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 Tsyklen 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 hyper-alertness. 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 high-ranking 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.

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 Cal-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 airlock, 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 WANTED 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.”

“Hrrrrrrnnnn …”

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: INFORMATION BROKER.

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, ol’ 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 “Heh, heh, heh …” 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 prevail, Aruk 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 …