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 before—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 planet-wide 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 sub-harmonic 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, sharp-taloned 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 card-chips.

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 stun-blasted.

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? Bria! 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 ex-boyfriend.”

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 …”