who had not honored their debts sank down to the surface, and prowled
there, ready and waiting to trap and kill anyone foolish enough to come
near them.

There were reputedly seven levels of distinct ecology on Kashyyyk, with
the seventh level being the topmost tree branches.  Normally, not even
the bravest Wookiees ever descended below the fourth level, and even
Wookiee legend did not speculate on what lay below that.  No one that
Chewbacca had ever known had walked on the actual surface of his
world.

The bottom-most levels of Kashyyyk were a mystery .  . . and would
likely remain so.

To bag his quillarat, Chewie had to travel down below the fifth
level.

Life was different here, for the forest in the late afternoon was
almost completely dark.  Animals down at this level had large eyes to
facilitate their living at such dim light levels.  There were dangerous
predators .  . .

the kkekkrrg fro, or Shadow Keepers, that had ventured up a level to
hunt, and the katarn.  Chewbacca kept a sharp eye out, his every sense
alert.

Old habits came back to him as he traveled the forest trails, seeing
bridal-veil suckers, broad-leafed mock shyr, and kshyy vines in
profusion.

Things were not really green down here, but pale and washed-out
looking.

There was not enough sunlight to support the green growth from above.

Chewbaeca walked the broad trails, feeling the rough bark of the

wroshyr boughs beneath his feet.  His eyes moved constantly, searching
for quillarat spoor· His nostrils twitched, filtering and identifying
the scents he had not whiffed in more than fifty years· The Wookiee's
gaze was caught and held by a tiny scrape of the wroshyr bark, and a
small rip in the tracery of the bridal veil plant next to it.

The height was correct .  . . yes, a quillarat's quills had done this,
and · .  . Chewie dropped to one knee to examine the spoor .  . . not
long ago.

The animal had been heading off, on this far smaller, secondary
bough.

Chewbacca walked warily down a bough-trail not much more than two
meters across.  On either side of him yawned the green-browngray gulfs
of the forest.

The Wookiee kept every sense alert, eyes scanning, ears listening for
the faintest rustle, nostrils twitching.  Quillarats had a distinctive,
and, to a Wookiee, enticing odor.

His "shield," made from woven strips of bark on a lashed together
frame, was held ready on his left forearm.

Chewie's steps slowed .  . . then the Wookiee stopped, every muscle
poised.

There!  Amid those leaves!

The quillarat froze, sensing danger.  Chewie leaped, shield held out.

Suddenly the air before him was filled with a rain of quills.  They
thudded into the shield, for the most part, though a few embedded
themselves in the Wookiee's shoulders and chest.  Chewbacca's right
hand went out, grabbed the quillarat by the quilled tail, moving his
hand in a particular twist that made the quills lie flat beneath his
flesh.

The terrified animal squawked, turned to bite, but it was too late.

Chewie heaved it up, and sent it thudding hard against the bough
beneath his feet.  Stunned, the animal went limp, and another quick
swing dispatched it altogether.

Only then did Chewbacca take a moment to pull the quills from his chest
and shoulders, and spread a salve on the tiny, burning wounds.  His
right hand had one small puncture, which he also treated.

Then, wrapping the quillarat in the woven bag he'd brought, the Wookiee
began a triumphant journey back to Rwookrrorro.

It took him quite a while to find Mallatobuck.  He didn't want to ask
anyone where she was, since any of his friends and family would be
bound to identify the scent of the quillarat in his bag.  Chewie wasn't
in the mood for advice or jokes.

But, finally, he located her, wandering along a little-used trail.  By
now two of Kashyyyk's three tiny moons had risen, and moonlight
silvered her

fur as she wandered along, not at first noticing that anyone was
approaching her.

She had been picking kolvissh blossoms and weaving their stems into a
headpiece.  As Chewie watched her, she placed the flowers on her head,
tucking their fragile white beauty behind her left ear.

Chewbacca halted on the trail and stood there, lost in wonder at her
beauty.  His stillness attracted her attention as his movement had not,
and she stopped, looked up, and saw him.

[Chewbacca,] she said softly.  [I did not see you ...."

[Malla,] Chewie said.  "I have something for you.  A gift that I hope
you will accept ...."

She froze, eyes wide with either consternation or hope, as he walked
toward her, bag in hand.  Let it be hope she feels, Chewie thought
fervently.  By my honor, let it be hope ....

As he stopped before her, Chewbacca, in one fluid motion, knelt and
removed the quillarat from its bag.  Careful of the quills, he balanced
the animal across his palms and held it up to Mallatobuck.  His heart
was pounding as though he'd climbed all the way from ground level.

[Mallatobuck .  . .] Chewie tried to get the rest of it out, but his
voice failed him.  He was overcome with fear, as he had never been in
battle.

What if she refused him?  What if she took his traditional
proposal-offering and tossed it off the trail, sending the dead
quillarat, and his hope of happiness, plummeting into the depths?

Malla stared at him for a long moment.  [Chewbacca .  . . you have been
long away from your people.  Do you remember our customs?  Do you know
what you are offering?] Relief flooded Chewie, for her tone was
bantering, flirtatious.

[I know,] he replied.  [My memory is good.  In all the years I was
gone, I never for a moment forgot your face, your strength, your eyes,
Mallatobuck.

I dreamed of the day that we could be married.  Will you?  Will you
take me for your husband?] She replied in the traditional manner by
cautiously picking up the stiffening quillarat and taking a big bite
out of its soft underbelly.

Chewie's heart was flooded with joy.  She accepts me!  We are
betrothed!

Getting up off his knees, he followed Malla to a sheltered niche behind
a screen of leaves.  There they sat down close together and shared the
quillarat, nibbling delicately on its tasty entrails, savoring its
liver, feeding each other choice bits of this greatest of Wookiee
delicacies.

[I had proposals, you know,] Mallatobuck said.  [People told me I was
foolish for waiting so long.  They said you were dead, that you would
never

return to Kashyyyk.  But I knew, somehow .  . . I knew that was not
so.  I waited, and now my joy fills the world.] Tenderly, Chewbacca
licked blood and tissue off her face, washing her, as she returned the
favor.  Her fur was silky on his tongue.

[Malla .  . . you know about the life debt I have pledged to Han Solo?]
Chewie asked, as, sated, they sat back, arms around each other.

Malla's voice quivered just a tiny bit.  [I know.  I cherish your honor
as my own, my husband-to-be.  But let us be married quickly, so we may
have as much time together as possible before you and Captain Solo must
depart.] [Nothing would please me more,] Chewie said.  [How quickly can
you be ready?  How long will it take to prepare your wedding veil?] She
chuckled, a rich, throaty sound in the darkness.  [It has been ready
for fifty years, Chewbacca.  Ready and waiting.] Chewbacca's heart was
full of love and pride.  [Tomorrow, then, Malla.] [Tomorrow, Chewbacca
...."

Teroenza, High Priest of Ylesia, lounged back in his resting sling,
watching Kibbick, Ylesia's figurehead Hutt overlord, trying to go over
last month's accounts and make sense of them.  The huge, four-legged
t'landa Til groaned inwardly.  He'd long since ceased to be amused by
Kibbick's troubles comprehending even the most rudimentary
record-keeping.  Kibbick was an idiot, and it was Teroenza's
unfortunate task to bring him up to speed on the running of Ylesia.

As though Besadii doesn't realize that if Kibbick actually managed to
master the skills necessary to keep the spice factories running
smoothly, I would be out of a job, the High Priest thought
disgustedly.

But the chances of that are vanishingly small....

When Teroenza, with the help of the Desilijic leader, Jiliac, had
plotted Aruk the Hutt's murder, he'd hoped that the aging Hutt Lord's
only offspring, Durga, would never be declared the head of Besadii
clan.  After all, Durga had that hideous birthmark, and that should, by
rights, have disqualified him from any leadership position.

But Durga had proven stronger and more able than Teroenza had
realized.

He'd managed (some said with the help of Black Sun) to eliminate his
most vocal detractors in a most summary fashion.  There was still talk
against him, but it was more of a cautious murmur these days than a
protesting shout.

Teroenza had pinned his hopes on Zier the Hutt, hoping that the

senior Besadii member would be strong enough and clever enough to
outwit Durga and take over both the Besadii clan, and the kajidic, its
criminal arm, that was part of it.

But no.  Durga had emerged (at least for the moment) with a shaky
victory, and had promptly announced that Teroenza must adhere to all of
Aruk's directives.

Including teaching Kibbick, Durga's idiot cousin, how to manage a
top-level credit-making enterprise.

Here on Ylesia, religious "Pilgrims" were recruited by t'landa Til
missionaries during traveling revival shows.  Anyone unfortunate enough
to fall prey to the addictive Exultation would follow the Ylesian
missionaries to the steaming jungle planet.  There the malnourished,
brainwashed and addicted Pilgrims became willing slaves in the Ylesian
spice factories, toiling from sunup to sundown for their Ylesian
masters.

Teroenza's people were distant cousins of the Hutts, though they were
far smaller and more mobile.  With their huge bodies balanced on
trunklike legs, the t'landa Til had a broad face that rather resembled
a Hutt's countenance, but with the addition of a single long horn just
above their nostrils.  A long, whip-like tail was carried curled over
their backs.

Their arms and hands were tiny and weak compared to the rest of them.

The most interesting feature of the t'landa Til males, however, was not
physical.  They possessed the ability to project empathic "feelgood"
emotions at most humans.  These empathic projections, coupled with a
soothing vibration produced in the males' throat sacs, was like a jolt
of a powerful drug to the Pilgrims.  They quickly became addicted to
their daily "fix" and believed that the Priests were divinely gifted.

Nothing was further from the truth, however.  The t'landa Til's ability
was simply an adaptation of a male mating display, evolutionarily
developed to attract t'landa Til females.

"Teroenza," Kibbick said fretfully, "I don't understand this.  It says
that we spent thousands of credits for a fertility-inhibitor that's
placed in the slaves' gruel.  Why can't we eliminate most of that?

Can't we just let them breed?  It would save credits, wouldn't it?"

Teroenza rolled his bulbous eyes, but Kibbick fortunately wasn't
looking.

"Your Excellency," the High Priest said, "if the Pilgrims are allowed
to breed, that cuts into the energy they have to work.  Their
production declines.  That would mean less spice processed and ready
for market."

"Perhaps," Kibbick said.  "But, Teroenza, surely there must be some way
to manage this without expensive drugs.  Perhaps we could encourage
them to mate, then use their larvae and eggs for foodstuffs."

"Your Excellency," Teroenza said, hanging on to his patience by a

thread, "most humanoids don't lay eggs or produce larvae.  They have
live births.  They also have a very strong abhorrence for eating their
own young."

It was true that, every so often, a couple of slaves would emerge from
the Exultation-induced haze enough to feel lust for each other.  It was
rare, but human children had actually been born here on Ylesia.

Teroenza had contemplated simply killing them out of hand, but, in the
end, had decided that with a modicum of care, these children could be
raised to become guards and administrative assistants.  So he'd ordered
them to be cared for in the slave barracks.

And, nowadays, fertility-inhibiting drugs were automatically added to
the food served the slaves.  It had been at least five years since the
last accidental birth.

"Oh," Kibbick said.  "Live births.  I understand."  He went back to his
records with a grimace.

Idiot, thought Teroenza.  Idiot, idiot, idiot .  . . how many years
have you been here, and you never troubled to find out the most
rudimentary facts about the Pilgrims...?

"Teroenza," said Kibbick presently, "I've found something else I don't
understand."

Teroenza took a deep breath, then counted to twenty.

"Yes, Your Excellency?"

"Why do we have to spend extra credits on weapons and shields on these
ships?  They're only carrying slaves, after all, shipping them to the
spice mines and the pleasure palaces after we have gotten the best work
out of them.  Who cares if raiders take them?"

Kibbick was referring to a raid a month ago by a group of human Rebels
on a slave ship preparing to leave the Ylesian system.  It wasn't the
first such raid.  Teroenza didn't know who was responsible, but he
couldn't stop thinking that it had to be Bria Tharen, that wretched
Corellian traitor and renegade.

Besadii had placed a sizable bounty on her head, but so far, no one had
claimed it.  Perhaps it's time to talk to Durga about increasing the
bounty on Bria Tharen, Teroenza thought.

Aloud he said, with exaggerated patience, "Your Excellency, while it's
true we don't care about the slaves once they leave here, they're still
worth credits to us.  And ships are expensive.  Having big holes blown
in them tends to render them unusable--or, at least, very expensive to
repair."

"Oh," said Kibbick, his brow furrowing.  "Yes, I guess that would be
correct.  Very well."

Idiot!

"Which brings to mind something I wanted to say to you, Your
Excellency," Teroenza said.  "Something that I hope you will mention to
your cousin.  We must have greater protection here on Ylesia.  It is
only a matter of time until we here on the planet are attacked again.

These space-raids are bad enough, but if this Rebel group were to
attack one of the colonies, you and I might conceivably be in
danger."

Kibbick was staring at the High Priest, obviously alarmed by the
suggestion.  "Do you think they'd dare?"  he asked, his voice a trifle
unsteady.

"They did before, Your Excellency," Teroenza reminded him.  "Bria
Tharen, that ex-slave, led them.  Remember?"

"Oh, yes, that's true," Kibbick said.  "But that was over a year ago.

Surely they've learned the futility of trying to attack this world by
now.

They did lose a ship in our atmosphere."

Ylesia's turbulent atmosphere was one of its best defenses.

"True," Teroenza agreed.  "But I would rather be safe than sorry, Your
Excellency."

"Safe than sorry .  . ."  Kibbick repeated, as though Teroenza had said
something startlingly original and clever.  "Yes, well .  . . perhaps
you have a point.  We must be protected here.  I will speak to my
cousin about that today.  Safe than sorry.., yes, indeed, we must be
safe " Still mumbling, Kibbick went back to his records.  Teroenza
relaxed back into his sling, and allowed himself the luxury of another
roll of his bulbous eyes.

four

Domestic Bliss and Other Complications

Chewbacca and Mallatobuck's wedding day dawned bright with promise and
hope.  Han, who had been told about the wedding only that morning, was
glad that his friend was happy, but saddened at the prospect of losing
him.

They'd had a good couple of years together, though, and he figured that
after a few years of marital joy, Chewie might be willing to come back
and make occasional smuggling runs with him.  Being a happy married guy
was one thing, but being married didn't mean you were dead, right?

He and Chewie barely had a moment to speak together before the bustle
of the wedding plans took his friend off on other duties.  Apparently
Wookiees did not have "best men" companions the way humans did, but
Chewie, in deference to Han, asked the Corellian to stand beside him.

Han had grinned.

"Okay, I get to be 'best human,' eh?"

Chewbacca roared with amusement, and told Han that was as good a term
for it as any.

As he sat in a corner in Attichitcuk's home, staying out from
underfoot, Han thought about the only time he'd ever asked a woman to
marry him.  That had been Bria, when he was nineteen, and she was
eighteen, and he'd been a lovestruck, moony-eyed kid, too young and
dumb to know any better.  Good thing for him that Bria had left him
....

Han opened the inner pocket of his vest and took out a much folded,
aging piece of flimsy.  Opening it, he read the first line:

Dearest Han, You don't deserve for this to happen, and all I can say
is, I'm sorry.

I love you, but I can't stay ....

Han's mouth twisted, then he folded the flimsy again and shoved it back
into his pocket.  Until last year, just before the Battle of Nar
Shaddaa, he'd thought that Bria must have gone crawling back to the
Ylesians, unable to live without the Exultation.

And then he'd encountered her, gorgeously gowned and coiffed, in Moff
Sam Shild's fancy penthouse on Coruscant.  She'd called Shild "darling"
and there had been every indication that she'd been the Moff's
concubine.  Han had done his best to despise her ever since.  The idea
that Bria might have actually loved the Moff never entered his head .

. . he knew who she still loved.  When she'd first seen him she'd gone
pale, and it was still there, in her eyes, though she'd tried to
disguise it ....

Moff Shild had committed suicide shortly after the Battle of Nar
Shaddaa.

The news-vids had been full of it.  Vids of his memorial service (and
Han had watched them deliberately) had shown no glimpse of Bria,
though.

And now .  . . to find out that she's some kind of Rebel agent for
Corellia .  . . Han thought.  The more he thought about it, the more he
wondered whether that was what Bria had been doing in Moff Shild's
household.  Had she been a Rebel intelligence operative, assigned to
spy on the Moff, and, through him, the Empire?

It made sense.  Han didn't like it, but he found that he had more
respect for Bria if she'd been sleeping with the Moff to gain
information, than if she'd just been what she appeared to be--a
spoiled, gorgeous plaything.

He wondered what she was doing, now that the Moff was dead.  Visiting
planets and helping their underground Rebel movements get organized,
obviously.

Also .  . . Han had heard that a year or so ago, a group of human
Rebels had hit Ylesia, attacking Colony Three and rescuing about a
hundred slaves.  Could Bria have been involved with that?

The way Katarra and the other Wookiees talked about her, she was some
kind of warrior saint, risking her life to bring them arms and ammo
from the Corellian rebels.  And Kashyyyk was an Imperial slave world.

Han remembered how betrayed she'd been when she'd realized that the
Ylesian religion was a hokey bunch of fake mumbo-jumbo.  She'd been
furious and bitter.  She'd hated the fact that, in the space of a
second, she'd been altered from Pilgrim to slave.  In the years since
that

horrifying realization, had she taken that fury and translated it into
action against the Ylesians and the Empire's slavers?

Han Solo hadn't lacked for female company since Bria, by any means.

Back on Nar Shaddaa, Han and Salla Zend had been an item for more than
two years now.  Salla was a spirited, exciting woman, an expert tech
and mechanic as well as a skilled pilot and smuggler.  She and Han had
so many things in common--and one of the foremost things that
characterized their affair was that neither of them was interested in
anything but having a good time--while it lasted.

Han's relationship with Salla was something that he could count on,
without it getting in the way.  They'd never made any promises to each
other about anything, and that was the way they both liked it.

Han had often wondered whether he really loved Salla--or she him.  He
knew he cared for her, would do almost anything for her, but love?  It
was safe to say that he'd never felt about her or any woman the way
he'd felt about Bria.

But I was a kid then, he reminded himself.  Just a reckless kid, who
didn't know any better than to fall like a ton of neutronium.  Now I'm
a lot smarter....

As he sat musing in his corner, Kallabow, Chewbacca's sister, who had
been rushing back and forth with platters for the coming wedding feast,
suddenly stopped, hands on hips, and glared at him.  Then she beckoned
to him, exclaiming indignantly.  Han got to his feet.  "Hey, of course
I ain't hiding," he said, in response.  "I was just tryin' to stay
outta the way.

Is everything ready?"

Kallabow agreed emphatically that everything was ready, and Han should
come now.

Han followed Chewie's sister out into the sunlight amid the rustling
treetops.  As he walked, Jarik fell into step with him.  The kid had
stayed pretty close by Han's side, since he didn't understand Wookiee,
and, unless Han was around, could only speak to Ralrra.  "So, this is
it?"  he asked Han.

"This is apparently it, kid," Han said.  "Chewie's moments of freedom
are numbered."

Kallabow, catching Han's words, gave the human males a scathing glance
and an indignant, "Huuuuummmmpppppphhhhhhh!"  that needed no
translation.  Han chuckled.  "We better be careful, kid.  She could
break us both in two without half tryin'."

The Wookiee female led them down one of the bough-roads that was as
wide as a street on some worlds.  They were headed away from the city,
deeper into the treetop area where many Wookiees had built homes.

Malla's house, Han had gathered, was one of the tree-house-type
places, since she lived where she could be close to her work.

Within minutes, they branched off onto another trail, then another.

"Wonder where we're going?"  Jarik said, uneasily.  "I'm lost.  If she
left us out here, I wouldn't have a clue as to how to get back to
Rwookrrorro.

Would you?"

Han nodded.  "Remind me to brush you up on your navigation skills,
kid," he said.  "But if Kallabow walks us much farther, I'm gonna be
too tired to party."

The little party turned onto yet another, smaller trail, and ahead of
them, Han and Jarik could see many Wookiees gathered.  They walked,
then the trail came to an abrupt end.

The wroshyr branch that they were standing on had been sheared off in
some manner, and plunged down to rest atop lower branches.  With the
massive branch weighing the nearby treetops down, the effect was like
looking out across a vast green valley--breathtaking.  Rounded green
hills rose in soft swells to the west.  The yellow sun shone down,
bright as a beacon, and everywhere there were birds wheeling through
the air.  "Hey .  .

." Han said to Kallabow.  "Nice view."

She nodded, and explained that this was a sacred place to Wookiees.

Here, with this vista before them, they could truly appreciate the
grandeur of their world.

The ceremony was ready to begin.  There was no priest to officiate;
Wookiee couples married themselves.  Han walked up to stand beside
Chewbacca, then gave his friend, who appeared more than a bit nervous,
a reassuring grin, and reached up to ruffle the Wookiee's headfur.

"C'mon, relax," he said.

"You're gettin' a great girl, pal."

Chewie replied that he knew that quite well .  . . he just hoped he
could remember his lines!

As they stood at the end of the trail, with a crowd of Wookiees between
them and the pathway leading back to Rwookrrorro, the crowd suddenly
parted in the middle.  Mallatobuck paced down the trail toward them.

She was covered from head to foot in a sheer veil of silvery gray.  The
veil was so light, so translucent, it almost appeared that she was
clothed in some glimmering energy field.  But as she came up beside
Chewie, Han could tell that the veil was actually some kind of knit or
woven fabric, almost completely transparent.  Han could see Malla's
blue eyes clearly through her bridal veil.

Han listened intently as Chewie and Malla exchanged vows.  Yes, they
loved each other beyond all other beings.  Yes, each other's honor was
as

dear to them as their own, Yes, they promised to be faithful to each
other.

Yes, death could part them, but could not end their love.

The life-power was with them, they said.  The life-power would make
their union strong, and they would be complete .  . . together.  The
lifepower would be with them .  . . always.

Han felt a wave of unaccustomed solemnity wash over him.  For a moment,
he almost envied Chewie.  He could see love shining in Mallatobuck's
eyes, and felt a pang.  Nobody had ever loved him that much.  Except
maybe Dewlanna, he thought, remembering the Wookiee widow who had
raised him.

Bria .  . . he'd used to think she loved him that much.  But she sure
had a funny way of showing it ....

Now Chewie was raising Malla's veil, and clutching her to him.  They
rubbed their cheeks together tenderly.  Then, with a huge, triumphant
roar, Chewie picked her up and swung her around as though she were
child-sized instead of a grown Wookiee only a little shorter than he
was.

The crowd of Wookiees broke into a chorus of hoots, roars and howls of
appreciation.

"Well," said Han to Jarik, "guess that's it!"

But the wedding celebration was far from over.  The honored couple was
escorted to tables in the treetops that groaned with every kind of
Wookiee delicacy.  Han and Jarik moved among the tables, sampling
cautiously, for Wookiees tended to serve most meats raw.  Some were
cooked, but even there humans had to be cautious.  Wookiees enjoyed
highly seasoned foods--and some were spicy and hot enough to damage a
human gullet.

Han examined the tables and introduced Jarik to many "safe" Wookiee
delicacies: Xachibik broth, a thick meat, herb and spice combination
.

. .

Vrortik "cocktail," a layered dish that combined various meats and
layers of wroshyr leaves that had been soaked in potent grakkyn nectar
for weeks .  . . Factryn meat pie, frozen Gorrnar, chyntuck rings, and
fried Klak ....

There were also salads and flatbreads, plus forest-honey cakes and
assorted chilled fruit delicacies.

Han advised Jarik against partaking of the various types of spirits
being passed around.  The Corellian knew from painful experience how
potent Wookiee liquor could be.  There were many kinds: accarragm,
cortyg, garrmorl, grakkyn and Thikkiian brandy, to name a few.

"Take my advice, kid," Han said.  "Wookiees know how to make homebrew
that will put a human on the floor in minutes.  I'm sticking to gorimn
wine and Gralinyn juice."

"But the children drink Gralinyn juice," Jarik protested.  "And this
other stuff ..."

"Jaar," Han said.  "Sweetened alcoari milk and vineberry extract.  It's
too sweet for my taste, but you might like it."

Jarik was looking longingly at a huge flask of Thikkiian brandy.  Han
shook his head warningly.  "Kid .  . . don't.  I ain't takin' care of
you if you wind up sick as a poisoned mulackpup."

The youth made a face, but then picked up a cup of the gorimn wine.

"Okay, I guess you know what you're talkin' about."

Han smiled and they clinked their glasses.  "Trust me."

A few minutes later, as Han stood off by himself, holding a plate of
barbecued trakkrrrn ribs and a spicy salad garnished with rilllrrnnn
seeds, a dark-brown Wookiee who seemed vaguely familiar--though the
Corellian was sure he'd never met him before--walked up to him.  The
Wookiee stood there, studying Han, and then introduced himself.

Han nearly dropped his plate.  "You're Dewlannamapia's son?"  he
cried.

"Hey!"  Putting his plate and cup down hastily, he grabbed the Wookiee
male in an excited hug.  "Hey, guy, I'm so glad to meet you!  What's
your name?"

The Wookiee returned Han's embrace, replying that he was called
Utchakkaloch.  Han stood back, looking at him, and found that his eyes
were stinging.  Chakk (or so he asked to be called), seemed equally
moved, as he told Han that he had hoped to meet him, partly because he
hoped the human could tell him how his mother had died.

Han swallowed.  "Chakk, your mom died a hero," he said.  "I wouldn't be
alive today if it wasn't for her.  She was one brave Wookiee.  She died
a warrior's death, fighting.  A guy named Garris Shrike shot and killed
her, but .  . . he's dead, too."

Chakk wanted to know whether Han had killed Shrike in order to avenge
his mother's death.  "Not exactly," Han said.  "Someone else got him
first.  But I put a good hurtin' on him, before he bought it."

Chakk rumbled his approval.  He told Han that he felt Han was an
adopted brother, since they had shared the same mother.  All of his
mother's communications during her days aboard Trader's Luck had been
full of anecdotes about the little human boy who loved her wastril
bread, and who wanted so much to become a pilot.

"Well, Chakk," Han said, "Dewlanna never lived to see it, but I am a
pilot today.  And my best friend in all the universe is a Wookiee
....

" Chakk guffawed, and then told Han that he and Chewbacca were
distantly related through a second cousin three times removed who had
emigrated to Rwookrrorro and married Chewbacca's great-aunt's niece.

Han blinked.  "Distant .  . . uh, yeah.  Well, that's great.  Just one
big happy family."

Han led Chakk over to the bridegroom and introduced him to Chewie,
explaining the situation.  Chewbacca roared his welcome of Han's
"adopted brother" and thumped Chakk soundly on the back.

The celebration continued far into the night.  Wookiees danced, sang,
and played wooden instruments that had been handed down in their
families for generations.  Han and Jarik celebrated with them, until
the humans were so exhausted, and so tipsy, that they wound up curling
up beneath one of the massive tables and falling asleep.

When Han awoke in the morning, the celebration was over, and Chewie and
Malla, he was informed, had gone off into the woods for that time of
privacy that was the Wookiee equivalent of a honeymoon.  Han was sorry
. .

. in a couple of days his negotiations with Katarra would be concluded,
the Falcon would be reloaded with her new cargo, and he'd be leaving
Kashyyyk.  He wouldn't get to tell Chewie goodbye.

But you couldn't expect a guy to remember his best friend on his
wedding night, Han mused, with a hint of regret.  Besides, he fully
intended to come back to Kashyyyk again, so it wasn't as though he'd
said goodbye to Chewie forever ....

Safe in the privacy of his office on Nal Hutta, Durga the Hutt wriggled
closer to Myk Bidlor's holo-image as it solidified.  His bulbous,
slit-pupiled eyes protruded even further in his eagerness as he
demanded, "You have news about the autopsy results?  You have
identified the substance?"

"Your Excellency, this substance was so rare that we could not at first
identify it, or be certain as to its effects," the senior forensic
specialist looked tired and harried--as though he really had been
working night and day, as he claimed.  "But our tests on that
substance, and our tracing of it, is now conclusive.  Yes, the
substance is a poison.  We have traced its origin to the planet
Malkii."

"The Malkite poisoners!"  Durga exclaimed.  "Of course!  Secret
assassins who specialize in exotic and almost undetectable poisons . 
.

. who else could come up with a substance that would prove fatal to a
Hutt?  My people are very difficult to poison .... " "I am aware of
that, Your Excellency," Myk Bidlor said.  "And this substance--so rare
that we have been unable to find a name for it--is one of their
crowning achievements in toxins.  We call it X-1 for want of a better
name."

"And X-1 does not occur in nature anywhere on Nal Hutta," Durga said,
wanting to make absolutely sure.  "This could not possibly have been an
accident."

"No, Your Excellency.  X-1 must have been deliberately administered to
Lord Aruk."

"Administered?  How?"

"We cannot be certain, but ingestion seems the most likely method."

"Someone fed my parent a fatal dose of poison," Durga said, his voice
going cold and deadly with rage.  "Someone is going to pay .  . . and
pay .

. . and pay."

"Uh .  . . not exactly, Your Excellency."  The specialist licked his
lips nervously.  "The scheme was not nearly so .  . . obvious .  . . as
that.  It was actually .  . . rather ingenious."

If it was that clever, it must certainly have been a Hutt, Durga
thought.

He glared at the scientist.  "What, then?"

"The substance is deadly in large quantities, Lord Durga.  But in small
quantities, it would not kill.  Instead, it would concentrate in the
brain tissues, causing the victim to experience a progressive
deterioration of the thought processes.  And the substance is also
highly addictive.  Once the victim grew accustomed to ingesting it in
high enough doses, the abrupt withdrawal of the substance would cause
the symptoms you described--wracking pain, convulsions, and death."  He
took a breath.  "And that, Lord Durga, is why your parent died.  Not
from the X-1 in his system .  . . but from its abrupt withdrawal."

"How long," Durga said, gritting the words out, "would this substance
have to have been given to my parent for him to become addicted to
it?"

"I would suspect a period of a few months, Lord Durga, but I cannot say
for certain.  Weeks, at minimum.  It would take time to build up the
dosage until the withdrawal would prove quickly fatal."  The specialist
hesitated.

"Lord Durga, our investigations also revealed that X-1 is very
expensive.

It is produced from the stamens of a type of plant that grows only on
one world in the galaxy--and the location of that world is a sworn
secret held by the Malkite Poisoners.  So only a person or persons of
great wealth could have purchased enough of it to kill your parent."

"I see," Durga said, after a moment.  "Continue with any tests that may
shed further light on the subject, Bidlor.  And send me all of your
data.  I intend to find out just where that X-1 came from."

Bidlor bobbed in a nervous bow.  "Certainly, Your Excellency.  But ·
.

. sir .  . . these investigations are not .  . . inexpensive."

"Price is no object!"  Durga snarled.  "I must know, and I will pay
what

it takes to find the truth!  I will find the source of that X-1, and I
will trace it to whomever fed it to my parent!  Besadii's resources are
my resources!  Do you understand, Bidlor?"

The scientist bowed again, more deeply.  "Yes, Your Excellency.  We
will continue to investigate."

"See that you do."

Durga broke the connection and then undulated back and forth across his
office, fuming.  Aruk was murdered!  I knew it all along!  Wealth
enough to buy X-1.  It has to be Desilijic--Jiliac .  . . or perhaps
Jabba.  I will find the one responsible for this, and I will kill him
or her with my own hands!  I swear it to my dead parent.  I will have
vengeance ....

Over the next ten days, Durga had all the servants in the palace
interrogated ruthlessly--especially the cooks.  Though several died
during questioning, there was no evidence to indicate that any of them
had been tampering with Aruk's meals.

The young Hutt Lord neglected his other duties as he attended each
interrogation session.  His rival, Zier, came to visit him toward the
end of the sessions, and arrived just as droids were bearing away the
limp corpse of a t'landa Til female who had served as a minor
administrative clerk for Besadii.

The elder Hutt looked disdainfully at the huge, four-legged body as it
was borne out by the droids.  "How many does that make?"  he asked,
with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Durga glared at Zier.  He'd have loved to have linked the other Besadii
to Aruk's death, but Zier had been on Nar Hekka overseeing Besadii
interests until a few months ago, when he'd been recalled home after
Aruk's death.

When he'd first turned up, Durga had had Zier investigated thoroughly,
but there was not even the smallest hint of a link between him and
Aruk's murder.

For one thing, Zier, though well-off, did not possess nearly the
financial resources to purchase large quantities of X-1.  And there had
been no unusual withdrawals from his accounts.

"Four," the young Hutt snapped.  "They do not have our strength,
cousin.  It is no wonder the lesser races bow to us .  . . they are far
inferior physically, as well as mentally."

Zier sighed.  "I must say I will miss that vi'lek chef of yours," he
said.

"He prepared filets of mulblatt larvae in fregon-blood sauce
superbly."

He sighed again.

Durga's huge mouth turned down.  "Chefs can be replaced," he said
shortly.

"Has it occurred to you, my dear cousin, that the forensic specialist
you hired might be wrong in his conclusions?"

"He and his team are the best to be had," Durga said.  "Their
references were excellent.  They have performed investigations for the
Emperor's top military aides .  . . even Governor Tarkin."

Zier nodded.  "A good recommendation," he admitted.  "From what I hear,
the governor is not an official to disappoint if one wishes to live."

"That is what they say."

"Still, cousin .  . . is it possible that you have demanded of this
team that they find evidence of murder, and so they have?  Whether or
not it is true?"

Durga considered that for a moment.  "I do not believe that," he said,
finally.  "The evidence is there.  I have seen the lab reports."

"Lab reports can be faked, cousin.  Also .  . . in your obsession, you
have spent a great many credits.  These scientists are earning much
from Besadii.  It is possible that they do not wish this stream of
credits to end."

Durga faced his cousin.  "I am certain that the team has reported their
findings accurately.  As to the cost .  . . Aruk was the head of all
Besadii.  Isn't it proper to find out what really happened?  Lest
others think we can be killed with impunity?"

Zier's pointed tongue ran slowly across the lower part of his mouth as
he thought.  "Perhaps you are right, cousin.  However .  . . I would
suggest that in order for you to not be regarded as a reckless
spendthrift, you begin paying for this investigation out of your own
personal funds, rather than Besadii operating capital.  If you agree to
this, no more will be said.

If you do not .  . . well, there is a clan meeting approaching.  As a
conscientious clan leader, it is my duty to comment on our financial
report."  Durga glared at his cousin.

Zier glared back.  "And .  . . cousin .  . . if any accidents befall
me, it will go the worse for you.  I have filed copies of the financial
reports in places you have no way of discovering.  They will be
produced should I die--no matter how much it might seem that I perished
of natural causes."

The younger Hutt resisted the urge to order his guards to shoot Zier.

Hutts were notoriously hard to kill, and another death might well cause
all of Besadii to rise up against him.

Durga drew a deep breath.  "Perhaps you are right, cousin," he said,
finally.  "From this day forward, I will personally finance the
investigation."

"Good," Zier said.  "And .  . . Durga.  In your parent's absence I feel
I must give you the benefit of my experience."

If Durga had possessed teeth, he would have ground them together in
rage.

"Go on," he said.

"Black Sun, Durga.  It is an open secret that you used their resources
to consolidate your power.  I caution you against doing so again.  One
cannot just employ Black Sun and then walk away.  Their services are
.

. .

expensive."

"They have been fully compensated for their services," Durga said
tightly.

"I am not such a fool as you think, Zier."

"Good," the other Hutt Lord said.  "I am glad to hear that.  I was
worried about you, dear cousin.  Any Hutt who would rid himself of such
a chef--on a whim--is suspect."

Seething, Durga undulated off in search of another staff member to
interrogate.

Jabba the Hutt and his aunt Jiliac were lounging together in their
palatial receiving room in Jiliac's palace on Nal Hutta, watching
Jiliac's baby inch its way around the room.  The infant Hutt was now
old enough to spend almost an hour outside Jiliac's pouch.  At this
stage of its life, the little creature resembled a huge, chubby grub or
insect larva more than a Hutt.  Its arms were nothing more than
vestigial stubs, and would not develop or grow digits until the baby
Hutt had left the maternal pouch for good.  The only way in which the
baby Hutt resembled the adult members of its species was its pop-eyed,
vertical-pupiled stare.

Hutt babies were born almost mindless, and Hutt youngsters did not
reach the age of accountability until they were about a century old.

Before that, they were looked upon as creatures who needed good care
and feeding, and not much else.

As he watched the baby wriggle along the polished stone floor, Jabba
wished they were back on Nar Shaddaa, where he could get more done.  It
was difficult to oversee the Desilijic smuggling empire from Nal
Hutta.

Jabba had suggested more than once that he and his aunt go back to Nar
Shaddaa, but Jiliac adamantly refused, insisting that the polluted
atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa would be unhealthy for her baby.

Jabba thus spent much of his time shuttling back and forth between Nal
Hutta and Nar Shaddaa.  His holdings on Tatooine were suffering by his
absence.  Ephant Mon, the non-humanoid Chevin, was looking after
Jabba's interests, and doing it well, but it just wasn't the same as
being there himself.

Jabba had shared many adventures in the past with Mon, and the ugly
sentient from Vinsoth was the only being in the universe that Jabba
really

trusted.  For some reason (even Jabba wasn't sure why), Ephant Mon was
completely loyal to Jabba, and always had been.  Jabba knew that the
Chevin had turned down multiple offers to betray him for fabulous
profit.  Yet , .

. Ephant Mon had never turned, no matter how much he was offered.

Jabba appreciated his friend's loyalty and repaid it by keeping only
minor tabs on Ephant Mon's actions.  He didn't expect Mon to betray
him, not after all these years .  . . but it was well to be prepared
for anything.

"Aunt," Jabba said, "I have read the newest report from our source in
the Besadii accounting office, and their profits are impressive.  Even
the dissension over Durga's leadership has not slowed them.  Ylesia
continues to produce more processed spice with every month that
passes.

Shiploads of Pilgrims are arriving nearly every week.  It is
depressing."

Jiliac turned her massive head to regard her nephew.  "Durga has done
better than I ever gave him credit for, Jabba.  I did not think he
could hold onto the leadership.  By now I envisioned that Besadii would
be ripe for our takeover--but, even though there is muttering and
discontent with Durga's leadership, his outspoken opponents are dead,
and no one has surfaced to replace them within the clan."

Jabba blinked at his aunt, and a spark of hope awakened.  That speech
sounded almost like the old, pre-motherhood Jiliac!  "Do you know why
they are dead, Aunt?"

"Because Durga was foolish enough to deal with Black Sun," Jiliac
said.

"The deaths of his opponents were too blatant to be Hutt doing.  Only
Black Sun has that many resources.  Only Prince Xizor would be so
coldly daring as to assassinate them all within days of each other."

Jabba was getting excited, now.  Is she coming out of her maternal
mental haze?  he wondered.

"Prince Xizor is indeed someone to be reckoned with," he said.  "That
is why I have done him favors from time to time.  I would prefer to
stay on his good side .  . . just in case I ever need a favor in
return.  As I did that one time on Tatooine.  He helped me then, and
asked nothing in return, because I have done him favors in the past."

Jiliac was shaking her head slowly back and forth, a mannerism she'd
picked up from humans.  "Jabba, you know my thinking on this, I have
told you many times.  Prince Xizor is not one to be trifled with.  Best
to stay far away from him, and to have nothing to do with Black Sun.

Open the door to them just once, and you risk becoming his vassal."

"I am cautious, Aunt, I assure you.  I would never do as Durga has
done."

"Good.  Durga will soon discover that he has opened a door that

cannot easily be closed.  If he steps through it .  . . he will no
longer be his own master."

"So should we hope he does that, Aunt?"

Jiliac's eyes narrowed slightly.  "Hardly, Nephew.  Xizor is not a foe
I wish to contend with.  He has evidently set his sights on Besadii,
but he would willingly take Desilijic, too, of that I have no doubt."

Jabba silently agreed.  Xizor would move in on the whole of Nal Hutta
if given the opportunity.  "Speaking of Besadii, Aunt," he said, "what
of these Ylesian profits I was reporting on?  What can we do to stop
Besadii?

They now have nine colonies on Ylesia.  They are preparing to start
another colony on Nyrvona, the other habitable world in the system."

Jiliac thought for a moment.  "Perhaps it is time to utilize Teroenza
again," she said.  "Durga apparently has no suspicion that he was
responsible for Aruk's death."

"Utilize him how?"

"I don't know yet .... "Jiliac said.  "Perhaps we can encourage
Teroenza to declare his independence from Durga.  If they fought,
Besadii profits would be bound to plummet.  And then .  we could pick
up the pieces."

"Very good, Aunt!"  Jabba was happy to hear the old, scheming Jiliac
acting like herself again.  "Now, if I can just report on these figures
here, and get your input on reducing our costs in--" "Ahhhhhhhh!"

Jabba broke off, interrupted by Jiliac's deep, maternal coo of
affection, and saw the baby Hutt wriggling up to its mother, tiny
vestigial arms held up, its bulbous eyes fixed on Jiliac's face
intently.  The baby's mouth opened, and it chirruped inquiringly.

"Look, Nephew!"  Jiliac's voice was warm, indulgent.  "My little one
knows mama, yes, doesn't he, precious?"

Jabba rolled his eyes until they nearly emerged from their sockets and
splatted onto the floor.  Witness the demise of one of the greatest
criminal minds of this millennium, he thought, bleakly.

Then, as Jiliac scooped up the baby Hutt and guided it back into her
pouch, Jabba glared at the little creature with an expression very
close to outright hatred ....

Han spent the next couple of days with the members of the Wookiee
underground, finalizing their deal.  The time came when he opened up
the Falcon, and he and Jarik unloaded the explosive quarrels from the
secret

compartments.  Katarra, Kichiir and Motamba clustered around the
boxes, exclaiming excitedly over their new toys.

Meanwhile, other Wookiees from the underground movement made a steady
stream inside the ship, loading it with stormtrooper armor.  Han was
able to pack nearly forty complete suits and ten helmets into the
Falcon.  If the armor fetched the market price, he'd doubled his
investment on the trip.

Not a bad bit of bargaining!

By the time all the armor was stowed away enough so that the Falcon's
crew could move about, night was falling.  Han decided that he wanted
to wait for dawn for his tricky exit of the cave and straight up flight
through the trees.  He and Jarik said farewell to their hosts and
stretched out on the pilot's seats to sleep.

Han was awakened before sunrise the next morning by a loud--and
familiar!--Wookiee roar.  The Corellian opened his eyes and jumped up,
nearly tripping over the sleepy Jarik.  Activating the ramp, he raced
down it.  "Chewie!"

Han was so glad to see the big furball that he didn't even complain
when the Wookiee grabbed him, swung him around, and ruffled his hair
until it stood on end.  All the while, Chewbacca was whining out a
steady stream of complaints.  What had Han been thinking of, preparing
to leave him behind?

Didn't he know any better?  What could you expect from a human!

When the Wookiee finally released him, Han looked up at Chewie,
completely confused.  "Huh?  Whaddaya mean, I was gonna leave you
behind?  I'm goin' back to Nar Shaddaa, pal, and, in case it's slipped
your attention, Chewie, you're a married guy now.  Your place is here,
on Kashyyyk, with Malla."

Chewie shook his head, uttering protesting hoots and remonstrations.

"Life debt?  Pal, I know you've sworn a life debt, but let's be
realistic here!

You belong with your wife, on your own planet, now!  Not dodgin' Imp
cruisers with me."

The Wookiee had just started in again when a loud, angry roar from
behind Han made him jump and dodge.  A large, hairy hand grabbed his
shoulder, and Han was swung around as though he weighed no more than a
scrap of flimsy.

He looked up to see Mallatobuck towering over him.  Chewie's wife was
furious, teeth bared, blue eyes narrowed.  Han put up both hands, and
shrank back against his friend's hairy chest.  "Hey, Malla!  Take it
easy, now!"

Mallatobuck roared again, then launched into an angry tirade. 
Humans!

How could they be so ignorant of Wookiee customs and Wookiee honor?

How dare Han imply that Chewbacca would abandon a life debt?

There was no greater insult he could offer a Wookiee!  Her husband was
possessed of great honor!  He was a courageous warrior, a skilled
hunter, and when he gave his word, he kept it!  Especially about a life
debt!

Faced with Malla's are, Han turned both hands up and shrugged, but
couldn't get a word in edgewise.  He looked up imploringly at his
friend.

Chewie, taking pity on his Corellian buddy, intervened.  He stepped
between Malla and Han, and spoke quickly, telling her that of course
Han had meant no insult, no offense.  His comment had been made out of
ignorance, not malice.

Finally, Malla relaxed, and her roars turned to grumbles.  Han gave her
an apologetic smile.  "Hey, no offense, Malla.  I know Chewie here
better'n almost anyone, and I know he's a terrific guy, brave, smart,
all that stuff.  I just didn't know that to a Wookiee, a life debt
outweighs everything else."

He turned back to his friend.  "So, okay, you're comin' with us, and
we're gettin' ready to grab some space, pal.  So say goodbye to your
bride."

Chewbacca and Mallatobuck walked away together, while Han and Jarik
conducted the preflight checks.  A few minutes later, Han heard the
clang of the Falcon's ramp closing.  Moments later, Chewbacca slipped
into the copilot's seat.  Han looked at him, "Don't worry, pal, I swear
to you we'll come back again .  . . soon.  I did some good dealing with
Katarra and her underground.  Your people are going to need lots of
ammo before they can even hope to take on the Imps and free your
world.

And I'm gonna help 'em get it."

Jarik's voice came over the intercom from the starboard gunner's
turret.

"Yeah, at a tidy profit, of course."

Han laughed.  "Yeah .  . . of course!  Chewie .  . . stand by!  Here ·
. . we .

. . go!"

With great dignity, the Millennium Falcon rose upward on her repulsors,
then drifted forward until she was out of the tree-branch "cave."

Then, with a suddenness that sent everyone sinking back into their
seats, Han sent his ship whooshing straight up, through the tunnel of
trees.  They soared up into the skies, now flushed with the red-gold
dawn.  As the Falcon went higher, sunrise seemed to burst over the
world in a shower of gold.

Quarrr-tellerrra, Han thought.  The sun-haired warrior, the woman he
had known as Bria What was she doing now?  he wondered.  Does she ever
think about me?

Moments later, Kashyyyk was only a rapidly dwindling green ball behind
them, as they tore through the star-flecked blackness ....

Boba Fett sat in a sleazy rented flat on the Outer Rim world of Teth,
listening to Bria Tharen meeting with the Tethan Rebel leaders.  The
most famous bounty hunter in the galaxy had many resources, including a
spy network that most planets would have envied.  Since he accepted
Imperial assignments from time to time, he was often privy to
communiques and other information most Rebel Commands would have loved
to see.

Even though she was a Rebel officer, the bounty on Bria Tharen had not
been posted by the Empire.  No, this was a far larger bounty, the sum
of fifty thousand credits for a live, unharmed capture, no
disintegrations permitted.  Aruk the Hutt, the old leader of Besadii
clan, had originally posted the bounty, but his heir, Durga, had
continued it after his death, and had promised a bonus for delivery
within three months.

Boba Fett had been searching on and off for Bria Tharen for over a year
now.  The woman kept being sent out on "deep cover" assignments that
made her extremely hard to trace.  She had severed all ties with her
family, probably to lessen the danger to them should she be captured by
the Imperials.  When she was on her home planet of Corellia, she lived
inside a series of secret Rebel command bases, with extensive security
and guard mounts.

Such high security was understandable .  . . after all, the Rebels
lived in fear of a full-scale attack by Imperial stormtroopers.  So
they kept the locations of their bases top-secret, and moved them
continually.  One bounty hunter--no matter how deadly and
effective--stood little chance of getting close enough to manage a live
capture.

If only Besadii would have been satisfied with having Bria dead, Boba
Fett was fairly sure he could have managed to kill her, even within the
protection of a Rebel base.  But live, unharmed capture was much more
difficult ....

However, a few days ago, Boba Fett had learned through his spy network
that there was a meeting scheduled for the underground Rebel movement
on Teth.  Taking a calculated risk that Bria would be there, he had
flown Slave I to Teth two days ago.  The risk had paid off; she had
shown up yesterday evening.

Two days ago, when he'd first arrived on Teth, Boba Fett had located
the current Rebel enclave, which was situated beneath the port city in
a series of old storm drains and sub-basements.  He'd infiltrated the
outskirts of the base, via the ancient storm drains and ventilation
shafts, enough to locate the base janitorial supplies.  There he'd
placed minuscule audio pickups on a number of small robot floor
cleaners that roved freely

from room to room, sucking up anything their tiny scanners identified
as "dirt."

Since that time, he'd been monitoring the pickups, and today his
preparations had paid off.  Bria Tharen was in a meeting with two
topranked Tethan Rebels.  The tiny floor-cleaner, per its programmed
instructions, had scuttled out of their way when they'd entered the
room, and was now biding its time in an inconspicuous corner.

Boba Fett had no use for the whole concept of the various rebellions.

He considered the idea of rebellion against any established government
criminal.  The Empire maintained order, and Boba Fett valued order.

The Tethan resistance was no exception .  . . a bunch of misguided
idealists who were out to create anarchy ....

Within the confines of his helmet, Boba Fett's eyes narrowed with
disdain as he listened.  The Tethan leaders were Commander Winfrid
Dagore and her aide, Lieutenant Palob Godalhi.  At the moment the
Tharen woman was arguing with them about the necessity for the various
resistance groups to unite into a Rebel Alliance.  There were
indications, she said, that the idea of an Alliance was gaining support
in high places.

A prestigious Imperial Senator, Mon Mothma of Chandrila, had recently
met secretly with Bria's superiors in the Corellian Rebel underground,
and talked.  The senator agreed that in the wake of the Empire's
massacres on planets such as Ghorman, Devaron, Rampa 1 and 2, that the
Emperor was either pathologically insane or totally evil, and must be
overthrown by sentients of good conscience.

The Tharen woman spoke with misguided passion, her clear alto voice
quivering slightly with controlled emotion.  It was obvious she really
cared about her cause.

When she was finished, Winfrid Dagore cleared her throat.  Her voice
was rough with age and strain.  "Commander Tharen, we sympathize with
our brothers and sisters on Corellia, Alderaan and the other worlds.

But here on the Outer Rim, we are so far away from the Core Worlds that
we could be of little help to you, even if we did ally with your
groups.  We do things our way out here.  The Emperor pays little
attention to us.  We raid the Imperial shipping, and oppose the Empire
in many ways--but we value our independence.  We are not likely to join
a larger group."

"Commander Dagore, that isolationist policy is an invitation to an
Imperial massacre," Tharen said, her tone bleak.  "Mark my words, it
will happen.  Palpatine's forces will not overlook your groups
forever."

"Perhaps .  . . or perhaps not.  Still, I doubt that we could do more
than what we are currently doing, Commander Tharen."  Boba Fett heard a
chair creak and the rustle of fabric as someone

moved.  Then Tharen spoke again.  "Commander Dagore, you have ships.

You have troops.  You have weapons.  You are one of the closest worlds
to the Corporate Sector, though we realize that's a long way off.  But
still, you could help.  You could help with purchasing weapons in the
Corporate Sector and funneling them back here to be shipped to other
undergrounds.  Don't think because you're out here, that your help
isn't needed."

"Commander Tharen, weapons cost credits," Lieutenant Godalhi said.

"Where will those credits come from?"

"Well, we'd certainly appreciate it if you Tethans managed to come up
with a few million to help us out," Bria said dryly, and a sad chuckle
ran around the room.  "But we're working on it.  Financing the
resistance is very hard, but there are enough citizens who are being
squeezed until they can't see straight that, even if they don't have
the ability or the courage to join a Rebel group outright, they're
smuggling us spare credits.

Some of the Hutt lords have also seen fit to contribute...

clandestinely, of course."

Interesting .... thought Fett.  This was news to him, though, now that
he thought about it, Hutts were notorious for playing both sides plus
their own side in any conflict.  If they could look forward to an
increase in credits or power, Hutts were usually right there ....

"We are not far from Hutt space," Dagore said, a thoughtful note in her
voice.  "Perhaps we could make contacts with other Hutt lords .  . .

see if they'd be willing to help."

"Help?"  Bria Tharen's voice sputtered with laughter.  "Hutts?  They
may contribute, and some have, but they do it for their own reasons,
trust me, and those reasons have nothing to do with our aims.  Hutts
are devious .  .

. but sometimes their goals and ours coincide.  That's when they hand
out their credits.  Half the time we can't even guess what benefit they
may be getting as a result of their 'donation."" "Probably better not
to guess," Lieutenant Godalhi said.  "Still, Commander Tharen, there
may be some merit in our increasing our commitment at this time.  Our
new Imperial Moff is far less .  . . vigilant than Sam Shild was.

We have been getting away with far more lately than we could under
Shild's rule."

"That's another thing," Bria Tharen said.  "We've been studying this
new Moff, Yref Orgege.  Most of the new procedures he's put in place
here in the Outer Rim are so ill-advised that we're beginning to wonder
if he has Gamorrean blood."

Laughter rippled throughout the room.

Bria continued, "Orgege is both arrogant and stupid.  He's insisting

that he won't make Shild's mistake, and he's going to keep close
personal control over his military force.  This policy has cut down
tremendously on the Imperial threat here in the Outer Rim.  The Imp
Commanders have to check with Orgege about the smallest things.  He is
managing them into paralysis, Commander Dagore."

"We're aware of that, Commander," Dagore agreed.  "What do you want us
to do about it?"

"Increase your raids on Imperial supply vessels and munitions dumps
here in the Outer Rim, Commander.  We need those weapons.  And by the
time Orgege can be contacted and give his orders, you and your people
will be long gone."

Dagore considered for a moment.  "I think we can promise you that much,
Commander Tharen.  For the rest .  . . we'll take it under
advisement."

"Talk to your people today," Bria said.  "I'll be leaving tomorrow."

Boba Fett strained his ears, silently urging her to reveal her plans.

But there was no other sound except the scrapings of chairs as the
Rebels got up and left the room.

Fett kept a close survey on all the nearby spaceports, but he was
unable to catch even a glimpse of Bria Tharen the next day.  She must
have been smuggled aboard a Rebel ship by some clandestine means.

The bounty hunter was slightly disappointed at his failure, but the
most important trait of any hunter--and Boba Fett lived for the
hunt--was patience.  He resolved to find some way of tipping off the
Imperials about Mon Mothma's treachery, and the Rebels' plans, without
letting them know who their informant was.  Many Imperial officers were
openly scornful of bounty hunters, referring to them as "scum"--and
worse.  Fett wished he had more specific information to offer as a
tip.

If only the Rebels had revealed plans for an actual operation!

In the meantime, Fett's trip to Teth would not be wasted.  He'd checked
with the Guild, and there was an open bounty here on their books, a
rich, reclusive businessman who had a high-guarded and "secure" estate
in the mountains of Teth.

"Secure" that is, insofar as ordinary bounty hunters went, but Boba
Fett was in a class by himself.  The businessman's activities had been
so predictable that planning was laughably easy.  The man was a
creature of habit.  Boba Fett wouldn't even have to go up against his
bodyguards, since this was a bounty permitting disintegrations.  Only
the kill was required.

Boba Fett had found a vantage point in a laakwal tree that would allow
him to erect a temporary blind, make the kill, then slip away before
the bodyguards or security forces could even pinpoint his location.

One shot would be all that he needed ....

five

"From One Side of this Galaxy to the Other" Over the next five months,
Han Solo and his Wookiee First Mate rose to the top of the smuggler
heap.  For a miracle, Han managed to actually hang on to some of the
money he'd won long enough to do most of the modifications on the
Millennium Falcon that he'd envisioned.

His haft-alien master technician and starship mechanic, Shug Ninx, let
him berth the Falcon in his Spacebarn.  Shug's Spacebarn was almost a
legend in the Corellian section of Nar Shaddaa.  Within its cavernous
interior, traders, pirates and smugglers tinkered with their ships,
modifying them, determined to squeeze the last bit of speed and
firepower out of them.

After all, the faster a smuggler delivered a cargo, the quicker he, she
or it could take off again with another shipment.  Time was credits, in
the life of a smuggler.

Han, Jarik and Chewbacca did most of the work themselves, with an
occasional hand from Salla, who was also an expert technician, and
Shug, the acknowledged master.

Once he had the ship's armor-plating the way he wanted it, no lucky
Imperial shot was going to take out the Falcon the way Han's previous
ship, the Bria, had been destroyed!  He started on the engines and the
armament.  He added a light laser cannon under the nose, then moved the
quad lasers so the Falcon had gun turrets both dorsally and
ventrally--top and bottom.  Then Han and Salla installed two concussion
missile launching tubes between the forward mandibles.

All the while that he was installing weapons and armor, Han, Shug

and Chewie worked on the Falcon's engines and other systems.  The
Falcon already boasted a military-grade hyperdrive.  Together Han and
Shug tinkered with both the hyperdrive and sublight engines until they
were even more powerful, and the Falcon was making faster and faster
times on Han's smuggling runs.

They also installed new sensor and jamming systems.  The new jamming
system had a less than auspicious first trial, however.  When Han
triggered it, the pulse was so powerful that it also jammed the
Falcon's own internal communications, disrupting the signals from the
cockpit to the ship's systems!  The incident happened at the worst
possible time--while the Falcon was ducking into a planet's gravity
well in an attempt to shake off an Imperial frigate.  As their ship
hurtled down, grazing upper atmosphere, totally out of control, Han and
Chewbacca stared at their instruments in dismay.  Only the fact that
the new jammer was so powerful that it burned out almost immediately
saved them from being incinerated in the planet's atmosphere.

The day came when Han looked at the Falcon with satisfaction, and threw
an arm around Shug Ninx's shoulders.  "Shug old pal, you are one master
mechanic.  I don't think there's anyone better with a hyperdrive in the
whole galaxy.  She's purring like a Togorian kit-cub, and we've
increased her speed another two percent."

The half-alien master mechanic smiled at his friend, but shook his
head.

"Thanks, Han, but I can't claim that title.  I've heard that there's a
guy in the Corporate Sector name of 'Doc' who can make a hyperdrive
dance a jizz-jig with one hand tied behind his back.  If you want her
to go even faster, you'll have to hunt him up."

Han listened with some surprise, but filed the information away in his
mind as potentially useful.  He'd always had a yen to see the Corporate
Sector, and now he had a reason to go there.

"Thanks, Shug," he said.  "I'll have to consider contacting this guy if
I ever get there."

"From what I've heard about Doc, you don't contact him.  He'll contact
you, if he decides it's a good idea.  Ask Arly Bron about him.  He's
spent time in the Corporate Sector, he might know how you'd go about
contacting Doc."

"Thanks for the word," Han said.  He knew Arly Bron, as he did most of
the smugglers who hung out in the Corellian Sector of Nar Shaddaa.

Bron was a stocky, aging smuggler with a genial air and a sharp
tongue.

He enjoyed needling fools, but he was fast enough on the draw to still
be among the living, which said something for his speed and accuracy.

He flew a beat up old freighter named Double Echo.

Now that Han had the fast and (comparatively) reliable Millennium
Falcon, he could take on the most challenging jobs.  He still worked
mostly for Jabba, who was basically running the Desilijic kajidic these
days, but he also took jobs for other employers.  The Corellian and his
Wookiee sidekick became almost a legend on Nar Shaddaa as they broke
speed records for the Kessel Run and flew rings around Imperial patrol
vessels.

Han had never been happier.  He had a fast ship, friends in Chewie,
Jarik and Lando, an attractive, savvy lady friend in Salla, and credits
in his pocket.  True, money had a way of slipping through his fingers,
no matter how he tried to hold on to it, but to Han, that was only a
minor worry.  So what if he liked living high, gambling and expensive
flings?  He could always make more!

But even though Han's personal life was going splendidly, dark clouds
were gathering on the horizon.  The Emperor continued to tighten his
grip, and his reach was extending even into the Outer Rim these days.

There was a massacre on Mantooine in the Atrivis Sector, and the Rebels
that had managed to capture an Imperial base there were wiped out
practically to the last defender.

There were other massacres as object lessons to inner Imperial
worlds.

Gunrunners had to be increasingly wary and fast, in order to deliver
their cargoes.  When Han had first begun making the Kessel Run, it was
unusual to even pick up an Imp craft on ship's sensors.  Now it was
unusual to not spot one.  To support his fleets and armies, Emperor
Palpatine levied taxes that had citizens of the Empire groaning beneath
the financial burden.

These days, the average citizen of the Empire struggled just to put
decent food on the table.

(Han and his friends, naturally, did not pay taxes.  No tax collectors
came to the Smuggler's Moon--collecting taxes from the motley denizens
of Nar Shaddaa was such a daunting task that the moon was simply
"overlooked" each tax time.) In the past, Han had paid little attention
to news-vids about the struggle between the Imperials and the
underground Rebel groups.  But now, knowing that Bria might be involved
in those actions, he found himself listening to the news-vids with
undivided attention.  Palpatine must be crazy, Han found himself
thinking, on more than one occasion.  He's askin' for a wholesale
rebellion with these tactics .  . . massacres, murders, citizens hauled
ou of their homes in the middle of the night, and never seen again You
mess over people bad enough, long enough, you're askin' for
revolt....

Dissent in the Imperial Senate was growing by leaps and bounds.  One of
the more prominent Senators, Mon Mothma, had been forced to flee

not long ago, after the Emperor ordered her arrest on charges of
treason.

Mon Mothma had been a prestigious member of the Senate, and the
Emperor's high-handed move caused demonstrations on Chandrilla, her
home planet--demonstrations that resulted in yet another ruthless
massacre of Imperial citizens.

The Emperor's attacks on financial well-being and personal freedom had
another effect, one that Han found particularly disturbing.  More and
more downtrodden, poverty-stricken people were chucking their old lives
and heading for Ylesia to become Pilgrims--or, as Han knew, slaves.

Many of the new Pilgrims came from Sullust, Bothuwui, and Corellia,
worlds that had recently suffered reprisals for civil unrest and
anti-taxation demonstrations.  Han arrived home one day from a
smuggling run to discover that, for the first time, the t'landa Til had
held a revival on Nar Shaddaa.  As a result, a number of Corellians
from the Corellian sector of Nar Shaddaa had packed up and were waiting
to board a ship bound for, among other places, Ylesia.

When he heard this, Han grabbed a tube over to the disembarkation
point, and raced up to the line of hollow-eyed, weary looking
Corellians waiting to board the transport.  "What do you think you're
doing?"  he shouted.

"Ylesia is a trap!  Haven't you heard the stories about it?  They lure
you there, then turn you into slaves!  You'll wind up dyin' in the
mines of Kessel!  Don't go!"

One old woman looked at him suspiciously.  "Shut up, youngster," she
said.

"We're going to a better place.  The Ylesian priests say they'll take
care of us, and we'll have a better life .  . . a blessed life.  I'm
sick of scratchin' here.  The cursed Empire is making it too hard these
days to earn a dishonest living."

The others muttered similar imprecations at him as he moved up and down
the line, expostulating with the Pilgrim-candidates.  Han finally
stopped and stood there, wanting to howl aloud with rage, like a
Wookiee.  Chewie did howl in frustration.

"Chewie, short of setting my blaster on stun and shooting them all,
there ain't no way of stoppin' them," the Corellian observed,
bitterly.

"Hrrrrrrrnnnnnnnn," Chewie agreed, sadly.

In a last ditch effort, Han tried talking to some of the younger
people, even going so far as to offer one or two a job.  None would
listen to him.

He soon gave up in disgust.  This had happened to him once before, on
Aefao, a remote world at the opposite side of the galaxy from Nar
Shaddaa.

There had been an Ylesian revival, and Han had tried to warn those who
were heading for the ships, but he found he couldn't compete with the
Pilgrim-candidates' wide-eyed memories of the Exultation.  Only a few

of the small, orange-skinned, humanoid Aefans had listened to him.

Over a hundred had boarded the Ylesian missionary ship.

Han watched the line of Corellians shuffling into the waiting
transport, and shook his head.  "Some people are just too dumb to live,
Chewie," he said.

Or too desperate, the Wookiee rejoined.

"Yeah, well, just another reminder to me that stickin' your neck out is
a good way to get your head chopped off," Han said, disgustedly, as he
turned his back on the doomed Corellians and began walking away.  "Next
time I think about doin' that, pal, I want you to give me a Wookiee
lovetap that will put me on my butt.  You'd think after all these years
I'd learn .... " Chewie promised, and, together, they walked away.

Despite the fact that he had his undersized hands full running Besadii,
Durga the Hutt refused to give up his search to find his parent's
murderer.  Six members of the household staff had died under rigorous
interrogation, but there was absolutely no indication that any of them
had been involved.

If the household staff was innocent, then how had Aruk been poisoned?

Durga had another conversation with Myk Bidlor, who confirmed this time
that there were traces of X-1 in Aruk's digestive tract.  The lethal
substance had indeed been eaten.

Durga terminated the communication, and went for a long undulation,
roaming the halls of his palace, thinking.  His expression was so
forbidding that his staff--already highly nervous, and understandably
so--fled before his approach as though he were an evil spirit from the
Outer Darkness.

In his mind, the young Besadii lord was going over the last months of
his parent's life, mentally ticking off every moment of every day.

Everything Aruk had eaten had come from their own kitchens, prepared by
the staff of chefs--including the ones now deceased.  (He made a mental
note to hire two new chefs ....) Durga had had the entire kitchen and
the servants' quarters scanned for any trace of X-1.  Nothing.  The
only place that they'd picked up even the smallest hint of the
substance had been on the floor in Aruk's office, not far from his
usual parking spot for his repulsor sled.  And that had been just the
barest trace.

Durga frowned, contorting his birthmark-stained features into
something resembling a demon-mask.  Something was niggling at him.  A
memory.

Niggling .  . . wiggling .  . . niggling .  . .

Wiggling... wriggling!  The nala-tree frogs!

Suddenly the memory was there, sharp and clear.  Aruk, belching as he
reached for yet another live nala-tree frog.  Up until now, Durga had
never considered the possibility that the poison could have been
delivered by means of a living creature--after all, it seemed only
reasonable that the creature would die from the poison long before it
could be ingested.

But what if nala-tree frogs were immune to the effects of X-1?  What if
their tissues had been filled with ever-increasing amounts of X-1,
without affecting them?

Aruk had loved his nala-tree frogs.  He'd eaten them every day,
sometimes as much as a dozen of them every day.

"Osman!"  Durga bellowed.  "Fetch me the scanner!  Bring it straight to
Aruk's office!"

The Chevin appeared briefly, acknowledged the order, and then
vanished.

The sounds of his running feet faded into the distance.  Durga began
undulating at top speed toward his parent's sanctum.

When he reached there, he was only seconds ahead of the panting
servant, who was carrying the scanning device.  Durga grabbed it from
his hands, then rushed into the office.  Where is it?  he thought,
looking wildly around.

Is, there!  he realized, heading for the corner.  Standing in the
corner, forgotten, was Aruk's old snackquarium.  He'd used it to keep
live food fresh, and, the last few months of his life, that live food
had mostly been nala-tree frogs!

Thrusting the scanner's probe-tip into the snackquarium, Durga
activated the instrument.  Moments later, he had his answer.  The
mineral deposits on the globe's glassine sides contained sizable
amounts of X-1!

Durga let out a bellow of rage that made the furniture rattle, then
went berserk, smashing the snackquarium with one mighty blow of his
tail, slamming his bulk into furnishings, crushing and destroying
everything in his path.  Finally, hoarse and panting, he halted in the
ruins of Aruk's office.

Teroenza.  Teroenza sent the frogs.

Durga's first impulse was to fly to Ylesia and personally smash the
t'landa Til to a bloody pulp, but, after a moment's reflection, he
realized that it would be beneath him to soil his hands and tail on a
lesser being.

Besides, he couldn't just do away with the High Priest.  Teroenza was a
good High Priest, and would be hard to replace.  The Besadii lord was
uncomfortably aware that if he had Teroenza killed, the t'landa Til
on

Ylesia might well refuse to continue their charade as priests in the
Exultation.  Teroenza was well-liked by those who served under him.  He
was also an able administrator, who had brought Besadii ever-increasing
profits from the spice factories.

I'll have to have a trained replacement ready to step in before I act
against him, Durga thought.

Also, Durga reflected, the evidence against the High Priest was purely
circumstantial.  It was remotely possible that Teroenza was innocent.

Durga had kept a close eye on Teroenza's expenditures, and no large
sums of credits had left his account.  He could not have purchased the
poison unless he did it in a very clandestine way .  . . and he did not
have the kind of credits it would take to purchase large amounts of
X1.

Unless he sold that wretched collection of his .... Durga thought, but
he knew that hadn't happened.  He kept close watch over all the
shipping manifests going into and out of Ylesia, and Teroenza had, in
fact, been adding to his collection for the past nine months.

The Besadii lord resolved to begin training a new t'landa Til that very
week.  He'd continue his investigations, and by the time the new High
Priest was ready, he'd hire a bounty hunter to bring him Teroenza's
horn.

Durga envisioned the horn, mounted on the wall of his office, right
next to Aruk's holoportrait.

Teroenza might not be the only one who deserved to die on Ylesia.

Someone had had to capture the nala-tree frogs, put them into shipping
containers, and load them onto ships.  Durga resolved to investigate
the situation from all angles before placing his bounty.

Of course the real murderer was the individual who had purchased the
X-1 and masterminded the entire operation.  Jiliac was his prime
suspect.  She had the credits, she had the motivation.

Durga had already begun searching for links between Jiliac and the
Malkite Poisoners.  Now he would also search for links between the
Desilijic leader and Teroenza ....

Surely he'd find something .  . . some record.  Shipping records,
deposits of credits, withdrawals, records of purchases.., somewhere
there would be evidence that would link both Teroenza and Jiliac to
Aruk's death, and he, Durga, was going to find them.

He knew that the search would require both time and credits.  His own
personal credits, unfortunately.  Durga didn't dare jeopardize his
admittedly precarious position as leader of Besadii by spending huge
amounts of the kajidic's money on what would be called a personal
vendetta.

Zier and his other detractors were already watching him, just ready to
pounce on unjustified expenses.

No, he'd have to pay for it himself .  . . and it would strain his
personal resources to do so.

Durga thought for a moment of Black Sun.  A word to Prince Xizor, and
he'd have all of Black Sun's impressive resources at his command.  But
that would be opening the door to a Black Sun takeover of Besadii, and
possibly all of Nal Hutta.

Durga shook his head.  He couldn't risk that.  He didn't want to wind
up as one of Xizor's vassals.  He was a free and independent Hutt, and
no Falleen Prince was going to give him his marching orders.

Durga left Aruk's smashed office, and went to his own.  He had a long
session of work at his datapad before him.  He couldn't let his work
for Besadii suffer, so most of his search would have to be done at
night, while most Hutts were sleeping.

Grimly, Durga reached for his datapad, and began keying in requests for
information.

He had found his parent's murderers, he was sure of it.  He knew the
how, and the why.  Now to gain the proof that would allow him to
challenge Jiliac and demand personal satisfaction for a blood-debt.

Durga's tiny fingers began racing over his datapad, and the greenish
tip of his tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth as he
concentrated ....

Teroenza paced slowly down the hallway in the Ylesian Administrative
Center to meet with Kibbick.  The Hutt "overlord" had requested his
presence almost twenty minutes ago, but Teroenza had been busy.  In the
old days he'd never have dared to keep a Hutt lord waiting, but things
on Ylesia were changing, slowly but surely.

He, Teroenza, was taking over.  That idiot Kibbick was just too stupid
to realize it.

Every day he was making plans, hiring the additional guards Durga had
authorized, and fortifying the planet.  Instead of hiring mostly
Gamorrean guards, strong but even dumber than Kibbick--which was saying
something!--Teroenza was carefully choosing toughened mercenary
fighters.

They cost more, but they'd be worth it in battle.

And Teroenza knew there was going to be a battle .... The day would
come when he'd have to openly declare his break with Nal Hutta.

Besadii would never take such a bid for independence lying down, but

Teroenza planned to be ready.  He would direct his troops in battle,
and victory would be theirs!

The High Priest was already making arrangements to bring the mates of
the t'landa Til priests to Ylesia.  His own mate, Tilenna, would be one
of the first to arrive.  Kibbick was such an idiot that he probably
wouldn't even notice for some time.  The differences between male and
female t'landa Til were most readily apparent to t'landa Til.  To most
other species, except for the male's horn, they appeared virtually
identical.

Teroenza was also planning on increasing the defenses, even if he had
to sell off part of his collection to do it.  He'd checked the price of
a ground-mounted turbo-laser and been horrified, but perhaps Jiliac
would help him out with the credits he needed.  After all, he,
Teroenza, was the only one who could implicate her in Aruk's murder.

It made sense that she'd want to stay on his good side.

When Teroenza reached Kibbick's audience chamber, he hesitated before
the portal, consciously summoning up enough of a servile air to pass.

He didn't want Kibbick to be aware of his contempt.  Not yet.  Soon,
though ....

Soon, Teroenza comforted himself.  Play your part.  Listen to him
babble.

Agree with him.  Flatter him.  Soon you won't have to do this any
more.

Only a few more months to put up with his foolishness.  Soon ....

One of the first things Han Solo did after getting the Millennium
Falcon was challenge his girlfriend, Salla Zend, to a race.  In the
smaller, unreliable Bria he'd never had a hope of defeating her swift
Rimrunner, but now .  . .

Whenever the two of them happened to have cargoes bound for the Kessel
Run, the two smugglers would race through that dangerous area of
space.

They frequently ran spice and other contraband to the Stenness System,
and the Kessel Run was the fastest way there.

One time Han would win .  . . the next, Salla.  The two ships were very
evenly matched.  Neither of the two smugglers liked losing, and their
friendly competitions became increasingly fierce.  They began taking
chances .  . . dangerous ones.  Especially Salla.  An expert pilot, she
flew her ship alone and was proud of her skill at getting the last bit
of power out of her vessel.

One morning Han and Salla left her apartment together, kissed each
other goodbye, and promised to meet on Kamsul, one of the seven
inhabited worlds in the Stenness System.  Han grinned at Salla.  "Loser
buys dinner?"

She smiled back at him.  "I'm going to order the most expensive thing
on the menu just to spite you, Han."

Han laughed, waved, and they parted to go to their respective ships.

The run to Kessel was uneventful.  Han managed to beat Salla in by
nearly fifteen minutes, but one of the loader droids assigned to his
ship developed a malfunction, and slowed the loading process.  Salla's
Rimrunner came swooping down for a reckless landing while he was still
loading up, and Han was barely five minutes ahead of her in lifting
off.

He was flying with Chewie as copilot and Jarik in the topmost gunner's
mount.  Imperial patrols in the Kessel region were becoming more and
more prevalent these days.

Han keyed his intercom as they went blasting into the Run.  "Look
sharp, kid," he told Jarik.  "I don't want any Imp patrols catching us
by surprise."

"Right, Han.  Just keep a lookout on those souped-up sensors of yours,
and I'll blast 'em before they know what hit 'em."

The first obstacle to be faced once they left Kessel was the Maw--a
treacherous, roughly spherical region of space containing black holes,
a few neutron stars, and scattered main-sequence stars.  From a
distance, the Maw appeared in Kessel's nighttime sky to be a rounded,
fuzzy, varicolored glow, much like a nebula.  But as a ship drew
closer, the spherical shape became clearer.  The Maw glowed with the
light from the suns within it, the ionized gas and dust trails snaking
throughout in bands of color.  And, seemingly looking back at Han, were
the accretion disks of the black holes.

The accretion disks resembled white, watching eyes against the dimmer
regions of the Maw.  Depending on their angle relative to the Falcon,
those eyes were slitted, narrowed, or wide open.  In the middle of each
"eye" was a pinprick black "pupil" marking each of the black holes that
were sucking in the trails of starstuff.

Almost like the jungle on an Ylesian night, Han thought.  Black nights
with watching predator eyes ....

Navigating the perimeter of the Maw at normal sublight speeds was a
tricky proposition, and racing around it at full throttle was asking
for disaster.  Han glanced at his sensors, and saw that Salla was
gaining on them.  He increased speed, pouring it on, until he was going
faster than he ever had before on a run.

"She won't catch us now," Han said to Chewie.  "I'm gonna hold this
lead until we're into the Pit and then we'll be far enough ahead that
we'll make our jump to hyperspace at least twenty minutes ahead of
Rim-runner."

"The Pit" was a perilous asteroid field encased within a wispy gaseous
arm of a nearby nebula.  Together, the Maw and the Pit made the Kessel
Run the dangerous proposition it was.  Hearing Han's boast, Chewie gave
an unhappy moan and made a suggestion.

"Whaddaya mean, let her beat us?"  Han demanded indignantly, his gloved
fingers flying over the controls as they went screaming past the first
cluster of black holes.  The gas and dust from nearby stars was being
pulled into the accretion disks in long, attenuated streamers of
bluewhite and rose.  "You crazy?  I ain't buying dinner!  I'm gonna win
a nerf tenderloin with a broiled ladnek tail, surf and turf special,
fair and square!"

Chewie eyed the Falcon's speed indicator nervously, and voiced another
suggestion.

"You'll buy everyone's dinner if I slow down?"  Han gave his copilot an
incredulous glance.  "Hey pal, marriage must be makin' you soft these
days.

I can handle this.  The Falcon can handle it.  We're gonna win this
one!"

Even as he spoke, his instruments registered a strange sensor signature
from the recklessly accelerating Rimrunner.  Han stared, eyes wide, at
his board.  "Oh, no .  . ."  he whispered.  "Salla, you crazy?  Don't
do it!"

Moments later Rimrunner's mynock-shaped form elongated, then popped out
of real space.  Chewie howled.  "Salla!"  Han yelled, uselessly.  "You
crazy fool!  Tryin' a microjump near the Maw is just asking for
trouble!"

Chewie fretted as Han frantically increased speed even more, checking
his sensors to try and find the Rimrunner.  "Where'd she go?  Crazy
woman!

Where'd she go?"

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, as the Falcon sped along, hugging the
perimeter of the Maw.  Han considered trying a microjump himself, but
he had no way of discovering what course Salla had followed.  The only
thing he could be sure of was that she wouldn't have tried jumping
straight from one side of the Maw to the other.  The deep gravity wells
from the black holes and neutron stars would have yanked her out of
hyperspace in short order--and probably straight into a black hole's
event horizon, the point of no return.

No, she had to have jumped along the perimeter, perhaps to get a
straight shot at the Pit ....

Chewie whined and stabbed a hairy finger at the sensors.  "That's
her!"

Han said, studying Rimrunner's readings.  Salla was still moving, but
she wasn't headed toward the Pit.  She was .  . .

"Oh, no..."  Han whispered, feeling horror wash over him.  "Chewie,
something must have gone wrong.  She ain't goin' in the right

direction .... "He checked his instruments again.  "She came outta
hyperspace within the magnetic field of that neutron star up ahead!"

Rimrunner was still moving, but no longer in a straight path.  Instead
Salla's ship was within a thousand kilometers of a neutron star,
looping up in a high orbit.  Han's sensors showed jets of deadly plasma
spewing out both sides of the flattened accretion disk that marked the
neutron star's location.

"Either the gravity well or the magnetic field must have disrupted her
navicomputer, and she came out of the microjump in the wrong place
....

"Han breathed, feeling as though his chest were being squeezed by a
giant, invisible hand.  "Oh, Chewie... she's a goner ....

Within minutes, Salla's ship would reach apastron, or the highest and
slowest point in her orbit around the dying star.  Then, scant minutes
later, Rimrunner's orbit would pull it looping back around, and Salla's
ship would pass through the edge of the plasma jet.  The deadly
radiation levels there would fry her in moments.

A hundred memories of Salla raced through Han's mind between one
heartbeat and the next.  Salla, smiling at him in the morning .  . .

Salla, dressed in a glamorous gown, taking him out for a night in the
casinos · .  . Salla, her face smudged, fixing a hyperdrive as easily
as most people would fix breakfast.., except that Salla never had
learned to cook ....

"Chewie .  . ."  he whispered hoarsely, "we gotta try and save her."

Chewbacca shot him a look, then pointed a hairy finger at the sensors
and growled.

"I know, I know, Rimrunner's awfully close to that plasma jet," Han
said.

"And for us to get close, we risk gettin' our ship knocked out and
joinin' Rimrunner.  But Chewie .  . . we gotta try."

The Wookiee's blue eyes narrowed with determination and he roared his
agreement.  Salla was a friend.  They couldn't abandon her.

Han opened a frequency on the Falcon's comm, even as he began
frantically ordering his navicomputer to run calculations.  "Salla?

Salla?  This is Han.

Honey, you there?  We're gonna try and get you .  . . but you'll have
to do what I tell you.  Salla?  Come in!  Over."

He tried twice more as the navicomputer began spouting possible
approach vectors.  He knew the magnetic fields, ionized gas, and plasma
trails would interfere with communications, but he hoped that the
Falcon's powerful sensors and transmitters could punch through.

"Chewie, tell Jarik to get into a vacuum suit and stand by the
airlock

with the magnetic grapple and the winch· I'm gonna tell her to eject,
and we'll match her trajectory and pick her up."

Chewie gave Han a skeptical glance.  "Don't look at me like that!"  Han
snapped.  "I know it won't be easy!  I've got the navicomputer workin'
on an approach vector that will keep us outta the plume's magnetic
field.

Don't stand there tellin' me all the stuff that can go wrong!  Get
movin'!"

Chewbacca made a hasty exit.

Han tried the comm unit again.  "Salla .  . . Salla, this is Falcon.

Come in."  He wondered whether Salla's abrupt reversion to real space
had caused her to be flung against the controls.  She could be lying
there, unconscious .  . . or dead.

"Hey, baby, answer me.  Come in, Salla ...."

He continued to call as he sped toward the apastron coordinates.  The
neutron star's magnetic field was so powerful that it must have blown
out every active system on Rimrunner the moment Salla came out of
hyperspace.

That would almost certainly include Rimrunner's sole lifepod, as that
system was usually kept "on-line"--ready for an emergency ejection at a
moment's notice.

Salla was still moving, coasting at the same speed she had been when
she'd first jumped into hyperspace, but now she had no way to brake or
alter direction.  Most importantly, no power to blast free of the
gravity well.

She'd be pulled closer and closer in an ever-tighter orbit until her
ship encountered the edge of the accretion disk, then .  . . boom.

By the time that happened, though, Salla would have been dead for at
least five minutes, from passing through that plasma particle jet
....

Not if I can help it, Han thought grimly.  "Salla?  Salla?  Can you
read me?

Come in, Salla!"

Finally, he heard a crackle of static, then a faint reply.  "... Han ·
. .

Rimrunner .  . . engines out.  Power gone .  . . batteries dying .  .
.

can't .  . . goner, honey .  . . stay away .... " Han swore loudly.

"No!"  he yelled into the comm.  "Salla, listen to me and do exactly
what I say!  Rimrunner's a goner, right, but not you, Salla!

You're gonna have to abandon ship, and you've got only a few minutes to
do it!  Was your lifepod on-line when you got hit?"

"... affirmative, Han ... lifepod dead ... no way to eject .... " It
was as he'd thought.  Her lifepod was useless, its electronic systems
blown.

He wet his lips.  "Yes, you can eject!  We're comin' to get you!

Salla, you get your rear down to your aft airlock and stuff yourself
into a vacuum suit!  Take both suit thrust paks, hear me?  When the
first runs out, activate the second.  Full throttle!  I'm gonna try
and match your trajectory, but I want you as far away from Rimrunner
and that plasma jet as possible!"

"Won't work .  . . jump?"

"Yeah, dammit, jump!"  Han made a course adjustment.  "I can be there
in eight minutes.  I want you blasting away from Rimrunner at full
throttle on the following coordinates .  . ."  He glanced at his
navicomputer and gave her a string of numbers.  "Copy that?"

"But Rimrunner ..."  was the faint reply.

"Blast Rimrunner!"  Han shouted.  "It's a ship, you can get another!

Now do it, Salla!  This is gonna be hard enough without you arguing!

You've got three minutes to get into that suit!  Go!"

He keyed his intercom to Jarik's spacesuit frequency.  "Jarik, you
standing by with the magnetic grapple and the winch?"

"Affirmative, Han," Jarik said.  "Just warn me when I can make visual
contact.  It's hard to see in this helmet."

"I'll tell ya, kid," Han said tersely.  "Here's your coordinates for
the grapple."  He repeated them.  "Timin's gonna be critical here, so
don't be slow about it.  Any drift, and we'll graze the edge of the
magnetic field and then we're in the same fix as Rimrunner.  Basically,
we've got one chance to get in and get out safely.  Got that?"

"I copy, Han," Jarik said, tensely.

As Han piloted his ship toward the rescue coordinates, he worried that
Salla's thrust paks wouldn't be strong enough to propel her far enough
away from her doomed vessel.  He didn't want to risk crashing into
Rimrunner.  The Falcon was a freighter, not designed for tight,
pinpoint maneuvering of this sort.  True, Han could make his ship
practically stand on her head, but picking up a tiny spacesuited human
while trying to stay out of the particle jet's magnetic field was risky
enough, without worrying about having Rimrunner slamming into them.

Han carefully checked and rechecked his course.  He had to do this
precisely, on the first try.  He had to get her before she got within
range of that deadly plasma.  He had a brief, hideous vision of what it
would be like to bring a radiation-seared corpse aboard, and made
himself concentrate on his piloting.  This maneuver was probably the
trickiest piece of piloting he'd ever tried ....

Minutes later, Han, sweating, began entering the course corrections
that would bring them to the intersection point.  He slowed his ship
.

. .

slowed her again .  . . then again.  He didn't dare come to a dead
halt, for fear that he'd drift into the magnetic field ....

He kept his eyes riveted on his sensors.  Rimrunner was only about

fifty kilometers away, now, growing on his screens.  "Jarik, I have
visual contact with Rimrunner.  Stand by."

"I read you, Han.  Standing by."

Had Salla ejected in time?  Han tried calling her.  No answer, but
there was a good chance that her suit comlink wouldn't be strong enough
to reach him through the interference.

The doomed freighter grew on his screens, in his viewport.  Han slowed
still further, hardly daring to blink.  Where is she?  Did she have the
courage to jump?

Salla didn't lack for courage, Han knew that.  But jumping into space,
with nothing between you and some very hard vacuum was a scary
proposition.  Han bit his lip, picturing her pushing herself away from
Rimrunner's airlock and triggering that first thrust pak.  Although
he'd spent time in spacesuits himself, he didn't like it, hanging
there, with nothing between you and infinity in all directions.  And
he'd certainly never had to try and cross kilometers of space in
nothing but a spacesuit.  The Corellian wasn't sure he'd have the
courage to do what he'd demanded of Salla ....

Before she became a smuggler, Salla had spent time as a technician on a
corporate transport.  He hoped she hadn't lost her spacesuit skills.

Han watched the schematic on his navigation boards.  There was the
neutron star, with Rimrunner's projected downward-spiraling orbit
marked out.

Salla's ship had reached apastron.  The blip that was the Falcon was
closing rapidly.  Thirty klicks ....

And there, marked in virulent green, was the deadly plume of the
plasma, haloed with the magnetic field in violet.

Han swallowed.  So close .  . .

He was closing on twenty klicks, now.  He looked up, and through the
viewport made out Rimrunner's mynock shape.

Where is she?  he wondered, checking the schematic again.  Where
is-"Got her!"  Han suddenly yelled.  "Jarik, I see her blip!  No visual
yet, but stay sharp!"  He made a few minor course changes so he'd
exactly match Salla's trajectory.  She was moving toward him at a
pretty good clip, fast enough to stay in a straight line, not fast
enough to risk losing control and going into a spin.  Han admired her
suit expertise.

"Ready, Han," the youth said, then muttered something under his breath
. .

. a prayer?  Han was too busy to inquire.

Han turned on his ship's intercom.  "Chewie, you standing by with that
medpak?"

"Hrnnnnnnggggghhh!"

As Han watched her blip, he kept glancing up at the port, and
suddenly"I got her!  Visual contact!  Jarik .  . . fire magnetic
grapple on my order .... " Han counted seconds in his head.  Three . 
.

. two .  . . one .  . . "Fire!"

A tense second .  . .

"I got her!  Activating winch!"

"Chewie, can you hear her?"

Chewbacca roared.  No, he couldn't hear her, but he'd let Han know the
moment he could.

"Jarik, Jarik, is she okay?"

"She's waving, Han!"  A moment later, the kid said, "Okay, Han, she's
inside!  Closing the airlock!"

Chewbacca's roar came over the intercom a moment later.  "Right!"  Han
said.

"We are getting outta here!"

Han altered course and increased speed, pulling out of the neutron
star's gravity well.  Checking the schematic, he saw that Rimrunner was
just passing through the plasma jet and accelerating in its orbit.

That was close!

"How is she?"  Han said over the intercom.  "Talk to me, guys!"

A moment later he heard Salla's voice, hoarse but recognizable.  "I'm
okay, Han.  Just a cut on my head.  Chewie's fixing me up."

"Jarik, c'mon up here and take the controls," Han said.  "I want to see
Salla.  Chewie, don't forget to check her for radiation exposure "
"Arrrrnnnnnnnnnghhhh!"  came the exasperated roar.  "That's good!"

"Han," Jarik said, "she's coming up.  Stay where you are."

A minute later, the three joined Han in the cockpit.  The Corellian
slipped out of the pilot's seat, and Chewie and Jarik took over the
pilot's and copilot's seats.  Salla sat down in the passenger seat,
scowling.  There was a bandage on her forehead, half-covered by her
wiry mop of black hair.  Han bent over her solicitously.  "Hey .  . .

honey .  . ."

She pulled away from him, and for a second he thought she was going to
swing at him.  Her eyes flashed with anger at the universe in
general.

Taking the hint, Han stepped back.  "Han... that blip ..."  She
pointed.  "Is that Rimrunner?"

Han turned and looked at the schematic, then the viewport.  Rimrunner
was still in the plasma jet, visible only as an orange glow.  "Yeah,"
he said.

"She's really picking up speed .... " Silence reigned in the cockpit as
the four watched the blip that was

Salla's pride and joy speeding through the last of the plasma,
accelerating faster and faster, heading for the accretion disk as the
neutron star's gravity pulled the freighter into an ever tighter,
closer orbit.

Minutes later, a tiny flare blossomed for a second on the edge of the
accretion disk.  Salla stood up.  "Well, that's that," she said,
flatly.  "If you gentles will excuse me, I need to use the 'fresher."

Han stood aside as Salla walked back into the Falcon's interior.  He
thought about how he'd feel if it was his ship that had just bought it,
and could understand the pent-up anger that she was barely
controlling.

Minutes later, he heard muffled thuds and cries coming from the ship's
small lounge area.  Han glanced at his friends.  "I'll check it out."

When he arrived back in the lounge, he found Salla standing with her
back to the hologram game board, beating her fists against the Falcon's
bulkheads and cursing a blue streak.

"Salla .  . ."  he said.

She whirled to face him, amber eyes blazing.  "Han, why didn't you just
let me die?"

For a second he thought she was going to punch him, and got ready to
duck.

But she restrained herself with a visible effort.  "Why, Han?"

"Salla, you know I couldn't do that," he said, holding up his hands
placatingly.

She stamped around the Falcon's lounge, obviously on the verge of going
nova.  "I can't believe I tried that microjump!  I can't believe the
Rimrunner is gone!  How could I have been so stupid?"

"We'd raced before, Salla," Han said.  "This time was just .  . . bad
luck."

She slammed a fist into a bulkhead, cursed again, then stood cradling
her abused hand.  "That ship was my life!  My living!  And now, just
.

. .

gone!"  She snapped her unbruised fingers.

"I know," Han said.  "I know."

"What am I going to do now?  I can't earn a living.  I worked so hard
to get that ship!"

You can ride with me and Chewie," Han said.  "We can always use extra
crew.

You're a hot pilot, Salla.  You'll find work.  Good pilots are always
in demand."

"Ride with you?"  she scowled.  "I don't need charity from you or
anyone, Han."

"Hey!"  he said, in injured tones, "I am not in the charity business,
Salla, you know me!  It's just that .  . . hey .  . . I need the
help."

She stared at him.  "You need me?"

Han shrugged.  "Well .  . . sure.  I couldn't do without you, honey.

I don't risk myself--or my ship---for just anybody, you know."

"That's true," she muttered, staring at him intently.  Han wondered
what was going through her mind, but decided it wasn't a good time to
ask.

Cautiously, he moved toward her, wondering if she'd push him away
again, but she didn't.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her wiry form against him,
kissed her cheek.  "I know how you must be feelin', Salla.  I lost a
ship not too long ago, too, remember."

"I remember," she whispered.  "Hey, Han.  . . I forgot to thank you."

"For what?"

"Saving my life, what else?"

He chuckled.  "You've saved my hide a time or two in tight spots,
Salla, don't forget.  Remember that time the Nessies tried to pull a
fast one on us?  If it hadn't been for you spottin' those bogus
datacards, I'd have lost a bundle."

She began to shudder violently.  Her teeth chattered.  "D-don't buhbeee
n-nice ttto mmmeeee, Hhhan," she managed, shivering.  "Whwhat's
hhappening?"

He stroked her hair.  "Adrenaline letdown, Salla.  Happens alt the time
after battles.  You get the shakes, and you feel stupid, because by the
time it happens, you're safe."

She managed a nod.  "I'm ss-such a fffool."

"But you're a live fool," Han reminded her.  "That's the best kind."

Salla laughed shakily.

six

Farewell to Nar Shaddaa

Salla Zend was very quiet over the next week--so quiet that Han worried
about her.  He'd never seen her the way she was now.  She refused
offers to accompany Han and Chewbacca on a couple of Runs, even though
Han wasn't kidding when he said he needed her help.  Jarik had recently
found a girlfriend in the Corellian section of Nar Shaddaa, and was
spending all available time with her.  The kid had also hired on with
Shug because the master mechanic was upgrading the hyperdrives on many
of the Desilijic smuggling vessels.  It was a big job, and Shug needed
all the help he could get.

Salla began hanging out at Shug's spacebarn every day, working on the
hyperdrive upgrades, too.  But when Han returned home from a run, she
was always there to greet him, smiling, with an affectionate kiss.  Her
behavior toward him was .  . . different .  . . somehow.  She had a way
of looking at Han as though she were somehow .  . . evaluating .  . .

him.  It made the Corellian uneasy.

The most unnerving thing of all was that Salla asked him to teach her
to cook.  Having been raised by Dewlanna, Han was a fair cook, though
he didn't bother preparing meals just for himself.  But, since he and
Salla were together almost every night, Han had fallen into the habit
of fixing a meal for them.

Suddenly, out of the blue, Salla wanted him to teach her.  For some
reason Han had a bad feeling about that.  He couldn't say why that
worried him--after all, it wasn't a big deal, learning to cook,
right?--but it did.

He began with easy things .  . . breakfast, stews, soups, then
graduated to menus such as boiled traladon steaks with tubers on the
side, imush-roots chopped and sauteed with hot sauce, Wookiee
flatbiscuits with forest-honey glaze.

Salla paid strict attention and approached cooking with all the
seriousness she'd have given to tearing down and rebuilding a faulty
motivator matrix.

She was so earnest about it that Han grew more and more troubled.

He considered asking her what was going on, but he didn't want to
pry.

Salla had just lost her ship.  That was reason enough for some
eccentric behavior, he told himself.

One night, when she'd served the first meal she'd cooked all by
herself, Han finished the last bites of slightly scorched ladnek tail
and somewhat rubbery marsh-root souffle, and smiled at her.  "This was
tasty, Salla.

You'll be a gourmet cook in no time!"

"Really?"  she looked pleased.

"Sure," he lied.  Truth was, she had a long way to go.

"Han.  . . there's something I've been meaning to tell you," she
said.

"Something really important."

Uh, oh.  Here we go, he thought, with a feeling of dread.  "What's
that?"  he asked.

"Well, I've been making some plans.  It won't cost nearly what I
thought, especially the hall, and I have a little bit saved.  With what
you've still got from the big sabacc game, we can do it.  I've talked
to a caterer, and--" "Salla, what are you talkin' about?"  Han broke
in, completely confused.

"Our wedding," she said.  "I've been thinking about it, how you said
you need me, and you're right.  We need each other.  It's time to go
ahead and have a real life together, Han.  Like Roa and Lwyll.

Remember what a nice wedding they had?  We can have something just as
nice.  I think we owe it to ourselves.  All our friends can come."

Han stared at her, too dumbfounded to speak.  His first impulse was to
shout, "Have you gone crazy?"  but he counted to ten.  Maybe Salla
needed medical attention.  She had suffered a blow to her head.

Concerned, he finally managed, "Uh, Salla, I don't think that's in the
cards right now."

She chuckled.  "I knew you'd say that, Han.  Men!  They never want to

admit how they feel.  Don't you remember tellin' me that you kind of
envied Roe and Chewie, having a real family?"

Han remembered saying something along that line, but he certainly
hadn't meant for it to be interpreted like this.  He shook his head.

"Salla, honey, I think we'd better discuss this.  You haven't told
anyone about this, have you?  Or actually made any concrete plans?"

"Well... just a few people," she said.  "Shug, and Mako and Lando, and
Jarik.  And I put a reservation fee on the hall."

Mako!  Han groaned inwardly.  His old friend from his Academy days
would be having a wonderful time spreading this all over Nar Shaddaa.

Jarik, why didn't you warn me?  he wondered, then he realized that the
kid was so head-over-heels for that cute little thing he'd been seeing
that he probably hadn't even really listened to Salla.

"Salla," he said, "this isn't like you.  We've never made any promises,
any commitments.  I mean, someday, maybe ...... but " She was smiling
at him again--that smile that made him feel like a traladon on its way
into the slaughterhouse.  An all-knowing smile that said she wasn't
really listening.  Desperate to communicate without really hurting her
with the truth, Han reached out and took her hand across the table.

"Salla, honey .  . . we've never even said the word 'love' before.

Are you tellin' me that you love me enough to spend the rest of your
life with me?"

Her amber eyes shifted, just slightly, then she nodded.  "I know what I
want, Han.  You and me together, and an end to risking our lives
hauling spice.  We'll be like Roe and Lwyll, and go off together to
make a new life.

An honest life.  Maybe we'll have kids someday."

"But do you love me?"  he asked, holding her eyes with his own.

"Sure," she said.  "Of course I do, Han.  You know that."

No, I don't think I do, he thought, cynically.  He hadn't missed that
slight shift of her eyes.  He knew Salla was fond of him, cared for
him, and had passion for him.  But love?

"Anyway, you'll see, this is the right decision, Han.  We're going to
be really happy, and this will be the best wedding ever.  We'll have a
great party afterward."

Han didn't miss the fact that she hadn't asked him whether he loved
her.

She doesn't want to know the answer, he realized.

For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to say, "Salla, I don't
love you, and I don't want to marry you."  But somehow he couldn't
quite get the words out.  He didn't want to break up with her, and that
would certainly do it.

Han silently resolved to talk to Chewie, and maybe Lando about this,
since Salla had already shot her mouth off.  Maybe one of them would
have some idea how to tell her "no" about the marriage, without losing
her.

Han didn't want to lose Salla, but he sure wasn't getting married.

Especially now, when he was on top of the smuggling heap, with the
speedy Falcon as his very own!  He had places to go, business to do,
cargoes to haul, and there was fun to be had--fun that would be totally
ruined if he was married.  As far as the Corellian was concerned,
getting married was tantamount to some unending Imp work detail.  Han
would hardly have been less dismayed to find himself sentenced to the
spice mines of Kessel.

The next day he cornered Chewie in their apartment, and, while ZeeZee
trundled back and forth, picking up things and putting them down again
in the exact same spot, told him the whole story.  His friend growled
and moaned, shaking his head.  "Whaddaya mean the way Salla's actin'
reminds you of Wynni?"  Han demanded.  "Wynni can't keep her paws off
you, tries to seduce you every time we run into her.  Salla ain't like
that.  She just wants to get married."

Chewbacca amplified on his previous statement.  Salla reminded him of
Wynni because she wasn't asking whether Han wanted her, she was just
assuming that he did, and doing what she wanted.  Marriage, the Wookiee
pointed out, had to be something where both partners had an equal
voice.  Sometimes one partner might accede to the wishes of the other,
but nobody should just assume they knew what was best and start making
decisions for a couple.

Han's brow furrowed.  "Yeah, I see what you mean," he muttered.  "Salla
ain't askin', she's just takin' it for granted that we're gettin'
married."

He shook his head sadly.  "Today she's out shoppin' for an outfit.  She
says 'cause I'm Corellian, she wants a traditional Corellian wedding.

That means a green dress."

Chewie shook his head and launched into a long peroration on females of
any species who regarded males as prizes to be won.  He cautioned Han
that his sister, Kallabow, had decided in much the same way that she
intended to marry Mahraccor.  However, Chewie said, Kallabow had been
more cleverer about it than Salla.  She'd merely given Mahraccor plenty
of chances to realize that he loved her, Kallabow, until one day he'd
done exactly that.

They were very happy, Chewie pointed out.

"Well, that ain't what's gonna happen to me, pal," Han said
caustically.

"You know, I'm startin' to get mad, Chewie.  She doesn't care what I
want--she doesn't even want to know what I want.  That's no way to make
someone fall for you and want to marry you."

Chewie vociferously agreed.

The next night, Han spoke to Lando in a smoky bar at one of the big Nar
Shaddaa casinos.  The gambler shook his head the moment Han brought the
subject up.  "Han.  . .Han .  . . she's dead serious about this, you
know.

When she told me about it, I started to laugh--'cause I know you,
pal!--and Salla just about decked me."

"I know she's serious," Han said, morosely.  "Blast it, Lando, I don't
want to marry her--I don't want to marry anybody!  Ever, maybe!  I like
being single, and I like being able to do what I want, when I want,
with whoever I want to!"

"Easy, pal," Lando cautioned, and Han realized his voice had scaled up
to the point where other patrons of the drinking establishment were
looking over at him.  He took a hasty gulp of his Alderaanian ale.

"Well, have you tried telling her how you feel?"  Lando asked.  "Yeah,
a couple of times, now.  She just dismisses me.  I'll say, 'Salla, this
isn't a good idea, I need time to think about this,' or even, 'Salla, I
ain't interested in gettin' married now,' but it doesn't do a bit of
good."

"What does she say when you say that?"

"She just tosses it off.  Says things like, 'don't worry, Han, men
always feel like that.  It's perfectly normal to have pre-wedding
jitters."" Lando sighed so gustily that his mustache quivered.  "That's
tough, pal," he said.  "She sounds like she's settled on getting
married to you as a good way to fix up her life.  She lost her ship,
but she's going to gain a husband."

"She wants me to quit the business and leave Nar Shaddaa.  Says we can
be like Roa and Lwyll, start a new life doing something else.  No more
smuggling."

Lando shuddered.  "Honest work?  That's awful!"  The gambler was only
partly joking.

Han drained his stein of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand.  "Lando, what am I gonna do?  I ain't gonna marry her, that's for
sure.  But I can't be mean enough to her to tell her in a way that will
make her listen."

Lando frowned.  "That's a tough one.  Seems to me, the way Salla's
acting, she's just asking to be set down.  But Han you can't wait.  She
told me she's setting the wedding for next week."

Han sat bolt upright.  "Next week?  Oh, no .  . . Lando, no way!"

Lando nodded.  "You've gotta tell her, Han."

"But she won't listen!"

"What else can you do?"

Han's features hardened with determination.  "I can leave, that's

what.  I've been meaning to spend some time in the Corporate Sector,
look up a master starship tech named Doc.  Seems like now is a good
time for that trip."

"Corporate Sector's quite a ways away."

"Yeah.  And Salla doesn't have a ship, so she can't possibly follow
me.

Besides, if I just leave, that'll give her the message, clearer than
anything I could say.  And I'm doin' it right away, Lando.

Tomorrow."

"That quick?"  Lando was taken aback.  "Why so fast?"

"Why stick around?"  Han asked.  "I'll go see Jabba tomorrow morning,
tell him I'm headin' out for a while and don't know when I'll be
back.

Besides .  . ."  he sighed, "I care about Salla.  I don't want her
spendin' her credits on a wedding that ain't gonna happen.  So the
quicker I go, the more she'll save."

"She's going to be mad," Lando said.

"I know," Han agreed bleakly.  "And I wish it didn't have to be like
this.

She should have some respect for me, not be so hard-headed.  If there
was another way around this, I'd take it, but I can't think of
anything.  No matter what I do or say, Salla's gonna get hurt."

"You could knuckle under and marry her," Lando said, cocking an amused
eyebrow.

Han shook his head.  "Lando, I'd sooner kiss Jabba."

Lando sputtered with laughter until he nearly fell off his barstool.

"I ain't losing my freedom," Han said grimly.  "Salla will get over
this.

Yeah, she'll be mad.  Yeah, she'll probably never speak to me again.

I'm sorry about that, but not sorry enough to stick around.  I'd sooner
microjump through the Maw."

Lando shrugged, offered his hand.  "Going to miss you, pal."

"C'mon along," Han suggested, shaking it.  "Chewie and I could use a
hand."

"What about Jarik?"

Han made a dismissive gesture.  "The kid won't be coming, I'm almost
certain.  Shug's payin' him more than I can afford to, and he's so hung
up on that girl he can't see straight.  No way he'd be up for a long
trip."

"True," Lando said.  "First love .  . . isn't it sweet?"  Han rolled
his eyes, then the two of them laughed.  "So .  . . you comin'?"  Han
prodded.

"Not me," Lando said.  "I've got to put in some time on the spaceship
lot.

Since Roa left, I've been through one manager after another, and I
caught the last one skimming."

"Great," Han shook his head.  "Well, I'll miss you, Lando.  You watch
your back, now, pal."

"You too."

Han spent one last night with Salla, but she was so wrapped up in her
plans that she didn't even notice how grimly silent he was.

Just before they turned in, Han looked at her and said, "Salla .  . . I
wish you'd asked me before planning all this.  I ain't the marrying
kind of guy."

She laughed.  "All men think that, Han.  . . until they get married.

Remember Roa?  He said all along he'd never do it, then he did, and you
never saw anyone happier.  That's the way men are."

"Not this guy," Han said, but Salla only laughed.

The next morning, Han went by his place and had ZeeZee pack up his
clothes (it didn't take long, Han never had many clothes) into an old
backpack.

Then he and Chewie went out to the Millennium Falcon's landing pad atop
one of the tall buildings of Nar Shaddaa.

Jarik turned up to see them off.  Han hadn't told anyone but Lando and
the youth that he was going.  Jarik held out his hand, and when Han
shook it, blurted, "Now I wish I was going!  Come back rich, Han!

Chewie, you take care of him, okay?"

Han slung an arm around the young man's shoulders, shook him
playfully.

Chewie gave him a Wookiee head-rub that made the kid yelp.  "You take
care of yourself, Jarik," Han said.  "Don't let ZeeZee drive you
crazy.

And .  .

. take my advice, kid.  Have fun, but remember: If I'm too young to get
married, you are definitely too young!"  Jarik laughed.  "I'll remember
that, Han!"  "So long, kid.  Take it easy."

Minutes later, with Nar Shaddaa behind them, Han keyed his comm system
for a holo message.  Quickly he gave Salla's name and codes, then
instructed Message Central to "hold" the message for two hours.  By
that time he'd be long gone.

When the message signaled it was ready to "record" Han cleared his
throat self-consciously.  "Hi, Salla," he said.  "I'm sorry it had to
be like this, but by the time you get this, Chewie and me will be
gone.

I tried to talk to you, but you just wouldn't listen."

He hesitated, took a deep breath.  "Salla, you're a great lady, but I'm
just not ready to get married--to anyone.  So try not to take it
personally, okay?  I think we need a break from each other.  I'll be
back someday.  Try

not to be too mad, Salla.  I'm just doing what I have to.  You take
care of yourself, Salla, and say goodbye to Shug and Mako for me."

Chewbacca grunted insistently, and Han said, "Oh, and Chewie says
goodbye, too.  Stay well, Salla.  Be happy."

Reaching out, he hit the "transmit" button, and then slumped back in
his seat.  "Whew!  That was worse than a dozen Runs, pal."

Chewbacca agreed that things of that nature were never easy.

Han nodded.  "Okay, pal.  And, speakin' of marriage, I think before we
light out for the Corporate Sector, you and Mallatobuck deserve a
little second honeymoon.  So set course for Kashyyyk."

Chewbacca gazed at Han, his blue eyes lighting up.  Han grinned at the
Wookiee.  "Besides, I laid in another cargo of those explosive quarrels
that Katarra liked so much, I figure a nice load of Thikkiian brandy
might fetch a good price in the Corporate Sector.  So is the Corporate
Sector by way of Kashyyyk okay by you?"

Chewbacca roared his approval of Han's suggestion so loudly that Han's
ears rang.

Minutes later, the Falcon was nothing but a rectangular streak
traveling through hyperspace on the first leg of her long journey.

seven

Hutt Justice and Rebel Retribution

"Aunt," said Jabba, staring at the screen of his datapad, "at this rate
Desilijic will be bankrupt in forty-four years."

Jabba and Jiliac were in Jiliac's office in her island palace on Nal
Hutta.  The Desilijic leader had been dangling bright streamers of
Askajian silk for her baby to focus on and lurch toward.  Of course the
baby Hutt could not reach for the vivid streamers--it still did not
have arms, though over the past three months, its stubs had grown
longer.  These days it could spend two or three hours at a time outside
its mother's pouch--much to Jabba's irritation.  The only time he could
gain Jiliac's full attention was while her baby was sleeping in her
pouch.

Hearing Jabba's pronouncement, the leader of Desilijic turned from
playing with her infant to regard her nephew with mild surprise.

"Really?"  Jiliac said, and her great forehead furrowed, "that soon?  I
would not have thought it possible.  Still .  . . forty-four years,
Jabba.  We should be able to reverse this trend long before then.  What
reports are you looking at?"

"All of them, Aunt.  I have spent much of the past week doing a
complete financial portrait of Desilijic finances."

"Where are the credits going, then?"

"Among other things, I have here the invoice from Shug Ninx's
spacebarn," Jabba said, touching a key on the datapad and bringing up
the document.

"Upgrading all of the sublight and hyperdrive engines on our ships has
set us back fifty-five thousand credits."

"That seems a bit excessive," Jiliac said.  "Was upgrading all our
ships really necessary?"

Jabba sighed so loudly and exasperatedly that flecks of green drool
spattered on the floor before him.  "Shug Ninx is a rarity among Nar
Shaddaa denizens, Aunt.  The price is fair.  And, if you'll recall, we
lost three smuggling ships to Imperial patrols over the last six
months, and another to privateers.  Our ships sublight engines were old
and outmoded, and they couldn't elude Imperial tariff ships or
pirates.

And their hyperdrives were so slow that we were getting complaints from
customers about their deliveries being delayed!  So, yes, the upgrades
were completely necessary, to avoid losing more ships."

"Oh, yes, I do recall that now," Jiliac said, vaguely.  "Well, if it is
necessary, Nephew, it is necessary.  I trust your judgment."

My judgment is that I should be running things around here in name as
well as fact, Jabba thought, grumpily.  Aloud he said, "At least the
job is done.  With any luck, our ships can now haul more spice, faster,
and we can begin making back some of our investment.  If only Besadii
will hold the line this time on its new announced prices for processed
spice.  This is their third increase in three months."

Jiliac began to laugh, a great, booming sound that echoed in the huge,
nearly deserted office.  (Ever since she'd had her baby, the leader of
Desilijic had dismissed many of her former hangers-on and sycophants,
for fear one of them would seek profit by kidnapping her baby and
holding it for ransom.  These days her opulent throne room held only
her most trusted minions, compared to the way it used to be, when
Jiliac was a male, childless Hutt.  Jabba, of course, still enjoyed
being surrounded by raucous crowds, music and dancing girls in his
palaces on Nal Hutta and Tatooine.) When Jiliac stopped laughing she
exclaimed, "Nephew, of course Besadii will not hold their line!  Their
strategy lately has been to reduce the amount of spice on the black
market, to drive prices up.  Simple economics.  Highly effective,
also."

"I know," Jabba agreed, morosely.  "But they have to slither a fine
line, Aunt.  If they charge much more, they'll be competing with the
Imperial spice market.  And that might bring them to the unwelcome
attention of the Emperor."

By Imperial decree, all spice, especially the ultra-valuable
glitterstim, belonged to the Empire.  But the prices for the spice sold
through legal, Imperial channels was so preposterously high that no one
except the fabulously wealthy could afford it.  Enter the smugglers and
their side deals on Kessel and the other spice-producing worlds.

"We had little choice but to upgrade our ships, Aunt," Jabba added.

"Our markets were making threats that they were going to begin dealing
directly with Besadii."  "Besadii does not have a smuggling fleet that
can match ours," Jiliac pointed out, truthfully.

"Not at the moment," Jabba said.  "But my sources indicate that Durga
has already bought a few ships, and is bargaining for others.  He has
announced his intention of creating a fleet that will outclass ours.  I
believe he intends to take over the whole spice trade.  We must not
allow this, Aunt."

"I agree, Nephew," Jiliac said, waving an aqua streamer.  "What shall
we do about it?"

"I believe we must redouble our efforts to get more pilots to run our
spice, Aunt," Jabba said.  "There must be pilots out there who are as
good as Solo."

"Is he gone?"  she asked, vaguely, stroking her baby's head.

Jabba rolled his bulbous eyes and reached into a bowl for a Carnovian
eel-pup, and popped the squirming, squeaking morsel into his mouth.

The baby Hutt looked over at him and drooled greenishbrown goo.  Jabba
hastily averted his gaze and swallowed noisily.  "Solo has been gone
for several months, Aunt.  By all report, he went to the Corporate
Sector.  His loss is being felt," he waved his datapad.  "Solo was the
best.  I even find myself missing the fellow."

Jiliac turned to regard her nephew in surprise.  "Jabba, you are
talking about a human.  And a human male at that.  Have your tastes
changed?  I thought you had a penchant for those tiresome scantily clad
dancers you fancy.  It is hard for me to picture Solo in a dancing
costume, cavorting with that great hairy brute of a Wookiee before your
throne."

Jabba chuckled at the image.  "Ho-ho, Aunt!  No, my fondness for Solo
comes only from the fact that he makes us money, in an expeditious
fashion.  He would never allow himself to be boarded and his cargo and
ship impounded for smuggling.  Solo is quite clever and resourceful .

. . for a human."

"The Empire is making its presence felt more and more out here in the
Rim," Jiliac said.  "There was that massacre on that humanoid-inhabited
world .... " "Mantooine in the Atrivis Sector," Jabba said.  "Since
then there has been another, Aunt.  Two weeks ago citizens of Tyshapahl
staged a peaceful demonstration against the Empire and its taxation.

The Sector Moff sent ships from the nearby Imperial garrison.  The
Imperial vessels hovered over the crowd with their ships on repulsors
while the commander demanded that they disperse.  When they did not,
he signaled his ships, and each vessel activated their engines.  Most
of the crowd was summarily incinerated."

Jiliac shook her massive head.  "Palpatine's forces could use a few
lessons in subtlety from our people, Nephew.  Such a waste of
resources!  Far better to have landed, then herded them all into ships
to be sold as slaves.  That way the Empire could have rid themselves of
the dissidents, and made a profit at the same time."

"The Emperor should bring you to Imperial Center to advise him, Aunt,"
Jabba said, half-joking, but it occurred to him that he'd get a lot
more done if he didn't have to deal with and around Jiliac each day.

The baby Hutt wriggled over in front of him, and he glared at it.  The
mindless little creature gurgled at him, burped, then spit up.

Revolting!  Jabba thought, recoiling from the noxious pool of spreading
liquid.

Jiliac summoned a cleaning droid and wiped the infant's mouth.  "Don't
even suggest such a thing, Jabba," she said, sounding faintly
horrified.  "You know how Palpatine treats non-humans.  His aversion to
nonhumans is so strong that he does not even recognize Hutts as a
superior species!"

"True," Jabba said.  "Shortsighted of him.  But he is in authority, and
we must deal with that.  So far we have been able to buy protection
from too close scrutiny by the Empire.  It is expensive, but worth
it."

"Agreed," Jiliac said.  "The only reason he left us alone after the
battle of Nar Shaddaa was that the Council voted to voluntarily double
the amount of taxes we pay to the Empire.  Nal Hutta has fifty times
the wealth of most planets, and our wealth buys us a certain amount of
protection.  Not to mention the bribes we pay to the new Moff, and to
some of the Imperial Senators and high-ranking officers."

The cleaning droid had finished its efforts, and the floor gleamed
again.

Hutts kept their floors scrupulously clean and, if they were
uncarpeted, highly polished.  It was easier to glide around on them
that way.

"They say that the renegade Senator, Mon Mothma, has convinced three
large resistance groups to ally.  They signed a document they're
calling the Corellian Treaty," Jabba said.  "It is possible that a
widespread rebellion may be in the offing.  And Aunt," Jabba waved his
datapad, "in war, there is profit to be made.  We might be able to
recoup our losses."

"Those so-called Rebels have no chance against the might of the
Empire," Jiliac scoffed.  "It would be foolish for us to take sides."

"Oh, I was not suggesting that, Aunt," Jabba said hastily,
scandalized

by the suggestion· "But there are times when profits could be made
from aiding one side against the other.  No permanent alliance, of
course."

"Better to stay out of galactic politics altogether, mark my words,
Jabba."  Jiliac was holding her baby, bouncing it fondly.  Good way to
make it upchuck again, Jabba thought cynically.

Sure enough, the baby Hutt did just that.  Fortunately, the cleaning
droid was still within call.

"Aunt .  . ."  Jabba said, hesitantly, "since times are becoming so ·
.

.

complicated, perhaps you might consider sending the baby to the
communal nursery for each day?  Then it would be easier to concentrate
on our business.  The child is well able to spend long periods outside
your pouch.

Besides, they have surrogate pouch-mothers at the nursery."

Jiliac reared up, tail twitching, her expression one of shocked
indignation.  "Nephew!  I am surprised that you would even suggest such
a thing!  In a year, perhaps, I might consider that, but now, my little
one needs me continually."

"It was just a suggestion," Jabba said, in as conciliatory a manner as
he could manage.  "In order to bring Desilijic's finances back to the
level they were before Moff Shild's destructive raid on Nar Shaddaa, a
great deal more time and effort will be needed.  I am putting in
copious amounts of time these days."

"Ho-HO!"  Jiliac hooted.  "And just yesterday you spent half the
afternoon watching that new slave-girl cavort all over your throne
room, while your new band of jizz-wailers played for you!"

"How did you--" Jabba began, stung, then he subsided into silence.  So
what if he'd taken a few hours off to amuse himself?  He'd been up at
dawn, working with the clerical droids and scribes on Desilijic's
financial records, getting them in order so he could prepare a complete
report on the implications of the new Besadii price hikes.

"I have my ways, Nephew," Jiliac said.  "But of course I don't begrudge
you your leisure time.  All work and no amusement makes for a dull Hutt
indeed.

However, in turn, I expect you to respect my need to be with my
baby."

"Yes, Aunt.  I do.  Of course I do," Jabba said, seething inwardly.

Hastily, he changed the subject.  "I believe Besadii should be called
to account for these increases in the cost of their spice.  It is
possible that we may be able to rouse the other clans against them."

"To what purpose?"

"Possibly official censure and a fine.  I have heard enough grumbling
among the other clans to suggest that they are suffering from this
price increase nearly as much as Desilijic.  It is worth a try.  Aunt,
can you

request that the Hutt Grand Council call a meeting of the kajidic
leaders?"

Jiliac nodded, evidently wishing to be conciliatory, too.  "Very well,
Jabba.  I will request such a meeting before the end of the week."

Jiliac was as good as her word, and three days later, Jabba, along with
the Desilijic bodyguards, undulated into the huge Hutt Grand Council
chamber.  All representatives or leaders of the Hutt crime syndicates,
or kajidics, as they were called, passed through multiple scanning and
security devices in order to be allowed to enter, as did their
bodyguards.

Nothing that could be deemed a weapon was permitted inside.  Hutts were
not trusting sentients ....

Jabba took his place in the location allotted to the Desilijic members,
and cautioned the other representatives to allow him to do the
talking.

As Jiliac's top lieutenant, he had that right, and they readily agreed.
 Jabba noted that even his parent, Zorba, had sent a representative. 
The two of them were not close, but it was comforting to know that
Desilijic was well-represented, and that all of the Clan families had
taken Jiliac's summons seriously.

When the representatives of all the kajidics were present, the
Executive Secretary of the Grand Council, a recent appointee named
Grejic, called the meeting to order.

"Comrades-in-power, siblings-in-profit, I have convened you today to
discuss concerns raised by Desilijic.  I ask Jabba, Desilijic's
representative, to speak."

Jabba wriggled out in front of Grejic's dais and lifted his arms for
quiet.  When the other Hutts continued to whisper to each other, he
raised his tail and brought it down against the stone floor with a loud
slap.

Silence ensued.

"Fellow Hutts, I come to you today with some serious allegations of
wrongdoing on the part of Besadii kajidic.  Over the past year, their
actions have grown more and more reprehensible.  It all started with
the Battle of Nar Shaddaa.  All of us suffered because of that
attack--except Besadii.  We lost ships, pilots, cargoes, part of the
Moon's shield--not to mention how much trade we lost!  And then there
was the aftermath of the battle.  The loss of part of Nar Shaddaa's
shield caused the destruction of several blocks of buildings from the
crash of the Peacekeeper.  Cleanup and reconstruction is still going
on.  And who has paid for it?  Each clan lost property and
credits---except Besadii.  And they alone--they who suffered no loss,
who could most afford it--they have paid nothing!  We have all suffered
and lost--except Besadii!"

The other Hutts murmured to each other when Jabba paused.  He looked
over at the section of floor reserved for Besadii, and saw that Durga
had not deigned to appear.  Instead he had sent Zier and several lesser
members of the kajidic as his representatives.

"And what did Besadii do while Nal Hutta was threatened?  They sold
slaves to the very Empire that was attacking their homeworld!  All of
the clans cooperated in paying the credits for the exorbitant bribe of
Admiral Greelanx--which proved to be the only thing that saved our
world from a devastating embargo.  All of the clans, that is .  . .

except Besadii."

The other Hutts murmured muted affirmatives.  Jabba was proud of the
way his speech was going.  He was verging on true eloquence, he
thought, and even Jiliac, acknowledged orator that she was, could not
have done better.

He was actually glad that Jiliac had been too occupied with her baby to
appear today.  She wasn't as versed in all of this as he was, and
things didn't affect her these days the way they used to ....

"And in the months since that battle, fellow Hutts, what has Besadii
done?

Helped us rebuild?  Offered to recompense the other clans for their
share of the bribe?  Sent a single work crew of slaves to help with the
rebuilding?"  Jabba let his voice scale up to a near-shout.  "No!

Fellow Hutts, what they have done is to raise the prices on their spice
to the point where the profits of every kajidic are compromised--at the
worst possible time!  Some may say this is just good business, just the
urge for profit--but I say, No!  Besadii is trying to take over!  To
put us all out of business!  Besadii wishes that there was no Hutt clan
on all of Nal Hutta-except Besadii!"

Jabba's voice had risen to a thundering pitch.  He slapped his tail for
emphasis, hard.  The echoes fled around the cavernous hall.

"I demand that Besadii be censured!  I demand that the Grand Council
take a vote to censure them now, and levy a fine, to be distributed
among those they have wronged!  I demand this in the name of all Hutts
everywhere!"

The hall erupted into pandemonium.  Tails slammed, voices cried out
with indignation.  Some Hutts turned on the Besadii contingent with
threatening tail-waves, shouting insults and curses.

Zier looked around wildly, and saw no friendliness in the hall.  He
raised his arms and voice, shouting in turn, but his voice was drowned
out by the combined fury of the other Hutts.

Finally the furor began to die down.  Grejic slapped his tail for
quiet, and finally got it.

"By custom, Zier, as the ranking member of Besadii, has the right to
answer his accuser.  What have you to say to all this, Zier?"

Zier cleared his massive throat, swallowed.  "Fellow Hutts, how can
you condemn Besadii?  Making profit is to be lauded, not denigrated!

Jabba and Jiliac lost the most in the attack on Nar Shaddaa, and they
are attempting to sway you into siding with them against Besadii.  The
truth is, Besadii did nothing wrong!  We did nothing--" "You did
nothing, all right!"  the leader of Trinivii kajidic shouted, breaking
in.  "Desilijic offered the strategy that saved us.  Besadii grabbed
profit at all our expense!"

Zier shook his head.  "What we did was" "We are Hutts!"  another leader
shouted.  "It is our pride to take from other species!  It is our pride
to make profit!  But we do not seek to destroy our own kind!  Compete,
yes .  . . destroy, no!"

Chaos erupted.  A cacophony of tail-thumps, shouts, curses, bellows,
and raging diatribes filled the air.

Grejic had to tail-thump many times to restore order.  "I believe it is
time for a vote," he called.  "All kajidic representatives in favor of
officially censuring and fining Besadii--vote now, yes or no, on the
motion."

Each kajidic leader pressed a thumb against the vote tabulator before
him.

Moments later, Grejic raised a hand.  "The votes are tallied.

Forty-seven to one in favor of censuring Besadii."  Cheers rang out.

"Zier of Bes--" "Wait!"  A voice broke in.  Jabba recognized that
voice, and turned to see Jiliac undulating across the room.  "Wait, I
did not vote!"

"Jabba voted for your kajidic, Lady Jiliac.  Why this interruption?  Do
you wish us to re-take the vote?"  Grejic was respectful, but clearly
impatient to get on with the matter at hand.

"Re-take the vote?"  Jabba looked at his aunt and their gazes locked.

After a moment, she shook her head.  "My nephew is my accepted proxy,
Lord Grejic.  Please proceed."

Jabba let out his breath very slowly.  For a moment he'd thought Jiliac
was going to question his judgment and his authority in front of
everyone.

Many of the other Hutts were giving him curious glances, clearly
wondering why Jabba had been voting if Jiliac was not going to support
his position unreservedly.

Jiliac glided over to lie beside her nephew, but Jabba found himself
wishing she'd just stayed away.  It was embarrassing to have his
judgment questioned in front of his own people.  He thought again of
what it would be like just to run Desilijic by himself, without
interference--and unthinking interference, at that.

"Zier of Besadii," said Grejic, continuing where he'd left off, "it is
the will of this Council that you be excused from our ranks until your
clan has paid one million credits in damages, to be divided among the
other kajidics equally.  May I suggest that you endeavor in future not
to regard your own people as you would those of other species--as dupes
to be exploited."

The Executive Secretary waved to the guards and their ranking officer,
who were standing at the entrance.  "Guardsmaster, you will escort the
Besadii delegation from this hall."

As Zier and the other Besadii undulated along toward the entrance,
Jabba saw that they were all trying to look confident and scornful and
failing utterly.  The soft mutter of the other Hutts swelled into a
tumult of hooting laughter, raucous bellows, and shouted insults, jeers
and threats.

Jabba smiled inwardly.  Not a bad afternoon's work; he thought
smugly.

Not bad at all....

Bria Tharen walked briskly down the corridor of her command ship, the
light cruiser Retribution.  She was on her way to review her troops
before their planned raid on the slaver vessel Helot's Shackle.

Inwardly, Bria was excited and eager, but her features were composed
and her bluegreen eyes were as cold as deep glacial ice.

Mentally she reviewed her battle plan, analyzing it for weaknesses,
making sure she'd covered every possible contingency with a backup
option.  This operation should go down smoothly, but the Helot's
Shackle was, after all, a heavily-armed Corellian corvette, a
formidable vessel in her own right.

Retribution was almost the same size as the Shackle, so they should be
relatively evenly matched.  Bria's vessel was a Republic Sienar Systems
Marauder-class corvette, sleek and streamlined, capable of both space
and atmospheric combat.  The Marauders were among the most common
capital ships in the Corporate Sector's picket fleet.  The Corellian
underground had purchased this Marauder second-hand from the Authority,
and given it to Bria for her flagship.

The Corellian commander had an operative working on the space station
orbiting Ylesia.  The operative had tipped Bria off a few days ago that
the Ylesian priests were planning on shipping out nearly two hundred
Exultation-addicted and mal-nourished slaves to the mines of Kessel.

For a moment Bria wished she could give in to her own desires and go
out with her people in the first boarding wave.  The troops aboard
those three shuttles would see the maximum amount of combat, make the

most kills.  And Bria had a personal grudge against this particular
slaving vessel.  Nearly ten years ago, Helot's Shackle had narrowly
missed capturing Bria, Han and their two Togorian friends, Muuurgh and
Mrrov, as they'd made their escape from Ylesia.

Bria sighed, but she knew that her place during the first wave was
aboard her command vessel, coordinating the attack, identifying pockets
of heavy resistance in order to best allocate her troops for the second
wave.

This was Retribution's fifth mission for the Corellian resistance, and
Bria was glad to be back in action.  During her eight years with the
Corellian underground, she'd done whatever she'd been assigned to do,
and done it well.  But she had hated the undercover spying projects .

. . and hadn't much liked "liaison" work.  She'd been glad to leave
them behind and get back to real fighting.

It was Mon Mothma who had made it possible for Bria to go back into the
real action.  The renegade Imperial senator had both the influence and
the eloquence to convince individual resistance groups that a Rebel
Alliance was a necessity.  The Senator was better at it than Bria had
ever been, and spent all her time traveling from world to world,
meeting with underground leaders.  Just a month ago Bria and the rest
of the Corellian resistance had celebrated the signing of the Corellian
Treaty.

Publicly, Mon Mothma was credited with engineering the Treaty, and
there was no doubt that she had helped.  But Bria had heard a rumor
that Corellia's own Senator Garm bel Iblis had secretly been one of the
main architects of the Treaty.  In addition to Corellia, the other
signatories to the Treaty were Alderaan and Chandrila--Mon Mothma's
home planet.

Traveling system to system, world to world, Mon Mothma made contact
with resistance groups where they existed, and created new groups where
there had been none.  The former senator's fame was both help and
hindrance; on the one hand it gave her access to important nobles and
leaders of industry, but on the other hand, especially in the
beginning, some groups had expressed the fear that she might be an
Imperial plant, sent by Emperor Palpatine to test their loyalty.

The renegade senator had faced death many times, both from Imperial
troops and from suspicious resistance leaders.  Bria had met Mon Mothma
and conferred with her soon after the senator had fled the Emperor's
charge of treason.  She'd been impressed--almost awed--by Mon Mothma's
quiet dignity, her unswerving resolution and her formidable
intelligence.

It had been one of the high points of Bria's life when Mon Mothma had
shaken her hand and told her that she, Bria Tharen, had been one of

the people who'd been instrumental in getting Bail Organa to change
his mind about Alderaan's pacifism.  The Viceroy was now committed to
the thought of armed revolution against the Empire.  He faced
considerable resistance from his government, however, and, so far,
Alderaan's efforts at arming itself were small and extremely
clandestine.

The Corellian Treaty had inaugurated the Rebel Alliance Bria and the
other Corellians had been working toward.  The individual Rebel groups
would retain much of their autonomy, but, in theory at least, strategic
command of the Alliance was now vested in Mon Mothma.  To date, the
fledgling Rebel Alliance had not been tested in battle.  Bria was
hoping that would soon change.

Bria rounded a corner in Retribution's corridor, and was joined by her
medical officer.  Daino Hyx would be in charge of handling the slaves
once they were rescued.  Hyx was a short, bearded man with the
brightest blue eyes Bria had ever seen, and a shy smile that most
people found irresistible.  Hyx had been a scholar at one of Alderaan's
top universities.  There he'd studied medicine and psychology, and had
wound up specializing in the treatment of addictions.  Since joining
the Corellian resistance six months ago, he'd applied his formidable
skills to the problem of the Ylesian Pilgrims.

Bria was convinced that there were many frustrated idealists to be
found among the underfed, overworked ranks of the Ylesian Pilgrims.

Since her first raid on Ylesia nearly two years ago, sixteen slaves
that she'd rescued were currently topnotch fighters or operatives for
the Corellian resistance.  Another ten had been awarded medals for
valor ...

posthumously.

Bria had pointed out to her commanding officers on Corellia that
Ylesia, with its thousands of slaves, was a potential goldmine of Rebel
recruits if only they could find a way to overcome the addictive
effects of the Exultation.  True, Bria herself had overcome addiction
to the Exultation to become a valuable addition to the Corellian
underground.  But it had taken her nearly three years of unrelenting
effort to cure herself.  She'd tried everything from meditation to
drugs--and had only found the strength she needed when she decided to
dedicate her life to the eradication of slavery and the Empire that
condoned it.

But they didn't have three years to devote to curing the Pilgrims.

They had to find a cure that would work in weeks or months, rather than
years.

That was where Daino Hyx came in.  By thoroughly analyzing the
physical, mental and emotional effects of the Exultation (at one point
he'd traveled to Nal Hutta to meet a number of t'landa Til males and

studied how they produced the effect) Hyx believed he'd found a
cure.

Hyx's cure involved a mixture of mental, emotional and physical
treatments, ranging from anti-addiction drugs to interactive and group
therapy.

Today, if all went well, Hyx would get the chance to begin putting his
new treatment to the test.

He glanced up at Bria.  "Nervous, Commander?"

She smiled faintly.  "Does it show?"

"No.  Most people wouldn't notice a thing, I'm sure.  But I'm not most
people.  I got to know you pretty well while we were first working on
the new therapy.  And assessing the mental and emotional states of
humanoids is my job, remember."

"That's true," Bria admitted.  "Yes, I'm a bit nervous.  This is
different from capturing a customs patrol ship or raiding some lonely
Imp outpost.

This time, we're going up against the people who used to own me, body
and spirit.  I'm always just a bit afraid that when I'm exposed to the
Pilgrims' addiction that my own will somehow come back."

Hyx nodded.  "You have an emotional stake in this raid, not just a
military goal.  It's perfectly understandable that you'd feel
anxiety."

Bria gave him a quick glance.  "That won't keep me from doing my job,
Hyx."

"I know," he said.  "Red Hand Squadron is very efficient, I hear.  From
what I've observed about your people, they'd follow you into a black
hole and out the other side."

Bria laughed a little.  "I don't know about that.  If I were crazy
enough to mess with black holes, I hope they'd be sane enough to hold
back.  But my troops would follow me into Palpatine's Imperial Palace,
that I know."

"You wouldn't last very long," he said dryly.

She smiled, but no warmth reached her eyes.  "But we'd have fun for a
while.  It would be worth my life to get a shot at Palpatine."

"How soon does the first wave launch?"

She glanced at the tiny chrono-ring she wore.  "We're waiting for the
signal from my operative on the space station.  Then we'll microjump
into position.  He'll tell us the moment Helot's Shackle undocks from
the Ylesian space station.  We want to catch the slavers before they
can leave the system."

"Makes sense."

Bria turned right and entered the turbolift.  "I'm going down to do a
final check of my troopers who will be going in the boarding
shuttles.

Want to tag along?"

"Sure."

They took the lift down to the shuttle launch bay.  When they stepped
out, the launch area was a controlled frenzy of crews making last
minute checks of vessels, equipment and weapons.  One of the troops,
seeing Bria, put two fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly.

"Commander on deck!"

Bria spoke to her lieutenant, Jace Paol, who was overseeing the last
pre-battle preparations.  "Assemble troops, please."

One quick order later, and the boarding squads were falling in.  There
would be one squad per shuttle, about ten troops on each.  Two waves of
three shuttles each, first wave and second wave.  First wave would have
the responsibility for boarding Helot's Shackle and neutralizing the
slaver resistance.  The second wave would reinforce the first, and help
with the mopping up.

Bria walked slowly down the lines of troops, inspecting them, checking
their uniforms, their weapons, their expressions.  At one point she
stopped before a young trooper whose eyes glittered with more than
eagerness.

Studying his flushed cheeks and reddened nose, she frowned.  "Corporal
Burrid .  . ."

He came to full attention.  "Yes, Commander!"

She reached up, touched his cheek, then his forehead.  "Fall out,
Burrid.

You've got at least a degree of fever."

Sk'kot Burrid saluted.  "Respectfully, Commander, I feel fine!"

"Right," Bria said.  "And I'm the Emperor's Wookiee concubine.  Hyx?"

The medical officer took a med-probe out of his belt pouch and touched
it to the young man's face.  "Two degrees fever, Commander.

White cell counts indicate infection, possibly contagious."

"Report to the med droid, Corporal," Bria ordered.

Crestfallen, the young man opened his mouth to protest, then he thought
better of it and obeyed.  Without a word, his backup from the reserves
moved into his place in line.

When Bria had finished her inspection, she paused, then addressed her
soldiers.  "All right, people.  We're waiting now for the signal to
make our microjump.  The Y-wings will go in first, and make their runs
to bring their shields down.  Then it will be up to you people.  You'll
be docking with their airlocks where they have them, and fighting your
way in.  Where there are no airlocks, we're going to make ones.

Special engineering teams will accompany two boarding shuttles.  Those
squads will cut through the hull just in front of the engineering
sections."

She paused.  "Remember, there are going to be slaves underfoot,
confused, frightened, and probably beginning to suffer from
Exultation

withdrawal.  They may try to attack you.  Don't risk yourselves, but
make every reasonable effort not to harm them seriously.  Use stun
beams on those slaves, all right?"

There was a general murmur of agreement.  "Are there any questions?"

There weren't.  The troops had already been briefed by their squad
leaders and platoon leaders, and they'd been through repeated drills.

Bria nodded at the troops.  "This is Red Hand's most ambitious
undertaking yet, people.  If we can pull this off, you can bet we'll be
seeing more action.  So let's impress the Sector Command .  . .
right?"

Agreement was unanimous.

As Bria turned to confer with her platoon leaders, suddenly her comlink
beeped.  She activated it.  "Yes?"

"Commander, the signal just came through.  Helot's Shackle has just
undocked from the Ylesian station."

Bria nodded, then turned to the platoon leader.  "First wave, board
your shuttles.  Second wave .  . . stand by."

The deck reverberated to the pound of running feet as the thirty
troopers scrambled into their respective shuttles.

Bria keyed in her personal frequency.  "Attention, Crimson Fury, this
is Red Hand Leader."

"Go ahead, Red Hand."

"Prepare your ships to microjump in three minutes.  Retribution will be
right behind you."

"Copy that, Red Hand Leader.  Preparing for microjump."

Quickly Bria and Daino Hyx left the shuttle fighter launch bay, took
the turbolift up, then jogged forward until they reached the bridge.

The ship's captain looked up as they entered.  Bria slipped into a seat
behind the tactical schematic.  From her station she could also see the
viewscreens.  "Captain Bjalin," she said.  "Ten seconds after the last
of the Y-wings has jumped, we will jump."

"Yes, Commander," Bjalin said.  Tedris Bjalin was a tall young man
whose hairline was receding, despite his youth.  He'd joined the
Corellian resistance just recently, after his entire family had been
murdered during the Imperial massacre on Tyshapahl.  Before that time,
he'd been an Imperial lieutenant.  His Imperial training had served him
in good stead, earning him a promotion in the Rebel forces.  He was an
able officer, a decent man, who'd told Bria that he'd already been
thinking of deserting the Imperial Navy when his family had been
murdered.  That had pushed him over the edge.

Bria watched tensely as the seconds counted down, and, two by two, the
six Y-wings jumped into hyperspace.  Then the starlines stretched out
before them, as Retribution jumped, too.

The moment they arrived back in realspace, Retribution opened her
shuttle bays and the first wave of boarding shuttles launched.  They
approached Helot's Shackle at half speed, behind the Y-wings, which
were barreling in at full speed.

Bria watched with satisfaction as the first pair of Y-wings streaked
toward the Corellian corvette, firing salvos of two proton torpedoes
each, targeting the stern and amidships.  Their goal was not to blow a
hole in Helot's Shackle, but to take down the shields without harming
the vessel unduly.  Bria intended to take the Shackle intact and bring
it back to be added into the Rebel fleet.  One of the shuttles in the
second wave would be carrying a prize crew, consisting of computer
techs, engineers, a pilot and damage control and repair teams.

Bria would not have minded catching Helot's Shackle unprepared, but she
wasn't counting on that, and wasn't surprised to find that the corvette
was traveling with its shields up.  As the Y-wings hurtled in, the big
ship opened fire, but the agile Y-wings easily evaded its blasts.

Retribution stayed carefully out of range of its fire.

As Bria watched, the four proton torpedoes launched by the Y-wings
flashed blue-white, impacted against the shields, and splashed over the
slayer's hull without penetrating the defenses.  The first pair of
Y-wings peeled away and went circling back in case they were needed
again.

Helot's Shackle blasted away again, and this time one of its shots
grazed one of the Y-wings--a minor hit, but enough to put the fighter
out of the action.

Bria was figuring it would take four proton torpedoes to bring down the
Shackle's shields.  The second pair of Y-wings went streaking in, and
the first fired.

This time the blue-white burst spread out, then, suddenly, there was a
visible impact against the side of the vessel.  A blackened streak
marred the armor.

"That's it!"  Bria said, and keyed the comm unit, addressed her Y-wing
team leader.  "Crimson Fury, good work!  Shields are down!  Now let's
use those ion cannons of yours to finish 'em!  Warn your ships to take
evasive!  We don't want any more hits!"

"Copy that, Red Hand Leader.  Targeting sensor suites and solar fin.

Starting our runs now."

The Y-wing pairs began strafing the Helot's Shackle, firing their
turreted ion cannons at the preassigned targets.  The bursts from the
ion cannons were designed not to damage the enemy vessel's hull, but
to

knock out all electrical activity aboard ship--including, of course,
the engines, the targeting computers, and the bridge systems.  Every
electrical system aboard would need to be re-initialized before the
Shackle would be operational again.

Helot's Shackle fired again and again, but the Y-wings were just too
quick and agile for the big ship's weapons to target effectively.

Scant minutes later, the Shackle was drifting helpless in space, its
electrical systems down.  Bria checked her chrono as the first wave of
boarding shuttles moved in.  Good.  Right on time.  One ship attached
itself to the large forward airlock, the one the Shackle used to load
her cargoes of slaves.  The remaining two shuttles grappled against the
hull on either side of the slayer's ship and began cutting their way
in.

Bria listened as reports flooded in from her squad leaders: "Red Hand
Leader, Squad One reporting from the cargo airlock on the forward hold
on Deck 4. We've made it inside, but we're encountering heavy
resistance.  The crew was getting the slaves out as we came through,
but there are still some in here.  The Pilgrims have taken shelter, as
have we, behind cargo canisters.  We've got a brisk firefight
ongoing.

We're going to push them back, so we can get to the turbolaser access
shaft."

"Red Hand Leader, Squad Two reporting in.  We've breached the hull
forward of the engines on Deck 4 and set up a portable airlock.  My
troops are moving in now .... " "Red Hand Leader, the armor plating on
this section of the starboard hull is giving us some trouble .  . .

stand by "And, a minute later, "Red Hand Leader, we are through!"

Bria watched the progress of the squads through the vessel, weighing
when to bring in her second wave.  The two squads who'd cut their way
in had met with minimal resistance.  But the forward squad who'd
entered through the airlock was meeting heavy opposition from the
slavers as they battled their way to the turbolifts.  It was
understandable that the slavers would fight to the last.  Red Hand's
reputation was beginning to spread, and doubtless the crew of the
Shackle had recognized the symbol of a blood-dripping hand painted on
the bows of their attackers' ships.

Bria stood up and addressed the captain of her ship.  "Tedris, you're
in command of the squadron until I return from the second wave
operation.  Be prepared to send backup if I contact you, but not
until.

Have the Y-wings moved out to their patrol stations?"

"Yes, Commander.  We'll have at least fifteen minutes warning if anyone
decides to join the party .... Of course that's just in case the
slavers managed to get a distress call out before we jammed their
transmissions."

"Good work, Captain."

Bjalin nodded, but did not salute.  Discipline in the Rebel forces was
far more informal than in the Imperial Navy.  It had taken Bria two
weeks to break him of the habit of saluting at the drop of a "Sir!"

"Good luck, Commander," he said.

"Thanks.  I may need it.  My people have pushed them out of that
forward hold, but they had lots of time to set up strong defenses.  I'm
betting they've holed up in the bridge and the access corridors and are
working on the electronics.  I think I'm going to have to be a little
.

. . creative."

Bjalin smiled.  "You're good at that, Commander."

Ten minutes later, Bria's boarding shuttle had docked with the portable
airlock and her reserves were jogging down the corridor of Deck 3 after
her, blaster rifles ready.

In the eerie, wan illumination provided by the emergency battery
lights, the crippled Shackle seemed deserted; Bria knew that was an
illusion.

Dimly, she could hear the wailing of some of the slaves.  Probably
they'd been herded to the security hold on Deck 4 and locked in.  The
commander hoped fervently that none of the slavers had hit upon the
bright idea of driving the slaves into Rebel blaster fire in an attempt
to delay the invading soldiers while they made their getaway.  That had
happened once, and Bria still had nightmares about it .  . . the pale,
shocked faces of the unarmed slaves, the reverberations of the blaster
bolts, the screams, the crumpling figures, the meaty sizzle-reek of
burning flesh ....

Bria led her troops forward, toward the master's cabin in the bow of
the ship.  It was located directly beneath the bridge, and was the key
to her plan.

She keyed her comlink.  "Prize crew .  . . how's it going?"

"Commander, hull damage appears to be minimal.  Our Y-wings targeted
well.

We have people working on repairs now."

"How about the electrical systems and the computers?"

"That's going to be harder.  We can't start up the systems until you've
captured the bridge.  We don't want to give them any control over the
ship."

"They're probably trying to do a restart themselves up there.  Can you
block that?"

"I think so, Commander."

"Good.  Concentrate checking out the systems, then, and the engines.

Wait for my signal to reinitialize."

"We copy, Commander."

Bria and her squads met only one pocket of resistance on their way to

the master cabin.  About ten slavers and one unfortunate slave whom
they'd armed and pressed into service were holed up behind a hastily
erected barricade in a companionway.

Bria signaled her troops to retreat back around the corridor, then
addressed them in a whisper.  "All right, people.  We're going to lay
down a suppressing fire while Larens, here--" she nodded at a short,
slight, very agile soldier, "crawls under our fire until he's in range
to toss a stun grenade right into the middle of that nest of vermin.

Got me?"

"Right, Commander."  Larens dropped down, prepared to scuttle forward,
the stun grenade held in his teeth.

"On the count of three, then .... One .  . . two .  . . three!"  Bria
and the other Rebels dodged into the companionway firing bursts at the
barricade, careful to aim high enough not to scorch Larens' rapidly
scuttling rear.

Blaster bolts screamed in the confined space.  Bria caught a glimpse of
an arm with a dagger tattoo, aimed and watched the arm (and its slaver
owner, presumably) fall back behind the barricade.  She remembered the
first time she'd ever shot a blaster, and had a brief, sharp memory of
Han that she suppressed.  No time for memories .  . . time only for the
job at hand ....

Bare seconds later there was a loud whump!  and suddenly the returning
fire was gone.  Bria motioned her people to follow her.  "Remember, the
Pilgrim will be wearing a tan robe!"

She ran forward, saw the nest of slavers lying sprawled about.  Three
were already dead, one of them from having his arm blown off.  The
Pilgrim was stunned, moving feebly.

Bria stood looking down at the carnage at her feet, and felt hatred
surge up in her.  Six slavers still alive .  . . her finger twitched on
the trigger of the blaster rifle she held.

"Commander, shall I set up a guard detail?"  Larens looked at her
inquiringly.  He was new to Red Hand Squadron.  Several of the veterans
gave him impatient glances.

"They're vermin, Larens," Bria said.  "We'll just insure that they
don't represent a future danger.  Mecht, you and Seaan catch up when
you've finished here.  Drag that Pilgrim into a room so when he wakes
up he won't be in the middle of anything."

Mecht nodded.  He was a middle-aged man who'd been enslaved himself,
though he'd been an Imperial slave, not an Ylesian one.  He nodded.

"We won't be long, Commander."

Larens started to say something, then obviously changed his mind.  Bria
motioned to her troops, and they moved on.

Five minutes later, the squad was in the slaver captain's quarters.

Bria tried not to look at some of the "toys" the fellow had lying
around, evidently for use in amusing himself with some of his slaves.

She walked over to the center of the cabin and pointed up at the
overhead.  "People, the bridge is right up there."  She glanced at one
of her squad leaders.

"Squad One, I want a diversionary attack along the corridors leading to
the bridge up on Deck 2."

The squad leader nodded.  "Be ready on my signal," Bria said.  "Right,
Commander."  He took off, his troops following him.

Bria addressed her remaining troops.  "Squads Four and Five, you'll
attack the bridge with me."

A couple of the newer recruits glanced at each other, obviously
puzzled.

How were they going to attack the bridge from here?

"Where's Joaa'n?"  Bria asked.

A stocky trooper stepped forward, her features almost hidden beneath
her helmet.  "Here, Commander."

Bria pointed up.  "Joaa'n, use your demolition bag of tricks to get us
up there."

"Right, Commander."  The woman climbed up on a bureau that had been
shoved into place, and began using her laser-torch.  The new recruits
nudged each other and chuckled, as they realized what their Commander
was planning.

Three minutes later, the demolitions expert looked down at Bria and
gave her a thumbs-up.  "Commander, I've rigged a demo charge that will
blow us a nice circular hole through the deck."

Bria smiled.  "Good."  She spoke into her comlink.  "Squad Two .  . .

begin your attack on the bridge."

The Rebels heard the sounds of blaster fire start up again.  "Renna,"
Bria nodded at another stocky, muscular woman, "you've got a good
arm.

You stand by with the stun grenades.  As soon as it's safe, toss them
up through the hole to stun most of those vermin."  She looked at the
rest of her troops.  "People, as soon as Renna's lobbed those grenades
through that hole, and the blasts have gone off, we're going up.

Remember, people, this is the bridge up there.  Be careful where you
shoot.  Too much damage and the prize crew won't speak to any of us for
a month.  Got it?"

There were chuckles from her squad.

"All right, it's set," Joaa'n said.  "Get back and cover your eyes,
friends.  Thirty seconds."

Hastily, Bria's troops retreated to the cabin's perimeters.  A couple
of

soldiers pulled down their blast goggles, the others just looked
away.

Bria, Joaa'n and Renna stood back behind a heavy ornamental screen.

Moments later there was a fizzling sound, then a muffled thud.

Something heavy hit the bureau, slithered off onto the deck.  The reek
of smoke touched Bria's nostrils.  She nodded at Joaa'n.  "Good job."

The demo specialist and Renna were already moving, scrambling back up
on the bureau.  Renna lobbed three stun grenades up through the hole in
three different directions.  The ssss-whump!  of the grenades and the
resulting cries and thuds told the commander that they were doing their
work.

Renna pulled herself up with a boost from Joaa'n, then disappeared.

They heard her blaster.

Bria swarmed up the bureau, and was next through the hole as someone
grabbed her rear and gave her an undignified, if efficient, boost.

The bridge crew was lying around, mostly stunned, but there were a few
slavers scrambling out the door.  Bria sighted on one huge Rodian and
took him down with a blast between the green-skinned being's
shoulders.

Another slaver, a Bothan, turned to fire at her, his blaster beginning
to stutter with a low charge.  Bria ducked, rolled, came up with her
sidearm in her hand, and shot him in the face.  The vermin was standing
in front of the navicomputer, and she didn't want to risk killing him
with the blaster rifle's greater power.

Moments later, it was all over.  Silence descended, broken only by the
moaning of the wounded.  Bria took a quick status check .  . . six of
her people were wounded, and one might not make it.  Quickly Bria
assigned a special team to rush the wounded back to Retribution for
treatment.

Minutes later, the prize crew reported that they were ready for the
restart.  Bria watched tensely, heard a whine, then, suddenly, full
illumination replaced the emergency lighting on the bridge.  The
tactical screens glowed, the navicomputer chirred softly to itself.

Bria left her troops to deal with the vermin and walked out to the
turbolift.  She keyed her comlink.  "Hyx .  . . you there?"

"I'm here aboard Retribution, Commander," the medical officer
reported.

"The wounded have been transported over, and everything is looking
good.

Except for Caronil .  . . he didn't make it.  Sorry.  The medic and I
did everything we could ...."

Bria swallowed.  "I know that.  Are you still needed there, Hyx?"

"Not really.  The med droids have things under control here.  I'm
taking the shuttle back to the Shackle."

"Good.  I'm going to need you soon.  Come straight to the Security
Hold.

That's where the slaves are locked up.  I'll meet you there."

Bria took the turbolift down two decks, then started aft.  She was
nearly to the locked portal when the scuff of a foot behind her made
her whirl around, sidearm in hand.  Behind her, brandishing a blaster,
was one of the slavers who'd somehow escaped capture.

The woman's eyes were glittery, her pupils dilated, her hair a greasy
halo around her face.  "Stop right there or I'll shoot!"  she bellowed,
holding the blaster in two trembling hands.

Bria stopped.  Trembling with fear?  Maybe .  . . but that's not
all.... "Drop your weapon!"  the woman howled.  "Or I'll kill you!"

"I don't think so," Bria said, calmly, letting her blaster hang down in
her hand, muzzle pointed at the deck.  "If I'm dead, I'm no use to you
as a hostage."

The woman frowned, obviously trying to puzzle out her captive's
words.

Finally, she elected to ignore them.  "I want a shuttle?  she cried.

"A shuttle, and some slaves to take with me!  You can have the rest!  I
just want my fair cut, that's all!"

"Not a chance," Bria said, steel underlying her quiet tone.  "I'm not a
slaver.  I'm here to free these people."

The woman appeared completely baffled by this.  She cocked her head.

"You don't wanna sell 'em?"  she asked, skeptically.

"No," Bria said.  "I'm here to free them."

"Free 'em?"  Bria might as well have been speaking Huttese for all the
slaver understood her.  "They're worth couple thousand credits apiece,
some of 'em."

"I don't care," Bria said.

The slaver's brow furrowed.  "Why not?"

"Because slavery is wrong," Bria said.  "You're wasting my time,
vermin.

Kill me or let me go--but you'll get nothing from me."

The woman pondered Bria's words, obviously taken aback by the
commander's response.  It was plain to Bria that the slaver was under
the influence of some powerful stimulant.  Carsunum, probably.  The
woman was shaking all over.  The muzzle of the gun was practically
vibrating in mid-air.  Bria's eyes narrowed as she watched the muzzle
of the weapon waver, waver .  .

then drop fractionally as the drugged woman struggled to comprehend a
being who cared nothing for personal profit.

Bria's hand moved in a blur as she brought her weapon up, at the same
time throwing herself to the side.  The slaver fired, but she was
shaking so violently that the bolt didn't even singe Bria.  The Rebel
commander's shot struck the slaver just below her chest.  The woman
went down with a scream and a gurgle.

Bria walked over to her, kicked away the blaster from the outflung

arm and limp fingers, and looked down at the slaver.  There was a
gaping, charred hole in her abdomen.  The woman stared back up at her,
panting shallowly.  Bria aimed her sidearm at the slayer's forehead.

"Want me to?"

The woman shook her head, side to side, then struggled to speak.

"N-no .  . ."  She wheezed in agony.  "I--I want .  . . to .  . . live
.... " Bria shrugged.  "Fine by me.  You've got maybe five minutes, I
figure."

With her sidearm in her hand, Bria stepped over the slaver and
continued down to the hold.

She had to use her blaster on the lock.  Inside, she heard screams of
panic.  The portal swung open.

The stench hit the Corellian the moment she stepped through the door.

Human and alien, the effluvia rolled out, almost visible, it was so
thick.

Bria looked over the crowd of wailing, moaning, wretched Pilgrims who
were cowering away from her, even as they held out their skinny,
talon-like hands, pleading, "Bring a priest!  Need the priests!  Take
us home!"

The commander felt her gorge rise, and it took her a moment to control
herself.  That would have been me... almost ten years ago, now, that's
how I would have been .  . . if it hadn't been for Han ....

A step came from behind her, and Bria whirled, sidearm ready, only to
relax when she recognized Daino Hyx.  He raised an eyebrow at her.  "A
little jumpy, Commander?"

Bria smiled sheepishly.  "Maybe just a tad."

"That got anything to do with the dead woman out there in the
corridor?"

"Not really."  Bria holstered her blaster, realizing disgustedly that
now she was the one doing the shaking.  "More to do with them."  She
jerked her head at the agonized Pilgrims.  "They're all yours, Hyx.

Looks like you've got your work cut out for you."

He nodded, studying them with a healer's kindly detachment.  "How soon
will the Shackle be ready to rendezvous with the transport?"

Bria glanced at her chrono.  "I allowed thirty-five minutes to take
this ship and get her working again.  It's been thirty-nine.  I expect
to hear--" Her comlink signaled, and Bria smiled and answered it.  "Red
Hand Leader here."

"Commander, this is Jace Paol.  We have secured the ship, and the prize
crew reports we are now hyperspace capable.  Proceed to our rendezvous
coordinates?"

"Copy that, Jace.  I'll advise Retribution.  Tell Lieutenant Hethar to
take her out.  Deliverance is waiting for us to transship these
Pilgrims."

"I copy, Commander."

Bria keyed her comlink.  "Captain Bjalin, Helot's Shackle is ours,
along with her cargo.  Prepare to rendezvous with Deliverance at our
assigned coordinates."

"I copy, Red Hand Leader.  We'll meet you there.  And .  . .

Commander?"

"Yes, Tedris?"

"Congratulations on a smoothly run operation."

"Thank you, Tedris."

One month later, Bria Tharen, on a rare visit back to Corellia to meet
with her commanding officer, walked quickly into his office.  Pianat
Torbul, a short, dark-haired man with intense eyes, looked up.

"Welcome home," he said.  "You're late.  I was expecting you two days
ago."  "Sorry, sir," she said.  "I picked up a last minute call to help
the Pride of the Rim out with a couple of Imp picket ships.

Retribution took a hit that damaged sublight engines, and we had to lay
up for a day."  "I know," he said, and smiled--his quick, irresistible
grin.  "I received the report from the Pride.  Don't be so defensive,
Tharen."  She smiled back, then, at his gesture, dropped wearily into a
seat.  "So, did you get my report, sir?"

"I did," he said.  "Seems your friend Hyx is reporting great progress
in turning those Pilgrims you rescued off the Helot's Shackle back into
normal citizens.  Congratulations.  Your faith in him and his new
treatment seems to be paying off."  Bria nodded, her eyes lighting
up.

"It means a lot to me, to be able to give those people back their
lives.  Their families will be glad to see them .... They'll be able to
live in dignity, and comfort " "Unless, of course, they choose to join
up with us," Torbul said.  "Which apparently some of them are already
talking about doing once they're returned to health.  Which may take a
couple of months.  I gather that malnutrition plays a pretty big part
in the brainwashing they undergo on Ylesia."

Bria nodded.  "I remember my gums started to bleed all the time.  It
took me two months of decent food to overcome most of the effects."

He glanced back down at his datapad.  "Helot's Shackle is almost
finished being refitted for combat.  We can really use her, Tharen,
thank you for acquiring her for us.  With that in mind .  . . want the
honor of renaming her?"

Bria thought for a moment.  "Call her Emancipator," she said.

"That's a good one," Torbul said.  "Emancipator she is."

Torbul clicked off his datapad, leaned his elbows on his desk, and
leaned forward.  "Bria .  . ."  he said.  "Now that the official stuff
is over and done with, I have to tell you that I'm concerned about some
aspects of your record."

Her eyes widened in surprise.  "But, sir--!"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, Tharen.  You are a good fighter, an able
leader.

Nobody's gainsaying that.  But look at the name those slavers gave you,
that your squadron cheerfully adopted.  Red Hand--symbol of no
quarter.

Look at this report on the taking of Helot's Shackle.  No prisoners.

Not a single one."

Bria stiffened.  "Sir, they were slavers.  They know how the civilized
world regards them.  They put up a lot of resistance, and not a one
offered to surrender.  They fought to the last."

"I see .... "Torbul said.  The two of them exchanged a long look, and
it was the ranking officer who looked away first.

An awkward silence ensued until Torbul cleared his throat.  "Things are
heating up in the Outer Rim," he announced.  "The Rebel groups out
there are really understaffed.  I'd like Red Hand to stay out there for
a while, give them some assistance."

"Yes, sir," Bria said.  "Sir .  . ."

"Yes?"

"I think I may know a way to get more recruits."

"What is that?"

"Well, the best we've ever done curing the Ylesian Pilgrims of
addiction before was about fifty percent.  Remember?"

He nodded.

"But now, with the new techniques Daino is using to help the Pilgrims
we took to Grenna Base, he thinks his success rate will be better than
90 percent."

"That's very encouraging.  But what does that have to do with getting
more recruits?"

Bria leaned forward, her blue-green eyes holding his dark ones.  "Sir ·
. . there are over eight thousand Pilgrims on Ylesia."

He sat back.  "What are you suggesting, Tharen?"

"Give me just a little help .  . . an old troopship for transport, a
couple more cruisers, some more troops, and I can take that planet.  I
can shut down the Ylesian operation for good.  We'll take every colony,
free every slave there.  Hundreds of them are bound to join us, if the
percentages we've seen so far are any indication."

"That's a big 'if,'" Torbul said.

"I know, sir.  But I think the risk would be worth it."

"We don't have the troops.  Not all of the Corellian resistance would
be enough to take a whole planet, Tharen!"

"We're getting recruits in from Alderaan every day," Bria pointed out,
truthfully.  "And there are so many Bothan and Sullustan Pilgrims on
Ylesia, those worlds might send us some troops and ships.  It's worth
asking them.  And what about Chandrila?  They're part of the new Rebel
Alliance--sworn to help us!"

"Recruits .  . . it's an incentive, certainly."

She nodded vigorously.  "Sir, it could work.  We can free those
slaves.

And while we're at it, we could take the spice to sell on the open
market.

We're always short of credits.  Think of how many turbolasers or proton
torpedoes that much spice would buy us!  We could bomb the warehouses
and factories when we had emptied them.  Ylesia and its filthy trade
would be a thing of the past."

Bria realized that she had lost her composure, but in her passion, she
didn't care.  Her hands were shaking; she gripped the edge of Torbul's
desk so he wouldn't see the betraying tremor.

"I don't believe the Rebel Alliance would think much of selling drugs
as a means of financing the Rebellion," Torbul said.

"Then, with all due respect, sir, don't tell them where you got the
credits!"  Bria's smile was more than a little savage.  "You know as
well as I do that they won't look a gift traladon in the mouth.

They'll take the credits and use them.  We need weapons, medical
supplies, uniforms, ammo .

. . you name it!"

"True," he said.  "Fighting a resistance is an expensive
proposition."

"Think it over," Bria urged.  "I know Red Hand could do it.  And
without Ylesia siphoning off some of Corellia's best, we'd have more
recruits.

Think about who's going to Ylesia these days.  Young people,
dissatisfied with their lives, unable to pay the horrendous taxes,
wanting something more, a better life.  Those are exactly the kind of
people we need."

"True," he said again.  "But what about the Ylesian atmosphere?  Your
raid on Colony Three two and a half years ago freed a hundred
slaves---but we lost a ship in that blasted atmosphere.  That
treacherous atmosphere of Ylesia's is one of their best defenses."

Bria's features twisted in remembered anguish.  "I warned them, but .

. .

that wind shear just caught the ship .... " "Tharen .  . . it wasn't
your fault.  But we have to think about that.

Command is bound to point that out."

She nodded.  "I'm working on that, sir.  There's got to be a way to
deal

with the atmosphere.  Better pilots, for one thing.  Our people are
enthusiastic, sir, but face it .  . . most of them haven't had much
experience.  Our training programs need work .... " "I agree.  We're
working on ways to make our sims better, and broaden their experience
before we turn them loose."

Bria stood up and leaned across the desk.  "Sir .  . . just promise me
you'll think about it.  I can do it.  I even have some ideas about how
to fund the raid.  At least consider it, okay?"

He gave her a long, level glance.  "All right, Tharen.  I promise you
I'll think about it."

"Thank you, sir."

Interlude 1:

The Corporate Sector

Dressed only in his trousers, barefoot, Han Solo wandered out of the
bedroom in Jessa's tiny apartment.  Her little flat was located on her
father's, Doc's, outlaw tech base, a grim, utilitarian place, but both
Doc's and Jessa's personal quarters were surprisingly well-furnished
and comfy.

Han yawned and scratched his head, rumpling his hair even further, then
threw himself down on the elegant couch with a thud, and signaled on
the big vidunit.

The official news from the Corporate Sector Authority came on, and Han
watched it with a cynical grin.  The Authority was getting worse every
day.

Wouldn't take much to make them as repressive as the Empire ....

At least the Falcon was now in the best shape of her life.  Before his
capture and removal to Stars' End prison, Doc had upgraded her
hyperdrive until she'd now make point-five past lightspeed.  I oughta
be able to outrun just about anything the Imps could throw at me with
that, Han thought smugly.  Or the Authority either.

Then, in order to induce Han to go after her father and rescue him from
Stars' End, Jessa had fixed the Falcon up with an all-new sensor suite
and dish, to replace the ones damaged in a fight with an Authority
fighter.

Later, following Doc's rescue, the grateful Jessa had recently finished
the Falcon's repairs, putting in an all-new guidance system and
repairing all of the hull damage the YT-1300 had accrued.  Han had even
considered giving the ship a coat of paint, so she'd look just like
new, but, after some consideration, had rejected the idea.  The
Millennium Falcon's beat-up appearance was one of her strongest assets
in catching opponents unaware.

Nobody expected a grubby old freighter to have a military-grade
hyperdrive that had been customized and upgraded by the galaxy's master
tech, a sophisticated sensor suite, topnotch jamming capability, and
all the other improvements Han had bestowed on the love of his life.

Jessa was still asleep in the other room.  Han leaned back and propped
his feet up on the table, thinking about Jess.  She was certainly the
best thing to come his way so far in the Corporate Sector.  The two of
them had had a lot of fun ....

Just the other day, they'd flown the Falcon to one of the swankiest
casinos in a nearby sector, and put on their best bib and tucker for a
gambling spree.  Jess had gotten her blond curls done in a wild new
style, striped bright red, and bought a stunning red gown that was snug
in all the right places.  Han had been proud to be seen with her, and
assured her she was the most beautiful woman in the place.

The news-vid changed from Corporate Sector reports to a brief report
from the Empire.  Palpatine's forces had stifled yet another uprising
on yet another world.  Han's mouth twisted.  Same old, same old .  .
.

He found himself thinking about Salla, wondering if she'd gotten over
being mad yet.

He suspected not.  It was a good thing she wasn't here to see him with
Jessa.  Salla was the jealous type.  She was one tough lady, but, then,
so was Jessa.

Han was profoundly grateful that the two of them were unlikely ever to
meet.

Thoughts of Salla led naturally to wondering how Lando, Jarik; Shug and
Maico were doing.  Han even thought of Jabba with something approaching
nostalgic affection.  He bet the Hutt leader was having a hard time
replacing him.  If he ever decided to go back to Imperial space, Han
suspected Jabba would welcome him with open arms.., repugnant as that
thought was.

Han watched another brief news bite from the Empire.  Seemed that the
Empire had now declared that the Rebel forces in the Outer Rim had been
completely crushed.  Sure, he thought.  Right.  That must mean that
they're quite a thorn in the Imps' side ....

He wondered whether Bria had anything to do with harassing those Imp
forces .  . . or was she back to being a spy these days?

Han sighed, realizing that he actually missed Nar Shaddaa.  The
Corporate Sector was a fun place, lots of adventures to be had and
profits to be made, but it wasn't home.

He wondered whether he should just cut his losses and head back for
Imperial space.  At the very least, it was probably time to head out
and look for some action (translation: profit) here in the Corporate
Sector.

True, he'd promised Jessa to help her and Doc in their campaign against
the Authority.  But that might be risky.  And it wasn't as though he
owed Jessa anything.  He'd rescued her father, hadn't he?  At great
risk to his own precious hide?  A tiny honest corner of his mind
reminded him that he'd mostly gone on

that rescue mission for Chewie's sake.  No way he was letting his pal
languish in an Authority prison ....

And yet .  . . things were very pleasant here for the moment, though he
knew it couldn't last.  Right now, things were going well with Jessa.

They were having a good time.  Maybe he'd just postpone leaving for
another month .  . . or two .  . . or three ....

"Han?"  came a sleepy murmur from the bedroom.

"I'm here, honey.  Just watchin' the news, "Han said.  He flicked off
the vid and went out to the tiny kitchen.  He'd make Jessa a hot cup of
imported stim-tea that she'd come to be very fond of, and take it to
her.  . . .

eight

The Queen of Empire

Boba Fett stood in the queue waiting to board the luxury liner Queen of
Empire, for her voyage to Velga Prime and points in between.  The liner
was the sister ship to Haj Shipping Lines' Star of Empire and was fully
as large and opulent.

Boba Fett was boarding the liner from an orbiting space docking
platform, but there were nearly a thousand sentients waiting to board,
so each line was several hundred beings long.  The bounty hunter gauged
the slow progress of the line, and figured it would be at least ten
minutes before he'd be free to carry his large, heavy traveling case to
his cabin.

The line moved forward a few paces, and the bounty hunter shoved his
heavy case along with his foot, as he moved with it.  For just a moment
he indulged himself in imagining what would happen were he suddenly to
appear as his real self, as Boba Fett in his Mandalorian armor, instead
of as he currently was, disguised as an Anomid.

It was necessary from time to time, he'd discovered, to appear as a
being other than himself.  Anomids were perfect beings to assume as
disguises, since hardly any of their bodies showed in their ordinary
street garb.

They were willowy humanoids native to the Yablari system, and typically
dressed in oversized robes that covered them from their hooded heads to
their six-toed feet.  They also wore gloves and vocalizer-masks, so
hardly any of their translucent, whitish skin showed.  Anomids had
wispy grayish hair, leaf-shaped ears, and large silvery blue eyes.

Boba Fett of course wore a head-mask beneath his vocalizer mask, but
it was a very good one, custom-made to fit over his own features so
that it would move quite naturally on his face.  Silver-blue "eyes"
were built into the mask, and were specially engineered so he could see
nearly as well as he could with his unaided eyes.

Still, he felt somewhat naked without his armor and its extended
senses.

With his armor on he had a range of visual modes available to him,
enhanced audio pickups, and a host of other sensor data displayed on
the telltales inside his helmet.  With nothing but the Anomid robes,
hooded cloak, mask and gloves on, he felt light and vulnerable--too
vulnerable.

But it was necessary.  If Boba Fett had attempted to book passage on
the Queen as his true self, panic would have ensued.  Each passenger
aboard and much of the crew would have been convinced that he, she or
it was the bounty hunter's intended quarry.

Citizens, Fett had discovered long ago, all had guilty consciences.

Virtually every sentient in the galaxy had done something in his past
that he, she or it could flash back on and imagine was a reason for
having a bounty placed on their heads.  The being who had once been
Journeyman Protector Jaster Mereel, and was now Boba Fett, the galaxy's
most notorious bounty hunter, had watched the reactions of the citizens
around him for years, as he hunted bounties of one sort or another.

He'd seen the face of a young mother clutching her infant change when
she'd seen him, seen her clutch her baby to her breast as though he,
Boba Fett, were going to snatch the child from her arms and drag both
of them away.  Several times citizens had panicked when he'd even come
into their vicinity, throwing themselves on the floor, babbling out
their (mostly imaginary) fatal transgressions and pleading for mercy
.

. . only to pull themselves up in mingled relief and dawning
indignation when they realized that they were not Fett's quarry, and
had humiliated themselves and spilled their secrets for no reason
....

The line moved forward again.  Boba Fett automatically surveyed the
crowds around him, but he wasn't really expecting to see his quarry.

Bria Tharen had boarded the Queen on its previous stop, back on
Corellia.  It was unlikely that she would be coming outside the vessel
during its short layover on Gyndine.

The bounty hunter had missed the chance to catch up with the Tharen
woman when she'd first boarded the Queen because she'd come aboard
under an assumed name in the last minutes before the ship undocked.

The Haj Shipping Line, while outwardly loyal to the Empire, was known
to do favors for the Rebel Alliance when it suited them; the

Tharen woman's last-minute booking was doubtless the result of some
official string pulling Also, Bria Tharen's assumed identity was not
one of the ones she'd used before.  This time she was traveling as
"Bria Lavval," a minor starlet and cabaret singer who was headed for a
booking at one of the large casinos, The Chance Castle, on Nar
Shaddaa.

Boba Fett had access to a great many sources of data from many places
in the galaxy.  Since he hunted bounties from time to time for the
Empire, he had access to some of the mid-security level Imperial
databases.  He also had access to many newswires, and the Guild
databases.

Fett had ordered his systems to flag certain "priority" names and
physical profiles.  When a "Bria Lavval" showed up one morning on his
database summaries as a passenger aboard the Queen when the liner had
departed Corellia that morning, a quick check of the woman's ID and
physical description had shown Fett that there was a better than 70%
chance that this was actually Bria Tharen--Commander in the Corellian
resistance.

Only a visual inspection would assure Fett that she was the right
woman, so here he was .  . . standing in line to board the huge
liner.

The Queen was fully two kilometers long, and equipped to carry five
thousand passengers.  She contained most amenities any sentient could
wish .  . . indoor pools and spas, casinos, null-gee gliding areas,
exercise rooms, as well as upscale shops where a wealthy being could
spend a great many credits indeed.

Fett moved forward yet again, nudging his case along with him.  It
contained, in camouflaged compartments, his Mandalorian armor and
several select weapons.  The sides of the case were reinforced with
durinium, an alloy that would resist sensor scans.  And, in the
outermost layer of the case, there were microminiature projection
devices that would generate false readings about the contents to any
scanning device, Fett finally reached the head of the line, and
produced his IDs, ticket and credit vouchers.  The ship's official who
checked his reservation offered to call for a luggage droid, but Fett
politely refused, his harsh voice reverberating through the vocalizer
mask.

Amongst themselves, Anomids did not converse in oral speech, but by an
elaborate and very beautiful form of sign language.  They were known to
be sociable beings, and Boba Fett was hoping there would be no real
Anomids on board.  If there were, he would have to plead illness and
stay in his cabin, for he did not know the Anomid sign language.

But none of the individuals on the passenger roster had listed Yablari
as their world of origin.

When he reached the safety of his cabin, Fett stowed his trunk, first
making sure to activate its anti-theft protections.  Anyone unfortunate
enough to attempt to remove the trunk from Fett's cabin, or to try and
open it, would lose digits--at minimum.

The Queen's scheduled itinerary called for her to stop at a number of
ports of call.  Their path would take them through some of the most
dangerous areas of Imperial space--including a stop in Hutt space at
Nar Hekka .  . . hardly a garden spot of the galaxy, but Nar Hekka was
head and shoulders above either Nal Hutta or Nar Shaddaa.  Fett
suspected that Bria Tharen had chosen this liner because it was one of
the largest, and thus probably the safest.  There had been a lot of
pirate activity lately.

Over the next three days, Fett wandered the ship in his Anomid
disguise, staying mostly to himself.  He made a visual ID of Bria
Tharen on the first day, and followed her to find out where her
stateroom was.  He discovered that she had a suite, and shared it with
three men.  Two of the men were older, and Fett figured that they, too,
were officers in the Corellian resistance.  The third man was in his
mid-thirties, and, from the way he carried himself, was a seasoned
combat veteran who was serving as security and bodyguard for the
Corellian officers.

The two officers and the bodyguard, like Bria Tharen, dressed in
civilian clothes.  The Tharen woman was seldom alone outside of her
stateroom.

Often, she was surrounded by male admirers, although Fett noticed that
she never took anyone back to her cabin with her, merely smiled and
flirted casually.  She played sabacc, careful neither to lose or win
much, and she browsed the shops, but never bought anything of
significance.

Fett kept her under observation, and laid his plans carefully ....

Lando Calrissian enjoyed traveling aboard cruise ships, and had done a
lot of it lately, since losing the Millennium Falcon to Han Solo.  Now
that Han and Vuffi Raa had trained him to be a better-than-average
pilot, he could have taken any of the ships on his used spaceship lot
for his own, but Lando wasn't that interested in any of them.  He was
waiting for just the right ship to come along.

His ideal ship would be more luxurious than the utilitarian Falcon-but
every bit as speedy and capable of defending herself.  Lando was on the
lookout for a nice yacht he could get for a good price.  So far, no
bargains had surfaced.

And, besides, private ships didn't have casinos.  Lando liked
casinos.

He'd been spending a lot of time in them for the past year, working
to

recoup his liquid credit resources.  The young gambler had been wiped
out by the sabacc tournament, but since then, he'd managed to turn Han
Solo's loan of fifteen hundred credits into many thousands.  Lando had
been able to repay Han the money he'd "borrowed" several months before
his friend had taken off for the Corporate Sector.

Queen of Empire, and her sister ship, Star of Empire, were two of
Lando's favorite ways to get around the galaxy.  They weren't as fast
as some of the newer ships, but there was no doubt that Haj Shipping
Lines knew how to build a luxury vessel.  And the Queen and the Star
were big, a major advantage these days, with all the pirate activity
going on.

This time, he'd chosen the Queen for his trip back home.  From Nar
Hekka, he could easily catch a system shuttle back to Nar Shaddaa.

This particular evening, Lando was wearing his newest stylish
outfit--red shirt embroidered with black, narrow black trousers, and a
red and black short cape that swung from his shoulders with a rakish
flare.  His dark hair and mustache were impeccably groomed, thanks to a
trip to the ship's barber that day.  His black softboots shone with the
subdued glow of real Numatra snakehide.  Calrissian was looking good,
and he didn't miss the admiring glances cast at him by some of the
female patrons in the club.

Lando was sitting in the Queen's swankiest nightclub, the Star Winds
Lounge, following a highly successful session at the sabacc tables.

His credit pouch was carefully stashed in a secret compartment close to
his skin, and was satisfyingly heavy.  This trip, he'd make roughly
four times what his expensive ticket had set him back.  Not a bad
profit margin.

While he was gambling--serious business!--Lando was abstemious, rarely
partaking of anything alcoholic.  But at the moment he was relaxing,
sipping a Tarkenian Nightflower, and munching on a handful of dried,
salted jer-weevils.  The band in the Star Winds was quite good, doing
selections of older hits as well as the modern jizz-tunes, and many
patrons were dancing.  Lando eyed the unescorted ladies in the lounge,
wondering whether he was interested enough in any of them to ask for a
dance.

His eyes kept returning to one woman who was sitting at a table with
not one, but two male escorts.  Human, yes, and stunning.  Long reddish
hair swept up with jeweled sapphire combs, and a face and figure that
just wouldn't quit.  Lando couldn't decide whether she was romantically
attached to either of her escorts.  She sat close beside them, smiling
and bending forward to listen as first one, then the other, spoke into
her ear.  But the more Lando watched her, the more he became convinced
that neither of the men was her date.  Her smiles were more .  . .

comradely · .  . than romantic.  There was no suggestion of a lingering
intimacy in the brief contacts of their shoulders as they brushed
hers.

Lando finished his drink, and was almost ready to go over and ask the
lovely stranger if she'd like to dance, when the excellent Rughja
orchestra-band, Umjing Baab and his Swinging Trio, finished their
current selection.  There were only three members in the band, but,
since each Rughja had fifteen flexible limbs, and played at least ten
instruments apiece, they sounded like a genuine orchestra.  In fact,
looking at Umjing Baab and his two band members, it was difficult to
discern anything but limbs ending in assorted instruments, though
occasionally one of the being's multiple eyes would be visible through
the tangle.

The band was very versatile, playing everything from swing-bop to
modern jizz selections.  The gambler clapped politely as they finished
a mellow version of "Mood and Moons," then settled back in his seat as
the bandleader, Umjing Baab, put down his Kloo horn, disengaged from
the nalargon, and writhed his way up to the public address system.  The
Rughja's voice had a mechanical timbre .  . . understandable, because
it was artificially generated.  Rughja were a species whose natural
communication was not audible to humanoids.  Umjing Baab "spoke," as
the spotlight reflected off his glossy, mauve, upper-limbs.  "Good
evening, gentles.  Tonight we have an honored guest with us, a
celebrity whom I am hoping we can prevail upon to favor us with a
number!  Join me in welcoming Lady Bria Lavval!"

Lando clapped politely, but his applause soon became genuine when he
realized that the bandmaster was referring to his attractive
stranger.

Blushing, smiling, she half-rose from her seat to take a bow, but then,
urged on by the applause, she picked up the skirts of her long,
electricblue sheath (a color that set off her hair) and walked up the
steps to the bandstand.

After conferring briefly with Umjing Baab, she stepped up to the
microphone, tapped her jeweled, slippered toe as the percussion started
up, and then the band broke into a slowed down version of last year's
hit, "Smoky Dreams."

Bria Lavval began to sing.  Lando had heard a lot of singers in his
time, and she was far from being the best.  Her breath control was
uneven, and she cut short some of the high notes because of it.  But
her voice was strong and in key, and her contralto was pleasantly
husky.  With her figure, face and smile, Lando was willing to forgive
her lack of professional technique.  Within moments of starting her
song, she had all the humanoid males in the palm of her hand.

She sang with passion of lost love, of tender sadness, of misty
memories fading with time .... Lando was totally captivated.  When she
finished the number, he

clapped as loudly as the rest of the audience.  Smiling and blushing
becomingly, she allowed herself to be escorted back to her table by
Umjing Baab, who genuflected deeply to her, and then returned to his
fellow Rughja band members.

As the Swinging Trio struck up a catchy tune, Lando got unhesitatingly
to his feet and walked over to the chanteuse, narrowly beating out a
wealthy Alderaanian banker whom Lando had relieved of many of his
excess credits earlier that evening.

Reaching Lady Laal's table, Lando bowed to her, flashing his best, most
charming smile.  "May I?"  he asked, holding out his arm.

She hesitated for a long second, glanced at each of the men sitting
with her, then shrugged fractionally.  "Thank you," she said, and stood
up.

Lando escorted her out to the dance floor.  She looked around her and
frowned slightly in consternation.  "Oh, dear.  I'm afraid I don't know
how to do this one."

Lando was surprised.  The margengai-glide had been popular for at least
five years.  "It's easy," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder,
and interlacing his fingers with hers.  "I'll show you."

She missed several steps right off, and brought her heeled evening
slipper down on his toes once, but after a couple of minutes, and
Lando's experienced coaching, Bria began to catch on.  Her sense of
timing was good, and so were her reflexes.  Once she'd memorized the
intricate pattern of the steps, she began to enjoy herself, Lando could
tell.  She was nearly as tall as he was, and as they moved around the
dance floor, they began to receive the admiring glances of the
onlookers still seated at the tables.

"Good, you've got it," Lando said.  "You're a natural."

"I haven't danced in years," she confessed, a little breathless, as the
music changed to a fast number.  Lando whirled her into a boxnov
threestep.

She was a little rusty, but it was obvious that the older dance was one
she'd done before.

"You're wonderful," he assured her.  "I'm the luckiest man on this
ship, finding a partner like you."

She gave him a brilliant smile, her cheeks flushed with the exercise
and praise.  "Flatterer."

Lando put on a mock-hurt expression.  "Me?  I am under a vow of truth,
Lady Bria .  . . Bria .  . . what a lovely name.  You're Corellian,
aren't you?"

"Yes," she said, stiffening slightly in his arms, her glance suddenly
wary.  "Why?"

"I was just thinking that I've only heard that name once before.  Is
it common on your homeworld?"

"No," she said.  "My father made it up from the first syllables of my
grandmothers' names.  Brusela and Iaphagena.  He didn't want to saddle
me with either of them, but he wanted to honor both of them."

"Clever," Lando said.  "Obviously a man of great diplomacy and tact."

She laughed a little, but there was a sad note underlying her
merriment.

"That's my father," she agreed.  "Lando, I'm surprised to hear you say
you've met another Bria.  I thought I was the only one."

"You probably are," Lando said.  "The other Bria I knew was a ship.  My
friend Han named his Sorosuub Starmite he leased from me the Bria.  "
She missed a step, recovered quickly.  "Han?"  she said.  "I used to
know a Corellian named Han.  Is your friend Corellian?"

Lando nodded, and twirled her in a spin.  When she was back in his arms
again, he said, "Han Solo and I go back a ways.  Don't tell me you know
him?"

She laughed a little.  "I do.  It has to be the same guy.  Brown hair,
brownish eyes with a hint of green, a hair taller than you, has a very
charming, lopsided smile?"

"Whoa," Lando said, raising an eyebrow.  "You do know him well, don't
you?

That guy gets around, doesn't he?"

Her face reddened at his knowing look, and she glanced away and
concentrated on the intricate steps for a moment.  When she looked back
up, her eyes were cool, and a little amused.  "He's just part of my
past, like a lot of other guys," she said.  "There must be a few
skeletons in your cargo locker, right?"

Lando, realizing he'd touched a nerve, was happy to let the subject
go.

"You bet," he said.

They danced several more dances, and Lando enjoyed her company
tremendously.  He looked over at her table, and realized that her
companions had left the lounge.  "Who are those fellows who were
sitting at your table?"

She shrugged.  "Just business associates," she said.  "Feldron is my
agent, and Renkov is my business manager."

"I see," Lando said, secretly delighted.  It was obvious that she was
serious that neither of them was any kind of romantic interest.  "So
.

. .

do you want to have a drink, perhaps?  Somewhere a bit more .  . .

private?"

She gave him an assessing glance, then nodded and stepped back, out

of his arms.  "All right.  I'd like that.  We can talk about .  . .

mutual acquaintances."

Lando reached for her hand, then raised it to his lips.  "Mutual
acquaintances it is," he said.

"My stateroom, number 112, in, say, thirty minutes?"  she said.

"Thirty minutes," Lando said.  "I will be counting them, every one."

She smiled at him, a smile that held rueful amusement as well as
pleasure, and turned and left Lando standing on the edge of the dance
floor.  He watched her walk away, a pleasant occupation.  She reached
the portal of the lounge, brushed past an Anomid who was loitering
there, watching the dancing and listening to the music, then
disappeared from sight.

Lando smiled.  Now to find the best bottle of wine in this ship, and
some flowers, he thought, and headed briskly for the bar.  Twenty-nine
minutes and counting...

Bria told herself to settle down as she hurried down the corridor
toward her stateroom.  But she was excited, realizing that she was
finally going to get news of Han!  Lando Calrissian was obviously more
than just a casual friend.  Bria was so eager to reach her stateroom
that she was almost jogging as she approached the door of 112.  At
last!  Someone who knows him well, who can tell me how he's doing, what
he's been doing .  . . where he is!

Just as Bria reached the door to her cabin, she had the sudden thought
that perhaps Han was on Nar Shaddaa, her ultimate destination.  Was it
possible that in forty-eight hours or so, she'd actually get to see
him?

The thought excited her, even as it filled her with trepidation.  After
more than nine years, what would it be like to be close to him?

As she unlocked her stateroom door, her hands were shaking.  She was so
absorbed in memories of Han that she had no warning, no warning at
all.

One moment the door was opening before her, and the next a powerful
thrust propelled her through the portal and into the living room of the
suite with such force that she didn't even have breath to cry out.

Her high-heeled slippers skidded on the polished floor, and she
tripped, trying to catch herself.  Just as she started to fall, Bria
felt something sharp sting her back.

She had only an instant to realize that she'd been shot with some kind
of knockout drug.  As she fell, she managed with the last of her
strength to turn slightly, and saw a strange Anomid standing behind her
in the doorway.  Bria managed a soft, choked cry of warning to her
friends before everything around her faded, faded .  . . Faded .  . .

And went black.

Boba Fett watched the Tharen woman sag to the floor, then lie there,
motionless.  Quickly he shut the door to the corridor behind him, and
started forward--just as the older men Tharen had been traveling with
rushed out of the sleeping cabin on the right.

Boba Fett extended his arm, flexed his hand, and a deadly dart (unlike
the soporific one that had felled the woman) shot toward the older of
the two Resistance officers and embedded itself in his throat.  The man
had time for one strangled gasp, and was dead before he hit the
floor.

The other man did not hesitate, but came straight in.  Boba Fett swept
aside the Anomid cape and stood poised as the man, with a wordless
yell, attacked.

The Rebel leader might have been a decent officer in planning strategy
and attacks, but he was no expert at unarmed combat.  Boba Fett blocked
his blow with one forearm, then came in with a hard, lethal blow that
crushed the Corellian's larynx.

Fett watched dispassionately as the Rebel officer died.  It took no
more than a minute.

He bent over the dead man, planning to drag him and his fellow off to
the corner of the room and throw some sheets over them--more to muffle
the stench of voiding from the suddenly deceased bodies than from any
sense of decorum.

Boba Fett's peripheral vision was compromised by the mask he was
wearing.

Without his Mandalorian helmet with its special sensors, the bounty
hunter had only an instant's warning of danger.  He dodged just as the
Rebel bodyguard struck, silent and with the expertise the two older men
had lacked.

The bounty hunter whirled away from the younger man, and as he did so,
Fett whipped off the Anomid's heavy cloak and flung it into the
bodyguard's face.  With one smooth movement, his opponent disentangled
himself and came in again.  He was perhaps in his early thirties, and
was bare-chested, barefoot, and wearing only shorts.  The man had
evidently been asleep in the other room when his officers had made
their illfated attack.

This fellow, Fett knew instantly, was a combat soldier, trained to use
his hands and feet as weapons--and trained also in using the
vibroblade

he held in one hand.  Behind his two masks, Boba Fett smiled slightly,
pleased to be challenged, and by someone who plainly knew what he was
doing.  He had another lethal dart he could have used, but he decided
against it.  A little exercise would be welcome.  It had been a long
time since he'd indulged himself in unarmed combat; few foes were
worthy of his time.

The man was already dancing in, balanced, his eyes level, vibroblade
ready for a disemboweling slash.  Boba Fett let him come, then dodged
at the last possible second, pulling himself into an arc like a
null-gee dancer, and then spinning around, out of the way.  As he
moved, his hand moved out and dealt the soldier a stunning clip behind
his right ear.

The soldier managed to dodge at the last moment, though, and the blow
that had been meant to render him unconscious only dazed him.  He
staggered a little, shook his head, then came back for more.

Boba Fett was pleased to oblige.  They sidestepped around each other in
a grim parody of the way Lando Calrissian and Bria Tharen had danced in
the Star Winds Lounge only minutes before.

The guard lunged again, and again Boba Fett waited, then evaded the
movement at the last possible second.  Another blow made the Corellian
gasp--this time Fett's instep impacted with the back of his knee.  The
guard's leg buckled, and, for the first time, Fett saw fear in his
eyes.  He now knew he was totally outclassed, and yet he conquered his
pain and weakness and moved in again.  A man who knows his duty and
does not shrink from it, Fett thought.  Admirable.  His reward for his
courage shall be a quick and easy death ....

For the first time, Fett went on the attack.  His foot lashed out in a
precise blow, and impacted with the man's wrist with stunning force.

The vibroblade went flying.  Fett spun in for the finish.  Another
sweep behind the other knee, and the man sagged, his legs unable to
hold him.  But that did not matter.  Fett already had him around the
neck in a grip as hard and relentless as durasteel.  One quick,
sideways jerk, and the guard sagged in his arms, dead.

Boba Fett dragged the man over to the corner, and laid him down, then
brought the others over, too.  He tossed the covers from one of the
beds over the bodies.  As he was finishing the task, he saw that the
Tharen woman was beginning to stir.

When Bria regained consciousness, she found herself bound so
efficiently that she didn't even bother struggling past the first
moment.  She was alone in the living room, sitting on the lush carpet,
propped up

against one of the armchairs.  Her head was muzzy, and she was
terribly thirsty, but she was otherwise unharmed.

Except for the fear.  Bria had been in tight situations before, in
battle, but she'd never been captured like this.  It was the most
helpless feeling in the world, to sit there alone, and wonder who had
done this to her .  .

. and why?

It had to have been that Anomid, but Bria had never had any dealings
with the aliens before, and she couldn't imagine why any of them would
wish her harm.  Perhaps the Anomid was a bounty hunter.  That was the
only explanation that made sense ....

She wet her lips, took a deep breath, and prepared to scream a scream
that would be heard even outside the closed door of the stateroom.  It
was then that she noticed two things: the bodies of her companions,
covered with bedclothes and stacked efficiently out of sight of anyone
at the door--and the sound sponge.  The little device was set up on the
floor near her and the blinking light showed that it was on.  It would
effectively muffle any outcry she could make.  Bria shut her mouth and
her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.  Great.  Whoever
that Anomid is, he thought of everything.

Who could he be?  The alien had evidently dealt with Darnov, Feltran
and even Treeska (and Bria knew his reputation at unarmed combat) in a
matter of minutes.  She could see the wall-chrono, and realized she'd
only been out about ten minutes.

As she sat there, struggling to think of something she could do, the
Anomid opened the door to the stateroom and entered, carrying a huge,
heavy case that he placed on the floor with a thud.  Seeing that Bria
was awake, he went into the 'fresher and soon returned, carrying a
glass of water.  He knelt beside her, turned down the sound sponge so
she could hear his voice.  "That sleeping drug causes great thirst.

This is plain water.  I have no intention of harming you.  The bounty
on you is for unharmed delivery."

He held out the water, and Bria leaned toward it, then hesitated.  She
didn't dare drink it.  What if this was an Imperial bounty hunter or
agent?

What if the water was laced with truth drug?  Even though her thirst
was now a raging hell in her mouth and throat, she shook her head.

"Thank you anyway," she managed.  "I'm not thirsty."

"Of course you are," the Anomid said.  "I care nothing for your pitiful
Resistance secrets."  He shoved his vocalizer-mask aside and took a
long drink.  "The water is safe," he said, holding it back out.

Bria blinked at him, then her thirst won out.  She drank deeply as the
Anomid helped her.  He pushed his vocalizer-mask back into place.  As

Bria leaned back against the armchair, she said, "You're not an
Anomid.

They can't speak without their vocalizer-masks.  You're obviously a
bounty hunter in disguise.  Who are you?"

The Anomid regarded her from featureless silver-blue eyes.  "Observant,
Bria Tharen.  I am pleased by your reaction.  Hysteria is wearing and
useless.  As to my identity .  . . you would know me perhaps by my
adopted name.  Boba Fett."

Boba Fett?  Bria sagged back against the armchair, eyes wide, fighting
the fear that even the casual mention of that name brought.  She found
herself praying to childhood gods for the first time in years.

After a moment, she wet her lips.  "Boba Fett .  . ."  she managed.  "I
do know that name.  I didn't think you bothered with dinky Imperial
bounties.

The one the Imps have on me isn't worth your time."

The bounty hunter nodded.  "True.  Besadii clan's bounty is a hundred
times that."

"Teroenza .  . ."  Bria whispered.  "It has to be.  Last I heard, it
was fifty thousand, not a hundred."

"Following your capture of Helot's Shackle, Besadii doubled that."

Bria tried to smile.  "It's so nice to be popular," she managed.

"Helot's Shackle was a slave ship.  I had to stop them.  I have no
regrets."

"Good," he said.  "That should make our short association as pleasant
as possible.  Would you like more water?"

Bria nodded, and Fett got another glass.  This time she took a drink
without being asked.  Bria was trying to remember her training in what
to do if captured.  She wasn't in uniform, and thus had no lullaby
available to end her suffering.  Besides, she was a long way from Nal
Hutta or Ylesia · .  . a lot could happen between here and there.  She
decided to bide her time and keep Fett talking, if she could.  All her
instructions said that the more captors came to regard a prisoner as a
real person, the easier captivity became, and the greater the chance
that someone would get careless.

Bria was also aware that the chance of Boba Fett slipping up was
incredibly unlikely.  Still, she had nothing else to do at the moment,
did she?

She tried not to look at the sheet-covered bodies in the corner.

"You know," she said, "I've heard a lot about you.  Makes me wonder if
all the things they say about you are true."

"Such as?"

"That you have your own moral code.  You are the consummate hunter, but
no bully.  You take no pleasure in inflicting pain."

"True," he said.  "I am a moral person."

"What do you think of the Empire?"  she asked, as he began checking

the heavy case he'd lugged into the room.  She caught a glimpse of his
famous helmet.

"I believe that the Empire, though morally corrupt in some ways, is the
lawful government.  I obey its laws."

"Morally corrupt?"  she asked, cocking her head, "how so?"  "Several
ways."

"Name one."

He gave her a glance, and she wondered if he'd tell her to shut up, but
after a moment, answered, "Slavery.  It is a morally corrupt
institution, degrading to all parties."

"Really!"  she exclaimed.  "Then we have something in common.  I don't
like slavery much either."

"I know."

"I was a slave," she said.  "It was horrible."

"I know."

"You know a lot about me, I guess."

"Yes."

Bria wet her lips.  "You know that Teroenza and whoever is running
Besadii these days are planning to kill me in some protracted, hideous
fashion, right?"

"Yes.  Unfortunate for you, profitable for me."

Bria nodded, and fixed him with an appealing gaze.  "Since you know so
much about me, you know that I have a father, right?"

"Yes."

"Then maybe .  . . I know this seems unusual, but under the
circumstances .

. . perhaps you wouldn't mind .  . ."  Bria trailed off, fighting for
control.  It was really sinking in now that she was done for, that she
wasn't going to be able to get out of this.

"What?"

She took a deep breath.  "I haven't seen my dad in years.  We were
always close.  My mom and brother aren't worth much, but my dad .  .
."

Bria shrugged.  "You get the idea.  When I started in with the
Resistance, I knew it was too dangerous to see him any more.  Too
dangerous for both of us.

But I've found ways--safe ways--to let him know I'm alive.  A couple of
times a year, he gets a message through very roundabout channels.

Just, 'Bria's okay."  Like that."

"Go on."  The bounty hunter's voice was absolutely expressionless.

"Anyway .  . . I don't want him to wait and wait for a message from
me.

Could you .

. . let him know I'm dead?  He means a lot to me.  He's a good man, a
decent man.  Pays his Imperial taxes, honorable citizen, all

that.  So .  . . if I gave you his name and location, could you just
send a message?  'Bria's dead."  That's all."

To Bria's surprise, Boba Fett nodded.  "I will do so.  What is--" The
bounty hunter broke off as the door chime sounded.  Bria jumped, and
Boba Fett rose to his feet in one seamless motion, like a hunting
animal.

The chime sounded again.  Dimly, from outside the cabin, muffled by the
sound sponge, Bria heard, "Bria?  Hey, it's me, Lando!"

"Calrissian," Boba Fett said quietly.  Quickly the bounty hunter turned
the sound sponge all the way back up.  Going over to the portal, he
keyed it open, standing back behind it.

"Lando, no!"  Bria shouted.  "Go away!"  The sound sponge soaked up the
noise, absorbing it.  Instead of filling the room, her shout was no
louder than a whisper.

Clutching his flowers and the bottle of fine wine, Lando stepped
eagerly through the door to Bria Lavval's stateroom.  "Sorry I'm a few
minutes late," he was saying.  "The florist was closed, and I had to--"
Calrissian broke off in confusion, his eyes widening as he took in
Bria, sitting on the floor by the armchair, her arms bound behind her,
and the sheet-covered mound in the corner.  He backed up, realizing
he'd just made a very bad mistake.

Behind the gambler, the portal shut.  "What's going on?"  Lando
demanded, only to hear his voice emerge in muffled, subdued tones.

Seeing the direction of Bria's gaze, the gambler turned and found an
Anomid regarding him.

"Nice to see you again, Calrissian," the Anomid said.  "You are
fortunate that I never mix business and pleasure."

"What--" Lando started, then he caught a glimpse of the big case, lying
open on the floor.  His dark eyes widened.  "Fett .  . ."  he said.

"Yes," the bounty hunter said.  "That had better be the last word I
hear out of you, Calrissian.  I am not here for you.  Cooperate, and I
may let you live.  You might come in handy."

Lando knew better than to argue.  Meekly, he put down the wine and
flowers.

Moments later, he found himself sitting several meters away from Bria,
just as efficiently bound, his back propped against the sofa.

Boba Fett regarded Bria intently.  "Tomorrow, when we dock with Nar
Hekka's docking platform, you and I are going to leave the Queen,
walking closely together.  I will be armed, but not with any weapon a
visual

inspection or security scan could discern.  You will stay close by my
right side at all times, and remain silent.  Understood?"

She nodded.  "Yes.  But what about Lando?"  The note of fear in her
voice for him made the gambler glance at her appreciatively.

"Calrissian's life depends on you, Bria Tharen.  If you give me your
word that you won't alert anyone, I will leave him behind, bound and
gagged, but alive."

Bria raised her eyebrows.  "You would trust my word?"

"Why not?"  he asked, with an undertone of mockery.  "You value the
lives of innocents more than you do your own.  I know your type.  But
just to make sure .  . . I plan to wire Calrissian before we leave with
a remote control detonator.  If we encounter any problems, the cleaning
droids will have to scrape his remains off the walls."

Lando swallowed painfully.

Bria glanced at the gambler and gave him a reassuring smile.  "You're
right about me.  I give you my word that I won't cause any trouble."

"Good," Fett responded.  "At the moment--" The bounty hunter broke off
as an alarm suddenly shrieked through the Queen of Empire with an
ear-splitting volume.  Lando sat bolt upright, his eyes widening.  What
the .  . .

Fifteen seconds later the entire Queen bounced--there was no other word
for it.  The huge ship heaved like a buoy on a stormy sea.  Lando's
stomach lurched, and he fell over on his side.  He looked over at Bria,
who had managed to remain upright, saw her gagging, struggling not to
be sick.

"What's going on?"  she gasped.  Lando, remembering Boba Fett's order
to remain silent, struggled to right himself.

"We came out of hyperspace," Fett said.  "The failsafes must have
encountered a sudden gravity shadow and reacted automatically."

Lando silently applauded the bounty hunter for his acumen as he managed
to roll back over and sit up.  It was hard work, with his hands bound
behind him.

"What would cause that?"  she said.  "An engine malfunction?"

"Possible," Fett said.  "But more likely an attack.  An Imperial
Interdictor cruiser could bring a ship out of hyperspace."

"But why would the Imperials attack a cruise ship?"  Bria asked.  Lando
had been wondering that same thing, and couldn't think of an answer.

Bria frowned as she concentrated on the straining vibrations of the
ship.

"You're right about the attack," she said.  "We're caught in a tractor
beam."

Grabbing his case, the bounty hunter dragged it behind the ornamen tal
screen that decorated one wall of the luxury suite.  Faintly, Lando
could hear the swish of robes being doffed.

The gambler managed to catch Bria's eye and mouthed, "Trust me, Lady
Bria.

Follow my lead if we get an opening."  He had to repeat it several
times, until she nodded in comprehension and flashed him a shaky
smile.

Minutes later the bounty hunter emerged, clad once more in his
Mandalorian armor.  He carried his blaster rifle, which was his only
visible weapon, but Lando knew from experience that the bounty hunter
was a walking arsenal of camouflaged weaponry.  Walking over to Bria,
he removed the restraints from her ankles, and then did the same for
Lando.  "You two come with me," he said.  "And .  . . Calrissian .  .
.

remember.  You're expendable.  Lady Tharen .  . . if you try anything,
Calrissian dies.

Clear?"

"Yes," Bria said.

Lando nodded, then managed to get to his feet unaided, despite his
bound arms.  Boba Fett, in a parody of gentlemanly behavior, assisted
Bria to rise.  She wobbled a bit on her high-heeled shoes, flexing her
feet and grimacing at the pins-and-needles.

Fett picked up the sound sponge and deactivated it, stowing it in a
pocket of his trousers.  With the muffling device turned off, Lando
could hear the sounds of blaster fire, screams and running feet.  A
public address system boomed: "All passengers .  . . please remain calm
and in your cabins.  There is an intruder alert, but your crew is
working to restore order.  We will advise you as matters progress.

Please remain calm.  All passengers .  . ."

Right, Lando thought.  They're going to restore order.., sure they are
....

The gambler glanced at Bria, and she looked at him and shrugged
slightly.

They reached the door, and Fett gestured to Lando.  "Open it."  The
corridor was pure chaos.  They had to wait in the doorway until a mob
of screaming passengers, most of them dressed only in nightgowns and
robes, fled past.

Fett glanced at a small, palm-sized device he held.  "Turn right," he
instructed.

Lando and Bria obeyed.  The gambler found it surprisingly difficult to
walk with his arms bound behind him.  It affected his balance.

Several times they had to step into doorways to allow shrieking hordes
of passengers to run past.  The sounds of blaster fire were closer,
now, as they neared the boat decks.

They left the passenger cabins behind, and took a series of glidewalks
that Fett directed them to.  From the sounds, most of the pitched
fighting

was going on near the docking areas.  Sounds of battle grew louder,
closer.

As they neared the shuttle deck, they saw sprawled bodies littering the
corridor, most of them wearing uniforms marking them as the liner's
crew.

A number of the bodies belonged to passengers, but none wore Imperial
uniforms.  Bria glanced at Lando as they stumbled along.  He was
surprised at her composure in the face of carnage--dead bodies made
most citizens sick.

Lando strained his eyes for a glimpse of the attackers, but so far they
hadn't encountered any.  He licked dry lips, knowing that, even with
bound arms, he had to try to make some move before the three of them
climbed into a shuttle together.  In a shuttle, they had no chance.  He
glanced sideways at his fellow captive, assessing her ability to
possibly back him if he tried something.

For a moment it occurred to him to wonder just why this lovely young
woman--she couldn't have been much over twenty-five--had Boba Fett
after her.  She must be more than what she seemed, and his observations
of her so far backed that up.  Most citizens, faced with the most
feared bounty hunter in the galaxy, would be reduced to quivering lumps
of protoplasm.

But Bria was plainly not your ordinary citizen ....

They rounded a corner that led to the shuttle deck, only to run smack
into a boarding party.  Lando froze, Bria beside him, faced with twelve
or thirteen unsavory characters dressed in loud, gaudy, mismatched
clothes that gravely offended Lando's fashion sense.  They were
festooned with garish jewelry.

Bria whispered, "Pirates!"

Suddenly things fell into place and Lando realized exactly what had
happened to the Queen.  He'd seen this trick before.  These pirates had
brought the Queen out of hyperspace by towing a good-sized asteroid
into the realspace analog of her hyperspace coordinates.  Then the
gravity "shadow" of the asteroid's gravity well had caused the
hyperdrive failsafes to cut in, abruptly reverting the Queen to
realspace.  An audacious and cunning plan--and it took big ships to
implement it.  Big ships and a daring leader.  For the first time,
Lando felt a surge of hope.  It's got to be.  Nobody else would dare to
attack a cruise ship this big....

"Back the other way!"  Boba Fett shouted, and his captives obediently
reversed course.  Lando and Bria tried to run, but if Lando had thought
that walking with bound arms was tough, he'd never imagined that
running would be so much worse.  At every moment he imagined himself
falling down, then being summarily shot by Boba Fett for his
clumsiness.

The two captives managed a clumsy jog, and Boba Fett urged them

on.  But as they approached another curve in the corridor, Lando
caught a flash of bright color.  More pirates!

"Stop!"  Boba Fett barked, his voice sounding doubly harsh because of
the mechanical speakers.

Quickly the bounty hunter pushed Bria into a doorway, then yanked Lando
over to stand in front of her as a shield.  "Don't move, Calrissian,"
Fett hissed, and moved out until he was in full view.

The pound of running feet approached, and then, more or less at the
same time, both groups of pirates converged from opposite sides of the
corridor.  Boba Fett, who had been checking his weaponry, tensed, ready
to do battle.  Against how many pirates?  Twenty-five?  Thirty?  Maybe
more ....

Lando guessed.

The two groups drew nearer, then slowed uncertainly.  Lando didn't
blame them.  He wouldn't want to be the first person to fire on Boba
Fett, even at these odds.  Chances are that the bounty hunter would
take quite a few attackers with him.

"What's going on?"  a familiar strong alto bellowed from the back of
one of the packs.  Lando let out a gasp of relief.  "Boba Fett, in the
name of all the hells of Barab, what are you doing here?"

"Collecting a bounty," the hunter replied.  "No quarrel with you,
Captain Renthal.  I'll take my bounty and a shuttle, and go."

Lando filled his lungs, shouted, "Drea!  It's me .... Lando!  Hey, am I
glad to see--" Lando's breath went out in a whoosh as the bounty hunter
took one fast step backward and the butt of Fett's blaster rifle
connected with his solar plexus.  The gambler doubled over, wheezing.

Slowly, the ranks of pirates parted, and Drea Renthal, pirate captain
and Lando's former girlfriend, emerged.  She was a big, squarish woman
of about forty-five, with fashionably striped silver and gold hair, a
fair complexion, and the coldest gray eyes Lando had ever seen.

Renthal wore her typical wild jumble of clothes---red striped
stockings, a purple skirt kilted up on one side, a pink silk shirt and
armored vest.  Her short, spiky hair was half-hidden by an outrageous
beret with a long, trailing orange feather.

Lando tried painfully to straighten up.  He wanted to wave, but of
course his arms were bound.  Besides, Boba Fett would probably blast
him for his temerity.

Renthal surveyed them, and said, "Lando, you never told me you had a
bounty on your head."

Actually, Lando knew of several bounties on his head, in the
Centrality, but this was Imperial space.  "No bounty, Drea," he called,
his voice

harsh and breathless.  "I was just .  . . in the wrong place .  . . at
the wrong time."

Renthal looked back at the bounty hunter.  "Fett, that true?  No bounty
on Calrissian?"

The hunter hesitated, then responded, "True.  I have an old score with
Calrissian, but it is .  . . personal."

Drea Renthal considered for a long moment.  "In that case, Fett, you
ought to be willing to let him go.  Lando's kind of... special .  . .

to me.  I might lose a little sleep if I let you take him.  Tell you
what .  . . let him go, and I'll let you have the shuttle, free and
clear."

Boba Fett nodded.  "Very well."  Without turning his head, he said,
"Calrissian .  . . go.  We will meet again .  . . someday."

Lando felt Bria move away from him, giving him room to edge around her
and leave.  The gambler wanted more than anything to head for
safety--Drea and her mob of cutthroats--but instead, he heard his own
voice saying, "No.

Drea, I can't go without Lady Lavval.  You can't let Fett take her."

Boba Fett wasn't often taken aback, but he heard Lando Calrissian's
words with surprise--almost astonishment.  He'd never figured
Calrissian for anything more than a dandified coward.  The bounty
hunter glanced at the gambler, wondering if Calrissian was just blowing
Tibanna gas, making an empty statement, but he could tell from the
man's set expression that he meant it--he wouldn't go without Bria.

Fett's gaze returned to Drea Renthal.  How much did she care for
Calrissian?  It was obvious that the gambler was an old lover.  But
Renthal was a practical woman.  One did not rise to the leadership of
one of the largest pirate and mercenary fleets without being both
pragmatic and ruthless.  Perhaps Renthal would just cut Calrissian
loose for his foolish stand--and over another woman, yet!

Renthal locked gazes with Calrissian and sighed.  "Lando, honey, you're
cute and a good dancer, but you're pushing me, here.  Why should I give
a regnuw's patootie about this floozy?  She your current girlfriend?"

"No," Calrissian said.  "There's nothing between us, Drea.  But Bria
here is Han Solo's girlfriend.  He risked his life to save your Y-wings
and Renthal's Fist from being blasted by Peacekeeper during the Battle
of Nar Shaddaa.  Seems to me you owe him."

Again Fett was surprised.  Bria Tharen and Han Solo?  That was
obviously in the far past, since Fett had been monitoring her actions
for over a year, and she'd had no contact with Solo.

Renthal blinked.  "Bria?  Her name is Bria?  Like Solo's ship?  This
is that Bria?"

Calrissian nodded.  "Yes.  She's that Bria."

Drea Renthal grimaced and swore· "Lando .  . . you just love to make my
life complicated, don't you?  I'm gonna take this out of your hide,
baby?

Okay .  . . you're right, a debt is a debt."  Reaching beneath her
armored vest, she pulled out a heavy pouch· "Jewelry and credit
vouchers, Fett," she said.  "Should be over fifty thousand credits
worth in here.  Let 'em both go, and you can have your shuttle· I don't
want a fight · .  . but I'm not letting you leave with them."

Boba Fett surveyed the assembled ranks of pirates, assessing his
chances for fighting his way out.  There were thirty-two
pirates--hardly good odds.

Boba Fett's armor would protect him, possibly enough to allow him to
escape, but Bria Tharen was wearing a strapless evening gown.  She was
certain to be hurt, perhaps killed, in any firefight.  And her bounty
called for a live, unharmed, delivery.

Boba Fett looked at the heavily armed pirates, then at Bria Tharen, and
experienced a tiny flare of something that he recognized, with dismay,
as relief· Bria Tharen would not die today, or tomorrow, in agony,
while the depraved High Priest of Ylesia rubbed his tiny hands and
chortled with glee.

Fett took a deep breath· "The bounty on her is one hundred thousand,"
he said.

"Whoo!"  Renthal looked over at Bria.  "Honey, what in the name of
Kashyyyk's night demons have you been doing?  All right, Fett, you
bloodsucker·" Turning to her crew, she opened the pouch and held it
out.

"C'mon, gentles.  I'm collecting fifty percent of my share of the Queen
right now.  Put it here."

It was a measure of Renthal's reputation that there was scarcely any
grumbling· Pirates dug into their pockets, their pouches, and soon
Renthal's pouch was bulging· Turning, she tossed it to the bounty
hunter.  Fett caught it, weighing it, then surrendered to the
inevitable.  Renthal's ransom for Bria Tharen was indeed a handsome
one.

The bounty hunter inclined his head to Lando, and said, "Some other
time, Calrissian."

The gambler's teeth flashed in a fierce grin.  "I'll look forward to
it."

Then Boba Fett nodded to Bria.  "Later, my lady."

She drew herself up, and the bounty hunter had to admire her
composure.

"I hope not.  I'll be watching my back."

Boba Fett turned to Renthal, and said, "The shuttle deck is that
way."

"Right," the pirate captain said.  "Gentles, let's give Master Fett
here a nice unobstructed passage to that shuttle deck.  We don't want
any trouble with him, now do we?"

Respectfully, they parted, leaving the bounty hunter a wide aisle.

With grave dignity, Boba Fett walked between the ranks of pirates.  The
pirates on the shuttle deck also gave him a wide berth.  Selecting a
ship, Boba Fett climbed in, checked the controls, signaled for
departure and watched the entrance to the ship's docking facility
clear.  Moments later, the bounty hunter was streaking through the
blackness of space.

Alone .  . .

Bria's head spun at the sudden turn of events.  One moment she was
giving herself up for dead, and the next she was safe aboard the pirate
queen's flagship, Renthal's Vigilance.  The Vigilance was a huge
vessel, twice the size of Bria's Marauder corvette.  Drea Renthal had
salvaged the Imperial Carrack light cruiser following the Battle of Nar
Shaddaa.  With her Corellian corvette, Renthal's Fist, and her
squadrons of Y-wings, the pirate captain's fleet was indeed
impressive.

"The minute I knew it was pirates boarding us, I knew it had to be
Drea's gang," Lando told her, as several pirates shuttled them over to
the flagship while Renthal finished her boarding operation on the
Queen.  "I've seen her pull that trick with the asteroid's gravity
shadow before.  Only Drea would have had the firepower to tackle
something as big as the Queen."

Bria looked at the gambler.  "Lando, I'm very grateful to you .... You
stood up for me, and you didn't have to.  That took real guts."

Lando smiled charmingly.  "What else could I do?  You're far too lovely
to let Boba Fett have you."

Bria laughed.  "It wasn't Boba Fett I was worried about, actually.  It
was .

. . the people who wanted me.  They're a nasty bunch.  Compared to
them, Boba Fett is a gentleman and a scholar."

She sobered, then jerked a thumb back at the Queen of Empire's
approximate location.  "What will happen to the passengers?  Is Renthal
. . ."  she hesitated, "... a slaver?"

Lando shook his head.  "Drea?  No.  She's in it for the quick
credits.

Slavery is too much work for her.  She'll take the valuables, loot the
ship, and maybe take a few prisoners for ransom.  Once the ransom is
paid, she

returns them, unharmed.  Drea is a business-person.  She's ruthless
when the situation warrants, don't get me wrong, but she's not a
slaver."

She eyed him, and Lando reached over and took her hand.  "Trust me,
Lady Bria.  I wouldn't lie to you."

Bria nodded, then visibly relaxed.  "I do trust you, Lando," she
said.

"How could I not after you stood up to Boba Fett for me?  I couldn't
believe you did that."

Lando shook his head, smiling wryly.  "Sometimes I surprise even
myself."

"And Drea Renthal will take us to Nar Shaddaa?"

"Oh, yes," Lando said.  "Your booking's at the Chance Castle, right?"

She hesitated, gave him a sidelong look, then said, "Well .  . .

actually, that's not what I'm worried about.  I'm taking a shuttle from
Nar Shaddaa to Nal Hutta.  I need to keep a very important
appointment."

Lando raised his eyebrows.  "What in the galaxy is a lovely lady like
you doing going to visit a bunch of smelly gangsters like the Hutts?"

She smiled wryly.  "Well .  . ."

Lando waited, and when she didn't say any more, prompted, "Bria · . 
.

you really can trust me.  I want to be your friend."

She took a deep breath.  "I have an appointment to talk to Jiliac the
Hutt.

It took me a while to get him to agree to see me, but finally he did.

I have a .  . . business proposition to offer him."

Lando frowned.  "Then you'll have to take a shuttle to Nal Hutta.

Jiliac became a mommy Hutt last year, and she hasn't been on Nar
Shaddaa since, I think."

Bria nodded.  "I'll go wherever it takes, talk to whoever I have to."

She glanced up at Lando.  "I understand that Han lives on Nar
Shaddaa?"

She couldn't conceal the note of hope in her voice.

Lando shook his head, his gaze sympathetic.  "You're too late, I'm
afraid.

Han lit out for the Corporate Sector nearly a year ago, and hasn't been
seen since.  I don't know if he'll be back or not."

Bria bit her lip.  "Oh."  After a second, she looked back up, nodded.

"Well, that's the way things go.  I'm not sure he'd want to see me
anyway."

Lando smiled again.  "I can't imagine any man not wanting to see you.

He was a fool to let you get away, if you ask me."

Bria chuckled wryly.  "Han wouldn't agree with you, I'm sure."

Just then, their shuttle landed in the Vigilance's docking bay.

Gathering up her skirts, Bria rose from her seat.  Lando gravely
offered her his arm to escort her down the gangplank.

"By the way," he said, "how in the galaxy did you manage to get such a
bounty placed on your pretty head?"

She shook her head.  "Lando, it's a very, very long story."

He nodded.  "Doubtless .  . . but, since it will take Drea a couple of
hours to finish with the Queen, we've got nothing but time .... "
"Well, I'm not free to tell you much .... "she hesitated.

He smiled.  "Why am I not surprised?  Tell you what .  . . I'll find a
bottle, and you can tell me the unclassified parts.  Deal?"

She laughed.  "Deal."

Interlude 2: Somewhere between the Corporate Sector and the Tion
Hegemony Han Solo awoke slowly, easing gritty eyes open against
daylight's painful onslaught.  His head pounded like a misfiring
thruster, and his mouth tasted like bantha fodder.  He groaned and
rolled over on his stomach, shielding his eyes from the hideous glare
of the sunlight.

Minutes later, he managed to sit up, holding his head and wondering
what in the galaxy had induced him to throw that party last night.  One
in a long series of parties ....

He had a dim recollection that it had been fun--lots of fun.  Groggily
he fumbled for his backpack and found a commercial headache remedy,
swallowed it dry.  He settled back onto the bed and held still for
several minutes, eyes closed, until it began to take effect and the
headache eased off.

Opening his eyes fully, he looked around the dimly lit room, seeing
clear evidence in the scattered food, bottles and other disorder that
it had indeed been a wild party.  What was that girl's name?  He
couldn't remember.

But they'd obviously had a very good time.

Han had been living high for weeks now, off the credits he'd gotten
from the Authority Espo ship's purser.  Dimly, he realized that his
stash of credits was considerably less than it had been several weeks
ago, when he'd said goodbye to Fiolla.

He thought about her, wishing she was still with him.  But when he'd
prepared to leave Corporate Sector space, she'd booked passage home,
saying that she had to get back to work to the promotion she was sure
she'd merit, for tracing down that slaver ring.

Since then, Han and Chewie had made planetfall on at least five
different worlds.  Han looked blearily at the sunlight that showed
beneath the curtain in the hotel room.  It had a slight orange tint
against the white drape.  What world is this, anyhow?

For the life of him, he couldn't remember.

Rising, he headed for the fresher.  His headache was under control

now, and he was beginning to feel hungry.  Stepping into the shower,
he let the hot water pummel him and leaned against the tiled wall.

Ahhhhhhh .  . .

For a moment he found himself thinking about home, wondering how
everyone was doing.  Maybe it was time to head back to Nar Shaddaa,
while he still had some credits left?

Thoughts of his friends filled his mind.  Jarik, Mako .  . . and Lando,
of course.  How was Lando doing these days?  Had he ever found a ship
to replace the Falcon?

And what about Bria?

Han sighed.  Maybe, when he got back to Imperial space, he'd try
looking up Bria.

Yeah, right, he thought.  That should be real easy.  Just find the
secret HQ of the Corellian Resistance and walk right in, demand to see
your old girlfriend .  . . probably get a blaster bolt right between
your eyes, Solo ....

Feeling slightly better, Han shut the water off, and went to get
dressed.

He decided to get some food, then head back for the Falcon and
Chewie.

Time to leave this blasted world .  . . whatever world this was ....

nine

Offers and Refusals

Jabba lounged beside his aunt in her private audience chamber on Nal
Hutta, watching and listening as Bria Tharen made her appeal to
Desilijic.

The woman spoke well, he had to admit .  . . for a human.

"Almighty Jiliac," Bria spread her hands before her, "just think what
an opportunity this is for your clan.  If Desilijic will just finance
our group in terms of ammunition and fuel, the Corellian Resistance
will make sure that Ylesia is no longer a thorn in your side.  Wouldn't
it be worth it, to see Besadii brought low?  And for such a modest
outlay!  We provide the troops, the weapons, the ships " "But you will
take the spice stored in the warehouses," Jiliac said, in Huttese.

Jabba and Jiliac's protocol droid, K8LR, promptly translated the Hutt
leader's words.  Jiliac's repulsor sled bobbed slightly as she shifted
her weight forward to regard the Rebel commander intently.  "All we
would gain could only be measured in negative terms.  Now if we were to
profit from this .  . ."  Bria Tharen shook her head.  "If we take the
risks, we get the spice, Your Excellency.  Running a resistance is
expensive.  We can't just wipe out your enemies for you and gain
nothing for ourselves."

Privately Jabba agreed with her.  Why was Jiliac being so stubborn?

Jabba spoke up for the first time--in Basic, which he could speak, but
rarely chose to.  "Let me make sure I understand what you are offering,
and what you wish from us, Commander."  Bria turned to him, bowed
slightly.

"Certainly, Your Excellency."

"One," Jabba began ticking points off on his fingers.  "Desilijic will
provide you funding to purchase ammunition and fuel for an assault on
Ylesia.  Two, Desilijic will arrange to eliminate the t'landa Til
priests before the attack .  . . correct?"

"Yes, Your Excellency," Bria said.

"Why do you need us for that?"  Jiliac demanded haughtily.  "If your
group is such an efficient military force, then you should be able to
handle a few puny t'landa Til."

"Because we stand a much better chance of being able to control the
Pilgrims if the Priests are already dead," Bria Tharen replied.  "It
shouldn't be too difficult for a kajidic of your resources to
arrange.

After all, there aren't more than thirty priests on the whole planet,
or so our intelligence indicates.  Only about three per Colony, in most
cases.

Another thing .  . . we don't want our troops having to deal with
fighting off the t'landa Til's empathic vibes--we want them to be able
to concentrate on fighting."

"I understand," Jabba said.  "Three .  . . in return for our funding
and our promise to eliminate the priests, your groups will land and
destroy the Besadii enterprise.  Blow up the factories, make sure there
is nothing left for Besadii to use in rebuilding."

"That's right, Your Excellency," the Rebel commander said.  "The risk
is ours.  Of course, we'll also take the Pilgrims and the warehoused
spice."

"I understand," Jabba said.  "Your offer merits consideration,
Commander.

We--" "No!"  Jiliac snorted disgustedly and waved dismissal.  "Girl, we
have heard enough.  Thank you, but--" "Aunt!"  Jabba said loudly, then
lowered his voice when Jiliac broke off and turned to regard him in
surprise.  He continued in Huttese, "May I speak with you privately?"

Jiliac huffed slightly, then nodded.  "Very well, Nephew."

When the Tharen woman had been escorted outside the chamber by K8LR and
asked to wait for their decision, Jabba said, "Aunt, this is an offer
too good to refuse.  If we had to hire mercenary forces to eliminate
the Ylesian enterprise, it would cost us many times what we'd have to
pay to fund these Rebels.  It would cost .  . ."  he ran quick figures
in his head, "at least five times as much.  We should accept."

Jiliac regarded her nephew with scorn.  "Jabba, haven't I taught you
better than this?  I told you, Desilijic must never support either
faction in a war.  You want us to join the Resistance?  That policy can
only lead to disaster!"

Jabba had to take a deep breath and silently recite the Hutt alphabet
before he could respond.  "Aunt, I am by no means suggesting that we
should ally ourselves with these Rebels.  But we can and should make
use of them to further our own ends!  This human female and her
Rebellion are a gift from fate.  Bria Tharen is the perfect leader for
this raid."

"Why?"  Jiliac blinked at her nephew.

Jabba let out his breath in a quick huff of exasperation.  "Think,
Aunt!

Who were the two humans who escaped from Ylesia after killing Zawal all
those years ago?  Remember I investigated the matter after Han Solo
came to work for us?"

Jiliac frowned.  "No " "Well, I did.  Han Solo escaped Ylesia in a
stolen ship, with much of Teroenza's treasure in its hold, and the High
Priest's pet slave.  Her name was Bria Tharen, Aunt.  This same
woman!

She has a personal grudge against Ylesia!  She will stop at nothing to
shut the Besadii slaving world down."

Jiliac was still frowning.  "So what if she has a personal score to
settle?

How can that benefit us, Nephew?"

"Nothing could suit Desilijic's needs better than the destruction of
those accursed spice factories!  Think of it!  Besadii, humbled and
impoverished!

This is a bargain!"

Jiliac rocked back and forth on her massive belly, staring goggle-eyed
into space as if trying to picture in her mind's eye how it would
work.

"No," she said finally.  "It is a bad plan."

"It is a good plan, Aunt," Jabba insisted, "and, with a little
refinement, can be made to work."  After a pause, he added, "With all
due respect, Jiliac, I don't believe that you have thought the matter
through."

"Oh?"  Jiliac reared back until she towered over her relative.

"Nephew, your judgment is flawed.  I have been very careful, over the
years, not to compare you with your reckless parent, who nearly
bankrupted Desilijic with his grand schemes, then was foolish enough to
wind up on that mudball prison planet, Kip.  However .  . ."

Jabba didn't like being reminded of Zorba and his profligate ways.

"Aunt, I am nothing like my parent, and you know it!  I respectfully
submit that you have grown soft and your analysis weak.  We must deal
with Besadii soon or, most assuredly, we will be ruined.  What are your
specific objections?"

Jiliac rumbled, and a bit of green phlegm appeared at the corner of her
slack mouth.  "Too risky, too many uncertainties.  Humans are not
intelligent enough to be able to accurately predict their behavior.

They're just as apt to take our credits, then betray us to Besadii."

"These Rebels are too committed to their cause," Jabba said.  "You are
right, you don't understand humans, Aunt.  Commander Tharen's group is
just dedicated enough and stupid enough to risk themselves over those
wretched slaves.  Humans are like that.  Especially this human."

"And I suppose you understand them?"  Jiliac snorted.  "Where do these
masterful insights of yours spring from, Nephew?  From watching them
cavort around scantily clothed?"

Jabba was really getting angry now.  "I do understand them!  And I
understand that this offer is not one to toss aside!"

"So you would have us arrange to kill some thirty t'landa Til for the
Corellian Resistance," Jiliac said.  "What if that was ever discovered
here on Nal Hutta?  The t'landa Til here would raise such an outcry!

They are our cousins, Nephew.  Humans are nothing!"

Jabba hadn't thought of that.  He remained silent, mulling her
objection over.  "I still think it could be arranged," he said.  "We've
gotten away with multiple assassinations before, after all."

"Besides," Jiliac said, sulkily, "I don't want the Ylesian enterprise
destroyed.  I want to take it over.  What good will it do us to best
Besadii if the spice factories are destroyed?"

"We could build other factories," Jabba said.  "Anything would be
better than having Besadii warehousing that spice and driving the
prices up and up!"

Jiliac shook her head.  "I am the clan leader, and my decision is no.

That is the end of it, Nephew."

Jabba tried to expostulate further, but she waved him to silence, and,
with a bellow, summoned K8LR and the Rebel Commander.  The droid
quickly shepherded the young woman back into the room, solicitously
commenting on her bravery the whole time.

Jiliac shot an exasperated glance at Jabba, and harrumphed loudly.

"Girl, as I was saying before, when I was interrupted--" she glanced at
Jabba meaningfully, "we appreciate your offer, but our answer is no.

Desilijic cannot risk allying with the Resistance in this matter."

Bria Tharen's features betrayed her disappointment, Jabba noted.  She
sighed, then squared her shoulders.

Very well, Your Excellency."  She reached into the pocket of her
fatigues and took something out.  "If you should ever change your mind,
you can reach me--" Jiliac waved aside the proffered datacard, then
glared at her nephew as he reached for it.  Jabba gazed at Bria,
holding the datacard.  "I will keep this," he said.  "Farewell,
Commander."

"Thank you for the audience, Your Excellencies," she said, and bowed
deeply.

Jabba watched her as she walked away, and found himself thinking that
she'd look magnificent in a dancing girl's costume.  All that reddish
hair spilling down over her bare shoulders.  Nicely muscled
shoulders.

This human was fit, exquisitely so, and her height was impressive.

What a dancing girl she'd make!

Jabba sighed.

"Jabba," his aunt said, "I did not appreciate the way you appeared to
disrespect my decision just now.  Never forget that we Desilijic must
always present a united front when conducting business with inferior
species."

Jabba did not trust himself to speak.  He was still bitterly angry over
his aunt's refusal to see what a great opportunity Bria Tharen had
offered them.

If I were the leader of Desilijic, he thought, I wouldn't have to
listen to her paranoid conservatism.  Sometimes you have to take
chances to make large gains.  Motherhood has made her stupid and
weak....

It was only then that Jabba realized, for the first time, that if
Jiliac were out of the picture, that he, Jabba Desilijic Tiure, would
be Desilijic's next leader.  He would have to answer to no one.

Jabba lay there, his tail twitching thoughtfully, then glanced sideways
at his aunt.  Suddenly her belly rippled, and her baby slithered out.

"Mama's precious!"  she exclaimed.  "Jabba, look!  Getting bigger every
day!"

She cooed at her baby.  Jabba grimaced, belched, and then wriggled
rapidly out of the room, unable to stand the sight of either of them
for one second longer.

Bria Tharen picked up her glass of wine, sipped it slowly,
appreciatively, then smiled at her escort.  "That's wonderful.  Thank
you so much, Lando.

You don't know how long it's been since I had an evening where I could
just relax."

Lando Calrissian nodded.  Bria had returned to Nar Shaddaa aboard the
shuttle from Nal Hutta today, following what she'd said was a
"disappointing" interview with the Desilijic leader.  To cheer her up,
the gambler had promised to take her out for a nerf tenderloin dinner
at one of the Smuggler's Moon's finest hotel-casinos, the Chance
Castle.  Bria was wearing a softly draped gown of turquoise that
matched her eyes, and Lando was wearing his black and scarlet outfit,
"for old time's sake."

"How long?"  Lando asked, twirling his own wineglass slowly in his
fingers.

"Well .  . . I imagine being a Rebel commando leader is fairly
time-consuming.  Almost as time-consuming as being the mistress of a
Sector Moff."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed.  "How did you find that out?  I never
told you .... " "Nar Shaddaa is the criminal nexus of the galaxy,"
Lando said.  "An information broker owed me a favor, and I called it
in.  Commander Bria Tharen, right?"

Her lips tightened, and she nodded curtly.  "Hey," Lando said, reaching
out to touch the back of her hand gently, "didn't I tell you you can
trust me?

You can.  I have no love for the Empire.  If I weren't such an arrant
coward, I'd join the Rebels myself.  I know lots of secrets, and I'm
good at keeping them."

She smiled faintly.  "Whatever you are, you aren't a coward, Lando.

Nobody who stood up to Boba Fett like that could be called cowardly.

You should think about joining the Resistance.  You're a good pilot,
you can think on your feet, and you're smart.  You'd be an officer in
no time."

She hesitated, then added, more seriously, "And about Moff Sarn Shild
.

.

. all I can say is that appearances can be deceiving.  I was on
assignment for the Resistance, but I was nothing more than a social
hostess and aide for him, though he wanted everyone to think
otherwise."  "But you were also spying on him."  "'Gathering
intelligence' is a nicer term."

He chuckled.  "So where will you go tomorrow, after you leave Nar
Shaddaa?"

"I'll head back to my squadron, and my next assignment .  . . whatever
that may be.  I'm missing two of my senior officers now .  . . plus an
excellent combat trooper."  Her expression darkened.  "Fett killed them
with no more thought or caring than you or I would step on an
insect."

"That's why he's the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy," Lando
pointed out.

"Yes.  "She took another sip of wine.  "He's like a one-man army.  · . 
.

Too bad he's loyal to the Empire.  I could certainly use him in
combat!"

Lando looked at her.  "It means everything to you, doesn't it?

Defeating the Empire?"

She nodded.  "It's my life," she said, simply.  "I would give anything
I have---or am--to further that dream."

Lando picked up a piece of flatbread, drizzled Kashyyykian forest honey
on it, and took a bite.  "But you've already devoted years to that
goal.  When does Bria Tharen get a chance to have a life of her own?

When do you just say, 'enough'?  Don't you want to have a home, a
family, someday?"

She smiled sadly.  "The last person to ask me that question was Han."

"Really?  When the two of you were on Ylesia?  That was a long time
ago."

"Yes," she said.  "It's been wonderful to be able to talk to you, find
out what he's been doing.  Do you know, Lando, in just a few months it
will be ten years to the day since we first met.  I can hardly believe
it .  . .

where did the time go?"

"Where time always goes," Lando said.  "There's a giant black hole in
the center of the galaxy, and it just sucks it right up."

She shrugged and smiled wryly.  "That explanation works for me.  I'll
have to remember that."

Lando poured her some more wine.  "Anyway, you didn't answer my
question.

When are you going to have a life for Bria?"

Her blue-green eyes were very intent as they met his across the
table.

"When the Empire is defeated, and Palpatine is dead, then I'll think
about settling down.  I would love to have a child .  . . someday."

She smiled.  "I think I still remember how to cook and do domestic
things.  My mother certainly spent enough time trying to turn me into
appropriate 'wife' material, and that included plenty of instruction in
'womanly' duties."

Lando grinned.  "I suppose she wouldn't much like your current rebel
image.

Dressed in combat fatigues, armed to the teeth."

She laughed wryly and rolled her eyes.  "Poor mother!  It's a good
thing she can't see me, she'd keel over in utter horror!"

Just then the server brought their steaks, and both dug in with
appreciation.  "Lando, this is so wonderful," Bria said.  "This beats
military chow six ways from sundown."

Lando smiled.  "Just one more reason I couldn't join the Rebellion," he
said.  "I have a penchant for fine cuisine.  I don't think I could
stand a steady diet of rations."

She nodded.  "But you'd be surprised what you can get used to .  . .

with enough practice."

"I don't want to find out," Lando said, lightly.  "How could I give all
this up?"  He waved a hand at the elegant restaurant, and, beyond it,
the glittery clamor of the gaming tables.

She nodded.  "I have to admit, I have a hard time imagining you in a
Rebel uniform."

"At least not without extensive re-tailoring," Lando said, and they
both laughed.

"Have you ever been in combat?"  she asked him, on a more serious
note.

"Oh, sure," Lando said.  "I'm a decent gunner as well as a
better-than-average pilot these days.  I've seen action here and
there.

And, of course, there was the Battle of Nar Shaddaa.  Han, Salla and I
were in the thick of it."

"Tell me about that," she said.  "It just amazes me that smugglers--as
independent and hard-headed as most of the ones I've known are--could
band together like that to beat the Imperial fleet."

Always pleased to talk about himself and his escapades to an admiring
audience, Lando launched into a fairly detailed narrative of how the
smugglers had joined forces with Drea Renthal's pirate fleet to destroy
many Imperial fighters and several big capital ships.  Bria listened
with grave and knowledgeable attention, asking strategic or tactical
questions every so often to encourage the gambler in his story.

Finally, when Lando was finished, and they'd ordered dessert, Bria sat
back as the server cleared their plates away.  "What a story!"  she
said.

"I'm really impressed by the smugglers' daring and expertise.  They are
all marvelous pilots, aren't they?"

"You have to be good to stay ahead of the Imp customs ships," Lando
replied.  "Smugglers can handle just about anything--they fly through
asteroid fields, play tag with nebulas and space storms, and they can
land on anything.  Nothing fazes a good smuggler.  I've seen them land
ships while fighting uneven gravity fields on asteroids barely bigger
than their vessels.  Gravity shifts, atmospheric turbulence,
sandstorms, blizzards, typhoons · .  . you name it, they know how to
handle it."

Bria was looking at him intently.  "Of course.  Smugglers would
naturally be the most experienced pilots in the galaxy .... but they're
also good fighters .... " Lando waved a hand.  "Oh, they have to be
that, too, with the Imps apt to pop out and start blasting at any
moment.  Of course, during the Battle of Nar Shaddaa they were fighting
to protect their homes and property, else most of them would have
demanded payment for their services."

She blinked, as though a sudden idea had occurred to her.  "You mean
.

. .

you think the smugglers would hire themselves out for a military
action?"

Lando shrugged.  "Why not?  Most smugglers are just like privateers.

If there's a decent profit in it, most of them would dare just about
anything."

She tapped her bottom lip with a manicured nail as she thought.

Lando suddenly looked at her hand intently.  "Hey .  . ."  he said,
leaning forward to take her hand in both of his and examine it gently,
"what happened, Bria?"

She drew a deep breath.  "These old scars?  A souvenir of working in
the Ylesian spice factories.  I usually cover them with cosmetics for
social occasions, but I lost everything aboard the Queen, remember?"

"Drea promised me you'd get your stuff back," Lando said.  "I told her
your cabin number."  He looked embarrassed.  "I feel terrible for
mentioning them.  I just .  . . well, I care about you.  It's painful
to see them and know how much you were hurt on that world."

She patted his hand.  "I know.  You're sweet to be concerned, Lando.

But I'm not the one you should be concerned about.  People are dying
every day on Ylesia.  Good people.  People who deserve better than a
life of unending toil, malnutrition, and cruel deception."

He nodded.  "Han talked to me about it once.  He feels the same way ·
.

. but there's not much we can do about it, is there?"

She gave him a fierce look.  "Yes, there is, Lando.  And while there's
breath in my body, I'm not going to give up on those people.  Someday,
I'm going to shut that hellworld down for good."  Bria grinned
suddenly, recklessly, and at that moment, she reminded Lando very much
of his absent friend.  "As Han would say, 'trust me."" Lando
chuckled.

"I was just thinking that you remind me of him at times."

"Han was an important role model for me," she said.  "He taught me so
much.

How to be strong, and brave and independent.  You wouldn't believe what
a spineless little crybaby I used to be."

Lando shook his head.  "I don't believe it."

She was looking down at her scars.  They criss-crossed her hands and
forearms in thin, white lines, like glow-spider webs against the tanned
skin.  "It used to hurt Han to look at them, too .  . ."  she
murmured.

Lando studied her for a long moment.  "He's the only one, isn't he?"

he said, finally.  "You still love him."

She drew a long breath, then looked up at him, her expression very
serious.  "He's the only one," she said steadily.

Lando's eyes widened slightly.  "You mean .  . . the only one? 
Ever?"

She nodded.  "Oh, I've had a couple of offers.  But my life is the
Resistance.

And .  . ."  she shrugged, "frankly, after Han.  . . other men seem
sort of... bland."

Lando chuckled ruefully, realizing that, despite his best efforts and
his fondest wishes, Bria's heart was with Han--and there it was likely
to stay.  "Well, at least when he comes back from the Corporate Sector,
I

won't have earned myself a punch in the nose for stealing you away,"
he said.  "I have to try and look on the bright side, I suppose."

She looked at him and smiled, then lifted her wineglass.  "I propose a
toast," she said.  "To the man I love.  Han Solo."

Lando lifted his, clinked it against hers.  "To Han," he agreed.  "The
luckiest guy in the galaxy .... " Interlude 3: Kashyyyk, on the way
back from the Corporate Sector .  . .

Han Solo stood in the middle of Mallatobuck's living room, in her home
on Kashyyyk watching his best friend tenderly cradle his infant son.

They'd landed on Chewie's homeworld just an hour ago, on their way back
from the Corporate Sector.  The Falcon was safely docked in the secret
wroshyr-limb docking bay.  This time, for Han's benefit, the Wookiees
provided a series of vine ladders for the Corellian to make the ascent
through the wroshyr trees.  Knowing now what a quulaar was, the
Corellian had flatly refused to climb into one.

The moment that they'd landed, Han had noticed something odd.  All of
the Wookiees they met kept giving Chewie amused sidelong glances and
nudging each other.  Chewbacca had seemed oblivious to the byplay,
however, so eager was he to see his lovely wife.  After all, the
Wookiee hadn't seen Malla in nearly a year....

And then, when they'd walked into Malla's house, there she stood,
holding a small bundle wrapped in a blanket in her arms.  Chewbacca had
stood frozen in the doorway, a look of incredulous joy dawning on his
furry visage.

Han had slapped his friend on the back with almost Wookiee force.

"Hey, congratulations, Chewie!  You're a dad!"

After a few minutes to admire the baby (whom even Han had to admit was
awfully cute), Han wandered into Malla's kitchen to give Chewie some
time alone with his family.  He dug around in the refrigeration unit
and found some odds and ends of things to munch on, pleased that Malla
had told him to make himself at home.

As he sat there, listening to Chewie and Malla discuss names for their
son in the next room, Han's thoughts wandered back to the Corporate
Sector and the Tion Hegemony, and all the adventures he'd had there.

He wasn't coming home rich, that was for sure .  . . but he hadn't done
too badly, he decided.

And he'd certainly met a host of memorable individuals--some good, most
not.  Of course there had been the lovely ladies .  . . Jessa, Fiolla
.

. .

and Hasti ....

Han smiled, remembering.

And then there had been the bad guys.  The ones who had tried to stiff
him out of credits, or, worse, tried to snuff him like a candle.  Quite
a host of them... Ploovo Two-for-One, Hirken, Zlarb, Magg, Spray... and
Gallandro.  That was one tough fellow, Gallandro.  Be fun to watch him
in a free-for-all against Boba Fett, weapons being equal.  Gallandro
could probably outdraw the bounty hunter.., but Fett's armor would give
him some protection ....

Han couldn't decide which of them would win.  And speculation was moot,
after all, since Gallandro had been reduced to a pile of charred meat
and bone back on Della& in Xim's "treasure" vaults.

It had been fun running into Roa and Badure.  He'd have to remember to
tell Mako that Badure had sent his greetings ....

Han was surprised to realize that he actually missed Bollux and Blue
Max.

He'd never realized droids could have so much personality.  He hoped
that Skynx was treating them both okay ....

The Corellian fingered the newly healed knife-wound on his chin.  He'd
never had time to get it properly treated, and it had healed with a
noticeable scar.  He wondered whether he should get it removed ....

Wasn't it Lando who always insisted that women couldn't resist a
rogue?

That's why the gambler had grown his mustache, claiming it gave him a
rakish, piratical air.  Han decided to keep the scar for now.  After
all, it was a conversation piece .  . . or could be.  He pictured
himself in some of his favorite haunts on Nar Shaddaa, telling the
story to some lovely, fascinated lady....

Next stop, Nar Shaddaa, Han thought.  Wonder if Jabba missed me?

ten

What Goes Around .  . .

"Away with you!"  Durga Besadii Tai rolled his bulbous eyes and
motioned the small Ubese chime player to vacate his throne room.

"Enough!"  The high-pitched, chaotic notes were pleasant, but did
nothing to help him work up the fortitude necessary to do what he had
to do.

Month after frustrating month, hour after inconclusive hour .  . .

nothing he had done had brought him any closer to a definitive answer
about who had arranged the murder of his beloved parent.  Durga had run
into a wall as blank as the metal partitions that he now activated to
drop from the ceiling and seal off the room from potential
eavesdroppers.  Tapping his comm unit, Durga grimly activated its
privacy field, too.  He didn't want anyone to know what he was about to
do.  Zier .  . . Osman, his majordomo .

. . no one.

After all his work, all his searching, Durga had been unable to
establish even a tenuous link between Aruk's death and either Teroenza
or Desilijic; nor was there any evidence to establish collusion between
them.

It was time.  The sour churning in his gut grew stronger, and he
wriggled a bit to ease the pressure.  His tail jerked and twitched, the
Hutt equivalent of nervous pacing.  I can manage to keep my head out of
the noose if I'm just careful enough, he told himself.  Even so, the
price will be very, very dear.  But I can stand the uncertainty no
longer....

The privacy field was established, and the walls around him were
secure.

Durga ran one final security scan, and turned up no possibility of
surveillance or a leak.  Activating the comm system, the Hutt lord
routed

the signal through the most secure channel.  Perhaps Xizor will not be
there .... he thought, almost hoping.

But it was not to be so simple.  The Hutt was routed from one
subordinate to another, each more obsequious than the last.  Just as
Durga was beginning to suspect that this was some kind of run-around,
the haze of the transmission coalesced into the translucent figure of
the Falleen prince.  Xizor's dusky greenish complexion brightened
slightly as he recognized his caller.  He smiled affably.  Was there a
hint of smugness in that smile?  Durga told himself not to be paranoid
....

Now that he'd committed himself to this, the Hutt lord wanted to get on
with it.  He bobbed his head at the Black Sun leader, and said, "Prince
Xizor .  . . greetings."

Xizor smiled, and his eyes, made even more baleful by the light shining
through the image, shifted to contemplate the Hutt.  "Ah, Lord Durga,
my dear friend.  So many months have passed .  . . over a Standard
Year.  Are you well?  I was growing worried about you again.  To what
do I owe the honor of this communication?"

Durga steeled himself.  "I am fine, Your Highness.  But I still have no
definitive proof as to the identity of my father's murderer.  I have
considered your offer of assistance in discovering my father's killer,
and would like to accept it now.  I wish for you to use your
intelligence networks and operatives to either confirm or lay to rest
my suspicions."

"I see .  . ."  Xizor said.  "This is most unexpected, Lord Durga.  I
thought you were under a family obligation to discover the killer's
identity yourself?"

"I have tried," Durga admitted stiffly, hating how Xizor was fencing
with him.  "Your Highness .  . . you offered Black Sun's help once
before.  Now I would like to accept your offer .  . . if the price is
right," Durga added.

Xizor nodded and smiled reassuringly.  "Lord Durga .  . . have no fear,
I am at your service."

"I must know who killed Aruk.  I will pay your price .  . . within
limits."

Xizor's smile vanished, and he drew himself up.  "Lord Durga, you do me
wrong.  I want no credits in return, only your friendship."

The Hutt stared at the image, trying to read the real message through
the prince's verbal sleight-of-hand.  "Forgive me, Your Highness, but I
suspect you want more than that."

Xizor sighed.  "Ah, my friend, nothing is ever as simple as we would
like, is it?  Yes, there's something I would request of you.  A simple
act of friendship.  As head of Clan Besadii, you are privy to the
planetary defenses of Nal Hutta.  I would like a complete rundown of
the weapons and shields, with exact strengths and locations."

The Falleen prince smiled, and this time there was more than just the
suggestion of a sneer.

Durga flinched, then forced himself to control his sudden fear and
dismay.

Nal Hutta's defenses?  What could he possibly want them for?  Black Sun
can't be planning an attack.., or could they?

Perhaps this was just a test.  It seemed unlikely that Xizor was
planning something .  . . but there was no way to know for sure.  Durga
envisioned the broad, river-carved expanse outside his palace, silvery
Nar Shaddaa a permanent sliver on the distant horizon.  Worst case
scenario--Nal Hutta was no longer necessary to Besadii; his clan could
do without the glorious jewel conquered so long ago.  After all, they
had the Ylesian system ....

And as for the rest of the clan, the non-Besadii citizens of Nal
Hutta--well, they were fast becoming his enemies anyhow.  There was
that little matter of the official censure and that million-credit fine
....

Durga glanced at the likeness of portly old Aruk ensconced in its
little niche on his dais, then back at the holo-image.  "The
information is yours," he said, "but I must know."

Xizor inclined his head.  "As soon as it is received, we shall do
everything in our power to assist you, Lord Durga.  Farewell .... "
Durga inclined his head again, as cordially as he could, then cut the
connection.  His stomach was in knots.  He had a bad feeling about this
....

Xizor turned away from his communications console to face Guri, a
genuine smile tugging at the corners of his well-shaped mouth.  "That
was much easier than I thought it would be.  The wedge has been driven
deep now, and Durga and Besadii will soon split off from the other
Hutts.  I wonder what it is in Durga's slimy heart that makes him
betray his entire species just for a taste of revenge."

Guri gazed at him, serene as always.  "My Prince, your patience with
these Hutts is finally gaining results.  It is fortuitous that Besadii
was censured so strongly by the other kajidics."

Yes," replied the Falleen, steepling his hands and tapping his long
fingernails together, "Durga has no love for his fellow Hutts now, if
he ever did.  His grief and emotional instability will provide us with
the key to Hutt space.  That, and the Desilijic penchant for simple
solutions to complex problems.  You have the proof that Durga
requires, Guri, do you not?"

The HRD's expression did not change.  "Of course, my Prince.  Citizen
Green was most helpful in acquiring it and sidetracking the
pathologists at the Forensic Institute.  He is a very competent
human."

Xizor nodded, and shook his ponytail off his shoulder.  "Wait two
hundred standard hours, long enough for it to seem as though we have
conducted an investigation, then you will deliver the material to Durga
personally," he said.  "When Durga sees it, he will wish to move
immediately against Desilijic.  Go with him, Guri.  Assist him, if
necessary, in gaining his revenge on Jiliac.  But no harm must come to
Jabba.  Jabba has been useful to me in the past, and I expect him to be
useful to me in the future.

Teroenza, too, has a part to play in our plans, and should not come to
harm.  Understood?"

"Understood," said Guri.  "It shall be as you wish, my Prince."  Moving
with lithe, swift strides, she left the room.

Xizor watched her go, admiring her.  Nine million credits she had cost
him, and worth every decicred.  With Guri at his side, Xizor was ready
to challenge the Hutts ....

Perhaps, some day, he would even challenge the Emperor himself....

When Han Solo arrived home from the Corporate Sector, he was welcomed
back with open arms by all and sundry---except Lando and Salla Zend.

Lando, he discovered, had gone off for a romantic getaway with Drea
Renthal, and wouldn't be back for several days.

And as for Salla .  . . Han hadn't really been expecting to take up
their relationship where they'd left off, but he also hadn't expected
her to completely snub him.  He saw her once or twice, at a distance,
in Shug's spacebarn, but the moment she caught sight of him or Chewie,
Salla Zend would turn and depart the premises.

When he asked about Salla, his friends all assured him that she'd been
fine during his absence, had even been seeing several fellows, though
none of the relationships were termed "serious."  She'd apparently
worked with Lando for a while, though there was no evidence that Salla
and Lando were ever anything but business partners.

Jarik had broken up with his girlfriend, and had returned to his normal
self, happy to have his friends back.  Even ZeeZee seemed pleased to
have the rightful owners of the apartment back again.

When Han heard that Lando had returned, he went right over to his

friend's flat to see him.  They exchanged handshakes, backslaps and a
brief hug, then Lando stepped back to regard his friend.  "You look
good," he said.  "Need a haircut."

"I always need a haircut," Han said, dryly.  "Comes from spending time
with Wookiees.  To them, 'scruffy' is a compliment."

Lando laughed.  "Same old Han.  Hey, let's go down to the Golden Orb.

I'm buying!"

Minutes later, when they were seated at a booth, tall mugs before them,
Lando said, "So .  . . tell me.  Where've you been, and how'd you get
that scar, buddy?"

Han launched into a shorthand description of his adventures in the
Corporate Sector.  Even so, they were working on their third round by
the time he finished.

Lando shook his head.  "Wow, sounds like some of the stuff that
happened to me in the Centrality.  One bad guy after another.  Get a
fortune, lose a fortune.  So .  . . how's my ship?"

Han took a swig of Alderaanian ale, then wiped his mouth on his
sleeve.

"Your ship?"  He laughed, enjoying the familiar byplay.  "The Falcon
has ever been better, my friend.  She'll make point five past
lightspeed, now."

Lando's dark eyes widened.  "You're kidding!"

"Nope," Han said.  "There's an old guy in the Corporate Sector who can
make a hyperdrive whirl on its axis and give you two decicreds
change.

Doc's a master, all right."

"You'll have to take me for a spin," Lando said, impressed.

So, tell me what's been happening with you," Han said.

Lando fortified himself with a long drink, then said, "Han, there's
something I have to tell you.  I ran into Bria a couple of weeks
ago."

Han sat up straight.  "Bria?  Bria Tharen?  How?  Why?"  "It's a long
story," Lando said, and smiled wickedly.

"So get busy and start tellin' it," Han snapped, his expression
darkening.

"Man, that is one lovely armful, that lady," Lando said, and sighed.

In one swift motion, Han lurched forward and grabbed Lando by the
collar of his embroidered shirt.

"Whoa!"  Lando gasped.  "Nothing happened!  We just danced, that's
all!"

"Danced?"  Han let go and sat back down, looking sheepish.  "Oh."

"C'mon, Han, take it easy," Lando said, "you haven't even seen this
woman in how many years?"

"Sorry, pal, guess I got a little carried away," Han said.  "I used to
care about her a lot."

Lando smiled again, this time cautiously.  "Well, she still cares about
you.

A lot."

"Lando .  . . the story," Han said.  "Tell."

"Okay," Lando said, and launched into a description of his recent
adventures aboard the Queen of Empire.  By the time he'd reached the
face-off outside the shuttle bay, Han was leaning forward, hanging on
his every word.

When the gambler finished, Han sat back, shaking his head, sipping his
ale.  "Some story," he said.  "Lando, that makes the second time you've
stood up to Fett.  That took guts, pal."

Lando shrugged, and for once his demeanor was completely serious.  "I
don't like bounty hunters," he said.  "Never have.  I wouldn't turn my
worst enemy over to one.  To me they're on a par with slavers."

Han nodded, then grinned.  "Good thing Drea's got a soft spot for you,
pal."

"The thing that turned the tide there was reminding her that she owed
you," Lando pointed out.

"Well, I'll have to let her know that I owe her one, now," Han said.

"I just hope you showed her a good time on that little jaunt you
took."

"Of course," Lando said.  "If it's one thing I know how to do, it's
show a lady a good time."

"So .  . . when did Bria tell you she cared about me?  The whole time
you were with Fett, you were ordered to be quiet," Han said, thinking
back over Lando's account.

"Oh, I saw her again, here on Nar Shaddaa," Lando said.

Han stared at Lando balefully.  "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, I did," Lando replied.  "Will you relax, old buddy?  I just took
her out to dinner.  She got turned down by Jiliac and Jabba over some
commando raid on Ylesia she wanted them to finance, and she needed some
cheering up."  Lando sighed.  "She spent the whole time talking about
you.  Really depressing."

Han felt a grin creep over his face.  "Yeah?"  he said, trying to sound
casual.  "She did?"

Lando mock-glared at him.  "Yes, she did.  Xendor alone knows why, but
she did."

"I've thought about trying to contact her," Han said.  "But after
seeing her that time in Sam Shild's place .  . . well, I know now she
was on assignment for the Resistance.  I guess a good agent does
whatever she has to do to get information .... "

"I asked her about that," Lando said.  "She told me that even though
Shild wanted everyone to think she was his mistress, she wasn't.  And
from what I've heard about that guy, he did indeed have some very odd
.

. . tastes .

. . in partners."

"Huh .  . ."  Han said, mulling that one over.  "You say she talked
about me, huh?  She still cares?"

"She cares," Lando said.  "If you'd been a myrmin on the wall, your
head would be even more swelled than it is already."  He laughed
shortly, and finished off his own drink, "I told you, it was
depressing, pal."

Han smiled.  "Well ... thanks.  I owe you one for saving her, Lando."

"You should look her up, if you can figure how to do it," Lando said.

"I might," Han said, then sobered.  "Lando, I'm afraid I got some bad
news yesterday."

"What?"

"It's Mako Spince.  Seems he got himself into some kind of
confrontation out in the Ottega System with some NaQoit bandits.  They
found him, barely alive, and brought him back here.  He's in the
rehab-facility in the Corellian section.  Shug told me he's crippled.

Won't ever walk again."

Lando shook his head, his expression bleak.  "Oh .  . . hey, that's
terrible!  I'd rather be dead than crippled, I think."

Han nodded grimly.  "Me too.  I was thinkin' .  . . you want to go see
him tomorrow?  I ought to.  Me and Mako go back a long ways.  But . 
.

. I'd rather not go alone, ya know?  Between the two of us, maybe we
could kinda cheer him up some?"

Lando shrugged.  "Sounds like a tall order, considering the
circumstances," he said.  "But, sure, I'll go with you.  Least we can
do.  Mako's one of us."

The next day, the two friends went to the rehab-center.  Han had only
rarely been inside one, and found himself extremely ill-at-ease.  After
querying the clerical droid at the desk, they were directed to a
room.

Han and Lando hesitated outside.  "Lando .  . . I ain't sure I'm up to
this," Han confessed, in a whisper.  "I'd rather fly a run with Imps on
my tail .... " "I feel the same way," Lando agreed.  "But I think I'd
feel worse if I went home without seeing him."

Han nodded.  "Me too."  Taking a deep breath, he walked into the
room.

Mako Spince was lying in a special treatment bed.  There was a whiff of
bacta in the air, and the scars on his rugged features were mostly

healed, though Han could tell his old friend must have been a mess.

The NaQoit bandits weren't known for their kind hearts ....

Spince's shoulder-length hair was spread out on the white pillow.  Last
Han had seen him, it had been black mixed with gray.  Now it was the
color of iron, dull and lank.  Mako's pale, ice-colored eyes were
closed, but somehow Han knew he was awake.

The Corellian hesitated, then plunged ahead.  "Hey, Mako!"  he called
out, breezily, "It's me, Han!  Back from the Corporate Sector.  Lando's
here, too."

Mako's pale, cold eyes opened, and he stared at his friends with no
expression.  He did not speak, though Han knew he could.  Mako's right
arm was damaged, and he'd lost the use of his legs, but there was
nothing wrong with his mind or his voice.

"Hey, Mako," Lando said.  "It's good to see you alive.  Sorry to hear
that things got so rugged out there in the Ortega system .  . . uh . 
.

."

When Lando ran out of words, Han jumped in.  Anything was better than
the echoing silence.  "Yeah, those NaQoit are scum.  Uh .  . . well,
this is a tough break, all right, but, hey .  . . don't you worry about
a thing.  Me and the others, we took up a collection, you know?  Plenty
there to get you set up with a repulsor chair.  Those things scoot
right around · .  . you'll be up and around in no time, they say."

Han finally ran out of words, and he turned to Lando, questioning with
his eyes.  Mako still hadn't moved or spoken.

"Uh, yeah," Lando said, trying valiantly to keep up his end.  "Listen,
Mako, is there anything you need?  You just ask, and we'll get it.

Right, Han?"

"Sure," Han said.  He struggled for something else to say, but words
utterly failed him.  "Uh .  . . Mako?"  he said.  "Hey, buddy .  . ."

Mako's expressionless face never altered.  But slowly, finally, he
turned his face away from his friends, and the unspoken message was
clear.  Go away.

Han sighed, shrugged, then looked at Lando.

Quietly, they walked out of the room, leaving Mako Spince alone with
his silence.

Han got a much better welcome from Jabba the Hutt.  He went to see the
Desilijic leader in the kajidic's headquarters on Nar Shaddaa.

Jiliac's Nar Shaddaa majordomo, a human woman named Dielo, looked up
when he walked in, and smiled welcomingly.  "Captain Solo!  Welcome
back!  Jabba instructed me to bring you in immediately."

Since Han was used to being kept waiting when he visited Jabba, this
was indeed encouraging news.

When Han walked into the huge, bare, audience chamber, he found Jabba
alone.  The Hutt lord undulated toward him, his stubby arms spread
wide.

"Han, my boy!  It's wonderful to see you!  You were gone too long!"

For an awful second, Han thought that Jabba actually intended to hug
him.

The Corellian stepped back hastily, trying not to wrinkle his nose.

He'd have to get used to the smell of Hutts all over again ....

"Hey, Jabba, Your Excellency," he said.  "Nice to know I've been
missed."

"None of that 'Your Excellency,' now, Han!"  Jabba boomed, speaking, as
usual, in Huttese, which he knew Han understood well.  "We're old
friends, and no formalities are needed!"

The Desilijic lord was practically oozing camaraderie.  Han smothered a
smile.  Business must be hurting, he thought.  Nothing like being
needed, I guess ....

"Sure, Jabba," Han said.  "So, how's business?"

"Business... business has been a bit.., slow," Jabba said.  "Besadii,
curse them, is trying to build up a shipping fleet of their own to
challenge Desilijic's business.  And the Imperials have been,
unfortunately, all too active lately.  Between the Imperial customs
ships and the pirates, the spice business is suffering."

"Besadii's being their typical pain in the butt, eh?"

Jabba's chuckle boomed Out in response to Han's witticism, but, even to
Han's ears, the laughter sounded a bit hollow.  "Han, Besadii must be
dealt with.  I am not sure exactly how."

Han gazed at the Hutt lord.  "I heard the Corellian Resistance wanted
Desilijic to back 'em in a raid on Ylesia."

Jabba didn't seem surprised that Han had his own sources for
information.

The massive head nodded.  "We were approached by an acquaintance of
yours .

. . Bria Tharen."

"I haven't seen her in ten years," Han said.  "I understand she's a
Rebel leader now."

"She is," Jabba affirmed.  "And I was very interested in her
proposition.

However, since my aunt refused to back the Corellian resistance, I am
looking for alternatives to bring down Besadii.  We must do
something.

They are stockpiling the best spice, holding it back to drive up
prices.  Our sources indicate that their warehouses are crammed, and
they are building new ones to hold the overflow."

Han shook his head.  "That ain't good.  And Jiliac?  How's she doin'?

And the baby?"

Jabba grimaced.  "My aunt is well.  Her baby is healthy."

"Why the sour expression, then?"  Han asked.

"Her attention to motherhood is admirable, I suppose, Han," Jabba said,
"but it has meant a greatly increased workload for me.  My business
interests on Tatooine are being neglected, and it is difficult to keep
up with all of Desilijic's concerns."  The Hutt lord sighed.  "Han, it
is getting harder and harder these days to find the time to get
everything done."

"Yeah, I know what that's like, Jabba," Han said.  He shifted
restlessly from foot to foot.

The Hutt, who was in an unusually perceptive mood, noticed the
Corellian's restiveness.  "What is it, Han?"

Han shrugged.  "I'm okay.  Sometimes I wish you had a human-style chair
in this audience chamber, though.  Having a conversation standing up
the whole time is hard on my feet."  He hesitated.  "Mind if I just
park my rear on the floor while we chat?"

"Ho-ho!"  Jabba chuckled.  "I have often thought that feet must be
inconvenient things to depend on, Han my boy.  I can do better than the
floor.  "Turning with far more flexibility than Han would have given
him credit for, Jabba curled his tail forward and patted it
invitingly.

"Here.

Sit, lad."

Han, recognizing that Jabba was doing him a great honor, silently told
his protesting nose to shut up.  He walked over and sat down on the
Hutt's tail just as he would have a tree trunk.  He smiled, though the
reek was awful, this close.  "My feet thank you, Jabba," he said.

The Hutt's laughter at such close quarters was enough to rattle Han's
eardrums.  "Ho-ho-ho!  Han, you amuse me almost as much as one of my
dancing girls."

"Thanks," Han managed, wondering how soon he could decently get up and
leave.  Jabba was curled around so he could speak to Han nearly
face-to-face.

"So," said Han.  "What did you think of Commander Tharen?"

"For a human, she seems quite intelligent and competent," Jabba said.

"Jiliac declined her proposition, but I found it of interest."

"As I said, I haven't seen her in years," Han said.  "How'd she
look?"

Jabba chortled, licking his lips.  "I would hire her to dance for me
any day, my boy."

Han grimaced, but was careful not to let Jabba see.  "Uh, yeah .  . .

well, she might have somethin' to say about that.  You don't get to be
a commander just on good looks."

Jabba sobered.  "I was impressed with her.  I believe her proposition
may be feasible."

"What was she proposing, exactly?"  Han asked.

Jabba outlined the basics of the Corellian Resistance's plan.  Han
shrugged.  "They'd need some good pilots to get through that
atmosphere," he said.  "Wonder how Bria's plannin' to handle that?"

"I do not know," Jabba said.  "Tell me, Han, approximately how many
guards did each Ylesian colony have when you were there?"

"Oh, it ranged from maybe a hundred to a couple hundred per colony,
depending on how many slaves they had working the factories," Han
said.

"Lotta Gamorreans, Jabba.  I know you Hutts like 'em because they're
strong and they'll take orders, but, let's face it, as a modern
fighting force, they're pretty pathetic.  Most of the males are too
obsessed with using those antique weapons of theirs on each other.

Their clan battles spill over into their jobs.  The sows are better,
smarter, clearer-thinking, but they don't hire out as mercs."

"So you believe that a modern force of Rebels would have no trouble
capturing those colonies."

Han shook his head.  "It would be a piece of cake, Jabba."

The Hutt lord blinked his bulbous eyes.  "Hmmmmm, as usual, Han my boy,
you have been valuable to me.  I have a load of spice that is ready to
ship.

Are you and your ship ready to go back to work?"

Han, recognizing the implicit dismissal, stood up.  He could feel the
oily residue from Jabba's skin on the seat of his pants.  Great, I
suppose I'll have to write this pair off, he thought.  I'll never get
the stink out of 'em ....

"Sure we are," he said.  "Chewie and me are ready.  The Falcon is
faster than ever."

"Good, good, my boy," Jabba boomed.  "I'll have someone contact you
about the pickup this evening.  Han.  . . good to have you back."

Han smiled.  "Jabba, it's good to be back .... " Kibbick the Hutt
stared at his cousin's holo-image in consternation.  "What do you mean
the t'landa Til have brought their mates here?"  he asked.

"Nobody told me."

Durga, leader of Besadii clan, glared.  "Kibbick, you wouldn't notice
if there was a t'landa Til female perched on your tail!  They covered
their tracks well, and it was nearly a week before I found out they
were gone!

Do you realize what this means?"

Kibbick thought hard.  "It means that the t'landa Til priests will be
happier, more content?"  he ventured, finally.

Durga waved his little arms in frustration and groaned aloud.  "Of

course they'll be happier!"  he shouted.  "But what does this mean to
us?  To Besadii?  For once in your life, think, Kibbick!"

Kibbick ruminated.  "This means we'll have to ship more food in for
them?"  he asked, finally.

"No!  Kibbick, you idiot!"  Durga was in such a rage that gobbets of
green goo spattered on the holovid pickup, making "holes" appear in his
three dimensional image.  "It means that we have lost our most
important hold over the t'landa Til, my retarded cousin!  Now that we
no longer have their mates here on Nal Hutta, Teroenza and his Priests
could cut all ties to Besadii and Nal Hutta!  That's what it means!"

Kibbick drew himself up.  "Uncle Aruk never spoke to me like that," he
said, greatly offended.  "He was always polite.  He was a better leader
than you will ever be, Cousin."

Durga managed to contain himself with an effort.  "Forgive my rash
words, Cousin," he said, with a palpable effort.  "I am a trifle .  .
.

overworked .  . . these days.  I am waiting for some important news
regarding my parent's demise."

"Oh."  Kibbick thought about making more of an issue of it, but as long
as Durga had stopped yelling, he was so relieved that he didn't.

"Well, Cousin, I can see how that would be bad.  What shall we do?"

"You'll have to have all the female t'landa Til brought to Colony One
and then ship them home to Nal Hutta," Durga said.  "See to it
personally, Kibbick.  I want you to be able to report to me that you
watched them get aboard the ship and leave.  I want you to use your
best, most trusted pilot for the task.  Send a contingent of guards, so
there will be no trouble from the females on the voyage."

Kibbick thought that one over for a moment.

"But .  . . Teroenza won't like that," he said.  "And neither will the
others."

"I know that," Durga said.  "But the t'landa Til work for us,
Kibbick.

We are their masters."

"That's true," Kibbick admitted.  He'd been brought up ever since he
reached the age of Hutt sentience that Hutts were the most superior
species in the galaxy.  But imagining himself giving Teroenza orders
wasn't an attractive proposition.  Teroenza was sly and tricky.  He was
the one who always gave the guards their orders.  All Kibbick had to do
when he wanted something done was tell Teroenza, and the High Priest
would always do it--promptly and efficiently.

But what if he disobeyed, this time?  Kibbick could picture him
refusing to send his own mate back to Nal Hutta.  And then what would
he, Kibbick, do?

"But, Cousin .  . . what if he says no?"  Kibbick asked plaintively.

"Then you will have to call the guards and have them take him away and
lock him up until I can deal with him," Durga said.  "The guards will
obey you, Kibbick .  . . won't they?"

"Of course they will," Kibbick said, indignantly, though privately he
wondered if all of them would.

"Good.  That's more like it," Durga said.  "Remember .  . . you are a
Hutt.  A natural lord of the universe.  Correct?"

"Of course," Kibbick said, his voice a bit stronger this time.  He drew
himself up.  "I am a Hutt just as much as you are."

Durga grimaced.  "That's the spirit," he encouraged.  "Kibbick, now is
the time to take control.  If you delay, the situation will only grow
worse.

It's possible that Teroenza is actually planning a revolt against
Besadii.

Has that occurred to you?"

It hadn't.  Kibbick blinked.  "A revolt?  You mean .  . . a real one?

With troops, and shooting?"

"That's exactly what I mean," Durga said.  "And in a revolt, who is the
first to go?"

"The leader," Kibbick said, his mind racing.

Right.  Very good.  Now do you see why you must take control before
Teroenza can make his plans?  While you still have the upper hand?"

Kibbick was feeling threatened now, and he didn't like that.  He
realized that following Durga's advice and taking control back from the
High Priest was definitely his best course.  "I'll do it," he said,
firmly.  "I'll tell him what to do, and make sure he obeys me.  If he
refuses to obey me, I'll have the guards take care of him."

"Now that's the spirit!"  Durga said, approvingly.  "Good!  You sound
like a true Besadii now!  Call me and tell me as soon as the female
t'landa Til are on their way home!"

"I will, Cousin!"  Kibbick said, and cut the transmission.

Kibbick promised himself that he'd take care of this matter right
now.

Before he could lose the pumped-up feeling of Hutt superiority.  The
Hutt lord didn't bother with his repulsor sled, but immediately
undulated his way through the Administration Building of Colony One to
Teroenza's office.  He didn't bother activating the door signal, just
barged right in.

Teroenza was in his working sling, at his datapad.  He looked up in
surprise as the Hutt came undulating his way into his office.

"Kibbick!"  he exclaimed.  "What is going on?"

"Lord Kibbick to you, High Priest!"  Kibbick said.  "We have to talk!

I just spoke with my cousin Durga, and he tells me that you have
brought your female t'landa Til here in secret!  Durga is most
upset!"

"The female t'landa Til?"  Teroenza blinked as though he hadn't the
faintest notion what Kibbick was talking about.  "Where did he get that
idea, Your Excellency?"

"Don't try that with me," Kibbick said.  "They are here, and Durga
knows it.  He has instructed me to tell you that they must return to
Nal Hutta on the next ship.  Summon the guards and have the mates
brought here to Colony One for shipment off Ylesia.  Do it now."

Teroenza settled back into his sling, his expression thoughtful.  Other
than that, the High Priest didn't move.

"Did you hear me, Priest?"  Kibbick was feeling almost intoxicated with
righteous anger.  He drew himself up.  "Obey, or I shall summon the
guards!"

Slowly, the High Priest drew himself out of the sling.  Kibbick
inwardly drew a breath of relief.  But Teroenza made no move toward the
intercom.

"Hurry up!"  the Hutt lord blustered.  "Or I shall summon the guards to
take you away, and then I shall deal with the females myself!"

"No," Teroenza's voice was flat and quiet.

"No .  . . what?"  Kibbick was incredulous.  No one in his life had
ever refused a direct order from a Hutt overlord.

"No.  I won't do it," Teroenza said.  "I'm tired of taking orders from
an idiot.  Farewell, Kibbick."

"How dare you?  I'll have you executed!  Farewell?"  Kibbick was
completely befuddled.  "Are you saying you're quitting?  Leaving?"

"No, I'm not leaving," Teroenza said, in that quiet tone.  "You are."

His powerful hindquarters twitched, his thin, whip-like tail lashed the
air, and suddenly he lowered his head and came at Kibbick with a bellow
of rage.

The Hutt lord was so taken aback that he didn't even have time to
dodge.

Teroenza's horn slammed into his chest.  The horn wasn't terribly
sharp, but so powerful was the force of the High Priest's charge that
it penetrated for nearly its full meter-long length.

The pain was agonizing!  Kibbick roared in mingled terror and pain and
beat at the t'landa Til with his little arms.  He tried to swing his
tail around to deal a crushing, killing blow, but the room was too
confined.

Dimly, Kibbick felt the t'landa Til's hands shove hard against the
solid wall of flesh that was his massive chest, then Teroenza's horn,
covered with Hutt blood and ichor, yanked free.

Purposefully, Teroenza began backing away.

Wheezing, choking, Kibbick tried to back up, too, but his back end
jammed into the wall.  He tried to turn and escape.

Teroenza slammed into his chest again.

And again .  . . And yet again .  . . Kibbick was gushing blood now
from his multiple wounds· None were life-threatening in and of
themselves.  A Hutt's vital organs were buried too deep within their
bodies to be easily pierced .  . . part of the reason for the old
legend that Hutts were immune to blaster fire.  They weren't · .  . but
a blaster bolt that would fry most beings instantly frequently would
not hit anything vital on a Hutt, leaving them free to crush their
attacker before he, she or it could get off a second shot.  Kibbick
tried to shout for help, but all that emerged was a gurgle.  One of the
blows had punctured a breathing sac.  He struggled to pull himself
toward the intercom to summon help.  Teroenza rammed him yet again.

This time the force of the t'landa Til's blow, along with Kibbick's
growing weakness, caused the Hutt lord to roll over on his side,
helpless.  Kibbick's vision was clouding over, but he could still see
enough to recognize what Teroenza was withdrawing from a desk drawer.

A blaster.  The Hutt lord struggled one more time to rise, to fight
back, to summon help, but he was too weak, and the pain too great.

Darkness was hovering, closing over his vision.  Kibbick struggled
against it, but it closed over him like black water at midnight ....

With cold precision, Teroenza aimed the blaster and used it to widen
and disguise the wounds on the dying Kibbick.  He shot again and again,
until the massive body was a scorched horror, and the final jerks and
convulsions were long over.

Finally he stopped, breathing hard.  "Idiot .  . ."  he muttered, in
his own language, and went off to wash his horn.

While he was cleaning himself up, the t'landa Til decided on the best
course.  A terrorist attack, of course.  He'd say it was that Tharen
woman and her troops.  No one would dare dispute his word.  He'd have
the guards on duty executed, claiming they'd been bought off and were
in on the assassination ....

Just the other day he'd closed the deal to purchase a turbolaser.  He'd
use this as an excuse to set it up in the courtyard ....

He knew he'd need more guards, more weaponry.  Should he contact
Jiliac?

No!  Teroenza shook his massive head, drops of water flying from his
horn.

He had had enough of Hutts--he was through with them!  He, Teroenza,
was now master of Ylesia!  And soon .  . . soon .  . . everyone

would know it.  Just a few more weeks to consolidate his power.  He'd
stop paying Besadii, and use the credits to buy weapons.

Satisfied with his plan, Teroenza, High Priest of Ylesia, left his
office and the massive mound of dead Hutt, and went looking for some
guards to execute ....

eleven

Death Challenge

Durga the Hutt stared at the screen of his datapad and rejoiced.  At
last!

Black Sun, in the person of Guri, Xizor's personal assistant, had just
provided him with conclusive proof that Jiliac the Hutt, most likely
abetted by her nephew, Jabba, had planned Aruk's murder--and Teroenza
had carried it out.

Black Sun's evidence was mostly in the form of records of purchases and
payments that proved Jiliac's link to the Malkite Poisoners.  The
Desilijic leader had purchased enough X-1 from them to bankrupt a
mediumsized colony.  And that X-1 had then been shipped straight to
Teroenza.  There were also records of items that Jiliac had purchased
and sent to the High Priest, valuable items that were now part of the
t'landa Til's collection.

So I would not realize he was paid off, Durga thought.  Teroenza
thought he could "hide" his pay by taking items for his collection.

The Hutt leader noted that most of those items were not only valuable,
but in demand.

Should Teroenza ever wish to sell them, he could readily exchange them
for many credits on the antiquities black market.

Durga noted with interest that Teroenza had recently done exactly that,
and with the proceeds from several of these sales, had purchased a used
turbolaser.  He is obviously preparing for a defense of Ylesia, Durga
realized.  Any time now, he is likely to declare his independence
....

Durga's first impulse was to have Teroenza dragged back to Nal Hutta in
restraints, but, with an effort, he made himself think out all the

ramifications of such an action.  The Sacredots, or Under-Priests,
would be furious with Besadii on behalf of their leader.  Teroenza was
popular · .  .

especially now that he'd managed to have their mates brought to
Ylesia.

If Durga had Teroenza dragged away, the Sacredots might refuse to
perform the Exultation for the Pilgrims.  And without the Priests to
give them their daily dose of euphoria, the Pilgrims might refuse to
work--they might even revolt!  Either way, losing the Priests would be
disastrous for production in the spice factories.

Regretfully, Durga realized that before he could have his revenge upon
Teroenza, he'd have to make some preparations.  Find a new Hutt
overlord for Ylesia, and a popular, charismatic t'landa Til to act as
High Priest.

The new High Priest who would announce bonuses for all the loyal
t'landa Til.  And, on second thought, perhaps it would be best to leave
the t'landa Til's mates on Ylesia .  . . at least for the time being.

All of that would probably take a week to accomplish.  And until the
Besadii ship carrying the new High Priest had landed on Ylesia, Durga
couldn't let Teroenza know that he was being replaced.  Besadii
couldn't take the chance of precipitating a revolt until they had the
troops in place to deal with it.

Durga decided to move cautiously .  . . keep Teroenza in ignorance
until the last moment.  Or, if Kibbick had been forced to have the High
Priest arrested, they'd have to cover up Teroenza's absence.  Perhaps a
sudden "illness" on the part of the High Priest would be sufficient?

Could Teroenza's mate, Tilenna, be coerced into acting as the Besadii
mouthpiece in her spouse's stead?  In exchange for her own life?  And a
generous settlement?

Durga considered, and decided that she probably could.  T'landa Til
were a practical people ....

It was also possible that Teroenza could still be controlled .  . . but
it was hard to imagine Kibbick having the wherewithal to do it.  Durga
would probably have to handle everything himself.  Or he might send
Zier to attend to it ....

Durga wondered how Kibbick had fared in his conversation with Teroenza
yesterday.  His cousin hadn't called back as he'd promised to, but that
didn't mean anything.  Kibbick's attention span was short, and he
forgot promises.

A flashing light attracted Durga's attention, and he saw that his comm
system was signaling an incoming message.  The Hutt leader accepted the
call, and watched as the image of Teroenza coalesced--almost as if
Durga's thinking about him had conjured him up out of thin air.

The High Priest bowed low to his Hutt overlord, but Durga didn't miss
the flash of something--something akin to smugness,-in his protuberant
eyes.

"Your Excellency, Lord Durga," the High Priest intoned.

"I bring most distressing news.  You must brace yourself, my Lord."

Durga glared at the image.  "Yes?"  he said.

"There was a terrorist attack here early this morning, just after
dawn," Teroenza said, wringing his little hands in distress.  "It was
that Bria Tharen and her band of Corellian Resistance fighters.  Red
Hand Squadron, they call themselves.  They stormed the Administration
Building, firing wildly.  I regret to tell you that your cousin, Lord
Kibbick, was caught in their fire, and killed."

"Kibbick is dead?"  Durga was taken aback.  He hadn't really expected
his cousin to be able to wrest control of Ylesia away from Teroenza,
but he'd never expected Kibbick to be killed.

Or, more accurately, murdered.

Durga knew Teroenza's story about Bria Tharen was a lie.  His sources
had assured him that Red Hand Squadron was clear on the other side of
the Outer Rim, and that they'd hit an Imperial outpost just
yesterday.

No ship in the universe could have reached Ylesia by dawn.

So Teroenza was lying .... However, the High Priest had no way of
knowing that Durga knew he was lying.  Durga considered how best he
could use this information to his advantage.  As he did so, he put a
hand up to his eyes, and bowed his head, feigning a grief he didn't
feel.  Kibbick had been an idiot, and the universe was well-rid of
him.

But Teroenza has sealed his own death warrant by this, Durga thought.

As soon as I embark for Ylesia with his successor, he is a dead t'landa
In a hushed voice, Durga gave Teroenza instructions regarding how he
wanted the body to be shipped home.  "It is plain," Durga concluded,
"that we must get you better guards there on Ylesia.  These Rebels must
not be allowed to raid with impunity."

Teroenza bowed again.  "I agree, Your Excellency.  Thank you for saying
you will send us help."

"It is the least I can do, under the circumstances," Durga said,
forcing himself to keep sarcasm from permeating his tones.  "Can you
manage for a few days without a Hutt overlord?"

"I can," Teroenza said.  "I shall exert every effort to make sure
business runs as smoothly as ever."

Thank you, Teroenza," Durga said, and cut the transmission.

He then spent several minutes giving Zier instructions on how to find

a replacement for Teroenza.  Fortunately, Zier was a capable
administrator, able to follow orders.

Then, and only then, did Durga turn to the figure who had been standing
in his office, patiently waiting, while he attended to business.

"Forgive me, Lady Guri,' Durga said, inclining his head to the lovely
young human female.  "I nearly forgot you were there.  Most humans are
incapable of waiting so patiently.  They fidget."

Guri bowed slightly in turn.  "I was specially trained, Your
Excellency.

Prince Xizor does not like fidgeting in his subordinates."

"Indeed," Durga said.  "As you can see, I have reviewed the information
you brought, and it confirms my suspicions.  Also, as you have seen, my
revenge upon Teroenza must wait for a more .  . . suitable .  . .
time.

But I intend to confront Jiliac immediately and challenge her to single
combat under the Old Law."

"The Old Law?"

"It is seldom invoked these days, but it is an ancient Hutt custom
that, given sufficient provocation, one Hutt clan leader may challenge
another to single combat without legal repercussions.  The victor is
presumed to be in the right."

"I understand, Your Excellency.  Prince Xizor informed me that this was
likely to be your reaction, as befits an honorable Hutt.  He instructed
me to accompany you, and to do everything in my power to facilitate
your search for justice."

Durga stared at her, wondering what one slightly built human female
could expect to accomplish against either Hutts or hordes of Desilijic
guards.

"You would go as my bodyguard?  But .  . ."

Guri smiled slightly.  "I am Prince Xizor's primary bodyguard, Your
Excellency.  I assure you that I can protect you from Jiliac's
guards."

Durga was tempted to say more, but something about Guri's demeanor
stopped him.  He knew she was Xizor's primary aide.  It made sense that
she would also be an accomplished assassin.  She must have abilities
that weren't readily apparent.  Certainly her manner was nothing but
confident.

"Very well," Durga said.  "Let us go."

They boarded Durga's shuttle, and the trip to the Desilijic enclave
took less than an hour by suborbital flight.

They landed on the island that contained Jiliac's Winter Palace, and
was the current home of the Desilijic clan.  Durga, with Guri at his
side, carrying a large box, slithered toward the entrance.  "Durga
Besadii Tai to see Jiliac Desilijic Tiron.  I bring a gift and request
a private audience."

The guards scanned both visitors and verified that they were
unarmed.

After a quick call, they were waved into the palace.  The majordomo, a
Rodian named Dorzo, accompanied them to the huge, almost bare, audience
chamber, then stepped inside, bowing.  "Lord Durga of Clan Besadii," he
announced.

Through the portal, Durga could see Jiliac doing some kind of work at a
datapad.  At the sight of his enemy, rage flooded the young Hutt's
body.  He quivered with blood lust.

Jiliac deliberately kept them waiting for nearly ten minutes.  Durga
tried to emulate Guri's stillness.  She really was a most unusual
human, he decided.

Finally, Jiliac nodded at Dorzo, then the Rodian bowed to the visitors
and proclaimed, "Her Supreme Excellency Jiliac, Leader of the Clan
Desilijic and protector of the Righteous, will see you now."

Durga started forward, with Guri pacing gravely beside him.  When they
reached Jiliac, the huge Hutt matron did not speak.  Since, by custom,
Durga could not speak until spoken to, because he was the visitor,
again they waited.

Finally Jiliac's massive bulk shifted.  "Greetings to Besadii," she
said.

"You have brought a gift, and that is fitting.  You may present it to
me."

Durga nodded at Guri, and the human advanced on the Desilijic leader
and laid the box before her, as the Desilijic leader hovered on her
repulsor sled.

The younger Hutt waved at the box.  "A gift for your Exaltedness.  A
token of Besadii's esteem and our hopes for your future, O Jiliac."

"We shall see .... "rumbled Jiliac.  She tore at the wrappings, and
then drew forth a large, very valuable piece of art.  It was a
deathmask from the islands of the remote world of Langoona.  The
natives carved these death-masks and decorated them with semiprecious
gems and inlays of silver, gold, platinum and iridescent shell-casings
from their warm seas.

Jiliac turned the mask around in her tiny hands, and at first Durga
thought she did not recognize its significance.  The Besadii leader
spared a glance to Guri, and, as they had agreed upon, the woman turned
and headed for the exit.  She would wait there for him, and make sure
he was not disturbed.  Durga turned his attention back to Jiliac, ready
to enlighten her as to exactly what her gift meant, then he saw her
entire huge body begin to tremble.

She glared at Durga.  "A death-mask from Langoona!"  Jiliac bellowed.

"And you call this a fitting gift?"

With a powerful swing of her small arm, Jiliac tossed the piece of art
into the air, then used her tail to bat it clear across the audience
chamber.  Striking the wall, it shattered, raining down in pieces.

"I call it entirely fitting, Jiliac," Durga gave no ground.  He
recited the formal words.  "Today I, Durga Besadii Tai, discovered that
you killed Aruk, my parent.  I challenge you under the Old Law.

Prepare to die."

Jiliac bellowed in rage and swung herself off her sled.  "You are the
one who will die, upstart!"  she growled, and sent her flexible tail
swooping up and around.

Durga dodged, but not quickly enough.  The tail slapped his back,
bruising him, almost knocking his wind out.  With all his strength,
Durga launched himself toward Jiliac, butting her as hard as he could
with his chest.

Jiliac was nearly twice Durga's size.  She was a middle-aged Hutt who
was reaching the corpulent stage.  Durga had one advantage--his youth
gave him speed.  But if she caught him with her full weight, even once,
the battle would be over, and he knew it.

Bellowing like two prehistoric leviathans, the two Hutts slammed at
each other, sometimes hitting, often missing.  They hurled themselves
against each other's chests, wrestling with their undersized arms, as
they sent their tails slamming into everything nearby.

Dorzo had long ago taken to his heels and gotten well out of range.

Kill...

kill... KILLKILLKILL!!  Durga's mind shrieked at him.  He was consumed
with rage.  Jiliac slammed him with her tail, nearly sending him
rolling over, then launched herself at him with a roar.  Durga barely
managed to wriggle out of the way before he could be crushed beneath
her massive midsection.

The younger Hutt dealt her a hard slap across the side of her head that
sent her reeling.  She came back at him with a tail-slap that missed,
making the entire room shake.

At first, Jiliac howled curses and threats, but within a few minutes,
she began panting too heavily, and saved her breath for battle.  The
Desilijic's sedentary lifestyle was catching up with her ....

If I can just outlast her .  . . Durga thought, and realized that was a
very big if.  . . .

Han Solo had been going over shipping manifests for the mines on Kessel
with Jabba when he, Chewie and Jabba all heard a loud thud, followed by
a bellow, then another series of thuds and muffled crashing sounds.

Human, Wookiee and Hutt looked at each other, startled.  "What's
that?"

Han wondered.

"My aunt must be having one of her temper tantrums," Jabba said.

Nearly a decade ago Han had witnessed one of Jiliac's notorious

tantrums, so he had no trouble believing that.  He started to go back
to work, when two bellows reached his ears.  One right after
another--in two different voices.

Jabba reared up in alarm.  "Come on!"

Han and Chewie jogged beside the Hutt as Jabba led them toward the
sounds.

He was amazed at how quickly Hutts could move when motivated.

When they reached Jiliac's audience chamber, a beautiful young blond
woman was standing in the doorway.  Han looked over her shoulder, and
saw Jiliac locked in mortal combat with a much smaller Hutt.  The
newcomer had a disfiguring birthmark that spread over his eye and down
his face.  The two creatures were bellowing and straining as they
butted their massive chests together.

As Han, Chewie and Jabba approached, the woman shook her head and put
up a hand to halt their progress.  "No," she said.  "Do not
interfere.

Durga has challenged Clan Leader to Clan Leader, under the Old Law."

To Han's surprise, Jabba did not bat the woman out of his way and go to
his aunt's aid.  Instead he inclined his head in the Hutt equivalent of
a bow.  "You must be Guri," he said.

"Yes, Your Excellency," she replied.

Just then a group of guards came stampeding up the corridor, forcepikes
ready.  Jabba whirled to block their way.  The Gamorreans blinked at
him in dull surprise.  "My aunt is having one of her temper fits," he
said.  "You are not needed."

The leader of the guards looked doubtful, but Jabba did not move, and
he could not see for himself what was going on.  He hesitated, his
porcine snout quivering with the urge to fight.

"I said, you are dismissed!"  Jabba bellowed, waving his arms at the
guards.  They turned, grunting and snorting, and went trotting back
down the hall.

Han glanced into the audience chamber and saw Jiliac bring her tail
down with stunning force.  The smaller Hutt barely managed to dodge out
of the way in time.  The Corellian looked at Jabba.  "You don't want to
stop it?"

Chewbacca echoed Han's question.

Jabba blinked at them, his bulbous eyes full of cunning.  "Durga is the
leader of Besadii clan," he said.  "Whichever of them wins, I win."

"But .  . ."  Han stammered, "I .  . . I thought you were fond of your
aunt."

Jabba looked at him as though he were a retarded Gamorrean child.  "I
am, Han," he said, gently.  "But this is business."

Han nodded and glanced at Chewie.  He shrugged.  "Sure.  Business."

"And, Han?"  "Yes, Jabba?"

The Hutt leader waved Han away.  "This is no place for a human, lad.

Wait for me at my palace.  I will join you later."

No place for a human?  Han wanted to say, but what about her?  He
glanced at the beautiful woman, and their eyes met.  Han stared at her
for a long second, and realized that there was something not right
about this woman Jabba called Guri.  She was perfect, but, after
looking into her eyes, Han realized that all his instincts were telling
him to give her a wide berth.

He would no more have put his arms around her than he would have
cuddled a deadly viper.

"Uh, yeah," he said.  "Later, Jabba.  C'mon, Chewie."

Turning, Han and the Wookiee hurried away without looking back.

Durga was getting desperate.  Despite his best efforts to wear Jiliac
down, exhaust her, the older Hutt was still fighting with grim
purpose.

She was much stronger and heavier than he was, and if just one of her
blows landed full-on, Durga knew he'd be little more than a grease spot
on the floor.

They rammed each other for the umpteenth time, their chests crashing
together with such force that Durga cried out.  He was bruised over
every centimeter of his body--he felt like a piece of dough, pounded
and rolled out to make flatbread.

The long fight had taken them clear around the huge chamber, as the
smashed furnishings and the holes in the walls testified.  Durga
suddenly realized they were approaching Jiliac's sled.  She must have
realized it, too, for suddenly she disengaged, and, wheeling around,
she glided toward the repulsor sled at her fastest speed, wheezing and
sobbing for breath.

Durga was right behind her, overhauling her.  It was obvious to him
that Jiliac intended to mount the sled, then use it as a battering ram
against him.  If she got atop it, he was finished!

He caught up to Jiliac, heading for the controls, only to gasp and
dodge as the Desilijic leader swept her tail in a hard arc under the
sled, aiming for his face.

Durga reacted without conscious thought.  Rolling forward onto his
chest, bracing himself on his hands, he flipped his tail up over the
top of

his head.  Aiming carefully, he aimed the tip-end of his tail on the
way down, sending it slamming into the "Power On" button on the sled,
depressing it.

The repulsor sled fell like a stone, straight down onto Jiliac's tail,
pinning it firmly.

Jiliac screeched with pain, struggling to yank her tail free.  As he
rolled back upright, Durga realized that she wasn't going to manage
that.

Wriggling backward, he positioned himself, then brought his tail down
on Jiliac's head with all his strength.

The Desilijic leader screamed.

Durga slammed into her head again.  And again .  . .

It took five hard blows to drive Jiliac into unconsciousness.  Die!  he
thought, walloping sodden flesh.  "Die!"  he bellowed.  "DIE!"

He wasn't sure when she died, actually.  At some point Durga became
aware he was pounding mindlessly on what was now a bloody, crushed ruin
of flesh and brain matter.  Jiliac's eyes were smashed holes, and her
slimy tongue lolled from her mouth.

Durga forced himself to halt, to look around.  At the entrance to the
room, Guri stood beside Jabba.  Somehow Xizor's assassin had prevented
the guards--and Jabba--from entering.  Whatever the young woman was,
she was more than she seemed, Durga decided, his mind dull with
exhaustion.

Moving as though he were nine hundred years old, Durga managed to haul
himself onto Jiliac's sled and activate it.  He was too tired to even
wriggle across the room.  He barely had the strength and mental
wherewithal to guide the sled.

He glided across the audience chamber, leaving the dead Jiliac sprawled
in his wake.

When Durga reached the entrance, he paused to confront Jabba.  The
Besadii figured that at the best of times, he might be evenly matched
with Jabba.

At the moment .  . . there was no way.

Guri stepped forward to bow slightly, respectfully.  "Congratulations
on the successful outcome of your challenge, Your Excellency."

Durga turned to regard the woman.  "Guri.  You are Prince Xizor's
assassin, correct?"

"I serve the Prince in whatever capacity I may," she said,
composedly.

"Could you kill a Hutt?"  Durga asked.  "Most certainly," she
replied.

"Then .  . . kill Jabba," Durga said.

Guri shook her head slightly.  "No, Your Excellency.  My orders were

to help you effect your revenge against Jiliac.  That is
accomplished.

We will leave now."

Durga made an abortive move toward Jabba, only to have Xizor's
assistant step between them, her unspoken message very clear.  "We will
leave now," she repeated.

Jabba moved aside to let them pass as Guri swung herself up nimbly onto
Jiliac's repulsor sled.  Hearing the pound of running feet, Durga saw
guards running toward them, but Jabba stopped them in their tracks with
a raised hand.

"I dismissed you earlier!"  he said.  "Now leave!"

The guards obeyed with alacrity.

Jabba looked at Guri.  "I did not want to lose them.  They are an
effective defense against most invaders."

Guri nodded, and sent the sled gliding away.  Durga glared balefully at
Jabba, but the last of his strength was gone.  He could only slump atop
the sled, too exhausted even to savor his victory ....

Jabba slowly approached his aunt's massive corpse.  He could scarcely
believe she was dead, and he knew he would miss her.  But, as he'd told
Han Solo, this was business.  For the good of Desilijic as well as his
own ....

The sight of the ruined, shapeless head actually had the power to turn
his stomach.  Jabba knew he wouldn't be hungry for a while.

He considered for a moment, wondering what should be his first actions,
now that he was the undisputed leader of Desilijic.  He'd likely be
summoned to appear before the Hutt Grand Council, but once they'd heard
that this was a Clan Leader Challenge under the Old Law, there would be
little they could say.

And, if asked, Jabba would tell them Jiliac had indeed caused Aruk to
be poisoned ....

Without warning, Jiliac moved.

Startled, Jabba jerked upright, incredulous.  She's coming back to
life!

She'll be angry--No--His hearts thudded wildly in shock.  What could be
happening?  There was no doubt his aunt was dead, no doubt at all-The
massive corpse moved again, and then Jiliac's baby slithered out of her
abdominal pouch.  Jabba relaxed.  I should have realized, he thought,
embarrassed by his momentary superstitious fear.

The little grub-like creature scooted forward, waving its little stubs,
gurgling mindlessly.

Jabba stared at it malevolently.  He knew he would be confirmed leader
of Desilijic no matter what, but why leave any loose ends?

Slowly, purposefully, he slithered toward his aunt's helpless offspring
....

The day after Durga defeated Jiliac, the Besadii leader was so stiff
and sore that he could barely move.  However, he managed to conceal his
pain when Teroenza called him, telling him that Kibbick's body had been
shipped home, per Durga's orders.

"Your Excellency," the High Priest said, "I need more guards, and
therefore I have taken the liberty of hiring some, at my own expense.

It is my hope that Besadii will reimburse me, but I must have
additional protection.  These Rebel raids cannot be countenanced."

"I understand," Durga said.  "I will attempt to get more guards."

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

When he cut the connection, Durga turned to Guri, who had just been
taking her leave of him.  "He is getting ready to make his move," Durga
said.  "He is preparing to make his break with Besadii."

Guri nodded.  "I believe you are correct, Lord Durga."

"Since the Ylesian troops may well be loyal to Teroenza," Durga said,
"I need some way to keep the High Priest in line until I can replace
him.

Thus I have a request for your master, Prince Xizor."

"Yes, Lord Durga?"

"I ask you to convey to him my request that he grant me some military
aid.

If he would send troops to Ylesia, that would ease the transition-allow
me to get rid of Teroenza, while keeping the Sacredots and Pilgrims
content.

I know that the prince has extensive resources and several mercenary
units at his command.  With an effective, modern fighting force on the
planet, there is no way that Teroenza's guards would dare mount an
armed challenge."  He faced her squarely, despite the pain of his
bruised body.

"Will you ask him for me, Guri?  Explain the situation?"

"I will," Guri said.  "However, His Highness rarely dispatches troops
except to protect his own interests."

"I know that," Durga said dolefully.  He didn't like what he was about
to say, but better this than to lose everything.  "In return for his
support, tell your prince that I will offer him a percentage of this
year's Ylesian profits."

Guri nodded.  "I will convey your proposition, Lord Durga.  You will be
hearing from His Highness."  She bowed slightly.  "And now .  . . I
take my leave of you, Your Excellency."

Durga nodded as well as he could with his aching, stiff neck.

"Farewell, Guri."

"Farewell, Lord Durga."

Bria Tharen was working in her office aboard her Marauder corvette,
Retribution, when Jace Paol appeared on the holocomm.  "Commander, we
have an incoming message for you, your private code, on a very secure
channel."

"HQ?"  she said.

"No, Commander.  This is a civ transmission."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise.  "Really?"  Not many outsiders had
her private code.  A few of the Intelligence operatives--Barid
Mesoriaam and others of his ilk--but they would hardly contact her this
directly.  "Well .  . . patch it through to me here, please."

Moments later, a small image formed atop her comm unit.

Bria stared in surprise.  A Hutt?  The only Hutt who had her private
code was Jabba, so this must be he .  . . though Hutts looked alike to
her, especially in a fuzzy holo-message.  She spoke to the image.

"Jabba?  Is that you, Your Excellency?"

"It is I, Commander Tharen," the Hutt replied.

"Yes .  . . well .  . . to what do I owe the pleasure of this call,
Your Excellency?"

The Hutt leader inclined his head slightly.  "Commander Tharen, I ask
that you come to Nal Hutta immediately.  I am now the leader of Clan
Desilijic, since my aunt's unfortunate demise.  We must talk."

Bria caught her breath.  It had been only a month since her interview
with Desilijic.  And now Jiliac was dead?

She decided she didn't want to know.  Bowing her head respectfully, she
said, "I will come immediately, Your Excellency.  I take it you wish to
re-open our negotiation regarding the Ylesian enterprise?"

"Yes," said Jabba.  "I have begun placing operatives on Ylesia to take
care of the t'landa Til.  I am ready to proceed with the Ylesian
raid.

It is time to put an end to Besadii's economic tyranny."

"I'll be there in two days," Bria promised.

twelve

Ice...

Five days after Jiliac's death, Han Solo and Chewbacca visited Han's
favorite tavern in the Corellian section of Nar Shaddaa.  The Blue
Light didn't serve food, only liquor, and it was just a little hole in
the wall, but Han liked the place.  There were holo-posters on the wall
that depicted famous landmarks on Corellia.  And the management served
Han's favorite brand of Alderaanian ale.

The bartender, Mich Flenn, was an aging Corellian who had been a
smuggler until he'd accrued enough credits to buy the bar.  Han enjoyed
hearing his yarns about the old days, though he had to take everything
the old geezer said with a big grain of salt.  After all, who ever
heard of sentients with strange powers who could leap ten meters into
the air and turn somersaults, or project blue lightning from their
fingertips?

Han and Chewie stopped by there most evenings.  This particular one,
they were standing at the bar, side by side, sipping their drinks,
listening to another of Mich's tall tales.  The Corellian was dimly
aware that someone came in during the story and stood beside him, but
he did not turn to glance at the newcomer.

Mich's tale was a long one, wilder than ever, about a sentient tree
that had once been a powerful sorcerer, and a race of beings who
transferred their essence into battle-droids in order to become the
perfect fighting force.

Finally Mich ran down, and Han shook his head.  "Mich, that was a real
doozy.  You oughta write all the stories down and sell 'em to the

tridee producers.  They're always lookin' for crazy stuff like that
for their shows."

Chewie voiced an emphatic agreement.

Mich grinned at Han, then began polishing a glass industriously and
addressed the newcomer.  "And what will you have, pretty lady?"

Han reflexively glanced to his right to see the person Mich was
addressing--and froze, startled.

Bria!

At first he told himself he was seeing things, that it was just a
chance resemblance, then he heard her speak in that low, slightly husky
voice he remembered.  "Just some Vishay water, please, Mich."

It's her.  Bria.  It's really her.

Slowly she turned her head, and their gazes locked.  Han's heart was
hammering, though he was pretty sure his face was under control.  All
those sabacc games had taught him something.

She hesitated, then said, "Hi, Han."

He wet his lips.  "Hi, Bria."  He stared at her, then a sudden movement
from Chewie made him remember his partner.  "And this is Chewbacca, my
partner."

"Greetings, Chewbacca," she said carefully, speaking in almost passable
Wookiee---obviously she'd been coached by Ralrracheen.  "I am honored
to meet you."

The Wookiee voiced an uncertain greeting, obviously wondering what was
going on.  "Uh," Han said, "long time no see."

She nodded gravely at the ridiculous understatement.  "I came to see
you," she said.  "Could we sit down and talk for a minute?"

Han's emotions were mixed, to say the least.  Part of him wanted to
take her in his arms and kiss her until she was breathless, another
part wanted to shake her while screaming curses and accusations at
her.

Still another part wanted to just turn around and walk away, prove to
her that she meant nothing to him--nothing!

But he found himself nodding.  "Sure."  As he moved to pick up his mug,
Chewie laid a hand on his arm, and growled softly at him.

Han gazed up at his partner, grateful for Chewbacca's sensitivity.  He
would rather talk to Bria by himself.  "Okay, pal.  I'll see you at
home, later on."

Chewie gave Bria a nod, then left the Blue Light.  Picking up his mug
of ale, Han led the way to a booth in the rear of the dimly lit, nearly
empty bar.

Watching Bria approach and then slide in opposite him, he got a good
look at her for the first time.  She was wearing tan fatigues, military
in

style, though they bore no insignia or indications of rank.  Her hair
was pulled up and slicked back in a severe style.  Han couldn't decide
whether it was cropped short, or just worn in a tight bun.

She wore no jewelry.  A well-worn BlasTech DL-18 (Han's own weapon of
choice was the heavier BlasTech DLo44) in a tie-down holster rode her
right thigh, low down, the way he liked to wear his own.  Her gunbelt
was studded with extra power paks and bore a vibro-blade in a sheath.

From the slight bulge in the top of her boot, Han was willing to bet
she had an auxiliary weapon cached there· As she sat there, regarding
him, Han struggled to find words, but all he could do was look at her,
hardly able to believe she was actually there, that this wasn't some
dream--or nightmare.

She was staring at him, too, her eyes searching his features.  Bria
started to speak, stammered, and then took a deep breath.  "I'm sorry,"
she said.

"For startling you.  I should have said something, but my mind went
blank.  There didn't seem to be anything I could say."

"You came here looking for me?"  Han asked· "Yes.  When I saw your
friend last month, he said this was one of your favorite hangouts· I
.

. . I took a chance you'd be here tonight."  "You're here on Nar
Shaddaa on business?"

"Yes.  Staying in those rooms above the Smuggler's Rest·" She smiled
wryly.

"It's even sleazier than that place we stayed that night on
Coruscant."

Han's dazed brain was slowly beginning to function again, and his anger
was building.  He remembered that sleazy little hotel on Coruscant.

That had been their last night together.  He remembered falling asleep
· .  . and he remembered waking up alone, abandoned.

Suddenly his hand shot out, and he grabbed her wrist tightly, feeling
the shock of touching her flesh throughout his body.  Her slender bones
felt so delicate in his hand .  . . as though he could just snap
them.

And he was almost angry enough to try.  "Why?"  he said.  "Why, Bria?

You think you can just walk back up to me a decade later?  You gotta
lot of nerve!"

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing.  "Han, let go of me."

"No," he gritted.  "I'm not lettin' you go running off and leaving me
with no answers this time!"

Han wasn't sure exactly what she did--some unarmed combat trick, but
there was a sudden twist, a jab in a nerve, and abruptly her hand was
free, and his own was throbbing.  He looked down at it, feeling his
eyes widen, and then back up at her.  "You've changed," he said.  "You
have

really changed."  He wasn't sure whether it was a compliment or an
accusation.

"I had to change--or die," she said, flatly.  "And don't worry, I'm not
going to jump up and run away.  I need to talk to you, and that's
exactly what I'm going to do.  If you'll listen."

He nodded, grudgingly.  "Okay.  I'm listening."

"First of all, let me tell you that I'm sorry for the way I left you.

I'm sorry about a lot of things in my life, but that's the one I regret
most," she said.  "But I had to do it.  Otherwise you'd have never made
it through the Academy."

"Fat lot of good it did me," Han said, bitterly.  "I got cashiered less
than a year after getting my commission.  Cashiered and blacklisted."

"For rescuing a Wookiee slave," she said, and smiled at him--a smile
that made his heart lurch.  "I was so proud when I found that out,
Han."

an wanted to smile back, but the anger was still in control, and he
found himself saying, "I don't want you to be proud of me.  I owe you
nothin', sister.  I did it all on my own."

He could tell that gibe hurt her.  Color stained her cheeks, and her
eyes flashed, then, for a moment, it almost seemed as though she were
fighting back tears.  Then her face was under control again, cold and
chiseled.  "I know that," she said quietly.  "But I was still proud."

"I hear you got a real thing for Wookiees yourself," Han said, and the
edge in his voice was sharp enough to draw blood.  "Or so Katarra and
Ralera told me."

"You were there?  On Kashyyyk?"  She smiled.  "I helped to organize the
Resistance group there."

"Yeah, I hear you're some kinda officer in the Corellian Resistance,"
Han said.

"I'm a commander," she confirmed, quietly.

Han slanted her a look.  "Well, now, that's impressive, ain't it?  For
a scared kid who'd never fired a blaster, you've come a long way,
Bria."

"I just did what I had to along the way," she said.  "Promotions come
fast in the Resistance.  You should think about joining up, Han."

It was said lightly, but some nuance in her tone told Han she wasn't
kidding.  "No thanks, sister," he said.  "I've seen the Imp forces up
close and personal.  No way your Rebellion's got a chance against
them."

She shrugged.  "We have to try.  Otherwise the Emperor is going to
swallow us all whole.  He's evil, Han.  I think he engineered that
whole business with the Battle of Nar Shaddaa just to get rid of Sam
Shild."

"Oh, yeah," Han said.  "Good old Sam Shild.  'Darling' Shild, wasn't
it?  You made such a cute couple."

She winced at the sarcasm.  "As I explained to Lando, that wasn't what
it looked like."

"It looked pretty bad, Bria," Han said.  "Not one of my better days,
you know?  To see you there, cooing at him .  . ."

Her lips tightened.  "I was on assignment.  I know how it looked, but
Shild wasn't interested in me that way.  I was lucky.  But I've done
things for the Resistance I didn't much like .  . . and I'll do them
again if I have to.  Whatever it takes."

Han was mulling over what she'd said.  "You really think the whole
invasion of Hutt space was something the Emperor engineered?  But Shild
did it!  How is that possible?"

"I was with him, Han, and something very strange was going on, believe
me," Bria said.  "Shild changed, Han.  It was scary.  Between one month
and the next, he became a different man.  Suddenly he was plotting to
take over Hutt space, and started talking about overthrowing the
Emperor."

Han shook his head.  "That's crazy."

"I know.  I can't account for it, except .  . ."  she hesitated.  "If I
tell you, you'll think I'm losing it."

"What?  Tell me."

She took a deep breath.  "They say the Emperor has .  . . abilities.

That he can influence people to do things.  Some kind of mental
influence."

"Like mindreading?"

"I don't know," she said.  "Maybe.  I know it sounds impossible, but
that's the only explanation I can come up with that makes sense.  Shild
was popular and ambitious and corrupt, and he posed a threat to the
consolidation of power.  So the Emperor just .  . . encouraged .  , .

Shild's ambition until he destroyed himself with that assault on Nal
Hutta."

Han frowned.  "What about Greelanx?  How did he figure into the plan?

And who killed him?  I kept expecting them to pin it on me, but they
just hushed it up.  I never heard anything about it on the news."  Han
repressed a shudder at the memory of standing in that locked room next
to Greelanx's office and listening to that loud, uncanny breathing,
that heavy, ominous tread ....

Bria leaned forward, and, unconsciously, Han did too.  Her voice
dropped to a whisper, a bare thread of sound.  "They say it was .  .
.

Vader."

Han was whispering too.  "Vader?  You mean Darth Vader?"

She nodded.  "Darth Vader.  He's the Emperor's..."  She hesitated,
searching fora term.  "... enforcer."

Han sat back.  He'd heard of the guy, but he'd never encountered
him.

"Huh," he said.  "Well, I'm just glad they didn't try and finger yours
truly."

Bria nodded.  "Rebel intelligence later discovered that Admiral
Greelanx was under Imperial orders to make the attack fail.  The Hutt
bribe was incidental.  My guess is that it was all a set-up from the
beginning, part of an Imperial plan to discredit and eliminate Shild.

And to hurt Desilijic and the smugglers.  You'll notice that Besadii,
who supplies the Empire with slaves, wasn't affected."

Han thought it over.  "It still sounds crazy, but you do hear things
about the Emperor.  Spooky things.  I always just dismissed them as
people being hysterical."  He laughed shortly and took a swig of his
ale.  "Pretty scary .  . . if it's true."

She shrugged.  "Neither of us will probably ever know.  But this is
ancient history, now.  Not what I came to talk to you about.  Han, I--"
Bria's low-voiced conversation broke off as a couple of smugglers slid
into the booth opposite theirs.  Han looked around.  "Place is filling
up," he said.  "Want to get outta here?"

She nodded.  Han followed her out onto the street, and they walked
briskly, without talking, until they were on a quieter side street.

The glidewalk was broken, and there were few sentients around.  Han
looked at her.  "You were saying?"

She looked over at him.  "Han, I need your help."

He recalled what Jabba had told him.  "With the assault on Ylesia?"

She nodded and smiled.  "Quick as ever.  Yes.  Jabba's bankrolling
us.

We're going to take the whole planet, Han."

Now it was Han's turn to shrug.  "Not my problem, sister.  I've
changed, too.  I ain't in the charity business.  I only play for
profit, these days.

I don't stick my neck out for anyone."

She nodded.  "So I hear.  I'm not asking for charity.  It's profit I'm
talking about.  More credits than you'd make on a hundred smuggling
runs."

"What do you want from me, then?"  Han realized that his anger at her
was building, though he wasn't quite sure why.  It was almost as though
he'd have been happier if she had asked him to help her for old times'
sake, or something.  But that didn't make any sense.

"The Rebel Alliance is still very new, Han," she said.  "Our people
have guts and loyalty, but most of them aren't seasoned fighters.  My
own Red Hand Squadron has experience, but we can't handle this job all
by ourselves."

Han stared at her in surprise and more than a little unease.  "Red
Hand Squadron?  You command Red Hand Squadron?"

She nodded.  "It's a good group.  We've seen some action."

"I've heard of it," Han said.  "I've heard you give no quarter to
slavers."

She shrugged and didn't answer.  "Anyway, as I was saying, the
Resistance needs help to get us down through the Ylesian atmosphere.

Experienced pilots to guide our ships in.  Maybe some help with the
fighting, but, let's face it, you've seen the Ylesian defenses.  A
bunch of Gamorreans and other losers who sleep on duty.  It's not the
ground assault I'm worried about, it's their blasted atmosphere.  The
Corellian Resistance has already lost one ship there."

Han nodded.  He was mad clear through, but he was hiding it well.  He
wanted to hear the whole thing before he let her have it.  "That
atmosphere is tricky, all right.  But the average smuggler pilot has
dealt with worse.  So .  . . you need pilots to guide your ships in,
maybe provide some armed backup.  In return for what?"

"Spice, Han.  You know that Besadii has been stockpiling it.  Choice
andris, ryll, carsunum, and, of course, glitterstim.  They've been
trying to drive the prices way up, and there are warehouses stuffed
full of it.  We'll split the take with the smugglers."

Han nodded at her.  "Go on .... " She looked at him.  "And for you and
me .  . . there will be Teroenza's treasure room.  Picture how much
he's added over ten years.  Hundreds of thousands of credits worth of
antiquities.  He's bound to have maybe a million credits worth of
stuff.., maybe two.  Think about it."  "How many troops do you have?"

"I'm not sure yet.  I have to report back to our command ship for this
sector.  We've asked for aid from any Resistance group that wants to
help, particularly the Bothans and the Sullustans--there are a lot of
Sullustans and Bothans on Ylesia.  We figure they may want to be part
of the rescue."

"And you're going to free the slaves."

"We'll take them along with our share of the spice.  And before we
leave, we'll reduce those factories to slag, along with everything
else.  We're going to shut that hellhole planet down for good."

Han considered.  "What about the priests?  The Exultation could be a
powerful weapon.  I've seen it knock people on their butts who weren't
expecting it."

She nodded.  "Jabba's taking care of them.  They'll be assassinated
before we ever land."

Han looked at her, and felt cold rage wash through him.  How dare

she?  Come back and ask me to get involved with her little revenge
scheme?

"You'd better get your timing down pat."

"Yes," she agreed.  "This will be the biggest military operation the
new Alliance has ever tried.  We hope to get recruits from it, as well
as the spice.  Financing a revolution is an expensive proposition."

"Ambitious," Han said, dryly.  "Why not just attack Coruscant if you
want to commit suicide?"

"It's doable," she insisted.  "Ylesia isn't that heavily guarded.  Han,
you were there.  Remember?  Oh, I'm sure we'll encounter some
resistance, but my people can deal with that.  Your friends can stay
out of the shooting until we secure the place.  The combat experience
will be good for our troops.  If we can pull this off, it will be an
example to inspire other planets to join the Alliance.  Our only hope
of defeating the Empire is if we unite."

Han looked at her.  "And this is why you came to me.  To get me to
contact the smugglers for you, encourage 'em to join up with the
Resistance for this little mission."

"Lando told me that you and Mako Spince are people they'll listen to.

I knew you.  I don't know Spince."

Han finally let his impassive mask drop, and glared at her.  "So what
you're sayin' is that you dump me ten years ago, ignore me that whole
time, and then you come back thinkin' I'll help you put my friends'
lives in danger.  I don't trust you, Bria.  I've heard about Red Hand
Squadron, all right.  You ain't the woman I used to know, and that's
plain."

"I have changed," she said, her eyes holding his.  "I admit it.  So
have you."

"Lando told me you still cared about me," Han said, coldly.  "I think
you were lyin' to him, plannin' even then to use me.  You don't give a
hoot about me--about anything we used to have.  You only care about
your revolution, and you don't care who you walk over to reach your
goal."  He snorted.  "And all that bilge about Sarn Shild .  . .
sure.

Right.  You expect me to believe a man like that would keep you around
if you weren't--weren't--a--" Han finished with a word in Rodian used
for the lowest class of streetwalker.

Bria's mouth dropped open and her hand found the grip of her blaster.

Han tensed, ready to go for his own, but her eyes suddenly flooded with
tears .  . . and he knew then she wouldn't draw.  "How dare you?"

"I dare a lot these days, sister," Han said.  "And I say what I
think.

I dare to think you're a real lowlife comin' back here this way.  You
can

forget sucking me in again with your pretty face.  I've changed, all
right.

I've gotten smart--smart enough to see right through you."

"Fine," she said, blinking back the tears.  "You just turn your back on
both me and a fortune.  I don't call that smart, Han.  I call it
stupid.  And the idea that a drug runner is putting on moral airs is
really laughable, you know?"

"I'm a smuggler," Han shouted.  "We have our own code!"

"Yeah, running drugs for Hutts!"  she was yelling too.  "You and
Jabba!

Birds of a feather!"

The idea that she would class him with the Hutts was the last straw.

Han spun around and started to walk away.

"Fine!"  she cried.  "I'll go see Mako Spince, that's what I'll do.  He
can't be as dumb as you!"

Her unwitting pun made Han laugh nastily.  "Fine," he snarled, not
turning around.  "Have fun gettin' him to talk.  Goodbye, Bria."

He strode away from her, his bootheels clicking against the permacrete,
his head high.  It felt good to leave her standing there, looking after
him.

It felt real good ....

Durga faced Prince Xizor's image on his comm unit.  "Guri has explained
your difficulty," the prince said.  "I will dispatch two companies of
mercenaries under the capable command of Willum Kamaran to Ylesia.

Commander Kamaran's Nova Force will help you keep Teroenza in line
until he can be dealt with.  Which should be speedily, my friend."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Durga said.  "As Guri may have told you, I
will share the profits from Ylesia with you this year, to recompense
you for your help.  Fifteen percent."

The Falleen prince's mouth curved down, and he shook his head sadly.

"Durga, Durga .  . . I thought you had some respect for me.  Thirty
percent for the next two years."

Durga batted his bulbous eyes in disbelief.  Worse than I ever
imagined!  He drew himself up.  "Your Highness, if I granted you that,
I would be deposed as leader of Besadii."

"But if you do not have my troops in place, and soon, you will lose
Ylesia altogether," the prince pointed out, truthfully.

"Twenty percent, one year," Durga said, feeling actual pain as he spoke
the words.  "They will not have to be there long, remember."

"Thirty percent, two years," the head of Black Sun said.  "I do not
negotiate."

Durga drew a deep breath, feeling the ghosts of bruises and injuries
from his battle with Jiliac awaken.  "Very well," he said, sullenly.

Xizor smiled pleasantly.  "Fine.  The mercenaries will embark as soon
as possible for Ylesia.  It is a pleasure doing business with you, my
friend."

It took every bit of willpower Durga could summon to say, "Very well,
Your Highness.  Thank you."

He cut the connection and slumped in despair, imagining what Aruk would
say to all of this.  I'm trapped, he thought.  trapped.  All I can do
is try to make the best of it....

Han did not sleep well that night.  Thoughts of Bria and her
proposition raced through his mind like an asteroid on a collision
course.  I can't trust her.., can I?  I don't want to see her.., do
I?

He dozed, and dreamed of mounds of glitterstim, which mutated without
warning into piles of credits.  He leaped into those piles, rolled
around in them, shouting joyfully, and suddenly Bria was there with
him, and he was holding her, rolling over with her, kissing her in the
midst of piles and piles and piles of credits .  . . more wealth than
he'd ever imagined ....

He jerked awake with a gasp, and then lay there, his arms behind his
head, staring into the darkness.

Maybe I ought to do it, he thought.  This might be my big chance to
make that big stake.  I could get out .  . . make a bundle, and
retire.

Find myself a nice little place in the Corporate Sector and just let
the Empire go to blazes all by itself....

He lay there, tossing and turning, punching his pillows in frustration,
until he could stand it no longer.  Swinging out of bed, he headed into
the 'fresher, then dragged on clean clothes.  He also combed his hair,
reflecting ruefully that the haircut had gone beyond the realm of
"should get one" to "want to be mistaken for Chewie's cousin?"

Then, carrying his boots, he tiptoed out through the dark, silent
apartment, not wanting to wake Chewie, or Jarik, who was sleeping on
the couch.  He was almost at the door when he stubbed his toe on
something unyielding and heard a plaintive electronic bleat.

ZeeZee!  Han dropped his boots, swore aloud, then snarled at the
antiquated droid, who was babbling apologies in its twittering,
querulous voice.

"Shut up!"  Han snarled, and slammed out the door.  He was back a
second later to collect his boots, and then gone again.  The Smuggler's
Rest was on the border of the Corellian section.  Han

arrived there before the place was even open, and had to buzz for the
night-clerk.  It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know what name
Bria had registered under, but he'd barely begun to describe her, when
the bored clerk brightened.  "Oh her," he said, licking his lips.  "She
expecting you, buddy?"

"Let's just say she'll be glad to see me," Han said, sliding a credit
piece across the counter.

"Okay, sure.  Room 7A."

Han went up in the ancient turbolift, and then walked down the dark,
noisome hallway.  He tapped on the door.  Moments later, he heard her
voice, sounding wide-awake.  "Who's there?"

"It's me, Bria.  Han," he said.

There was a long pause, then the locks clicked and the door swung open
into the darkness.  "Come in with your hands up," Bria's voice said.

Han walked in as directed, and only when the door was closed behind him
did the lights come on.  He turned to find Bria wearing a nightshirt
that was too short for her, her blaster in her hand.  "What do you
want?"  Her voice was anything but friendly.

Han found it hard not to look at her long, shapely legs.  "Uh .  . .

just wanted to talk to you.  I've .  . . I'm .  . . reconsidering your
proposition."

"You are, eh?"  She still didn't look friendly, but at least she
lowered the gun.  "Okay, give me a minute."

Grabbing her clothes, she disappeared into the 'fresher, and came out
again a minute later, fully clothed, down to her boots.

Han nodded down at her right leg.  "What's in the boot?"

"Hold-out blaster," she said, with a small, feral smile.  "A nice
little ladies' model."

"I see," Han said.  He sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed, feeling
her warmth still amid the covers.  Bria sprawled in the room's single
chair.

"You go lookin' for Mako after we .  . . parted?"

"I made some inquiries," she said, and her mouth twisted.  "Found out
why you were laughing when you walked away."

"Yeah," Han said.  "Tough break for Mako.  I don't know what he'll do
now."

He cleared his throat.  "Anyhow, I didn't come here to talk about
Mako.

I've been thinking about your offer.  Maybe I was too hasty.  Let's
face it .  . . I was sore about the way you dumped me.  I had to get
that outta my system, maybe."

He hesitated, and she stared at him.  Her hair was hanging in wisps
around her face, and Han was glad to realize that it wasn't all
chopped

off.  She must have had it up in a tight bun earlier.  She waved at
him.  "Go on."

"So, uh .  . . yeah.  Maybe I shot my mouth off a little, earlier," Han
admitted.  "Wouldn't be the first time."

She widened her eyes.  "No!  You can't mean it!"

Han resolutely ignored the sarcasm.  "Anyhow .  . . it won't happen
again.

So .  . . I want in.  I'll give my friends your proposition, and help
train your pilots how to deal with the Ylesian atmosphere.  I'll bet
some of the privateers would also want in.  I'll talk to 'em in return
for what you promised me.  Fifty percent of Teroenza's treasure room,
or seventy-five thousand credits worth of the spice, whichever is
more."

She considered.  "And you'll be civil?"

"Yeah," Han said.  "I'm always civil to business partners.  And that's
all this is.  Just .  . . business."

Bria nodded.  "It's a deal."  She leaned forward and offered her
hand.

"Just business."

Han took it, reflecting that she had a grip many men would envy.

"Okay."

thirteen

. . . and Fire

Durga activated his comm system, and keyed in the codes his parent had
given him years ago.  He wondered if they'd still be the correct
ones.

This was a very important call ....

The connection took several minutes to establish, and it was not a good
one.  His party must be a long way from the Outer Rim ....

Finally, the picture coalesced.  The holo-image of the most famous
bounty hunter in the galaxy appeared .  . . wavering, all the edges
fuzzy.  But Durga could hear Fett's mechanically filtered tones
clearly.

"Boba Fett, it is I, Durga, Lord of Besadii," the Hutt said.

"Greetings."

"Lord Durga," the flat voice conveyed nothing .  . . not interest,
surprise or eagerness.  Nothing.  "I am a long way from the Outer
Rim.

What is it?"

"I wish you to take on a Priority bounty," Durga said.  "The situation
is very delicate, potentially volatile.  That is why I need you.  I
know that you perform exactly as you specify you will.  There can be no
mistakes in this case.  I need the best."

Boba Fett inclined his head.  "You are willing to pay the extra for a
Priority bounty?  I must be adequately recompensed for turning my
attention away from other assignments and concentrating solely on
yours."

"Yes, yes, I am," Durga said.  "The bounty is on the High Priest of
Ylesia, Teroenza.  I am willing to pay the sum of two hundred thousand
credits."

"Not enough.  Three hundred thousand," Boba Fett said.  "And I will
head back for the Outer Rim immediately."

Durga hesitated, then nodded, "Very well.  The timing here is
crucial.

I wish to have you bring me Teroenza's horn as proof of his death.  But
you must wait to make the kill until I have left Nal Hutta and am
within five hours of landing on Ylesia.  You must kill Teroenza in such
a way that none of the other t'landa Til will know of his death for
some hours.  Otherwise, if the other priests discover that their leader
has been killed, they may try to stage a revolt.  Understood?"

"Affirmative.  Contact you and confirm the timing before making the
kill.

Make sure no other t'landa Til realize that he is dead."

"Correct."  Durga than recited his ship ID codes, and Fett assured him
that he had them.

"I would like to remind you of the terms regarding a Priority bounty,"
Fett said.  "I will concentrate on reaching the target you have
specified, and will take no other bounties until I have delivered the
High Priest's horn to you.  And the Priority bounty for Teroenza is
three hundred thousand."

"Correct," Durga confirmed.

"Fett out."

The fuzzy holo-image of the armor-clad bounty hunter rippled, then
vanished.

Durga then activated his comm for local frequencies, so he could check
in with Zier.  His Hutt lieutenant had assured him that he had narrowed
the search for Teroenza's successor down to three t'landa Til.  Durga
would go to interview them personally, and select the new High Priest
of Ylesia.

Durga ruminated about how pleasant it would be to have the bloody horn
of the High Priest in his two dainty hands.  Perhaps he'd have it
mounted, and hang it on his wall ....

Over the next two days, Bria Tharen and Han Solo traveled around Nar
Shaddaa together, recruiting smugglers and privateers to serve as pilot
guides and--in the case of the privateers--potential backup for her
Ylesian operation.  They stressed the easy pickings to be had on
Ylesia, the wealth of spice stockpiled by Besadii.

Both were careful to stick by their "just business" agreement, but Bria
sensed a growing tension in Han, and knew that it reflected her own
feelings.

He told her about what he'd been doing for the past ten years, and

she told him a little about her life with the Resistance.  She
explained to him that after leaving him on Coruscant, she'd wandered
from world to world, constantly fighting her craving for the
Exultation.  "Two times I actually bought a ticket and stood in line to
board a ship back to Ylesia," she said.  "And both times when it came
down to it, I just couldn't.  I stepped out of line and went off and
collapsed."

Finally, she'd found a group on Corellia that had helped her deal with
her addiction, helped her realize why she felt so empty, so driven.

"It took me months of hard digging into myself," she said.  "Months to
figure out why I wanted to hurt myself.  I finally got it through my
head that just because my mother hated and despised me for not being
what she wanted me to be, I didn't have to hate myself.  I didn't have
to destroy myself in some twisted attempt to please her."

Han, remembering Bria's mother, gave her a sympathetic glance.  "I used
to feel cheated that I'll never know who my parents were.  That is ·
.

. until I met your mom, Bria," he said.  "There are worse things than
being an orphan."

She gave a shaky laugh.  "You are right, Han."

Many smugglers and privateers were very intrigued by Bria's
proposition, and they signed up droves of them.  It didn't hurt that
Jabba was backing the enterprise and urging those who piloted for him
to go.  Many of the pilots who'd worked for him in some capacity were
agreeing to be pilot guides.

All the while, the Rebel Alliance was assembling ships out in space so
the captains and ground commanders could be drilled on the battle
plan.

After Bria and Han had recruited enough smuggler captains so they'd
have at least one smuggler per group of Rebel assault ships, they took
the Millennium Falcon to rendezvous at the Rebel deep space
coordinates--a spot well off the regular shipping lanes, but within one
easy hyperspace jump of Ylesia.

Bria was fascinated by the Falcon and suitably impressed by her speed
and armament.  Han enjoyed showing her around his ship, pointing out
all his special modifications.  In preparation for this ground assault,
he'd finally gotten around to getting Shug and Chewie to help him
install that belly gun he'd wanted for so long.  Since this was a
ground assault, there was a good chance that it would come in handy.

When the Falcon was on an approach vector to dock with the Retribution,
Bria smiled at Han.  "You showed me yours .  . . now let me show you
mine," she said.

Han laughed, and it was the most relaxed moment they'd had since

they'd met.  "Beautiful ship," he said, admiring the Marauder
corvette's clean, streamlined silhouette against the starfield.

They were greeted when they disembarked by the captain of the
Retribution, Tedris Bjalin.  Han regarded him in astonishment.

"Tedris!"  he exclaimed, staring at the tall, balding man in the Rebel
uniform.  "How in the galaxy did you get here?"

Bria looked from one to the other.  "You know each other?"

"We sure do," Han said, pumping Tedris's hand, and exchanging
backslaps.

"Tedris and I graduated in the same class in the Academy."

"It's a long story," Bjalin said.  "After what you said to me that time
aboard the Destiny, I couldn't help thinking more and more about how
the service was getting as corrupt as the Empire.  And then .  . ."

his bony features twisted.  "Han, I'm from Tyshapahl, remember?"

Han had forgotten.  He stared at his old friend, realization slowly
dawning.  "Oh .  . . Tedris .  . . I'm sorry.  Your family?"  The
Corellian had met Tedris's family, during graduation.

"Killed during the massacre," Tedris confirmed.  "After that, I
couldn't stay.  I knew I had to fight them, any way I could."

Han nodded.

Bria took Han on a tour of her ship.  He was seeing yet another side of
her, and, as an ex-military man himself, was impressed by the
discipline and alertness of her troops.  The sentients of Red Hand
Squadron obviously revered their commander.  Han discovered that many
of them were ex-slaves, people willing to give their lives to the
mission of freeing those in bondage.

Bria took Han to meet with other Rebel Commanders, and they attended
several planning sessions for the raid.  The Bothans were providing
security, and the Sullustans had sent ten ships and nearly two hundred
troops.  In the years since Han and Bria had left Ylesia, Sullust had
lost many citizens who had gone to Ylesia to become Pilgrims.

In addition to many ships from the Corellian Resistance, there were
troops from Alderaan (though much of the Alderaanian support was in the
form of medical personnel, transport pilots, and other non-combatants)
and Chandrila.  "It was hard to convince the Alliance that this could
be done," Bria confided to Han.  "But it's become brutally apparent
that our troops need combat experience.  I was able to convince HQ that
this raid would help the troops gain the confidence to start going up
against the Imperials."

All of the Rebel ships from the Outer Rim had been detailed to the
raid.

Han surveyed the gathering fleet, and conceded that maybe they did have
a chance.  He wound up giving a number of briefings to the Rebel

pilots who'd be flying the Rebel assault landing shuttles into the
Ylesian atmosphere.

During his first such briefing, Han ran into yet another old friend.

"Jalus!"  he exclaimed, as the small, droopy-jowled Sullustan trooped
into the Retribution's briefing area.  "What the heck are you doin'
here?"

Jalus Nebl pointed to his ragtag Rebel uniform.  "What does it look
like?"  he squeaked.  "The Ylesian Dream is now Dream of Freedom, and
she's served the Rebellion well for several years now."

Han introduced Bria to the Sullustan, and she was pleased to at last
meet the brave pilot who had saved them from Helot's Shackle.  The
three reminisced about the past, and their daring escape from the slave
planet.

Both Jalus Nebl and Han were impressed to hear that Bria's group had
taken Helot's Shackle, now renamed Retribution.

The reconditioned Retribution would be flying with the Resistance on
this raid, carrying assault shuttles and backup troops under the
command of another Rebel Commander.

As Bria watched Han interact with the Rebel Commanders and other
mission personnel, she realized that she had never been happier.  Han
seemed to enjoy the chance to return to the old military lifestyle,
eating meals in the galley, joking and talking with her troops.  They
were respectful of his knowledge and his military background as an
Imperial officer--especially after Tedris Bjalin recounted some of
"Slick's" wilder escapades during their Academy days.

She found herself hoping that Han would realize that the Resistance was
where he belonged--with the Resistance, and with her.  Every moment
they were together was like coming home, she thought--though she was
careful to keep her "just business" distance.

All the while, she wondered what Han was thinking about her ....

At the end of their second day with the gathering Rebel fleet in their
deep-space rendezvous, Bria received a message that she was needed to
meet with some potential allies from the Resistance on Ord Mantell.

Han offered to take her there in the Falcon, proud of the chance to
show off his ship's speed--though the first time he tried to jump into
hyperspace, the cranky Falcon refused to cooperate.  When two
elbow-whacks failed to work, Han had to spend several sweaty and
embarrassed minutes with a hydrospanner to get his ship to cooperate.

Once they were in hyperspace, Bria sat in the co-pilot's seat, watching
Han handle his ship, admiring his sureness.  "She's a wonderful ship,
Han," she said.  "I watched you win her, you know."

Han turned to her, surprised.  "What?  You were there?"

Bria explained about her trip to Bespin during the big sabacc
tournament.  "I was rooting for you," she said.  "When you won, I
wanted to--" she recalled herself, blushed, and fell silent.

"Wanted to what?"  Han asked, his eyes very intent.

"Oh .  . . I just wished I could break cover and congratulate you," she
said.  "By the way, whatever did you do to that Barabel to make her so
mad?"

Han looked at her, then his mouth twitched and he burst out laughing.

"You met Shallamar?"

"Not formally," Bria said, dryly, "but I wound up standing beside her
during some of the play after she'd been eliminated.  That was one
cranky reptiloid, let me tell you."

Han chuckled, then explained about how he and Shallamar had had a
run-in back on Devaron five years ago.  "She told me she was going to
bite my head off," Han said.  "And she'd have done it, too, if it
hadn't been for Chewie."

"Devaron?  Oh, yes, I remember--" Bria said, and then, at Han's look,
fell silent again.

She bit her lip before the intensity of his gaze.  "So it was you that
day at the Ylesian revival," Han said.  "I thought I was seem'
things.

I swore off drinkin' for months after that day."

Bria nodded.  "Yes, that was me, Han.  But I couldn't let you blow my
cover.  I was in that crowd for a mission."

"What was that mission?"

She met his eyes steadily.  "To assassinate Veratil, the t'landa Til.

You fouled it up, though.  Far as I know, Veratil is still alive.

Though probably not for long."

Han regarded her for a long moment.  "You really have done just about
anything for the Resistance, haven't you?"

Bria was distressed by his stare.  "Don't look at me like that, Han!"

she cried.  "They're evil!  They deserve to be killed!"

He nodded slowly.  "Yeah, I guess they do," he said.  "But .  . . it's
kinda unnerving, you know?"

She gave him a shaky smile.  "Sometimes I unnerve myself."

When they reached Ord Mantell, Bria met with the Resistance leaders
there to explain the mission and its importance.  She was elated that,
after their meeting, the Resistance promised to dispatch three ships
and a hundred troops, plus appropriate support and medical personnel,
immediately.

As Han and Bria were preparing to board the Falcon for the trip back to
the Rebel deep-space rendezvous, one of the junior officers came up to
her with a message flimsy.  She scanned it, then looked up at Han.

She

gave him a tight smile.  "HQ just got a message from Togoria.  There's
a small contingent of Togorians who have volunteered to come along.

They want us to pick them up on our way back."

Han smiled slowly.  "Muuurgh and Mrrov?"  he guessed.

"It doesn't say.  But it's a good bet they're part of the group," Bria
said.  "Can we?"

"Sure," he said, not meeting her eyes.  "Togoria's a pretty world.  I
wouldn't mind seeing it again."

Bria looked away, too.  It was on a Togorian beach that she and Han had
first become close.  It was a beautiful world, fraught with memories
for both of them.

They didn't talk much during the trip.  Bria found herself so nervous
that her stomach was in knots.  She wondered how Han felt ....

Han eased the Falcon down onto the landing field bordering Caross, the
largest city on Togoria.  After completing his post-flight checks and
updating his log, he and Bria headed for the landing ramp.  A group of
Togorians were already heading out to the field, and Han thought he
recognized one huge black male with white chest hair and whiskers.  And
there was a smaller, orange and white female with him.

Bria smiled excitedly.  "Muuurgh and Mrrov!"

The humans jogged down the ramp, and reached the ground just in time to
be seized and hugged so violently their feet left the ground.

"Muuurgh!"  Han shouted, so glad to see his old friend that he wound up
thumping the huge felinoid on the chest with his fists while his feet
dangled.  "How are ya, buddy?"

"Han.  . ."  Muuurgh was nearly choked with emotion.  Togorians were an
emotional people, especially the males.  "Han Solo... Muuurgh very
happy see Han Solo again.  Too long it has been!"

He obviously hasn't been practicing his Basic, Han thought, amused.

Muuurgh's Basic had always been rather fractured, but after all this
time, it was worse than ever.

"Hey, Muuurgh!  Mrrov!  It's great to see you both!"

After their greetings were over, Mrrov explained that there was a
contingent of Togorians who'd had run-ins with Ylesia over the years
who wanted to be part of the assault.  "Six of our people were either
enslaved or close to those enslaved there, Han," Mrrov said.  "We wish
to have a part in making sure that no other Togorians will ever again
be trapped by that terrible place."

Han nodded.  "Well, we can get started any time you wish," he said.

Muuurgh shook his head.  "Not possible until tomorrow, Han.  Sarrah's
mosgoth was attacked mid-flight by big liphon.  Broke its wing.  Sarrah
has borrowed mosgoth, sent us message, will be here tomorrow.  Tonight
Han and Bria our honored guests, yes?"

Han looked at Bria and shrugged.  "Uh, sure," he said.

She didn't meet his eyes.  "Fine .... " They spent the afternoon
catching up with their friends on ten years' of history.  Muuurgh and
Mrrov seemed a very happy couple--even though, in true Togorian
tradition, they spent only a month out of each year together.  They had
two cubs, both female, and Han and Bria met them.  One was barely more
than a kit, and she was extraordinarily cute.  Bria and Han spent a
couple of hours playing with them in the beautiful gardens.

That evening, the humans were wined and dined with the best of Togorian
food and drink.  Togorian storytellers regaled them with tales of their
own escapades from ten years ago, when they'd escaped from Ylesia.  Han
barely recognized himself--the accounts had obviously been "enhanced"
over the years, until he emerged as such a heroic figure it was almost
laughable.

Han was careful with the strong Togorian liquor, and noticed that Bria
drank only water.  "I can't drink," she said, when asked.  "I'm scared
I'll get to like it too much.  I have to be careful .  . . once
addicted, you can get addicted again, to other things."

Han admired her restraint, and said so.

After the festivities were over, Muuurgh and Mrrov conducted their
guests to the finest of their guest apartments, then bade them
goodnight.

Han and Bria stood on opposite sides of the living room and regarded
each other in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment.  Han glanced at
the door leading to the one bedroom.  "Uh... guess Muuurgh and Mrrov
still think we're an item," he said.

"Guess so," she agreed, unable to meet his eyes.

"Well, I guess it's the pallet out here for me," Han said.

"Hey," Bria remonstrated, "I'm a soldier.  I've slept in mudholes
before, with no blanket.  No need to treat me like a lady, Han."  She
smiled and took out a decicred piece.  "Tell you what .  . . I'll flip
you for the bed."

Han grinned at her, his most charming smile.  "Okay, babe.  Fine by
me."

Bria looked at him, and their eyes locked.  "Oh, dear."  She sounded as
though she'd just run four or five klicks.

Han was feeling a bit breathless himself.  "'Oh dear' what?"  he said,
taking a step toward her.

Bria smiled shakily.  "The galaxy is no longer safe for humanoid
females," she said.  "You've learned what you can do with that lopsided
smile, haven't you?"

As a matter of fact, Han did have some idea .  . . and so did a number
of women he could name.  He took another two slow steps in her
direction, and chuckled, genuinely amused.  "Hey .  . ."  he said.

"There are times when it works better than my blaster."

Bria was so tense he wondered if she were going to bolt, but she didn't
move as he took another step toward her.  Looking down, Han saw that
her hand was shaking.  "Aren't you going to flip that thing?"  he asked
softly.

She nodded and took a deep breath, and her hand steadied a bit.

"Sure.

Call it."

"You sure it's not a trick coin?"  Han asked, taking another step.

"Hey!"  she protested.  "It's a real decicred!"  With mock indignation,
Bria showed him the disk, twirling it to demonstrate that it was indeed
a regular coin.  On the obverse was the head of the Emperor, on the
reverse was stamped the symbol of the Empire.

Han took another step, and now he could have reached out and touched
her shoulder.  "Okay .  . . I pick .  . . heads," he said, quietly.

Bria swallowed and flipped the coin, but she missed catching it,
because she was shaking again.  Han, however, did not miss.  He caught
the coin, held it without looking.  "Heads we share the bed "he said
softly.  "Tails .  . . we share the floor."

"But .  . . we agreed .  . ."  she was stammering and trembling all
over now.  "Just... business .  . ."

Han tossed the coin over his shoulder, and in one lunge he pulled Bria
into his arms.  He kissed her with all the pent-up passion of the past
days .  . . and all those lost years.  Kissed her mouth, her forehead,
her hair, her ears .  . . and then returned to her mouth.  Finally,
when he raised his head, he breathed, "I say .  . . the heck with
business .  . . right?"

"Right .  . ."  she murmured, and then it was her turn to kiss him.

She wound her arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as he held
her.

Behind them, forgotten, the decicred piece lay on the woven matting
covering the floor, shining faintly in the dimness ....

The next morning, Han woke up smiling.  He got up and went out to
stand on the little balcony overlooking the beautiful Togorian
garden.

He breathed deeply, hearing the twittering of the tiny flying lizards
and remembered one alighting on Bria's finger all those years ago, that
first time on the beach.

He wished they had time to go back to that beach ....

Hey, he thought, when this Ylesian thing is over, we'll have all the
time in the world .  . . and all the credits we could want.  We'll come
back here.

Then maybe we'll head for the Corporate Sector, do some business.  With
the Falcon, we can go anywhere, do anything....

He wondered whether Bria would actually leave the Resistance for him.

After what they'd shared last night, he didn't see how she couldn't.

They were good together, so good there was no way they'd be apart from
now on ....

Han heard a step behind him, but didn't turn, only stood staring out at
the garden, inhaling the spicy scent of the Togorian tree-flowers.

Arms slid around his waist, and he felt her hair against his back as
she leaned against him.  "Hey .  . ."  she said quietly.  "Good
morning."

"It's good all right," he said quietly.  "The best in a long time.  Ten
years, I think."

"Did I tell you last night that I love you?"  she murmured, kissing the
back of his neck.  "You need a haircut .... " "Several times," he
replied.  "But you can say it again if you want."  "I love you .... "
"Sounds good," he said.  "I think you need more practice, though.  Try
it again .... " She laughed.  "You're getting a swelled head, Han."

He chuckled, and turned to hold her.  "You know, the Falcon is going to
be so full of huge Togorians all the way back to the rendezvous
coordinates, that you just might have to sit on my lap."

"I could manage that," she said.

Sarrah proved to be extremely short for a Togorian, only about two
meters tall.  But he was in excellent condition, his muscles sliding
beneath his sleek black fur like oiled cords.

On their way back to the deep-space rendezvous, Han swung by Nar
Shaddaa to pick up Jarik and Chewbacca.  He'd been wondering how Chewie
and Muuurgh would get along.  When he introduced the Wookiee and the
giant Togorian, Han was treated to the unusual sight of Chewie actually
looking up at another being.  Muuurgh regarded the Wookiee

assessingly, then said, "Greetings to Han Solo's friend.  He tells me
you are his brother-in-fur."

Chewie roared softly, and Han translated.  "Chewbacca sends greetings
in return to Muuurgh," he said.  "He is honored to meet a brother-infur
from the past, the hunter Muuurgh."

Solemnly, the two huge creatures regarded each other, then both turned
to Han.  He looked up at them, and could tell that they liked each
other.  "You guys," he said, "have got a lot in common."

Indeed, said Chewie.  They had Han.

"Any friend of Han Solo's is a friend of Muuurgh's," the Togorian
announced.

Han heard the door signal to his apartment buzz, and opened it to find
Lando standing there.  For once the gambler wasn't dressed in the
height of fashion, but in military style rough fatigues, and he wore
heavy boots.  He was armed with a blaster and a blaster rifle. 
"Hey!"

Han said.  "What's up?

You goin' to a war?"

"I just heard about your little jaunt to Ylesia," Lando said.  "I want
in.

Can I ride along on the Falcon?"

Han regarded his friend in surprise.  "Pal, this ain't your kind of
thing," he said.  "We ain't expectin' much in the way of resistance
from those Gamorrean guards on Ylesia, but there's bound to be some
shootin'."

Lando nodded.  "I'm a good shot," he said.  "Han, I've almost got
enough credits saved to buy a new ship, a real beauty of a sleek little
yacht I've had my eye on.  I figure for a share of that spice in the
warehouses, this is worth a little risk to my precious hide.  Another
ten thousand credits, and that little beauty is mine ...."

Han shrugged.  "Okay by me," he said.  "You're welcome to join the
party."

Thus, it was a very crowded--but thankfully short--flight back to the
Rebel rendezvous coordinates.

The Rebel fleet was mostly gathered by now, along with most of the
smuggler vessels.  Bria and the other Rebel commanders conducted final
briefings so that each smuggler and each Rebel assault group knew
exactly what part they would play in the attack.  Each group of Rebel
assault shuttles had at least three or four smuggler ships to guide
them down through the atmosphere.  There were nine colonies now on
Ylesia, and there were nine attack forces, each commanded by a Rebel
commander like Bria.

She'd chosen the toughest objective for herself--Colony One.  It

boasted the largest warehouses, the most Pilgrims and the best
defenses.

But Bria was sure that Red Hand Squadron could handle it.  Especially
with Han flying beside her.  By now, Han was familiar with Jace Paol,
Daino Hyx, and her other officers.  He wondered if any of them realized
that he and their commander were now a couple.

The assassinations would be starting any time on Ylesia, and the main
attack was set for tomorrow morning (ships' standard time, which had
nothing to do with day or night on Ylesia) when the Pilgrims would be
desperate for the Exultation, and amenable to taking orders from anyone
who promised it to them ....

As Han and Bria ate supper that night in Retribution's galley, Han's
attention was suddenly drawn to the external monitoring unit that
showed the masses of gathering ships.  A familiar shape--one he'd known
from childhood--was moving into view.

He stopped chewing, then swallowed hastily, and pointed.  "Bria!  That
big old Liberator-class transport!  Where'd you get it?"

She looked at him and grinned.  "Looks a bit familiar, doesn't it?"

Han nodded.  "I'd swear that's Trader's Luck!  The ship I grew up
on!"

She nodded.  "It is.  I was saving it for a surprise.  The Corellian
Resistance bought it a couple of years ago at scrap prices, and we've
converted it into a troop carrier.  We named it the Liberator."

Han had heard that the vintage ship had been abandoned following Garris
Shrike's death.  He looked at the old vessel, feeling his throat
tighten.

He was glad to know that the Liberator now had a new life.  "You're
going to use her to get the Pilgrims shipped to safety, right?"

"Many of them," she agreed.  "Your old home will take them to a new
life, Han."

He nodded, and finished his meal, his eyes seldom leaving the huge,
antique vessel.  Memories flooded him ... memories of Dewlanna, mostly
....

Since the Falcon boasted only a few sleeping bunks, Han decided to stay
the night in Bria's cabin.  They held each other close, each of them
acutely aware that tomorrow they would be going into battle.

And in battles .  . . people died.

"After tomorrow," Han whispered to her in the darkness, "we'll always
be together.  Promise me."

"I promise," she said.  "Together."

He sighed and relaxed.  "Okay," he said.  "And .  . . Bria?"  "Yes?"

"You watch your back tomorrow, sweetheart."

He could tell she was smiling, from the way her voice sounded.  "I
will.

You too, okay?"

"Sure."

Hours later, Bria was awakened from a troubled doze by the soft chime
of her cabin intercom.  She came instantly alert, and, pulling on a
robe, went into her adjoining office.  The communication officer on
duty told her she had an incoming message.  "Send it through to me
here," she said, pushing her hair back from her face.

Moments later, Bria was facing her commanding officer, Pianat Torbul.

She stiffened to attention.  "Sir?"

"Bria .  . . just wanted to wish you luck tomorrow," he said.  "And to
tell you .  . ."  he hesitated.

"Yes?  Tell me what?"  she prompted.

"I can't be specific.  But our intelligence reports that the Empire has
something big underway.  Really big.  Something that could crush the
entire Rebel Alliance in one or two engagements."

Bria stared at him, in shock.  "Some kind of secret fleet?"  she
asked.

"I can't tell you," he reminded her.  "But bigger than that."

Bria couldn't imagine what he was talking about, but she'd grown used
to the "need to know" system long ago.  "Okay, so what does that have
to do with this raid tomorrow?"

"It's going to take everything we have, every resource we can muster,
every credit we can scrape together, to deal with this," Torbul said.

"Your mission was important before this .  . . now it's critical.  Take
everything you can get, Bria.  Weapons, spice .  . . everything."

"Sir .  . . that's my objective," she said, her heart beginning to
thud.  "I know that.  I just .  . . thought you should know.  We're
dispatching several intelligence teams to Ralltiir to try and find out
more.  They'll need credits for bribes, surveillance equipment .  . .

you know the drill."

"Of course," Bria said.  "Sir, I won't fail you."

"I know you won't," Torbul said.  "I shouldn't have contacted you,
perhaps .  . . you're under enough pressure.  But I thought you should
know."

"I appreciate your telling me, sir.  Thank you."

Torbul gave her a quick salute and broke the connection.  Bria sat them
in her office, wondering if she should go back to bed or just start the
day early.

She heard Han's voice, a little rough with sleep, from the other
room.

"Bria?  Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, Han," she called.  "I'll be there shortly."

Rising, she paced slowly back and forth, remembering what he'd said to
her earlier.  They'd be together .  . . always.  Yes, we will, she
thought.  We'll be together.  We'll guard each other's backs, and
together we'll fight and we'll prevail against the Empire.  And if we
have to sacrifice to achieve that · .  . we will.

She knew that Han would understand about the treasure and the
credits.

He pretended to be such a mercenary, but at heart, he wasn't, she knew
that ....

Her mind once more at rest, her resolve firm, Bria went back to bed
....

Sunset at Ylesian Colony Five· The ruddy rays of the low sun, breaking
through a hundred gaps in the massed clouds, were projected as pastel
spikes across the sky.  By the choppy waters of the Sea of Hope, the
robeclad Pilgrims assembled on the beach cast long shadows across the
sand.

Pohtarza, Head Sacredot of the colony, raised his ugly t'landa Til head
and surveyed the crowd, his horn sweeping slowly back and forth as he
did so.  His bulbous eyes shone like blood as they bulged from his
grayish, wrinkled flesh.  After a moment, he brought up his diminutive
arms, and the ceremony began.

"The One is All," he intoned in the rumbling, nasal-heavy language of
the t'landa Til.

Five hundred voices echoed the phrase back .... The One is All.

At that very moment, at Colony Four on the other side of the planet, it
was just after midnight.  Dark clouds drifted across the moonless night
sky, extinguishing stars, making the night even blacker.  On the wall
of the Priests' Quarters, there was a soft, chitinous scratching.

Ylesian vermin frantically darted away in all directions.

Noy Waglla, small and bug-like herself, scuttled up the smooth
permacrete and, barely pausing to chew a hole in the grating, through
the window.  She crouched, poised, on the sill.

Below her, in the darkness, she could hear the sleeping noises of the
Priests she had come to kill.  Jabba would pay well for this, enough
that she might someday be able to return to her own species.  The great
creatures in their sleeping harnesses filled the small room, made it
stink of musk.

The Hyallp crawled up the nearest rough-textured harness, and

paused below the enormous head.  The t'landa Til shifted slightly, and
she backed away, alarmed, but, after a moment, the Priest's snoring
resumed.

Waglla advanced even closer.

This is going to be easy.... Waglla seized the large vial strapped to
her back in her formidable mandibles, pulled out the stopper with her
palps.

Jabba had tested the substance himself.  A drop of the poison called
srej-ptan, placed on the Sacredot's lower lip, would kill even the
largest t'landa Til in seconds, silently and without struggle.

Retracting several of her legs, Waglla climbed toward the Priest's
mouth.

"The All is One," intoned Pohtarza.  The All is One.

Alaks Fwa, Whiphid assassin and bounty hunter, waited in the corridor
leading to the underground mud baths of Colony Seven.  It had been a
tedious few weeks, living as Pilgrim, trying to blend in, when all his
instincts called for getting it over with, hunting the ugly muphrida
down and escaping.  But the Bloated One had specified tonight as the
time, and Fwa wanted to collect his full fee.

The sound of t'landa Til voices echoed up from the dimness below, and
Fwa heard their characteristic shuffling gait.  The assassin checked
the two small hold-out blasters he had smuggled into the compound.

Fully charged, of course.

He tensed, thinking that the credits he was about to become entitled to
were not so much the prize of a hunt, so much as a gift.  Security here
in Colony Seven was lax beyond belief.

Fwa could see them coming now, and he pressed himself into a hollow in
the uneven wall.  As he'd expected, it was his targets--the three male
Sacredots.  He could smell them, and his sensitive nostrils recognized
the reek of the males.

They were close now, coming closer, closer ....

Fwa leaped out with a ferocious roar, blasters raised.  Aim for their
eyes!

he thought, as he fired his first salvo.

"In service to the All, every One is Exulted."  · .  . every One is
Exulted.

Tuga SalPivo, down-on-his luck Corellian space-tramp and
jack-of-all-trades, paused for a moment at the edge of the Ylesian
jungle and looked back.  Colony Eight was a gray smudge in the very
first light of dawn.  Sunrise was still an hour away.  SalPivo grinned
and wiped the sweat off his face with a back-and-forth motion, catching
a whiff of the vinegary vomm powder residue on his hand.  He couldn't
wait to see the explosion ....

It was so quiet.  Even the scraping and peeping of the Ylesian jungle
was gone.  There was no wind at all.

SalPivo forced himself not to blink as he waited.  When the brilliant
orange flame flowered from the t'landa Til's sleeping chamber, there
was a moment before the sound reached him, and he thought, It doesn't
seem real....

Then the crack and boom rolled over him, almost knocking him down,
followed by the cries and wails of the remaining inhabitants.  Job well
done, he said to himself, chuckling.  I'll be back on Poytta before the
fire's put out....

"We sacrifice to achieve the All.  We serve the One."  · .  . serve the
One.

The Rodian named Sniquux sniffed the air thoughtfully, his aqua snout
wiggling· Mid-afternoon sun slanted down into the wide courtyard, and
dust seemed to hang in the hot, thick air.  With infinite care, he
secured the last strand of monofilament fiber across the opening of the
passageway to the factory compound.  Colony Nine was not yet finished,
but the main buildings and dormitories were close enough to completion
to start up operation.  Nearly three hundred Pilgrims were resident,
most of them employed on the construction gang.  Sniquux had come in
with the last bunch, his experience as a permacrete artisan coming in
handy.

Here they come!  The Rodian stepped back from the invisible wire, then
ducked under it, making sure he came nowhere near the deadly stuff.

Once in the corridor, he made his way up to the first level balcony,
which overlooked the courtyard.  The six t'landa Til, three males and
three females, were returning from their post-siesta walkabout, ambling
toward the dinner hall and their supper· A cadre of Gamorrean guards
surrounded them, their axe heads glinting in the sun.  Sniquux pulled
the sound projector remote control from his little pouch, hefting the
device and feeling the smoothness of its contours.

I don't even have to get near them, he thought, delightedly.  I love
this assignment.  I don't have to risk my delicate little neck.  His
ears twitched expectantly as he turned the dial to its maximum position
and engaged the trigger.

Suddenly, from the other side of the courtyard, a hideous, shrill
wailing began, a sound so high it made Sniquux shiver.  It was an
ancient recording of the savage thota, the principal predator of the
t'landa Til on their long-lost homeworld of Varl.

The t'landa Til froze for a second, their protuberant eyes swinging in
every direction as they tried to locate the source of the cry.  The
head Sacredot, Tarrz by name, reared up onto his hind limbs and spun
about, calling to the others, but it was no use.  The huge creatures
stampeded mindlessly in all directions, trampling Gamorreans as they
headed for the openings in the courtyard wall that Sniquux had
booby-trapped.  Finally even Tarrz panicked and dashed for the nearest
exit.

The Rodian, who had a taste for bloodshed, smacked his prehensile lips
as the Priests came apart, monofilament slicing them more cleanly then
any blade.  Tarrz got halfway through the opening before his upper
torso peeled back, revealing the dark maroon interior, internal organs
laid out side by side, blood pooling and spilling as he fell to
complete the gash.  In a trice, they were all dead, big pools of
wine-red blood slowly spreading around the quartered corpses, and only
a few dazed Gamorreans were left to try to figure out what had
happened.

Maybe this'll mean a promotion, Sniquux told himself.  Jabba seems to
like me already .  . . all I have to do is stick with him ....

"Prepare for the blessing of Exultation!"  Pohtarza took a step forward
and sensed the Priests on either side of him doing the same.  The
Pilgrims broke ranks, pressing forward, falling over one another,
uttering little whimpers of anticipation.  Pohtarza began to inflate
his neck pouch, scanning the expectant faces, when something caught his
eye.  There was a humanoid Pilgrim pushing toward them, nothing unusual
about that.  However, instead of a Pilgrim's cap, there was a dark hood
thrown over his head.

Pohtarza stared in fascination.  The hood was empty.  The thing was
quite close now--he was sure of it.  Suddenly the hood fell back and
the headless thing pulled a weapon out of its robe.  Nameless dread
gnawed at the t'landa Til; he took a few steps back, bumped into one of
his brothers.

The robe fell to the ground, and the Sacredot looked straight into the
muzzle of a blaster, seemingly floating in the air.  His thinking
seemed

fuzzy and oh-so-slow, but one thought came with crystal clarity. 
Oh.

An Aar'aa.  Just an Aar'aa .  . .

Then brightness fell from the air ....

At Colony One, the oldest and largest of the Ylesian facilities, only a
few moments later, it was nearing mid-day.  Teroenza sat in the
shallow, squishy mud like a beached whaladon, hardly moving, eyes
closed.  The developments of the last day were discouraging beyond
belief.

Durga, curse him, had called his bluff.  Teroenza opened his eyes and
took in the depressing sight: beyond Veratil and Tilenna and the other
t'landa Til soaking in the mud, sleek Nova Force ships littered the
landing field, and small teams of heavily armed sentients wearing the
uniform of the mercenary unit were everywhere.

How could Durga have known what he planned?  Maybe the young Hutt was
smarter than he'd thought.  Now that he reflected on it, Teroenza
decided that it had probably been a bad idea to kill Kibbick so
brazenly.

But the worst of it was that Teroenza still couldn't know for sure how
much Durga knew.  Perhaps the Nova Force troops were Durga's response
to the High Priest's disingenuous requests to beef up the Ylesian
defenses.

Maybe he didn't suspect foul play in Kibbick's death.

Teroenza liked that idea.  If true, the t'landa Til would just have to
wait, and hope that this situation was temporary, and that, after a
while, Besadii would grow weary of paying Nova Force to stay here.

Wait.  I can wait a little longer.  In any event, that's all I can do
....

The Nova Force commandant, a squat, heavy-gravity world human named
Willum Kamaran, was approaching the edge of the flat, treading
gingerly, not wanting to soil his shining black boots.  Finally, he
gave Teroenza a disgusted look and motioned for the t'landa Til to come
to meet him.  The High Priest decided that he'd at least pretend to
cooperate until he found out more.  Hoisting himself to his feet,
Teroenza started in the man's direction.

Without warning a lash of energy sizzled into the mud in front of him,
spattering him with ejecta.  The High Priest halted in confusion.

What?

Teroenza turned to see three beings in camo uniforms come racing out of
the jungle, blaster rifles blazing.  The Gamorreans who had been
guarding them were already dead.

Ptchoo.  Ptchoo.  Ptchoo.

The sound of blaster fire was all around him.  Teroenza tried to run,
tried to change direction, but slipped in the mud, falling to his
knees.

Is this Nova Force?  Has Durga ordered them to execute us now?

Teroenza thought, hysteria nearly getting the better of him.  At the
edge of his vision, he saw that Kamaran was also shooting now.  But not
at him.  At the intruders.  Other Nova Force soldiers were coming up
behind him, blasting away.  By Varl, they're trying to protect us!

There was no place to run.  Teroenza froze in panic.  Veratil, he could
see, lay motionless, a smoking hole where an eye used to be.  Tilenna
had run deeper into the mud, but was unable to submerge herself, and
was flailing back and forth in complete terror.  Teroenza realized
suddenly that it was only a matter of time.  Taking a deep breath to
still the fear erupting in his heart, he let himself fall, then lay
still, playing dead.

The blaster fire abruptly stopped, and Teroenza opened his eyes.  It
worked!  The intruders lay dead.  The High Priest dared to raise
himself and survey the scene.

Tilenna!

She was half covered by mud and water, and her head was under.  She
can't breathe .... Before he had reached the body, Teroenza knew the
truth.  He cradled the massive head as best he could in his weak arms,
trying to find a spark of life in his mate, but she was gone.

Kamaran had taken a hit in the arm, and his tan uniform was covered
with dark brown smears.  And there was Ganar Tos, Teroenza's majordomo,
making his way through the milling soldiers, pausing for a moment at
the mud's fringe, then plunging right in.

"My Lord Teroenza," he cried, his weak old human's voice barely more
than a croak.  "It's terrible.  All over the planet, assassins are
killing our Priests!  We've had reports from Colonies Two, Three, Five,
and Nine.

Offworld communication has been cut.  Oh, sir!  Lord Veratil .  . . and
Tilenna!  Sir, what can we do?"  He wrung his hands distractedly.

"Sir, this is the end.  There can be no more Exultations.  What shall
we do?"

Teroenza snorted heavily, trying to think.  Was this Durga's work?  No,
it couldn't be; the Besadii enterprise depended on the t'landa Til.

Who was responsible for this?  And what should he do now?

fourteen

The Battle for Ylesia

Jalus Nebl entered the Ylesian atmosphere with great care, watching for
storm cells, and staying in constant touch with the Rebel assault
shuttles that were following him.  He was a lead ship, and well aware
of his responsibility.  "Shuttle Three," he said into his comm unit, in
his squeaky Basic, "watch yourself.  You're drifting too far to port.

Storm cell 311 is headed in your direction.  The ionization from those
lightning storms will mess up your instrumentation.  Increase speed and
close up."

"This is Shuttle Three, we copy, Dream of Freedom."

They were flying through thick clouds now, and the Dream was buffeted
by high winds.  Darkness surrounded them.  They were flying toward the
sun, but they would not reach daylight before they landed.

The Sullustan checked his instruments.  "Tighten formation," he
ordered.

"All ships, tighten formation."

He saw the running lights of his starboard wingman for a moment, then
the clouds blotted them out.  They were being slammed by gusts, and the
clouds were so thick that Nebl didn't even bother to glance at his
viewscreen.

Instruments-only flying.  Rain and hail and electrical storms raged
nearby, lighting the inky clouds in actinic flashes.  Nebl followed the
progress of his formation on his tactical sensors.

It had been ten years since Nebl had flown through the Ylesian
atmosphere, but he was surprised how it all came back to him.  He was
leading half the Rebel ships assigned to Colony One in, and Han Solo
was leading the other half in the Millennium Falcon.  Han had taken his
Sullustan friend for a brief tour of his ship yesterday, and the two
pilots had caught up on old times while Nebl enjoyed watching Han show
off his pride and joy.

Nebl spotted another storm cell, pointed it out to his formation, and
then sent his ship swooping down, automatically checking his landing
vector.

His assigned landing spot was directly in the middle of the Colony One
compound.  He was carrying a squad of troops, and their assignment was
to secure the andris factory.

As he flew, Nebl could hear the Assault Commander aboard the transport
Liberator, reporting on the fleet's progress.  The Rebel forces had
taken the Ylesian space station, having met heavier resistance than
expected, but they were now reporting in that it was secured.

Nebl stayed in close touch as he led his formation down, down.  He was
tracking the storm cells so the more inexperienced pilots wouldn't have
to.  In theory at least, if they followed Nebl's lead, they'd be able
to concentrate on their piloting as opposed to their navigation.

They were almost down below the heaviest cloud layer now.  Colony One
was still in darkness, though dawn would arrive in about an hour.  Nebl
noticed that his rightmost shuttle was falling behind, and quickly
established contact.

"Assault Shuttle Six, you're falling behind.  What's happening?"

"Having trouble with a stabilizer," the young pilot's voice was
strained.

"I've got my copilot working on it."

"Formation, reduce speed.  We don't want to lose Shuttle Six," Nebl
ordered.

Obediently, they reduced speed.  The next voice Nebl heard over the
comm was Han Solo's.  "Hey, Nebl, what gives?  You're slowing."

The Sullustan explained the problem.  "Well, I don't want to go in
ahead of you, so I'll drop back, too," Han said.  The Falcon and her
ships slowed, falling back, leaving Nebl, as planned, still in the
lead.

Both groups were still in good formation when they dropped below the
cloud cover, and saw the nighttime lights of Colony One.  Nebl was in
the lead, and he'd re-positioned Shuttle SIX so it was now beside him,
so he could nursemaid the Rebel pilot down.  Nebl's other ships were
flying half a ship's length behind the Dream and SIX as they swooped
toward their assigned landing coordinates.

Nebl had almost no warning.  One second he was heading for his landing
coordinates, everything fine, and the next his sensors suddenly blatted
out a warning.  Glancing down, Jalus Nebl saw that he'd been
targeted--by a heavy turbolaser!

What?  he thought blankly.  WhereThe explosion was so massive, so
all-consuming, that poor Nebl never even had time to realize he'd been
hit.

Han Solo watched with horror as Dream of Freedom and Assault Shuttle
Six were simply eradicated by two blasts from a groundmounted heavy
turbolaser.  The turbolaser blasted again, and two other shuttles
performed frantic evasive maneuvers that caused them to run straight
into a treacherous wind-shear.  Their stubby wings impacted, and then,
flaming, they hurtled down toward the jungle.  Fireballs painted the
darkness with crimson, marking the crash sites.

Han was frozen with shock for a half-second.  A turbolaser!  Where'd
that come from?  Then he checked his position, and those of the ships
in formation with him, and began his own evasive.  At the same time he
activated his comm, shouting, "Formations One and Two--veer off!  Bria,
order your ships to their alternate landing sites!  Veer off!  They got
a heavy turbolaser down there!  Nebl bought it!"

Without waiting for a response, Han swooped the Falcon up on her side
and changed his approach vector--and not a moment too soon.  A wash of
fatal green energy streaked toward his ship, narrowly missing her
belly.  Han saw a damage control warning light up on his board, and
realized the shot had knocked out the extension and retraction controls
on his new retractable blaster.  The close brush had also managed to
fry the terrain-following sensors.  He swore, even as Chewie howled.

Han heard shouts from Jarik, who was in the ventral gun turret and
must've gotten a spectacular--and terrifying--view of the blast.

Too close for comfort!

He peeled away, accelerating to get well out of the range of the
turbolaser.  None of the other ships was hit, thankfully.

The alternate landing sites were on the beach, more than two kilometers
from the center of Colony One.  Han brought the Falcon in for a
landing, setting her down on the hard-packed sand, not far from the
breakers.  He sat there for a second, just breathing hard, enveloped by
the Ylesian darkness.  He kept his lights on, so none of the other
pilots would be tempted to land on top of him.

To his right as he sat in the cockpit, were the dunes, and, beyond
them, the mudflats and Colony One.  To his left was the Zoma Gawonga,
which, in Huttese, meant "Western Ocean."  Behind and before him
stretched the beach, and already other ships were settling into
place.

Leaving Chewie to finish up their post-landing checks, Han keyed his

comm.  "Shuttle One, this is the Falcon.  Bria, this is Han.  Come in,
Shuttle One."

A crackle of static, then her voice.  Han let out a sigh of relief.

He'd lost track of formation a bit back there, and, while he thought
Shuttle One wasn't one of the ships hit, he hadn't been positive until
now.

"Han, I read you.  Shuttle One landing now, alternate site.  I'm going
to deploy my troops for the ground attack.  We'll go in over the
dunes.

My squad will head through the jungle for the compound."

"I'm coming with you," Han said.  "Don't go without me."

"Copy, Falcon."  She hesitated.  "Han, we need to secure the Admin
Building.

Can you take care of dispatching the Togorian squad?"

Han knew she was thinking about the Treasure Room.  The plan all along
had been for Muuurgh, who knew the layout and the jungle, to lead his
squad of Togorians in there.  But now they'd have to go a lot farther
....

"Right," he said.  "I'll do that."

Han went back to the lounge, where the Togorians were unstrapping,
checking the charges in their weapons, and commenting to each other
about rough rides.  They wanted to know why all the stomach-churning
aerial acrobatics.  Han spent a minute explaining, then went on to tell
Muuurgh, Mrrov, Sarrah and the other Togorians that they'd landed much
farther from their target than anticipated.  "This will be tougher than
we originally planned," Han said.  "You're going to have to make about
a two-kilometer hike through the jungle."

Muuurgh stood up, careful not to whack his head in the cramped
surroundings of the Falcon's lounge.  "Do not worry, Han," he said.

"Muuurgh will lead the way through the jungle to the Administration
Building.  Muuurgh hunted all around Colony One, and Muuurgh remembers
terrain well."

Han pulled on his infrared goggles and his light helmet, picked up his
weapons, then he and Chewbacca followed the Togorian squad down the
ramp.

Han watched their bright yellow images make their way up the beach.  He
pushed up his goggles, and was instantly engulfed in complete
darkness.

The Togorians had vanished like shadows into the surrounding
blackness.

The Corellian took a deep breath of the late-night air, and the smell
of the Ylesian ocean brought back a rush of memories.

"Chewie," he said, "stay sharp.  This world can be a real pit.  Good
thing it ain't rainin', for once."  He tapped his goggles.  "You need a
pair of these, pal?"

Chewie shook his head, affirming that Wookiee night-sight was far
superior to human vision.  He could see fine and didn't need goggles.

When Han turned to go up the landing ramp, Lando and Jarik came
trooping down it.  Like Han, they were carrying heavy blaster rifles
and wearing helmets with infrared goggles.  They stood together at the
bottom, watching the Rebel soldiers assembling from the shuttles.  Most
of the landing vehicles were down now.

"So .  . . where do you guys think you're goin'?"  Han asked.

"To find some action," Jarik said.  "I ain't missing this!"  The youth
clutched his blaster rifle, bouncing on his toes, obviously excited at
the chance to take part in his first ground assault.

Han had always figured he'd let Jarik stay in the ship.  Safer that
way.

"Wait a minute," he said.  "The Togorians are gone to capture the Admin
Building.  Me and Chewie are headin' out with Bria.  If you guys go
lookin' for action, then who's gonna guard the Falcon?"

"Lock it and activate the security systems," Jarik said.  "Nobody's
gonna get inside unless you let 'em, Han."

Lando gestured at the beach.  The last Rebel and smuggler ships were
coming in for a landing.  "Won't Bria post a rear guard to watch the
ships?"

Han glared at the gambler.  Lando suddenly realized he was being a bit
dense, and shut up.

Smugglers were pouring out of their vessels now, and several of the
captains were plainly not happy.  Han braced himself as Kaj Nedmak and
Arly Bron stormed up to him, along with several other smugglers and
privateers he didn't know.  "Solo, what do you think you're doing,
leading us straight into a turbolaser?"  Bron demanded.  "I nearly lost
my engines!"

Han shrugged and spread his hands.  "Hey, it's not my fault!  I didn't
know!

I almost got fried myself!"

Just then, Bria approached, with Jace Paol, her second-in-command.

"It's not Han's fault," she said to the unhappy crowd.  "I am going to
have a word with the Bothans, though.  They were supposed to have done
the recon necessary for this mission.  Unless that turbolaser was just
installed, they should have pinpointed it before now."

More grumbling from the assembled captains.  Bria held up her hand for
quiet.  "Don't worry, you'll get what's coming to you," she said, her
voice and eyes hard and full of authority.  "Just stay here on the
beach until we have the compound secured.  Or .  . . anyone who enjoys
a fight is welcome to tag along."

Most of the smuggler and privateer captains shook their heads and
walked away, but one or two decided to go in with the Rebels--probably
to make sure they got to earmark the best spice in the warehouse for

themselves.  Han looked at Bria.  "Chewie and me are goin' with you,"
he said.

Jace Paol spoke up, "Commander, request permission to take my squad in
and knock out that turbolaser.  We're going to need to land more
shuttles later on, and we can't, with that thing blasting ships out of
the sky."

Bria nodded.  "Permission granted, Lieutenant.  Take a demo team with
you.  Take out the laser, and if it can't be salvaged, destroy it."

"Right, Commander."

"Jarik Solo here.  I'd like to go," Jarik spoke up to Paol.  "That
laser nearly singed my rear.  I'd like a chance to be in on taking it
down."  Paol nodded at the young man.  "Glad to have you."

Han caught Lando's eye and jerked his head at Jarik.  Lando sighed,
then stepped forward.  "Count me in, too, Lieutenant.  I'm Lando
Calrissian."

"Glad to have you, Calrissian."

Han waved at his friends as they started off down the beach with Paol's
squadron.  He watched as Bria gave final orders to the troops who would
remain behind as rear guard for the ships on the beach.

Then he and Chewie started up the beach with Bria and her troops.  Her
comlink chirped, and she turned it up so she could hear.  Han listened
to the voice of the Assault Commander, Blevon, up on the Liberator.

"Rainbow One to all stations, we have multiple reports of heavy
resistance.  Be on the alert."

Bria glanced at Han, then at her chrono.  "All forces have landed.

We're running behind."  She muted the comlink so it was just a distant
mutter of commanders reporting in, then broke into a jog.  Han and the
squads ran after her.

The infrared goggles took some getting used to.  Han nearly tripped
over beach drift, and once he got tangled in a bunch of thorny
sandgrass and got thoroughly scratched.  Chewie obligingly lifted him
up bodily, freeing him.  His skin stinging, Han warned the others
behind him.

Been a long time, he reflected, scrambling behind Bria up the dune,
clutching the heavy A280 rifle.  Sand sifted and fell around him, and
the footing was treacherous.  The last time he'd done something like
this was not a pleasant memory ....

Bria was the first to reach the top.  She flattened herself, waving
caution with a hand-signal to her followers.  Han wasn't expecting any
fire--after all, they were not even in sight of the compound--but
caution in battle was always a good thing.  He dropped to his belly and
wriggled up

beside her, with Chewie right behind him.  Sand sifted down his open
collar, making him itch.  He couldn't spare the time to scratch,
though.

Together, Han, the Wookiee and Bria eased up the last half-meter and
peered over the top of the dune---and nearly got the tops of their
heads blown off.  Repeating blaster fire hammered them, turning some of
the sand to glass instantly, spraying them with minuscule hot particles
that stung like insects.

Chewie howled as he, Han and Bria threw themselves flat, covering,
until the fire ceased.  The Rebel commander took a sensor reading and
looked at Han, her face a yellowish blur with white lips against the
varied greens of the infrared.  He could see her frown beneath the
masking goggles.  "Han.

. . I'm detecting at least twenty energy signatures out there, waiting
for us.  Whoever these guys are, they're not a bunch of Gamorreans."

Han stared at her.  "That and the turbolaser .  . ."

"Yeah."  She thumbed her comlink to transmit.  "Rainbow One, this is
Red One.  We took turbolaser fire as we landed and changed to our
alternate landing site.  We're on the ground with moderate
casualties.

Four ships lost--three shuttles, one friend."

"Friend" Han knew, was the agreed-upon code for a smuggler or privateer
ship.  "Encountering heavy resistance, but continuing our assault."

The voice of Assault Command came back.  "Rainbow One copies, Red
One.

Do you need White One?"

Blevon was asking whether Bria needed reserves from the Liberator.

he keyed her link.  "Negative, Rainbow one.  The reserves can't land
while that turbolaser is still up.

We're working on it.  Red One out," "Rainbow One," Blevon acknowledged
her, and then was quiet.

Bria switched frequencies to her inter-squad channel.  "Jace, this is
Bria.

Have you sneaked a look over those dunes yet?"

"I did," Paol's voice was grim.  "Who are those guys?"

"I don't know," Bria said.  "But they're obviously professionals.  You
circle around through the jungle and come down the mudflats from the
north.  I'll go through the jungle and come up from the south.  We'll
catch them in a crossfire."

"Copy," Paol said.  "You would make me crawl through the mud."  Bria
laughed grimly, and broke the connection.

It took Han and Bria's team nearly ten minutes to make their way far
enough down the beach so they could be sure to be shielded by the
jungle.

They went up and over the dunes, then down again, into the jungle.  Han
followed Chewie's lead as they slogged through rotting vegetation.  His
nose wrinkled at the smell, and Chewbacca whined protestingly.

Wookiees had a much more acute sense of smell than humans.  Sweating
and slipping through the muck underfoot, Han wished he'd worn boots
with more traction.

Finally, they reached the edge of the cleared area.  Bria's sensors
confirmed that their targets were just ahead.  They crouched in the
jungle and her comlink chirped softly.  She turned the volume up. 
"...

receiving multiple reports of heavy resistance.  Green One reports
confirmation that some professionals for a merc outfit calling itself
Nova Force, have been captured.  Rainbow One out."

"Nova Force?  Mercenaries?"  Han looked at Bria.  "Oh, great!  How'd
they get here?"

She shrugged.

Han scowled.  "And I told the smugglers and privateers this was going
to be a piece of cake!"

Han listened tensely as she checked in with Jace Paol.  Everything was
in place ....

Han's pulse was racing.  He swallowed, and his saliva tasted
metallic.

"You ready, pal?"  he whispered to Chewie, who was checking the charge
in his bowcaster.

"Hrrrrnnnnnn!"

Han checked the charge in his blaster rifle, even though he knew it was
full.

Finally Bria nodded, and together, the squad wriggled out of the
jungle, crawling along cropped vegetation, their hands and knees
digging into the muck.

It had rained recently, of course .  . . this was Ylesia.  Han's
fingers encountered permacrete.  A landing field or road .  . . it
hadn't been there ten years ago.

Bria counted down seconds with Paol, then-"Fire!"

Han rose to his knees, sighted with his goggles, and saw a dim shape
wearing an unfamiliar helmet, yellow marking body heat.  He fired.

The waning night exploded into blaster fire, choked-off screams and
battle cries.  Still firing, Han and Chewbacca moved forward with
Bria's troops.

The soldier to his left went down.  He glanced at her, saw a black hole
where her face had been, whiffed charred meat, and kept going.

Moments later, as the enemy fire stuttered out and died, Bria yelled
for cease-fire.  Han and Chewie approached, seeing the scattered bodies
before them.  Bria nudged one with her toe as Jace Paol, as smeared
with mud as a t'landa Til after a wallow, approached.  "Look at that
emblem on the sleeve," she said.  "An exploding star.  And look at
their armor and

equipment.  Professionals, all right."  She counted bodies. 
"Twenty.

There are probably more manning the turbolaser."

She and Han looked across the compound.  In the pre-dawn darkness, they
could make out the tower with the turbolaser atop it.  "Good thing they
can't swing that thing down to hit targets on the ground," Han said.

"Or we'd be cooked."

Jarik and Lando came up and the four friends stood off to the side as
Bria ordered a few members of her squads to assist the wounded back to
the ships, and to salvage the Nova Force weapons.  "Remember, people,"
she said, "we are taking it all.  If it can be re-used, salvage it."

They nodded.

Han looked at Lando and Jarik, crusted with mud, and shook his head.

"Lando, if Drea Renthal could see you now .  . ."

Chewie began laughing.

"Shut up, Han.  You too, Chewbacca," the gambler said, flicking
fastidiously at his ruined clothes.  Luckily for him, he'd donned rough
clothing in preparation for the night's work.  "I don't want to hear
it.  I haven't been this dirty since .  . . well, it's a long story."

Han chuckled, and looked at Jarik.  "So .  . . how'd you do, kid?"

Jarik nodded.  "Pretty good, I think, Han.  I got at least two of
'em."

Han clapped him on the shoulder.  "Great.  We'll make a warrior out of
you, yet."

Jarik's teeth flashed white in his mud-blackened face.

As soon as the wounded were taken away by medics, Bria keyed her
comlink, then ordered her waiting troops to advance on the double.

"Let's take that compound!  Advance in squads!  Demo teams, be
ready!"

She turned up the volume on the comlink, and they heard: "Rainbow One,
this is Green Two.  I'm assuming command here.  Green One is down."

"Rainbow One copies, Green Two.  What's your status?"

"Almost done here.  Just mopping up.  Expect to have the target secure
in five minutes."

Bria made a face.  "We're running behind."  She clicked on.  "Rainbow
One, this is Red One.  Front line resistance has been dealt with.

Bringing up reinforcements, and advancing into the compound."

"Red One, status on that turbolaser?"

"Rainbow One, I have two squads preparing to deal with that now.  Red
One out."

"Rainbow One .  . . out."

Han and Chewie watched Paol's group as they headed off through the
jungle to come at the turbolaser crew from the east.  Then they were

busy, advancing with Bria's troops into the compound.  They met
scattered resistance from Ylesian guards, which, for the most part,
they dealt with easily .  . . as they'd expected to.  The night was no
longer silent, even when the guns were quiet, The moans and pleas of
the wounded, yells for assistance, plus assorted shouted alien words
....

As they advanced, Bria's squads kept reporting in: "Red Hand Leader,
Squad Three reporting.  Andris Factory secured.  Demo teams are moving
in."

"Red Hand Leader, Squad Six reporting.  Welcome Center secured.  Demo
team has been summoned."

"Red Hand Leader, Squad Seven, we are moving in on the dormitory.  It
is under guard by the mercs .  . . but there are only about six of
them.  Not expecting any trouble .... " "Red Hand Leader, Squad Two
reporting.  We're moving into position to take that turbolaser.

Estimate attack will commence in .  . . five minutes."

Han and Chewie stayed close by Bria's side, as the three guarded each
other's backs.  Bursts of blaster fire echoed through the compound,
mixed with screams, Gamorrean grunts and squeals, and alien wails.

Han figured that there were probably a platoon's worth of
mercenaries--thirty to forty troopers, all told.  The Nova Force
soldiers were truly professional.  They fought bravely and well until
it was obvious that defeat was inevitable, then they surrendered.  They
were fighting for credits, not a cause, and it made sense to live and
fight another day.

Once a crazed Pilgrim toting a scavenged blaster pistol came leaping
out of the shadows and nearly winged Bria.  Han shot the female Bothan
down, killing her--he was rushed, and had no time to aim for a
disabling shot.

Bria stared down at the Pilgrim in horror, and for a moment Han thought
he saw tears in her eyes.  "Honey .  . ."  he said.  "There was nothing
else I could do .... " "I know," she gave him a wan smile.  "It's hard,
though, having them attack you when you're trying to help them."

Han patted her shoulder consolingly.  She took out her comlink in
response to a chirp from Assault Command and heard the ID: "Rainbow
One."

A minute crawled by.  Bria motioned her squad to fall in behind her.

Then the AC channel spoke again, an outwardly calm voice that carried
an undercurrent of strain: "Rainbow One, this is Blue One.  I need some
help here!"

Blevon's voice was flat: "Blue One, say your status."

"Thirty percent casualties, and they've got us pinned down with
repeating blasters, at least two of them.  One in the warehouse, the
other in the dormitory.  I need White One."

"Blue One, this is White One.  I can drop two platoons in three
minutes.

Where do you want them?"

"Why don't you take the warehouse?  Put one platoon north, just on the
south side of Hill Three-One.  Land the other in the jungle to the
east, and hit them from the side.  I'll take the dormitory."

"Sounds good to me, Blue One.  White One out."

"Blue One out."

Bria looked over at the turbolaser.  The first flush of dawn was
brightening the sky.  "Jace should be moving in any moment .... " As if
her words had been a signal, the area around the turbolaser erupted
with blaster fire, shouts, screams and the sounds of at least two
grenades launching.  Explosions filled the air.

Bria waited a few tense seconds, then activated her link.  "Squad Two,
report!  Are you in?  Have you got it?"

No reply.  Han and Chewie looked at each other tensely as they
sheltered beside the glitterstim factory.  One of Bria's troops came
trotting around from the rear of the building.  "We're all secured,
Commander.  I've called for a demo team."

She nodded distractedly.  "Good work, Sk'kot.  Squad Two, this is Red
Hand Leader.  Report, please.  What's happening?"

Silence for ten endless heartbeats, then suddenly they heard the
channel click.  "Red Hand Leader, Squad Two."  It was Jace Paol's
voice.  The troops around Han and Chewie grinned and gave a low
cheer.

"We've got it, but we have people down.  Send the medics.  Out."

Bria hastily called in backup for Squad Two, then summoned in the
medics' shuttle, telling them it was safe to fly into the compound.

She called into her comlink.  "Squad Eight, how are you Togorians
doing?"

A voice came over the comlink, speaking accented but understandable
Basic.

"Mrrov here.  The building is almost secured, Bria.  We are going to
have to search the jungle for snipers, though.  Some of the guards
managed to get away.  There are some ships landed up here, mostly small
shuttles, but one big one.  We have the ships under guard.  It's
possible some of the guards may try to escape."

Bria addressed the comlink.  "Great going, Mrrov.  I bet you people
made short work out of those Gamorreans."

Mrrov growled an amused laugh.

Bria switched channels, just in time to hear: "Red One, this is Rainbow
One.  Say your status."

Bria had just opened her mouth to reply when blaster fire erupted from
the center of the compound, aimed at them.  Bria, Han, Chewie and the
other squad members, dropped, covering against the wall.  Han spat out
a mouthful of mud, and wished he could rinse his mouth out with the
water from the flask on his hip.  But he didn't want to chance
moving.

"Cover me, people!"  Bria yelled over her shoulder, then she began
worming her way forward.  Han and Chewie were right behind her.

Blaster fire began whanging past, over their heads.

She turned, glanced back, saw him.  "Stay back!"  she hissed.  "I can
handle this."

"I know you can," Han yelled.  "I just want to watch!"

For the first time ever, he heard her swear.  She took careful aim with
her blaster rifle, then, when the target came up from behind a vehicle,
squeezed off a round.

The guard went down and lay motionless.

"Good shooting!"  Han applauded.

Together, they ran back into cover with the troops.  Bria spotted the
comlink she'd dropped, picked it up.

"Red One, this is Rainbow One; say your status," Blevon's voice was
still calm.

Bria was calm, but a little winded.  "This is Red One.  The turbolaser
has been knocked out, and we hold most of the factories.  We're
attacking the warehouse and dormitory right now.  Should be done in ten
minutes."

"Understood, Red One.  Will you need White One?"  "I don't think so,
Rainbow One.  We're beating them."  "Rainbow One copies."

They waited, listening tensely.  Then .  . . "Rainbow One, this is Gold
One.

Objective secure."

"Rainbow One .  . . copy that."

A minute later, they heard, "Rainbow One, this is Orange One.  Target
is secured."

"Rainbow One.  Copy that."

The other commanders from all the colonies except Colony Three reported
in, one by one.  By that time, Bria had checked in with all her
people.

"Rainbow One," she said.  "This is Red One.  Report target is secure
here."

"Rainbow One, copy that."

"We still haven't heard from Colony Three," Bria said, worriedly.

"They're the ones who needed backup.  Hope everything's okay .... " As
if in answer to her concern, a different voice spoke up.  "Rainbow One,
this is White One, reporting from Colony Three.  Target is secure."

Blevon said, "Acknowledged, White One.  Where's Blue One?"  The new
voice was bleak.  "She's dead."

Bria looked up.  "Well, that's it.  Ylesia is ours, gentles, except for
mopping up.  Let's call in those ships."

Han turned to Chewbacca and pulled the Wookiee aside.  "Chewie, I need
you to do something right now," he said.

"Arhnnnn?"

"We've got this area secured, but it sounds like Mrrov and Muuurgh
could use some help up in the Admin Building.  Where the Treasure Room
is .  I want you to check on 'em, make sure they've got it secured,
give 'em a hand if they need it.  Your night vision is about as good as
a Togorian's, and if they're chasin' some of those guards through the
jungle, you could be a big help, and you know it."

"Hrrrrrhhhhh!"  Chewbacca, as usual, took a dim view of being separated
from his partner.

"Come on!"  Han said.  "I'm worried that some of those guards might
break in and start stealin' Teroenza's collection!  That's our stuff,
remember?"

Chewie grumbled, but his resistance was weakening.

"Listen up, furball," Han snapped, "I don't have time to argue.  I
trust Muuurgh and Mrrov, but I don't know those other Togorians.  And
all it would take is one busy guard who managed to break in.  So you
help Muuurgh and Mrrov secure the place, make sure the Treasure Room is
still locked up, and come straight back.  Shouldn't take you half an
hour.  You remember the location of the Treasure Room on that plan I
sketched for you?"

"Hrrrrrrnnnnnnnn .  . ."

"Good.  Get your furry butt in gear."

Chewbacca was not happy, but the Wookiee departed without further
argument.

By now, ships were dropping from the pink-tinged sky like metal rain,
landing in the center of the compound.  Han was just taking a swig of
water from his flask when a dark figure ran toward him.  Han pushed up
his goggles, squinted in the wan predawn light, and realized it was
Lando.  Even before he saw the gambler's face, Han knew something was
wrong.  He hurried toward his friend.

"Han.  . . it's Jarik.  Kid took a hit He isn't going to make it.

He's calling for you."

"Blast!"  Together, they ran.

Lando led him over to the temporary aid station the medics had set up,
then pointed to a stretcher.  Han walked over, looked down, and
recognized Jarik's unruly hair--and that was practically all.  The
young man's face was a scorched, reddened horror.  At first Han thought
he was dead, then he saw that Jarik was still breathing.  He looked up
hopefully at the nearest medic.  The Alderaanian shook her head grimly,
mouthed, "Sorry."

"Hey .  . . Jarik .  . . can you hear me?"  Han took the grimy hand in
his, grasped it firmly.  "Kid .  . . it's Han .... " Jarik no longer
had much in the way of eyelids, and Han knew he must be blind.  But he
turned his head slightly, and his mouth moved.  "Han.  . ."

"Don't try to talk .  . . you're gonna be fine.  They'll pop you in a
bacta tank, and you'll be chasin' girls and shootin' Imps in no
time."

A faint thread of expelled air, and Han recognized it as the ghost of a
laugh.  "Liar .... Han ... got .  . . to ... tell you."

Han swallowed.  "Yeah?  I'm listenin' .  . ."

"Name .  . . my name .  . . it ain't .  . . Solo.  Lied to you."

Han cleared his throat.  "Yeah, I know, kid.  That's okay.  I give it
to you.  Far as I'm concerned, you earned it long ago."

"You ... kneW?"

"Sure.  I've known from the beginning, Jarik."

The lax fingers tightened once, and then released.  Han leaned over,
checked for a pulse, then gently released his grip and stood up.  His
eyes were stinging, and it took him a second to regain control.  The
medic bustled by, and Han grabbed her sleeve.  "He's gone.  Where's his
ID?"

She handed him a com-chip.  Han took it, then keyed in, "Jarik Solo,"
under the "name of deceased" field.

The medic called for help, and two labor-droids trundled forward.  Han
watched as they efficiently wrapped the dead youth in the sheet, then
carried him over to the row of bodies laid out neatly on the ground.

Before he could turn away, they were putting another wounded Rebel onto
the stretcher.  "Water .  . ."  the woman croaked.  Han took out his
flask.

"You're gonna be okay," he said, as he helped her to drink.  "Don't
worry."

The woman drank thirstily.  "Thanks "she slumped back onto the
stretcher.

"That's okay," Han said.  "What's your name?"

"Lyndelah Jenwald .... "she muttered, and winced.  "My arm hurts .... "
"We'll get you some help," Han promised, and went in search of a
medic.

Satisfied that Jenwald was getting the attention she needed, he left

the aid station and joined Lando, who looked at him sadly.  "Han, I'm
sorry.  I tried to look after him, but they launched a grenade and I
had to hit dirt, and the next thing I knew .  . ."  the gambler broke
off, shaking his head.

Han nodded.  "I know what it's like.  There wasn't anything you coulda
done, Lando.  Don't beat yourself up."  Han took a deep breath.  "He
was a good kid."

"Yeah--" Lando broke off as both humans heard a familiar roar.  Han
hastily waved at Lando and went running away from the aid station
toward Chewbacca.

The Wookiee, seeing that Han was still unharmed, grabbed Han's shoulder
and ruffled his hair in a Wookiee greeting.  Han took a deep breath.

"Chewie, pal," he said, "brace yourself.  Jarik bought it."

The Wookiee stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and
voiced a roar of mingled rage and grief.  Han silently echoed his
friend's distress.

Chewbacca pulled Han out of the way, began gesturing and growling
emphatically.  "Mrrov?"  Han said.  "Wounded?  She gonna make it?"

Chewie wasn't sure, but he thought so.

"I gotta go find Muuurgh," Han said.  "Tell you what, Chewie, you go
get the Falcon, fly her over to that apron by the Admin Building.  Then
we'll be ready to load 'er up."

Chewie nodded and loped away.  In moments his tall form was lost to
view amid the hurrying troops, dodging between the parked shuttles and
tramp freighters.

Han looked back for Lando, but his friend was gone.  He went back to
the aid station, asked where the Togorians were being cared for.  The
medic he questioned didn't know.  It took three tries for Han to find
out.

Finally, he was directed to another auxiliary aid station, where most
of the non-humanoids were being treated.  Han saw Muuurgh's huge black
shape crouching beside a pallet, and hurried over.

"Hey, Muuurgh!"

The Togorian turned at the sound of his voice, then leaped up and
grabbed Han in a fierce hug.  "Muuurgh is glad to see Han Solo.  They
are taking us up now, and Muuurgh did not wish to go without saying
farewell."

Han looked down at Mrrov.  A bandage covered half her head.  "What
happened?"

"Muuurgh and Mrrov were on guard at the landing field, and three
Gamorreans rushed us.  She took two hits from a force-pike before
Muuurgh tore her attacker's throat out."

"Oh, hey, pal .  . . I'm so sorry "Han said.  "She's gonna be okay,
isn't she?"

"She has lost the eye," Muuurgh said.  "And medic says perhaps her hand
must come off.  He does not know.  But she will live.  And she will
take pride in knowing that the slaves are free, the Priests are
dead."

Han nodded, and couldn't think of anything to say.  The medics
approached with an anti-grav pallet, and loaded the wounded Togorian
female onto it.

Han walked with Muuurgh to the medical shuttle, watched as Mrrov was
loaded in, and gave Muuurgh a last, silent hug goodbye.

After watching the shuttle lift off, Han turned back toward the big
spice warehouse, figuring that was where he'd find Bria.  Seeing Jace
Paol hurrying by, Han asked the lieutenant where she was.  Paol jerked
a thumb back at the Pilgrims' dormitory.  Han jogged over that way,
then paused, midway between the warehouse and the dormitory.

Rebel troops were herding Pilgrims out of the dorm, and the dazed,
frightened slaves were plainly on the verge of panic.  Bria stood
before them, a microphone in her hand, and addressed them.  "Listen to
me!"  she called.  "The Priests are all dead!  You are free now, and
we've come to help you!"

"They killed the Priests!"  one old man shouted, and began to sob.

Wails and moans filled the air.

"Just get on these shuttles quickly!"  Bria said.  "We have medics and
medications to help you feel better.  We can cure you!"

The crowd grew increasingly restive.  Another moment and there will be
a riot, Han thought, uneasily.  It was obvious that Bria wasn't getting
through to them at all.

"We want Exultation!"  one shouted, and the next moment, they were all
chanting and waving their fists in the air.  "We want Exultation!"

Bria waved at the shuttles.  "Just get on the shuttles!  We'll help
you!"

"We want Exultation!"

The crowd surged forward, and Bria, with a disgusted air, signaled her
troops.  They opened fire with stun beams, and Pilgrims began
collapsing in droves.

Having been stunned a few times himself, Han's body ached in sympathy
for the Pilgrims, and he was a bit shocked by Bria's ruthlessness in
ordering her troops to simply shoot the slaves.

But there wasn't much point in saying anything about it, he decided.

As he stood there hesitating, watching the labor droids begin loading
limp Pilgrims into the shuttles, Bria turned away and saw him.

Han waved, and she ran toward him.  He grabbed her, hugged her

fiercely, so relieved that they'd both made it through alive.

"Jarik?"  she asked.

Han shook his head.  "No," he said.  "He didn't make it."

"Oh, Han.  . . I'm so sorry!"

Wrapping his arms around Bria, Han held her close, kissed her, and felt
her kiss him back.  They stood wrapped together in the midst of
chaos.

Finally, she pulled away, and said, "It's time to head for the Admin
Building.  We've got to see to the Treasure Room."

Han nodded.  "Chewie's got the Falcon up there by now, ready to load
her up," he said, looking around.  The sun was up by now, and the scene
before him was organized chaos with Rebel troops everywhere.  Bria
tugged at him, but Han didn't move.  "Where's Lando?"  he asked.  "He
was here a few minutes ago.  Did he go to pick up his share of the
spice?"

"Come on!"  she urged.

Han looked over at the warehouse, figuring that Lando would probably be
right there, waiting to get his share.  He spotted him, and took a step
toward the warehouse, only to have Bria pull him back.  "No!  Come on,
we have to go!"

Han's eyes narrowed.  "There's something funny going on in there," he
said.

He could see Lando, and Arly Bron and Kaj Nedmak and about six other
smuggler captains standing there, near the open doorway of the
warehouse.

Just .  . . standing there.  Not moving.  Han looked at Lando, and
Lando looked back, but the gambler didn't move.

"Come on!"

Han started toward the warehouse, then stopped in surprise and
dismay.

Now he could see what was resting beside the door, covering the
smugglers.  A heavy repeating blaster on its tripod, with a Rebel
soldier standing behind it.  And posted at intervals, three additional
Rebel guards--all with their weapons trained on the smugglers.

"What in blazes is going on?"  Han demanded, swinging around to
confront Bria.  "What are you doing?"

She bit her lip.  "I hoped you wouldn't find out," she said.  "It would
have been easier.  Han, I got my orders last night.  There's something
really big going on, and we need every credit we can scrape up.

Everyone is going to have to make sacrifices.  The smuggler captains
are being held hostage for a little while.  Their crews are being
allowed to pick up the unprocessed spice .  . . but we have to take the
prime stuff.  We need it, Han.  I'm sorry, but I don't have any
choice."

Han's mouth dropped open, and he glanced back over his shoulder to see
other smugglers glaring at him.  Oh, blast!  he thought.  They think I
was in on this from the beginning!

What was he to do now?  Give up his own share in the Treasure Room, to
side with the smugglers?  Most of them wouldn't lift a finger to help
him out, if their positions were reversed, Han knew that.  Besides ·
.

. he didn't know any of them that well.

Except Lando .  . .

Han shook his head and looked at Bria.  "Honey, why didn't you tell me
what you were planning?"

"Because you would never have gone along with it," she said.

"But Lando is my friend."  Han shrugged.  "The rest of 'em .  . . I
barely know.  But Lando .  . ."

"Come on," she said.  "Your share of the Treasure Room is yours to do
with as you please.  If you feel bad, give Lando his share later."

Han thought that over, and then sighed.  I'll make it up to you, Lando,
he thought.  The Corellian shrugged mentally as he walked away with
Bria, leaving the smugglers behind.  I don't like this .  . . but what
else can I do?

He reflected that it was a good thing that Chewie wasn't here.  The
Wookiee had an overactive conscience ....

When Han and Bria reached the Admin Building, they found Chewie waiting
for them, and the Falcon on the apron.  Chewie demanded to know where
Lando was, and Han hesitated.  "He's going back with Arly," he said,
after a second.

Fortunately, Chewie was too taken up with the Treasure Room to notice
Han's discomfiture.

Han had picked up a small thermal detonator from the Rebel arsenal, and
it was the work of a moment to blow the door.

He stepped inside, and stood there in shock.  Most of the shelves were
already stripped bare.  "Wha--" "Teroenza must've been getting ready to
clear out!"  Bria exclaimed, pointing.  "Look, it's already boxed up
for us!"

The big rear cargo door of the Treasure Room stood ajar, as though some
of the treasure had already been loaded--but Han didn't see a ship out
there.

He figured that Teroenza had summoned a ship, only to fall prey to the
assassins yesterday.  "All right!"  he shouted, and swung Bria
around.

"Thank you, Teroenza!"

He gave her a short but passionate kiss, then turned back to regard the
boxes of booty.  "Okay, we'll need a repulsor-lift dolly," he said.

"There's one aboard the Falcon.  Chewie, you--" "Don't move, Solo,"
came a voice from the past.  Han froze as Teroenza crawled out from
where he'd been concealed behind the white jade fountain.

The High Priest had a blaster rifle in his hand, and his eyes held

a mad glitter that told Han there was no way to talk his way out of
this one.

"Hands raised," the Priest directed.  Han, Chewie and Bria all put
their hands up.  Han glanced at the others, trying frantically to think
of a way to get out of this.  But Teroenza had the drop on them but
good ....

"I shall enjoy this, Bria Tharen and Han Solo," Teroenza said.  "I have
summoned a pilot, and he is coming to collect me from Colony Four.  I
shall be free of this wretched world .  . . and I shall have my
treasure.  I shall miss my mate, but, on the whole, not a bad
bargain.

Perhaps Desilijic can use my services .... " "Hey," Han said, "Jabba's
a friend of mine.  You kill me, he won't take it kindly."

Teroenza laughed wheezily.  "Hutts do not have friends," he said.

"Farewell, Solo."

Pointing the blaster at Han, Teroenza's small, stubby finger began to
tighten on the trigger.

Han shut his eyes.  He heard the sound of the blaster's whine----and he
felt nothing.  No pain.  No searing heat.

After a prolonged moment, Han heard the sound of a body fall with a
loud thud.  He shot Bria instead of me!  he thought, and opened his
eyes.

But the body on the floor belonged to Teroenza.  There was a huge,
gaping hole where the Priest's bulbous left eye had been.

Han stared wildly, wondering if he'd gone mad and was imagining all
this.

What's going on?

Beside him, Bria gasped.

Han watched as Boba Fett stepped out of a dim corner of the room, his
blaster rifle held in his arms.

Oh, great!  he thought.  Now Fett will just kill us all!

The bounty hunter kept them all covered as he walked to Teroenza's huge
form, and then knelt on one knee.  Keeping them covered with the
blaster rifle with one hand, Fett used a vibro-saw with the other.  The
little instrument whirred, slicing easily through flesh and bone as
Fett carefully cut off Teroenza's horn.

Han's head was whirling with shock.

Finally the bounty hunter rose to his feet again, and then began
backing slowly away, the grisly trophy tucked under his arm.

Han couldn't help it.  "You're leaving?"  he blurted.

Did Boba Fett's mechanical voice hold a slight undercurrent of
amusement?

Han couldn't decide if he was imagining it.  "That's right,"

the bounty hunter said.  "The Priest is a Priority bounty.  I'm not
here for you."

And, having reached the opening in the wall, Boba Fett backed through
it and vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared.

Han's mouth dropped open, and he felt light-headed with relief.

"Bria!"  he yelled, and grabbed her again.

The three shouted and celebrated for a long moment, in the deserted
Treasure Room.

Han headed off to the Falcon to get the repulsor dolly.  When he
returned, they spent several minutes organizing the boxes for efficient
loading.

Suddenly a Rebel assault shuttle settled down on the permacrete beside
the Falcon.  Han stared at it in surprise as Jace Paol and a squad of
Rebels disembarked.  "Bria .  . ."  he said, "hey, what's going on?

This is our treasure.  We're taking it, and we're going away in the
Falcon .  . . right?

Together .  . . right?"

He looked at her, and she stared back at him.  She bit her lip and
didn't answer.  Han felt a cold knot settle into his stomach.  "Bria
.

. . honey .

. . remember, you promised?  We'd be together, right?  Always?"  He
swallowed.  "Bria .  . ."

Chewie roared with anger and frustration, and suddenly Bria's blaster
was there, in her hand, covering them both.

"Han," she said quietly, "we need to talk."

fifteen

The Last Kessel Run

Han stared at Bria's drawn blaster, poleaxed.  "Honey, what are you
doing?"

I need it all, Han," she said.  "Not for me, but for the Resistance."

She waved to the Rebels and they came in, took Han's repulsor-lift
dolly, and began stacking boxes on it.

Han stared in disbelief as the first load of treasure went out the
door.

"Bria .  . ."  he said hoarsely, "you can't do this.  This ain't
happening.

You're .  . . you're just tryin' to kid me, right?"

"I'm sorry, Han," she said.  "I have to take it all.  Everything my
teams could salvage off this wretched world.  All the processed spice,
all the weapons, all the treasure.  I know it's not fair, but I can't
help that."

"Did the other Rebel commanders do this, Bria?"  Han asked.  "Not as
far as I know," she said.  "But I was the one that got the
communication last night, Han.  Intelligence has discovered that the
Empire has some kind of big project underway.  Really big.  So big that
the fate of entire worlds could depend upon it.  We have to find out
what they're up to, and that will take credits .  . . lots of them.

For bribes, surveillance, troops .  .

. you name it.  I just hope what we've gotten here on Ylesia will be
enough."

Han wet his lips.  "I thought you loved me.  You said you did."

Another load went out the door.  Han stared at it, wanting to moan
aloud.

Chewie did moan aloud.

Bria sighed and shook her head.  "Yes, I love you," she said, softly.

"I

want us to always be together.  Come with me, Han.  You can't go back
to Nar Shaddaa now.  Come with me and we'll fight the Empire
together.

You, me and Chewie.  We'll make a great team.  We all have to make
sacrifices, and we'll have made ours in giving up the treasure.  You
don't think I'm keeping any of this for myself, do you?"

Han shook his head, and his voice was very bitter.  "No, I don't think
that, Bria.  Not for a moment."  He took a deep, ragged breath.  "Bria
. . .

I loved you."

Her face twisted in anguish at his use of the past tense.  "Han, I love
you!  I do!  But I can't let how I feel about you jeopardize the Rebel
Alliance!  This raid was a test, and we passed it!  The other
Resistance groups are going to see that we can get things done!  Han.

. . we took a whole planet.  This raid is going to go down in Rebellion
history, I just know it!"

"Yeah, as the raid where Bria Tharen stuck it to people who trusted
her.

Including the guy she said she loved."

Tears welled in her eyes, broke and ran.  She stepped out of the way as
her soldiers maneuvered yet another load of treasure out the door.

"Han · .  .

please, please .  . . come with me.  You're a born leader.  You don't
need to live like a criminal.  In the Rebel Alliance you could be an
officer, and they do pay us!  Not much, but a little, enough to live
on!  Please, Han!"

He stared at her coldly.  She was crying so hard now that Jace Paol
stepped over and took the blaster out of her hand.  "We're loading the
last bunch of boxes now, Commander."

She nodded, then tried to pull herself back together, wiping her eyes
on her sleeve.

"Please, Han.  If you're too mad now, I understand.  Just .  . . send
me a message.  Jabba knows how to reach me.  Please, Han."

"I'll send you a message," Han said.  "Remember everything I said to
you that night at the Blue Light?  Well, it was all true, and I was a
fool for ever trustin' you."  He dug in an inside pocket, and took out
a small pouch.  Inside was a piece of flimsy.  "Recognize this, huh?"

She looked at it, came closer, and then backed away, nodding, her face
very pale and set.  "Yes .  . ."

"Well, I'm such a fool that I carried it around with me all these
years," Han snarled.  "But as of today, I am no woman's fool, sister.

No woman is ever gettin' to me again.  Ever."

With slow, deliberate movements, he ripped the flimsy into tiny pieces,
then let them slip through his fingers and scatter to the floor.

"You'd better get in your ship and get outta here while the getting is
good, Bria.  If I ever see you again in this life, I'll shoot you on
sight."

She stared at him in shock, until Jace Paol took her arm and said,
"Commander .  . . we've finished loading."

"I understand," she said, in a small, shaking voice.  "Han.  . . I am
sorry.

I will always love you.  Always.  There has never been anyone but you,
and there never will be.  I'm sorry .... " Paol encircled her shoulders
with his arm, and said to Han.  "I left you one box and your dolly,
Solo.  I'd advise you not to waste time here.  The charges are set to
go off in thirty minutes."

Slowly, Paol backed out the door, keeping his blaster trained on Han
and Chewie.  The Rebels beside the shuttle kept the Corellian and the
Wookiee covered.

Han stood there in silence as the Rebel shuttle took off.

When it was gone, he drew a deep, ragged breath, and it hurt.  Another,
and it hurt, too.  His eyes stung, but he bit his lip until the pain
allowed him to gain control.  "Chewie," he said, "this has been a great
day, you know that?"

Chewie made a sympathetic, mournful sound.

"Well, we have to get moving," Han said.  "Tell you what, keep an eye
on the time, and trot through the compound.  Maybe they dropped some
vials of glitterstim or something.  I'll scour Teroenza's living
quarters.  I think he had some valuables in there.  Meet me back here
in seventeen minutes, pal."

"Hrrrrrrnnnnnnggggggghhhh!"

The Wookiee took off.

Han scoured the treasure room and Teroenza's apartment, finding a few
odds and ends, and a sobbing Ganar Tos.  Han looked at the old humanoid
coldly.

"You are lucky you never married her," he said.  "Get outta here,
Tos.

This building is gonna blow in fifteen minutes."

The ancient Zisian scuttled out the door like a bug.  Han snorted in
disgust and ransacked the apartment.

When he carried a sack of minor collectibles out to the Falcon, Han
looked around for Chewie.  Hurry up, furball, he thought.

He went inside the ship to warm her up, and then heard Chewie's roar,
demanding that Han come out and see what he'd found!

Han's heart leaped.  A box of glitterstim vials!

He raced out of the ship, only to stop short in confusion.  Chewbacca
stood there with a group of big-eyed, ragged children, hollowcheeked
and scared.

He held the littlest tyke in his arms.  The other eight looked to be
between the ages of four and twelve.

Han stared.  "What?  Where in blazes did they come from?"  Chewbacca
explained that he'd been scavenging amid the deserted buildings, when
he'd heard sobbing down in a cellar at the back of the dorms.  These
children had apparently been born to some of the Pilgrims, and
forgotten by their Exultation-addicted parents in the aftermath of the
raid.

All the children were human, and Han guessed they were Corellian.  He
groaned aloud.  "Chewie!  You were supposed to find somethin'
valuable!"

Chewbacca indignantly pointed out that children were valuable.

"Only if we sell the little darlings as slaves," Han snarled.

Chewie's upper lip drew back, and he snarled, too.

Han raised his hands.  "Okay, okay, I was just kidding!  You know I'd
never deal in slaves!  But what are we gonna do with them?"

Chewbacca pointed out that since the buildings were going to blow up in
less than five minutes, now was not a good time to argue about the best
course of action.

Han scowled.  "Okay, kids.  Get on board.  C'mon, c'mon.  I can rustle
up some emergency rations I suppose .... " Two minutes later, the
Falcon took off, and Han circled once around the Colony.  Below him,
the buildings blossomed one by one into giant fireballs.  After a few
hours, there would be nothing left but charred, slagged remains to be
re-conquered by the jungle ....

Durga, Lord of Besadii, stared down at the Ylesian nightside through
the viewport of his yacht in disbelief.  Infernoes blossomed, clearly
visible from space.  The former sites of the colonies were marked by
massive forest fires, whipped by the ever-present winds.

There were survivors, Durga knew that.  The Nova Force troopers who'd
surrendered .  . . old Ganar Tos.  They'd contacted Durga aboard his
yacht from a few portable comm units they'd salvaged.  The moment the
Hutt yacht achieved orbit, there they were, yammering to be rescued.

But of the factories and warehouses .  . . nothing was left except
burning rubble.

Gone .  . . Durga couldn't believe it.  Between one day and the
next--in a matter of hours ....

Gone.  All gone.

Durga drew a deep breath and thought about the call he'd received only
minutes ago from Prince Xizor.  A pleasant, reassuring call, reminding
Durga that he still owed Black Sun credits, but that in the wake

of this disaster, Xizor would be happy to work out payment
arrangements.

The Black Sun leader had hinted that he'd be pleased to help Besadii
rebuild the Ylesian enterprise.

No, thought Durga.  Not again .  . .

For one thing, the Rebels had carried away thousands of Pilgrims, and
Xizor's intelligence indicated that they seemed to have found a "cure"
for the Exultation addiction.  With that many Pilgrims telling the
truth about Ylesia, it would be hard to gain new recruits.

And the t'landa Til High Priest whom Zier had recruited had taken one
horrified look at the planet, and flatly refused to have anything to do
with the whole scheme.

No, Durga thought.  I'll try something else next time.

And there would be a next time, of course.  He'd find another way to
make Besadii richer than ever.  And if he, Durga, had to serve Prince
Xizor, well, then, he would rise to the top of Black Sun.

His immediate goal was to become a Vigo.  And after that .  . . perhaps
he'd challenge Xizor himself.  Or even the Emperor.  Durga knew he was
clever, and he figured he was just as capable of ruling Imperial space
as anyone ....

Durga glanced down at his one souvenir from this disastrous day.  A
long, blood-smeared horn.  At least Aruk has been avenged, he
thought.

May he rest in peace ....

The Hutt lord keyed his intercom and his pilot responded immediately.

"Arrange for pickup of those mercenary troops," Durga instructed.

"And set course for Nal Hutta.  I'm done here.  Take us home."

"Yes, Your Excellency," the pilot responded.

Durga settled back and sighed.  Picking up Teroenza's horn, he stroked
it thoughtfully, and began planning for the future ....

Han Solo and Chewbacca were still arguing about what to do with the
Corellian orphans when they came out of hyperspace six hours later, and
their comm system began to beep, signaling an incoming message.

Chewie insisted that they must take the children back to Corellia, so
they could be cared for by family.  Han protested the waste of fuel and
time.

"Dump 'em in a spaceport on any civilized world, and someone'll take
care of 'em," he argued.

Chewbacca commented that as a father himself, he felt their only course
was to take the children back to Corellia.

Han glared at the Wookiee as he activated the comm to receive the

incoming message.  Jabba the Hutt's image materialized atop the
control panel.  "Han, my boy!"

"Hello, Jabba," Han said.  "What's happening?"

Jabba frowned slightly at the Corellian's lackluster greeting, then the
Hutt lord forgot his displeasure.  "Han, congratulations to you!  The
raid was a complete success!  I am very pleased!"

"Great," said Han, grimly.  "Is that why you made an interstellar
call?"

"Oh .  . . no, Han," Jabba chuckled.  "I have a load of spice I want
you to pick up from Moruth Doole on Kessel.  Bring it to me immediately
on Tatooine, understand?  The deal is arranged, the spice is paid
for."

"Okay, Jabba," Han said.  "My usual cut?"

"Certainly, certainly," Jabba boomed.  "And perhaps a nice bonus for
quick delivery."

"I'm on my way, Jabba."

"Fine, Han my boy."  Jabba peered at the Corellian thoughtfully.  "And,
Han.

. . get some rest afterward.  You look a bit haggard, if you don't mind
my saying so."

"Right, Jabba," Han said.  "Will do."

He broke the connection and scowled.  "Great.  A load of whiny kids,
and I gotta take 'em with me on a Run.  Maybe I oughta consider gettin'
out of the smuggling business, Chewie."

Chewbacca's only comment was that while they were on Kessel, they
needed to pick up some traladon milk and flatbread for sandwiches.  Han
groaned aloud ....

Twelve hours later, with the load of spice safely secured in the
belowdecks smuggling compartments, Han eased the Falcon up from
Kessel.

Leaving Chewie to pass out food to the children, Han headed toward the
Maw, checking his course.  Suddenly a light flashed on his control
board, and he realized that an Imperial customs ship was bearing down
on him!  "Chewie!

Get up here!"  he shouted, and began pouring on speed.

Moments later, the Wookiee was in the cockpit.  "Strap those blasted
kids in!"  Han shouted.  "Then get up here!  We've got two Imps on our
tail, and it's gonna be a rough ride!"

"Hrrrrrnnnnn!"

Han sent the Falcon hurtling along, faster even than the day he'd raced
Salla.  As Chewie slipped into the co-pilot's seat, Han heard a muffled
squeak behind him, and glanced back to see a wide-eyed urchin staring
at the Maw.  "What are you doing up here?"  Han snapped.  Great, just
what I need!  A snivelin' kid!

"Watching," the little boy said.

"Aren't you scared?"  Han grunted, flipping the Falcon up on her side
to avoid a wash of ionized gas from one of the black hole clusters.

The Imp vessel shot at him, but it was a clean miss.

Great!  Gettin' shot at with these kids here!

"No, sir!"  the kid chirped.  "This is neat!  Can you go faster?"

"Glad you like it," muttered Han.  "Kid, I'm sure gonna try .... " He
poured on the speed, skimming past the first of the black hole
clusters.  Their velocity made everything blur, almost as though they
were going into hyperspace.

Han had never gone so fast in the Falcon.  "Whooooo!"  he shouted, as
they narrowly missed being pulled in by a black hole's gravity well.

"Whooooo!"  echoed the kid behind him.

Han began laughing like a maniac as they hurtled along.  "Like that,
eh, kid?  Watch me outrun these Imperial slugs!"

"Go!"  yelled the child.  "Faster, Captain Solo!"

"What's your name, kid?"  Han asked as they came around the last curve
of the Maw's terrible gravity wells, sheering so close that the engines
strained in protest.

"Kryss P'teska, sir."

"And you like to go fast, eh?"  "Yeah!"  "Okay .  . ."

Han threaded his way into the Pit, zipping along, and avoiding the
hurtling asteroids by the seat of his pants.  He realized that he was
gaining on the Imp.  The customs ship was barely visible now ....

If I can get just a little farther ahead .  . .

Sweat gathered on Han's forehead and ran down to sting his eyes, but he
never eased up on his speed.  The Imperial ship was far behind him
now.

Han ducked and dodged asteroids, and realized he was nearing the edge
of the Pit.

"Great," he grunted.  "All we gotta do is get outta here, and then make
the jump to lightspeed .... " Chewie suddenly started whining and
gesturing frantically at the board.  Han looked at his instruments and
groaned aloud.  "Oh, blast!  Three Imps out there on the perimeter of
the Pit!  What else could they be doin' but waitin' for us!  And one of
'em is a big sucker!"  Han's mind raced.

"Chewie, we ain't gonna be able to outrun these Imps," Han said.  "And
we're outgunned.  But we've lost that guy on our tail, at least for the
moment.  I think if we can get far enough ahead, we should go ahead and
dump the load just inside the Pit--the way you did that time with
Colonel Quirt on that other Run.  After they've searched

the Falcon to their hearts content, we come back and retrieve the
cargo.

Whaddaya say?"

Chewie was in full agreement.  "Okay, take over.  We gotta do this real
fast," Han said.  "Here's the coordinates."

"Hrrrrrrnnnnnnhh!"

Leaving the Wookiee to head for the coordinates he'd selected, Han
raced back to the passageway with the secret compartments, with Kryss
in hot pursuit.  "You kids, give me a hand here," he said, getting out
coils of wire.  Several of the children assembled and stood there,
staring at him.

"What're your names?"  Han said.

"Cathea, sir," said a young girl of perhaps twelve or thirteen, with a
long blond braid of hair.  "I'll help."

"I'm Tym," said a small boy.

"I'm Aeron," said a dark-haired child.  "I'll help!"

"Good," Han grunted, heaving up the deckplates.  "Help me get these
barrels carried into the starboard airlock, and we'll wire 'em
together."

Within two minutes, the spice was ready to be jettisoned.  Han shooed
the kids out of the airlock, then closed it firmly behind them.  He
ignored the standard depressurization procedures, and, using the manual
override, forced the outer doors to slide wide apart--blowing the spice
barrels out into the void.

"Chewie!"  he yelled.  "Jettisoned!  Log these coordinates!"

With luck, Han should be able to track the spice's progress and find it
again after a little searching.  The barrels themselves were made of an
alloy that would show up on his sensors if he got close enough.

It was the best he could do, under the circumstances.

Han ran back up to the cockpit, and raced back along his course, so
he'd emerge from the Pit approximately where they'd be expecting him
to.  As he headed out of the Pit, the Imp customs ship came hurtling up
from behind him.  Han looked at Chewie.  "That was close."

Han's comm unit began signaling, and he activated it.  "Unidentified
ship, prepare to be boarded," an angry voice said, just as Han felt the
Falcon seized by a tractor beam.  "This is the Imperial light cruiser
Assessor.

Offer no resistance and you will not be harmed."

Han sat there, with the kids clustering around him in the cockpit,
watching as the Falcon was drawn toward the big Imperial ship.  "Kids,
let me do the talkin'," he said.

Moments after docking, the Imperials were at the Falcon's airlock,
demanding to be admitted.  Han sighed and got up to let them in, with a
trail of children tagging along behind him.

The Imperial captain himself was part of the heavily armed boarding

party.  "Captain Tybert Capucot," the balding man with the
supercilious air said, looking at Han as though he were a particularly
unappetizing sight.

"Captain Solo, you stand in suspicion of smuggling spice from Kessel.

I am authorized to search your ship."

Han waved at the interior.  "Search away," he said.  "I got nothin' to
hide."

Capucot sniffed and managed to stare down his nose at Han--even though
the Imperial officer was several centimeters shorter than the
Corellian.

The captain beckoned a scanning crew into the ship.  "Search every
millimeter, "he ordered.  "I want that spice."

Han shrugged and stepped aside.

The Imperials searched .  . . and searched .  . . and searched some
more.

Han and Chewie winced as they heard crashes from the lounge and the aft
cargo compartment.  "Hey!"  Han protested, "I'm just an honest
trader!

I'm an Imperial citizen, you can't trash my ship like this!"

"Honest trader," Capucot sneered.  "If you weren't running spice, then
what were you doing?"

Han thought fast.  "I was .  . . uh .  . . well, I was takin' these
kids back to Corellia," he said.  "You see, there was this big rescue
operation on a slave world, and .  . . uh .  . . well, these kids got
left behind.  So I brought 'em with me."

The captain glared at Han.  "Corellia is that way," he said, icily,
pointing aft.

Han shrugged.  "I had to stop off and buy food.  Didn't I, kids?"

"Yes!"  lisped little Tym.  "We was hungry!  Captain Solo saved us!"

"Captain Solo risked his life for us," said Cathea, twirling her long
braid.  "He's a hero."

"He saved us," Aeron said.  "We was gonna get blowed up."

Little Kryss came over and took Han's hand, stood looking up at the
Imperial Captain.  "Captain Solo is the best pilot in the whole
galaxy.

He sure can outrun those Imperial si--" Han managed to put his hand
over the boy's mouth just in time.  "Hell," he chuckled, grinning
weakly.  "Kids.  They say the craziest things.  You a family man,
Captain?"

Capucot was not amused.

Finally the scanning crew returned, not looking pleased.  "Sir, we
found nothing.  We made a thorough search, Captain."

Tybert Capucot's face reddened.  He stood there, searching for words,
then met Han's gaze.  "Very well," he said.  "Our brave hero Captain
Solo claims that he was taking these children to Corellia.  Such a
noble act

deserves an Imperial escort.  Set your course for Corellia, Captain.

We will escort you there."

Han opened his mouth, then closed it again.  With an effort, he
nodded.

"Sure.  Let's go."

It took him the best part of a day to reach his homeworld.  Han raged
at the delay in collecting his spice.  He knew that if anything
happened to it, that Jabba would not be lenient.  Business was
business, and Hutts did not know the meaning of mercy ....

When he reached Corellia, he found that the Imps had broadcast his
arrival ahead of them, and there was a media blitz waiting for them.

Han and Chewie were congratulated, hailed as heroes, and only the fact
that Han had already won the Corellian bloodstripe kept the grateful
government of his homeworld from awarding him one.

Han was in a panic to get back to the Pit and his dropped load of
spice.

Finally he was able to say goodbye to the children--who actually were
pretty good kids, he was forced to concede--and head back out, a free
citizen.

The Corellian made best possible speed back to the Pit, and to the
coordinates where he'd dropped the load of raw glitterstim.  He spent
the next four hours combing the outer edge of the asteroid field,
becoming more and more frantic.  "It's got to be here!"  he exclaimed
to Chewie.  But it wasn't.

Han searched for another two hours, using the auxiliary sensor units in
the lounge to augment the ones in the cockpit.  Suddenly he was
interrupted by a roar from Chewbacca in the cockpit.  "I'm comin'!"  he
yelled, racing forward.

Chewie pointed to the sensors showing two blips converging on them
rapidly.  Han checked the ship IDs and then swore bitterly, smacking
his forehead with his hand.  "Great!  More Imps!  That's all I need!

Why me?"

He dropped into the pilot's seat and reversed course, heading back into
the Pit.  Chewbacca growled an inquiry, wanting to know why they were
running when they had no spice on board anyway.

"Don't you get it?"  Han snarled as he increased speed until the
asteroids zipped past them in a blur.  "They must've found the spice we
dumped, and they know what we were searchin' for!  You know Capucot
didn't believe us .

. . he's behind this!  These slugs will arrest us on suspicion of
smuggling and impound the Falcon I We'll never get her back!"  He made
a hard turn to port to avoid an asteroid the size of an Imp
destroyer.

"Besides .  . ."  he added, "I don't want 'em trashin' the ship again

searching her.  We just got done cleanin' up the mess Capucot and his
boys made."

Together, Han and Chewie sent the Falcon streaking back through the
Pit, toward the Maw.  His pursuers were two Imperial tariff ships, and
they followed him with reckless determination.

Han's hands moved over his controls like a man possessed as they
skimmed and flipped their way through the treacherous asteroid field.

Chewie was howling aloud with terror at the chances his partner was
taking.  "Shut up, fuzz-face!"  Han yelled.  "I gotta concentrate!"

Chewie's howls dropped to moans .  . . possibly prayers.  Han was too
busy to listen.

They were nearing the end of the Pit, heading straight for the Maw.

"Chewie, I'm gonna have to shave the belly armor right off the Falcon,
and hope those Imps won't want to mess with these black holes," Han
said, tightly.  "Those slugs are not givin' up!"

Chewbacca arrrrhhhhhnnnnned in despair.  "I can't help it!  They're not
getting the Falcon!"

The two Imperial ships stuck to the smuggler vessel as though they were
hooked by tractor beams.  Han and Chewie worked frantically over the
Falcon's control board, adjusting their course, speed, direction,
shielding ....

In desperation, Han sent the Falcon closer to the black hole clusters
than any sane person would ever go.  Only the ship's breakneck speed
might save them.

The Millennium Falcon skimmed so close to the black holes in the Maw
that only her terrible velocity kept her from being captured and sucked
in.  The watching eyes of the accretion disks seemed to widen and
narrow as the Falcon soared and swooped in and around the treacherous
gravity wells.  The Imperial ships hurtled after him at top velocity.

Han did an impossible spin, flip and swoop as he came around toward the
last of the Maw.  Studying his instruments, Han saw that one of the
pursuing Imperial ships, the smaller of the two, hadn't been able to
duplicate his maneuver--the ship vanished into the embrace of the black
hole's accretion disk with a tiny, ignoble flare.

"Yes!"  he said, fiercely.  "You're not gettin' me!  Not today, not
ever!"

Now the last Imperial ship was falling behind .  . . and the Falcon was
nearly out of the Maw.  "Yes, Chewie!  We did it!"

"Arrrrrrhhhhhhhhnnn!"

Han sent the Falcon hurtling past Kessel, and then, suddenly they were
free of the gravity wells.  Han hastily bent over the navicomputer,
then a moment later, shouted, "Course laid in!  Punch it, Chewie!"

Moments later they were safe in hyperspace.  Han slumped back in his
seat.  "That was too close," he muttered, hoarsely.

Chewie agreed.

As he sagged in his seat, Han noticed something.  "Hey, Chewie. 
Look!"

He pointed at the instruments.  "We set a record!"

Chewie commented bitterly that their speed record had come at the
expense of his nerves.  Han's eyes narrowed.  "Hey, this is weird," he
said.  "It says we actually shortened the distance we traveled, not
just the time.

Less than twelve parsecs!"

Chewie growled skeptically and rapped on the distance gauge with hairy
knuckles, commenting that Han's wild piloting must have caused a short
and the gauge was off.

Han argued, but when Chewbacca, short-tempered, snarled at him, he gave
up.  "Okay, okay, I'm too tired to argue," he said, throwing up his
hands.

But I did do it in under twelve parsecs .... he thought stubbornly.

But now he had more pressing problems to consider than speed or
distance records.  What in the universe was he going to tell Jabba?

sixteen

Toprawa .  . . and Mos Eisley

Han faced the craggy, scarred holo-image of Bidlo Kwerve, Jabba the
Hutt's Corellian majordomo.  Behind Kwerve he could see the sandcolored
walls of the Hutt Lord's desert palace on Tatooine.  "Hey, Kwerve," Han
said, "let me speak to the boss, please."

The ugly Corellian thug had jet-black hair with a vivid white stripe
running through it, and vivid green eyes.  Kwerve smiled, a small and
nasty smile.  "Hey, it's Solo," he said.  "Jabba's been callin' you.

Where you been, Solo?"

"Here and there," Han said, shortly.  He didn't like being played
with.

"Ran into a bit of trouble with the Imps."

"Well, that's too bad," Kwerve said.  "Let me see if I can get Jabba to
talk to you.  Last time I knew, he was pretty ticked 'cause you're
overdue with that cargo.  He's got some plans for that spice."

Han stared stonily into the comm.  "Just patch me through, Kwerve, and
stuff the jokes."

"Oho, who said I was jokin', Solo?"

The Corellian majordomo's scarred visage disappeared in a wash of
static, and for a moment Han thought he'd cut the transmission.  He
reached out to break the connection himself, when the static was
suddenly gone, replaced by Jabba's massive holo-image.  "Jabba!"  Han
blurted, in mingled relief and trepidation.  "Hey, listen .  . . I got
a little problem."

Jabba did not look happy.  He was smoking some brown substance that
roiled around in the combination hookah and snackquarium he'd

inherited from the dead Jiliac, and his huge pupils were dilated from
the drug.

Great, Han thought.  I had to call when he was spiced ....

"Uh, hey, Jabba," he said.  "It's me, Han."

Jabba blinked several times and finally managed to focus.  "Han!"

boomed the leader of Desilijic.  "Where have you been?  I was expecting
you here last week!"

"Uh, well, Jabba, that's what I called to tell you about," Han said.

"Listen .  . . it's not my fault .... " Jabba blinked muzzily.  "Han,
my boy .  . . what are you saying?  Where is my load of glitterstim?"

The Corellian swallowed.  "Uh, yeah, about that load, Jabba.  Well, you
see .  . . it was almost like they'd set a trap for me!  The Imps were
waitin' and they--" "The customs officials have my spice?"  Jabba
roared, so loudly and suddenly that Han couldn't help flinching back.

"How could you, Solo?"

"No!  No, no, Jabba!"  Han cried.  "They didn't get it!  Honest,
they've got nothin' on you, nothin'!  But .  . . in order to keep the
customs guys from finding it, I had to dump it.  I marked it, but they
wouldn't let me go right away.  And when I went back for it .  . . it
was gone, Jabba."

"My spice is gone," Jabba said, staring blearily at Han, his voice
ominously quiet.

"Uh .  . . yeah.  But, hey, Jabba, don't worry.  I'll make it up to
you, I promise.  Me and Chewie will work it off, we'll pay you the
value, don't worry.  You know we're good for it.  And honest, Jabba, I
got a feelin' I was set up, you know?  How many people besides you and
Moruth Doole knew I was goin' on a Run?"

Jabba ignored Han's question.  His bulbous eyes blinked rapidly as he
took several puffs on the hookah.  Then, reaching out, he grabbed a
wriggler from the liquid-filled globe and stuffed the squirming thing
into his mouth.

"Han.  . .Han, my boy, you know I love you like a son," he said slowly,
portentously.  "But business is business, and you've broken my primary
rule.  I can't make exceptions just because I am fond of you.  That
load cost me twelve thousand four hundred credits.  Deliver the spice
or the credits to me within ten days, or face the consequences."

Han wet his lips.  "Ten days .  . . but, Jabba--" The connection was
abruptly broken.  Han sagged back in his pilot's seat, wrung out.  What
am I gonna do?

Six days later, having tried and failed to scrape up the credits from
some of the sentients who owed him money, Han went back to Nar
Shaddaa.

He hated to do it, but he was going to have to borrow the credits from
friends.

He discovered that someone involved in that nightmare Run .  . . some
Imp officer, or trooper .  . . had evidently talked about what had
happened.

His fellow smugglers regarded him with a mixture of awe and
trepidation.

Awe because he'd set a new record for the Run, trepidation because the
news was out--Jabba was displeased, most displeased, with his former
favorite pilot.

Shug was off-planet, and Han cursed when he discovered that the master
tech was gone.  He knew Shug was good for that much, though it would
strain his resources.

Han made the rounds, managed to pick up a couple of thousand credits by
calling in some old favors.  But news of what had happened to some of
the captains on Ylesia had spread, and several people simply looked the
other way when Han approached.

Han finally went to Lando's place.  He didn't want to, but he was out
of options.

He knocked on the door, and heard the gambler's sleepy voice from
inside.

"Who is it?"

"Lando, it's me," he called.  "Han."

The Corellian heard steps, then suddenly Lando jerked the door open.

Before Han could utter a single word, the gambler's fist lashed out in
a vicious sucker-punch, catching Han in the jaw and sending him flying
back across the hallway.  The Corellian slammed into the wall, then
slid down, landing on his rear.

Han grabbed his jaw, spots dancing before his eyes, struggling to
speak.

Lando loomed over him.  "You have got to have the most colossal nerve
in the entire galaxy, coming here after what you pulled on Ylesia!"  he
yelled.  "You're lucky I don't just shoot you, you lousy, lowlife,
doublecrosser!"

"Lando .  . ."  Han managed to croak, "I swear, I didn't know what she
was plannin'.  I swear .... " "Right," Lando sneered.  "Sure you
didn't!"

"Would I have come here like this if I wasn't innocent?"  Han
mumbled.

His jaw wasn't working very well.  He could feel it swelling.  "Lando ·
. . she did it to me, too.  I didn't get nothin' from that trip.

Nothin'!"

"I don't believe you," Lando said, coldly.  "But if I did, I'd say,
'good!"

You two deserve each other!"

"Lando," Han said, "I lost a load of spice I was carryin' for Jabba.

I'm desperate, buddy.  I need to borrow--" "What?"  Lando grabbed Han's
jacket in both hands and yanked the pilot to his feet.  He slammed the
Corellian against the wall.  The gambler's dark face was barely a
handsbreadth from Han's.  "You came here to ask me for a loan?"

Han managed to nod.  "I'm good for it .  . . honest .... " "Get this
through your head, Solo," Lando snarled.  "We've been friends in the
past, so I'm not going to do what you so richly deserve and blow your
head off.  But don't ever come near me again!"

Slamming Han against the wall one more time, Lando let the Corellian
go.

Han slid down the wall again, as Lando stormed back into his flat.  The
door banged shut, and Han heard the lock click.

Slowly, painfully, Han got to his feet.  His jaw was throbbing, and he
tasted blood.

Well, that's that, he thought, staring at the closed door.  Now what?

"We're not going to get out of here, are we?"

Commander Bria Tharen ignored the barely audible question as she ducked
down behind the pile of rubble and ejected the spent power pak from her
blaster.  Or tried to.  The pak was jammed.  Looking at her weapon, she
saw that the constant firing from the past few minutes of battle had
fused the power connectors together, making it impossible to remove the
empty pak.

She swore under her breath, and crawled over to the body next to her.

Jace Paol's features were frozen into an expression of tight,
concentrated anger.  He'd died fighting, the way he would have wanted
to go.  Grabbing his weapon, she eased it out from beneath his body,
but before she had it all the way out, she saw the barrel was fused.

It was as useless as her own.

Glancing over at the pitiful remains of Red Hand Squadron, Bria said,
"Anyone who can, give me cover.  I've got to scrounge me up something
to shoot with."

Joaa'n nodded and gave her a thumbs-up.  "Ready, Commander.  I don't
see anything moving out there at the moment."

"Okay," Bria said.  Tossing the useless weapon aside, the Rebel
commander peered carefully over the rubble, then stealthily slid around
to the side, out from behind her cover.  She didn't bother getting to
her feet, not sure that her wounded leg would support her.  Instead,
she scuttled forward on hands and knees, keeping low, through the
ragged hole in the

outside wall of the half-destroyed Imperial comm center where they
were making their last stand.

A few meters away, an Imperial trooper lay, a hole still smoldering in
his breastplate.

Quickly, Bria crawled over and stripped the dead man of his weapon and
spare power paks, noting wryly that the trooper must have used all his
grenades before he'd been shot.  Too bad .  . . I could have made good
use of a couple of grenades ....

Bria thought about taking the man's body armor, but it hadn't done him
any good, had it?

Here, outside the remains of the Imperial comm center on the restricted
world of Toprawa, she could hear better.  And breathe better, too.  The
stench of battle was replaced by a cool night breeze.  Bria crouched
behind a fallen block of permacrete, daring to pull off her helmet for
a second, then wipe her grimy face.  She sighed with pleasure as the
gentle breeze cooled her sweaty hair.  The last time she'd felt a cool,
pleasant breeze like that had been on Togoria ....

Where are you, Han?  she wondered, as she often did.  What are you
doing right now?

She wondered if Han would ever know what had become of her.  Would he
care if he did?  Did he hate her now?  She hoped not, but she would
never know ....

Bria thought about that day on Ylesia, and wished things could have
been different.  Yet .  . . if she'd had it to do over again, would she
have done things any differently?

She smiled sadly.  Probably not ....

The credits she'd raised had come in handy, and had led directly to
this assignment.  Torbul and the other Rebel leaders had sent
intelligence units to infiltrate Ralltiir, and they'd discovered that
the Empire was shipping vital plans for its new secret weapon to its
records center on Toprawa.

Torbul had been straight with her when he'd discussed the mission,
using terms like, "recovery iffy," and "expendable."

Bria had known what she was getting into, but she'd volunteered Red
Hand Squadron anyway.  She knew they needed the best for this job, and
she was confident her people could deliver.

And they had ....

This was the biggest anti-Imperial offensive of the Resistance so far,
a coordinated offensive assigned to transmit the plans for the latest
Imperial secret weapon.  Bria didn't know all the details, but her
assignment had been to seize this Imperial comm center on Toprawa and
hold it, while the comm techs transmitted the stolen plans to a Rebel
courier ship · .  . a Corellian corvette that would "accidentally" pass
through this highly restricted star system.

When Torbul told Bria that the Rebel Alliance needed volunteers to
accompany the intelligence team to Toprawa, to hold off the Imps while
the comm techs did their job, Bria hadn't hesitated before
volunteering.  "Red Hand will go, sir," she said.  "We can handle
it."

She looked out across the plaza, seeing the carnage of war reflected
dimly in the streetlights.  Bodies, overturned ground-cars, wrecked
speeders .  .

. the place was a mess.

Bria thought about Ylesia, reflecting that place had been an even
bigger mess .  . . and she was proud that she had some responsibility
for that.

Glancing up at the sky, she thought about Retribution.  They'd lost
contact with her, and Bria feared the worst.

Time to get back to work; she thought, and crawled back into the
wrecked comm center.

Hearing the deep thrum of heavy repulsorlift units behind her, Bria
sheltered behind the wall and peered out.  Looking up, she saw the
faint glint of light from the armor of a massive rectangular object
floating above the permacrete of the ruined plaza.  The Imperial heavy
armor, one of the "Floating Fortress" class units, settled down into a
covered position behind the remains of the communications and sensor
tower, obviously getting ready for yet another assault on Red Hand
Squadron .  . . or what was left of it.

Bria scrambled backward, crawling quickly, to pass the word to her
remaining troops.

"Listen up, people," she said, to the survivors--so few!--who were
sheltering behind the barricade.  She began passing out the power paks,
dividing them up equally.  "They're coming again.  We've got to look
sharp, hold them off as long as possible."

They didn't talk, just nodded, and prepared to go to work.  Bria was
proud of them.  Professionals.  Dedicated professionals.

It won't be long now, she thought, finding a good spot for herself
behind the barricade.  "People .  . ."  she said aloud, "has everyone
got their lullaby?"

Murmured assents.  Bria checked her own.  She'd stuck the tiny pill to
the collar of her fatigues, so that all she had to do was turn her head
and stick her tongue out to get it.  You never knew if your arms would
be working, after all.

Come on, she thought to the Imperials.  It's rude to keep us waiting.

What the Imps didn't know was that they were already too late.  Red

Hand had managed to hold the Imperial reaction force at the outer
perimeter while the Rebel comm techs transmitted the plans to the
courier vessel.  It had been close; the Imps had chopped the
comm/sensor tower in half just seconds after the transmission had
ended--but Bria had seen the acknowledgment from Tantive IV with her
own eyes.  "Transmission complete."

Bria had also seen, before the sensors were cut off, the image of an
Imperial Star Destroyer closing in on the Rebel Blockade Runner.  Had
that courier gotten away?  She'd never know ....

Bria wondered exactly what they'd been transmitting, but knew she'd
never know that, either.  As it was, she and her people knew too much ·
. . that's why they couldn't risk being taken alive.

Not that the Imperials seem inclined to take prisoners anyway today,
she thought.

As she bent down to check the bandage around her thigh, the trooper
next to her voiced the same quiet question she'd refused to answer
earlier.

"We're not going to get out of here .  . . are we?"

Bria looked at him, pale under his battered helmet, his eyes wide and
staring.  Sk'kot was a good trooper, loyal to her, loyal to their
cause.  But he was so young ....

Still, he deserved a straight answer.

"No, we're not, Sk'kot," Bria replied.  "You know that.  The Imps have
destroyed our ships.  No retrieval.  And even if we didn't have orders
to hold this comm center for as long as possible, there's nowhere for
us to go on this world.  Even if we could get past the troopers .  .
.

we've got no transport."  She gave him a wry grin, and gestured at her
wounded leg.

"I'd look really silly trying to hop out of here, wouldn't I?"

He nodded, and his face twisted with anguish.

She looked at him closely.  "Sk'kot .  . . we can't be captured.  You
understand that, right?"

He nodded again, then took out his lullaby and stuck it to his collar,
the way Bria had.  "Yeah, Commander.  I understand."  His voice was
shaking, but his hands on his weapon were steady.

He leaned closer to her, not wanting the others to hear.  "Commander ·
. . I .  . . I don't want to die."  His admission seemed to drain him,
and he trembled.

"Help me with this bandage, would you, Sk'kot?"  she said, motioning
for him to tighten the medpac tighter on her leg.  The kid's hands
steadied a bit as he pulled on the straps binding it to her wound.

"Tighter!"  she told him, and he leaned back, putting his weight into
it.  A jolt of pain got

through to Bria, past the pain killers that let her move about despite
her injury.

"There, that's got it."

Young Burrid sagged down next to her.  Bria put her arm around him, as
she would a brother she loved, and leaned close to him.

"I don't want to die either, Sk'kot.  But I sure as blazes don't want
the Empire to win.  I don't want good people massacred, or taken as
slaves, or taxed until they can't feed their families or live a decent
life.  Or just murdered by some Imperial Moff who woke up cranky that
morning."

Sk'kot smiled slightly at her turn of phrase.  "So it's okay that we're
not going to get out of here, right, Sk'kot?  It's okay that we're
going to go down doing our jobs, because they--" she jerked her chin at
their dead comrades, "did theirs.  We can't let them down, right?"

"Right, Commander," Sk'kot said.  Bria hugged him tight, with a small,
sad smile, and he returned it.  He'd stopped shaking.

Just then, Joaa'n, keeping lookout, called, "They're moving out
there."

Bria rolled aside, pushing Sk'kot toward his position.  She looked
quickly between two pieces of rubble, and without taking her eyes off
the opening, issued orders.  "Joaa'n, you stay down at first and get
your launcher ready.  After the rest of us open up, try to duck out and
nail that Floating Fortress.  Got that?"

"Yes, Commander!"

"People, remember to change positions after shooting, or they'll zero
in on you with the repeating blasters.  Everyone ready?"

Murmured affirmatives answered her.  Picking up her borrowed blaster
carbine, Bria checked the charge.  Sighting down the barrel, she
thought, Goodbye, Han ....

Something moved in the breached wall.  Bria took a deep breath.  "Open
fire!"

Tatooine is such a dump, Han thought, as he and Chewie made their way
along the night-dark back streets.  Jalus Nebl was so right....

The two smugglers had arrived just hours ago.  Han had decided that the
only way to approach Jabba for more time to pay off the dumped load of
spice was to talk to him in person.  But things weren't looking too
promising.  So far he'd been unable to reach Jabba on the comm to
request an audience.  And back in Docking Bay 94 where the Falcon was
berthed, he'd encountered that dumb Rodian, Greedo, nosing around.

The fool had tried to shake Han down for a payoff, implying that Jabba
had taken a bounty out on the Corellian.

As if echoing Han's thoughts, Chewbacca observed quietly that word was
out on the streets that the Rodian kid, Greedo, was hanging around in
the company of a has-been bounty hunter, one Warhog Goa.

Han snorted.  "Chewie, you know as well as I do that Jabba's just
sendin' us a little message, hirin' that dumb thug, Greedo.  If Jabba
really wanted me dead, he'd hire somebody competent to do the job.

Greedo's so stupid he couldn't find his behind with both hands and a
laser-torch."

"Hrrrrrmnnnnn .  . ."  Chewbacca also had a low opinion of the
Rodian.

Han had a few spare credits, and he'd decided to check out the local
games of chance.  Maybe he could win enough credits to make a
substantial downpayment that would satisfy Jabba for the moment, then
he could concentrate on scraping up the rest of the credits ....

They walked into The Krayt Dragon Lounge, and stood looking around.

Over in the corner, sure enough, there was a sabacc game in progress.

As Han and Chewie approached, the Corellian looked more closely at one
of the players, a slender man with red hair and regular features.

"Hey!"  Han exclaimed.  "Small universe!  How are you, Dash?"

Dash Rendar looked up, gave the Corellian a wary smile.  "Hey, Solo!

Hey, Chewbacca!  Long time no see.  What's this I hear about some caper
on Ylesia?"

Han groaned aloud.  Dash Rendar gestured to empty seats, and Han and
Chewie took them.  "Deal me in, gentles," Han said, digging out a
handful of credits.  "Chewie, you wanna play?"

The Wookiee shook his head, and wandered off to the bar in search of
liquid refreshment.  Han glanced at Rendar.  "Hey, Dash, where'd you
hear about the Ylesian raid?"  After the way people had treated him on
Nar Shaddaa, it felt good to run into someone he knew who was still
speaking to him.

"Oh, I ran into Zeen Afit and Katya M'Buele last week, and they told
me," Rendar said, dealing card-chips.  "They said their group of Rebels
treated them square, but the ones you had thrown in with stiffed
everyone.  That true?"

Han nodded.  "Yep.  True.  They stiffed me, too, but nobody will
believe me."

He scowled.  "But I ain't lyin' when I say it.  Jabba's on the

verge of takin' out a real bounty on me, 'cause I can't pay him what I
owe."

Rendar shrugged.  "Tough luck," he said.  "Personally, I make it a
policy never to get mixed up with those Rebel groups."

"Well, that's always been my policy, too," Han said.  "But this seemed
like such a sweet deal .... " "Yeah, Katya and Zeen were real happy,
throwing credits around like they were bantha fodder," Rendar said.

They'd only been playing for a few minutes, and Han was losing, when he
felt a tug on his sleeve.  He looked down to see a little ChadraFan
standing there.  "Huh?"

She squeaked at him, and Han frowned.  He wasn't too good with her
language.

"Kabe says there's someone outside wants to see you," Rendar
translated.

Jabba!  Jabba finally got my messages and wants to see me, Han
thought.

He's sent someone to bring me to him.  Now I can talk to him, smooth
things over....

Han tossed in his card-chips and stood up, motioning to Chewie to
finish off his drink.  "Okay, deal me out on this hand.  I might be
back later."

With one hand on the grip of his blaster, Han and the Wookiee followed
the street urchin out the back door, into the alley.  They stood there
for a second, looking around, but saw no one.

Suddenly Chewie whirled.  "Rrrrrhhhhh!"

It's a trap!  Han realized at the same moment.

The Corellian's hand dropped to his weapon, but before he could draw,
he heard an all-too-familiar voice.  "Freeze, Solo.  Drop the
blaster.

And tell the Wook that if he moves, you're both dead meat.  I'd like
another Wook scalp for my collection."

"Chewie!"  Han spoke sharply to the snarling Wookiee.  "Don't move?

Slowly, Han drew his blaster, let it drop from his fingers into the
dusty alley.

"Both of you turn around.  Slowly."

The Corellian and the Wookiee obeyed.

Boba Fett stood there, in the dim recesses of the backstreet.  Han knew
that he was a dead man.  Jabba must've decided to hire a real bounty
hunter to make sure the job got done right.  Han tensed, but Fett
didn't fire.

Instead his artificially filtered voice reached the Corellian.  "Relax,
Solo.  I'm not here for a bounty."

Han didn't relax, only watched in wonderment as Fett tossed Kabe a
credit.

The urchin scampered forward and caught it, then vanished into the
dimness, chittering happily.

"You're not here for a bounty?"  Han said.  "Hhhhhuuuhhhh?"  echoed
Chewie, as amazed as his partner.  "Jabba told Greedo there was a
bounty on you," Fett said.  "But he's just using that idiot to keep you
on your toes.  A reminder that he's serious about you paying up.  If
Jabba really wanted you dead, you know who he'd hire."

"Yeah," Han said.  "You got a point."  He hesitated.  "So .  . . why
are you here?"

"I landed an hour ago," Fett said.  "I made someone a promise, and I
always keep my word."

Han frowned.  "What are you talking about, Fett?"

"She's dead," Boba Fett said.  "I promised her a while back that if she
died, I'd tell her father, so he wouldn't spend his life wondering what
had happened to her.  But she never got around to telling me his
name.

So I decided to tell you, so you can send Tharen a message."  "Dead?"

Han whispered, through stiff lips.  "Bria?"

"Yes."

Han felt as though he'd been gut-punched.  Chewie made a soft sound of
sympathy, and put a hairy hand on his friend's shoulder.  Han stood
there for a long moment, trying to deal with all the conflicting
emotions.  Grief was uppermost in his mind.  Grief and regret ....

"Dead," he repeated, dully.  "How did you find out?"

"I have access to Imperial datanets.  Bria Tharen died thirty-six hours
ago.  The Imperials have a confirmed ID on her body.  Her squadron was
playing rear guard during some intelligence operation."

Han swallowed.  Don't tell me she died for nothing!  "Did they attain
their objective?"

"I don't know," the mechanical voice said.  "Someone has to tell her
father, Solo.  I gave her my word .  . . and I always keep my word."

Han nodded dully.  "I'll do it," he said.  "Renn Tharen knows me."

This is gonna hit him hard.... He swallowed, and it hurt his chest.

Chewie whined softly.

"Good," Fett said, and the bounty hunter took a step back into the
shadows.  A moment later, Han and Chewie were alone.  Slowly, the
Corellian reached down and retrieved his blaster.  Memories of Bria
assailed him ....

Did you think of me, honey?  he wondered.  I hope it was quick and
painless ....

Han's steps came slowly as he and Chewbacca turned and walked to the
mouth of the alley, and then turned onto the street.  He had to find
someone who'd let him use a comm unit .  . . he had a very important
message to send ....

epilogue

The next day, Han made his way through the baking streets of Mos Eisley
spaceport, wishing he'd worn a short-sleeved shirt instead of his grimy
white one with his battered old black pilot's vest.  Within ten minutes
of being out on the street, he had three different sentients come up to
him, each with a warning that Greedo was out looking for him.

Han nodded, thanked each of the informants, flipped each of them a
decicred.  It never hurt to have good contacts ....

The midday glare was painful to human eyes, and Han squinted as he
walked.

There are a lot of Imp stormtroopers out, he thought, watching several
squads trot by.  Wonder why?

The sight of the blaster rifles they carried made him think of Fett and
last night.  After leaving the bounty hunter, Han had found a bar owner
who'd allowed the Corellian to use his comm unit, in return for a
couple of credits.

The Corellian had carefully recorded a message to Renn Tharen.  It had
been hard to know what to say.  In the end, he'd settled for: "Sir,
this is Han Solo.  I know you remember me.  I have some bad news for
you, sir.  Bria is dead.  She died bravely, though.  You can be proud
of her.  She didn't want you to always wonder, so she asked someone to
give you the message.  Sir, I'm sorry .... I know she loved you.  Han
Solo out .... " Han took a deep breath, and said his own, silent,
farewell to Bria Tharen.

Rest in peace, Bria, he thought.  Goodbye, babe ....

He reminded himself that Bria was part of the past.  There was no use
dwelling on painful memories.  I have to concentrate on the
present....

Today he needed to see Jabba, that was for sure.  And he had to find
some work.  Any work ....

He knew that Chewie was probably over at Chalmun's Cantina.  Chalmun
was some kind of distant relative of Chewie's, along with half of
Kashyyyk ....

Han headed over to Chalmun's.  Even at this midday hour, Chalmun's was
bound to be jumping.  Han could hear the jizz band tootling away as he
approached the entrance.

Inside, it was dim, and comparatively cool.  Han took a deep breath,
scenting intoxicants from a dozen worlds.  He walked down the steps,
nodding at Wuher, the sour, ugly bartender.  Wuher jerked his head to
his right, and Han reflexively looked over that way.  Chewbacca was
heading purposefully toward him.

The Wookiee was plainly excited and pleased about something.  He
stopped Han by the entrance and conferred with his partner in lowvoiced
grunts and moans.

Han tilted his head sideways, and peered past the Wookiee at two humans
who were standing at the bar.  "A charter?"  he said.  "Well, hey,
that's better than nothing!  Good work, Chewie!  Is that them?  That
old guy in the Jawa robe, and that kid in the moisture farmer's
outfit?"

Chewie nodded, commenting that even though the old man looked harmless,
he'd dealt effectively with Doctor Evazan and Ponda Baba just moments
before--and used a most unusual weapon to do it.

Han frowned, impressed.  "Pulled a lightsaber, you say?  Huh.  I didn't
know anyone still had them.  Okay, I'll work out the details with the
old guy and the kid.  You take 'em over to that empty booth and I'll
join you in a second."

Han paused for a moment to check out Chalmun's as Chewbacca ushered
their prospective customers over to the corner table.  Good.  No sign
of Greedo ....

Then he started across the crowded cantina, where Chewie, the old man,
and the boy sat waiting ....

THE BEGINNING .  . .

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ARM C. Crispin is the bestselling author of more than sixteen books,
including four Star Trek novels and her original StarBridge science
fiction series.

Her first appearance in the Star Wars universe came when her friend
Kevin Anderson asked her to write two short stories for the Star Wars
anthologies, Tales from the Mos Eisley Cantina and Tales from Jabba's
Palace.

Arm has been a full-time writer since 1983 and currently serves as
Eastern Regional Director of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of
America.

She is a frequent guest at science fiction conventions, where she often
teaches writing workshops.

She lives in Maryland with her son, Jason, five cats, a German
shepherd, two Appaloosas, and Michael Capobianco, a writer of hard
sf.

In her spare time (what's that?) she enjoys horseback riding, sailing,
camping, and reading books she didn't write.

Her forthcoming works include the seventh novel in her StarBridge
series, Voices of Chaos (co-authored with Ru Emerson), and The Exiles
of Boq'urain, a fantasy trilogy from Avon Books.