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 Corellian 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 shoot-out, 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, Zavval, showed up at a real inopportune time. The shooting started, and Zavval 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 pale-skinned 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 mid-torso. 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 Hutt was far from being old or corpulent enough to require an anti-grav 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, Teroenza, 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 Zavval’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 …”