As Han marched woodenly forward, he caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye—a figure stepped out from behind the freighters massive stabilizer fin. A voice he’d never heard before, low, pleasant, but holding plenty of authority, said, “Freeze, bounty hunter. Move and you’ve had it.”

The hand that had been resting lightly on Han’s arm fell away. The Corellian, of course, was unable to stop walking. He marched forward into the sunlit expanse between himself and the modified Firespray, leaving his captor and his unknown benefactor behind him in the shadow of the ship.

Relief washed through him. I’m saved! only to be replaced with terror. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the sudden change from shadow to sunlight, he could see there was an airshaft between him and the Firespray. Unable to stop himself, he was going to walk right off the edge!

Then the voice called after him. “Hey, you! Solo! Stop!”

Han felt himself halting, and was again flooded with relief. Fortunately, his body would obey orders from anyone, not just the unknown bounty hunter. “Turn around and come back here!” the voice added.

Joyfully, Han obeyed.

As he walked toward his former captor and his rescuer, he stared into the shadows, but could make out little except that someone stood half behind the bounty hunter, holding the muzzle of a blaster shoved up under the edge of the Mandalorian helmet, so it dug into the man’s neck.

As he walked back into the shadow of the freighter’s stabilizer fin, and his eyes adjusted from full sunlight, Han finally got a good look at his rescuer.

He was a male, human, approximately Han’s age, maybe a couple of years older. Slightly shorter than Han himself, he was slender and fit. He was clean-shaven, with curling black hair, dark eyes, and skin the color of vine-coffeine lightened with traladon milk.

The man was dressed in the height of fashion, a pale gold shirt that laced up the front, accented with black embroidery on the wide collar and cuffs. His narrow black trousers were impeccably pressed. A wide, cummerbund-like embroidered belt accented his narrow waist and flat stomach. He wore black softboots, which explained why he’d been able to ambush the bounty hunter so soundlessly. A short, black cape hung from his shoulders.

As Han approached him, he smiled, an exceptionally charming smile that revealed excellent white teeth. “You may stop now, Solo,” he said, halting Han well out of range of his erstwhile captor.

Han stopped, and stood watching as his rescuer’s thumb moved on the firing control of the blaster as he pulled his hand back slightly. Feeling the newcomer’s grip slacken, the bounty hunter started to swing around, raising his wrists. The bounty hunter wore Mandalorian wristlets that were undoubtedly loaded with deadly little darts!

Han tried without success to scream a warning, but it was unnecessary. The newcomer was already firing. The stun blast hit the bounty hunter, and at such close range, even his Mandalorian armor couldn’t deflect its effects. The bounty hunter went down bonelessly. The edges of his armor clattered on the permacrete as he landed.

Han’s rescuer replaced his small but deadly holdout blaster in a concealed holster attached to the ornamental belt. He gestured to Han. “Help me pick him up.”

Naturally, Han did as he was told.

Together, he and the newcomer carried the unconscious hunter toward his ship. Han wondered what they were going to do with him. It wouldn’t be long before he regained consciousness.

“I wonder how long that stuff will affect you,” the rescuer said thoughtfully. “Can you talk, Solo?”

Han felt his lips moving. “Yes,” he said. He tried to say more than that simple assent, but he couldn’t.

The man glanced over at him. “I get it. You can respond to orders, but no more, right?”

“I guess so,” Han found himself replying.

“Nasty stuff he shot you with,” the man said. “I’ve heard of it, but never seen it in action. I’ll have to investigate getting some of it. Could come in handy in a pinch.”

When they reached the ramp leading to the airlock of the Firespray, they laid the bounty hunter on the permacrete. The newcomer then proceeded to search his pockets and all the concealed places in his armor. “Hello, what have we here?” he exclaimed as his deft fingers encountered several vials in the bounty hunter’s belt pocket.

After holding each vial up to the light so he could read the label, Han’s rescuer flashed him a roguish grin. “You’re in luck, Solo,” he said. “This is the stuff he shot into you”—he held up a blue vial—“and here’s the antidote.” He held up a green vial.

Han waited impatiently as the newcomer loaded the injector with the substance. “I’m having to guess at the dosage,” he said. “I’ll give you the minimum, and if that doesn’t help, I’ll try a bit more.” He placed the injector against Han’s torso and then triggered it.

As soon as his rescuer depressed the trigger, and the substance flooded his body, Han felt himself tingle all over. Moments later he could move and speak.

“Pal, I owe you one,” he said, extending his hand to the other. “If it hadn’t been for you …” He shook his head. “So who are you and why did you rescue me? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

The other grinned. “Lando Calrissian,” he replied. “And as to why I saved you, it’s a bit of a story. Let’s deal with Boba Fett here, and then we’ll talk.” His gaze sharpened. “Hey, Solo, you okay?”

Han felt dizzy. He dropped to one knee beside the prone figure of the bounty hunter and shook his head. “Boba … Boba Fett? This is Boba Fett?”

The most famous bounty hunter in the galaxy had been hired to bring him in? Han felt himself tremble in reaction to the news. “Oh, man … Lando …” he said. “I didn’t know …”

“Well, you’re safe now,” Calrissian said cheerfully. “You can get the shakes later, Solo. Right now we have to figure out what we’re going to do with Master Fett, here.” He thought for a moment, then a slow, unpleasant smile stole across his face. He snapped his fingers. “Got it!”

“What?”

Calrissian was already loading the injector again, this time with the other vial, the blue one. He shook the bounty hunter, who groaned and stirred. “He’s coming around, so here goes nothing,” he grunted. Han, who had reappropriated his blaster, kept the bounty hunter covered while Calrissian lifted the front of Fett’s helmet, exposing his throat. The bounty hunter suddenly struggled violently. “Freeze!” Han ordered, holding the blaster against his helmet. “This isn’t set on stun, Fett,” he snarled. “After what you almost did to me, I’d cheerfully disintegrate you.”

Boba Fett lay quiet as Calrissian shoved the injector against his neck and triggered it.

Moments later Fett shivered. “Lie still,” Calrissian ordered.

The bounty hunter obeyed. Han and Lando grinned at each other … slow, nasty grins.

“All right, sit up,” Calrissian said.

Boba Fett did as he was told.

“You know what we ought to do,” Calrissian said thoughtfully. “If we had any idea of how long this stuff stays in the system, I’d say take him down to one of the local bars for a couple of hours and collect fees from folks who’d pay well to humiliate this guy. He’s taken a lot of bounties. He’s got to have lots of enemies.”

“He said it would last several hours. There’s no way to tell exactly,” Han pointed out. Personally, he wanted nothing more than to get as far away from Fett and Slave I as he could. For a moment he considered ordering Fett to march himself across the permacrete and down an airshaft, but a moment’s reflection convinced him that even though it might be the smart thing to do, he just couldn’t do it. Killing someone in a blaster fight was one thing, but callously ordering a sentient to kill himself—even when that sentient was a scummy bounty hunter—was quite another.

“True.” Calrissian stood up. “Well, I think maybe my first idea is the best one. Stand up, Boba Fett,” he commanded.

The bounty hunter stood up.

“Disarm yourself. Now.”

Minutes later Han and Lando regarded a largish pile of assorted weaponry of all different kinds that lay before them on the sunlit permacrete. “Minions of Xendor,” Han said, shaking his head, “this guy could have set up shop with just what he had on him. Lookit those Mandalorian wristlets. Bet the darts are poisoned, too.”

“One way to find out,” said Lando. “Boba Fett, answer me. Are these darts poisoned?”

“Some of them,” the bounty hunter replied.

“Which ones?”

“Left wristlet.”

“What’s on the right wristlet darts?”

“Soporific.”

“Nice,” Han said, fingering the wristlets carefully. “These oughta be worth quite a bit to a collector. So, now … what do we do with him?”

“I think we set his autopilot to blast out of here, and set a course for some far system. Then we order him not to interfere with the course we’ve set. If this stuff takes hours to wear off, by the time it does, he could be sectors away.” Calrissian paused. “He’s killed so many people, I’m almost tempted to just shoot him. But I’ve never killed anyone in cold blood like that.” He frowned, almost seeming embarrassed. “I’m not eager to start now, I have to admit.”

“Me, too,” Han said. “Your plan sounds fine. Let’s get him aboard.”

Obediently, Boba Fett opened up his ship, and the three of them walked into Slave I. Han and Lando strapped Fett into one of the passenger seats. “Are you a pilot?” Han asked.

“No, I’m not,” Calrissian admitted. “Matter of fact, that’s why I was looking for you. I need to hire a pilot.”

“You got one,” Han said. “Anything I can do to help you out. Like I said, I owe you, pal.”

“We’ll talk about that later. Let’s get rid of our friend here.”

Han quickly set the autopilot to take the ship up, and prerecorded all the necessary responses Slave I would need to make to Nar Shaddaa’s sector traffic control. Then he chose a course that would take Slave I clear across Imperial space in a series of bewildering hyperspace jumps. With any luck, Boba Fett would be unable to regain control until he was tens of thousands of parsecs away.

“We’re ready,” Han said, finally. “She’ll lift in three minutes.”

“Okay.” Lando turned back to the helpless bounty hunter. “Fett, listen to me, and do exactly what I say. You are to sit in this seat, strapped in, and not go near the controls of your ship until you reach the destination Solo has set for it, or until your obedience drug wears off, whichever comes first. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Fett.

“Good.” Calrissian waved a jaunty good-bye to the bounty hunter and headed for the ramp.

Han stared hard at Boba Fett. “Have a nice trip, bounty hunter. I hope I never see you again. And you can tell Teroenza from me that the next time I come back to Ylesia, he’s one dead t’landa Til. You hear me?”

“Yes.”

“So long, Fett,” Han said. He could hear the engines whine, and the ramp trembled beneath his feet as he ran down it, pressing the CLOSE button as he did so. He had to jump down from the ramp as it rose beneath his feet.

Lando had already scooped up Boba Fett’s weaponry, and together, the young men jogged to a safe distance. They turned back to watch Slave I rear up on its end, then take off, its powerful engines flaring.

Only when it had disappeared into the distance did Han finally draw a long, deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Whew. Close call,” he said.

“I’ll say,” Calrissian agreed. “You’re lucky I spotted you, Solo.”

Han nodded and held out his hand to the other. “Call me Han. I owe you, Calrissian.”

“Call me Lando.” The other man’s irresistible grin flashed. “And … don’t worry. I’ll see you pay up.”

“Whatever you want, pal. You don’t know what would have happened to me if Boba Fett had succeeded.” The Corellian shivered, even in the sun’s warmth. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“I can guess,” Lando said. “Boba Fett doesn’t work cheap. If somebody wanted you that bad, chances are it wasn’t just because you welshed on a debt, or anything minor.”

Han grinned. “You are an insightful guy, pal.” He beckoned to the other, and they began walking back across the landing platform. “Want to get some breakfast? I find I’m really hungry. Nearly meeting a fate worse than death has that effect on me.”

“Sure,” Lando said. “You buying?”

“You bet.”

By the time they were settled at a little cafe Han knew, sipping cups of stim-tea, Han was beginning to feel as though he’d known Lando for years, instead of just an hour. “So, tell me,” he said, finishing off the last slice of flatbread, “how did you find me? And why were you lookin’ for me?”

“Well, I’ve actually seen you a time or two before,” Lando admitted. “You were pointed out to me in a couple of night spots as a fair sabacc player, a good smuggler, and an excellent pilot.”

Han tried, without much success, to look suitably modest. “I don’t recall seein’ you, Lando, but I didn’t have any reason to remember, I guess. So, okay, you knew what I look like. What happened this morning?”

“Well, last night I went by your place to talk to you, and your friend told me that he didn’t think you’d be home that night.” Lando gave Han a knowing smile. “But he told me you’d probably be staying with a … friend … at The Chance Castle. So, when I finished the night’s work, I dropped by on my way home.”

“You work at night? What do you do?” Han asked.

“Gambler,” Lando said. “Mostly. Though I’ve been known to try my hand at various schemes as they come along.”

“I see. So you hadn’t been to bed yet, but you came by The Castle on the way home.”

“It wasn’t far out of my way. Most of the big casinos in that section of Nar Shaddaa are within walking distance of each other. Anyway, when I got there, I saw you on the street, ahead of me. I followed you, intending to catch up and introduce myself—”

“Only to see Boba Fett get the drop on me,” Han guessed.

“Exactly. I don’t much like bounty hunters, so I followed you until I was pretty sure where he was heading. Then I managed to slip around the perimeter of the landing field and get ahead of you. You were walking pretty slowly, you know. I recognized Slave I, so I was able to hide between you and the ship, then get the drop on Fett when he walked past.”

Han nodded. “And I’m real glad you did, pal.” He shook his head. “Listen, don’t tell Chewie about this, okay? He’s sworn something called a life debt to me, ’cause he thinks he owes me, you see. I had a hard time talkin’ him out o fcoming with me last night. He was sure I’d get myself into trouble …”

“Well, you did,” Lando said, chuckling.

“I know I did,” Han admitted ruefully. “But if Chewie ever finds out about it, he’ll never let me out of his sight again. And, hey … there are times when a guy would like some privacy, you know?”

Lando shook his head ruefully. “I get your point. Okay, Han, I’ll keep your secret.” He leaned forward and poured himself another cup of stim-tea. “Is she pretty?”

Han nodded. “I know you’ll appreciate what I mean when I say that she’s almost worth what I went through this morning.”

Lando looked impressed. “Maybe you should introduce me, old buddy.”

Han shook his head. “I don’t think so … old buddy. You strike me as a bit of a ladykiller. You’d probably try to charm her away from me.”

Lando shrugged and sat back, smiling smugly. “You never know.”

Han grinned. “The operative word here is ‘try,’ Lando. So why were you lookin’ for me in the first place? You mentioned needing a pilot?”

“That’s right. I was playing sabacc over on Bespin a week or so ago, and one of the players threw in a marker for his ship. High-stakes game, it was.”

“And you won the ship,” Han guessed.

“That’s right. But I’ve never piloted one. I need to learn—especially now, with a chance that Boba Fett will come looking for me. I’m going to head for greener pastures and fresh sabacc tables for a while, and I thought it would be fun to travel in my own ship. I had to hire a pilot to fly me back here, and it was expensive. So I want you to teach me to fly my ship,”

“Okay,” Han said. “I can do that. When do you want to start?”

Lando shrugged. “My adrenaline level is still pretty high after dealing with Fett. I’m not sleepy at all. How about now?”

Han nodded. “Sure.”

They took a different tube to a different landing platform. Side by side, Han and Lando walked across the windswept surface of the platform, through ranks of parked vessels, until Lando stopped and pointed.

“There it is. The Millennium Falcon.”

Han stared across the permacrete at the modified light stock freighter, Corellian made and engineered, model YT-1300 Transport. He’d seen plenty of them before, and had always liked them—Corellians were good engineers as well as good pilots.

But, as Han stared at this particular ship, something strange happened. Without warning, he fell suddenly, irrevocably, irretrievably in love. This ship called to him, she sang to him a siren song of speed, of maneuverability, of narrow escapes and adventures and successful smuggling runs galore.

That ship is going to be mine, Han thought. Mine. The Millennium Falcon will be mine …

The Corellian suddenly realized he was staring, his mouth agape. Lando was looking at him, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Hastily Han closed his mouth, and tried his best to purge the sudden yearning, the wanting from his mind. He had to play it cool. If Lando knew how much Han wanted the ship, he’d surely jack the price up …

“So, what do you think of her?” Lando asked.

Han shook his head. “What a hunk of junk!” he exclaimed, mentally begging the Falcon’s pardon. “That game wasn’t nearly as high stakes as you’re tryin’ to make me believe, old buddy.”

“Hey, the pilot who flew it back here for me said it’s a really fast ship,” Lando said, sounding defensive.

“Really?” Han looked doubtful. He shrugged. “Well, you never know till you try her out. Shall we go for a spin?”

“Sure,” Lando said.

Minutes later Han sat at the controls of Lando’s new acquisition, savoring the Falcon’s response as she lifted on her repulsore, then he engaged the sublight drive. He still couldn’t believe what he’d seen in her engine room—this ship boasted a military-grade hyperdrive! Oh, you honey!

Her sublight speeds were good, too. Han sent the Falcon hurtling upward in a steep rush. The resulting surge of power exhilarated him, but he was careful not to show it. “Not bad,” he said indifferently. “But I’ve seen better. Let’s see how she maneuvers.”

Quickly he took the Falcon up out of Nar Shaddaa’s atmosphere, then through the opening in the shield, all the while giving the correct responses to traffic control. Once free of the gravity well and past the floating obstacle course of the derelict ships, Han sent the Falcon into a dizzying series of spins, rolls, and flips.

“Hey!” Lando protested, gulping audibly. “You got a passenger here, don’t forget! You want me to lose my breakfast?”

Han grinned at him. He was tempted to ask Lando how much he wanted for the ship, but he knew it would be more than he could possibly afford. Wild schemes about getting the Hutts to buy the Falcon so he could fly it regularly—and then maybe steal it, someday—raced through his mind.

But he didn’t want Jabba or Jiliac owning the Falcon. They wouldn’t appreciate this beauty, this work of art.

Han quickly checked out the weaponry. Her legs are good, but she could use more muscle … Only one light laser cannon, in a top gun turret. Not enough, Han thought.

As though Lando were reading Han’s thoughts, the gambler said, “The pilot that brought me here said it might need some more weaponry to be a really good smuggler. What do you think?”

“I think if this were my ship, I’d install another gun turret and some quad lasers, as well as a repeating blaster in the belly, to cover quick getaways,” Han said. Maybe some concussion missiles, too …

“Huh,” Lando said. “I’ll have to think about that. But it is a fast ship, isn’t it?”

Han nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, she’s got a pretty good set of legs on her, Lando.” He surreptitiously patted the pilot’s console. Oh, you sweetheart …

A few minutes later Lando cleared his throat. “I thought the object of taking it out was that you were going to start teaching me to pilot, Han.”

“Oh … oh, yeah,” Han said. “I was just … checking her out. So I could teach you all her little quirks and stuff.”

“You sound like this thing is alive,” Lando said.

“Well, pilots get to think of their ships sort of like that,” Han admitted. “They become like a … friend. You’ll see.”

“Don’t forget, the Falcon is my ship,” Lando said, with a slight edge in his voice.

“Of course,” Han said, carefully casual. “Now, listen here. We’re going to start at sublight speeds. That’s where most of the maneuvering expertise comes. See that lever? Pull that lever and we’ll go into hyperdrive, and that’s not something you want to do less you’ve got a course laid in. So … don’t touch that lever. Got it?”

Lando leaned forward intently. “Got it …”

Thousands of light-years away, Teroenza, High Priest of Ylesia, stood in the middle of Colony Three, surveying the damage from a dawn terrorist raid. Nearly a dozen bodies were sprawled around, most of them his own security guards. Blaster marks scored the factory buildings. The door to the mess hall was slagged. A crew was finishing putting out a fire in the Administration Building. The smell of burning fought with the hothouse odor of the wet, steaming jungle.

The High Priest snorted nervously. All this from a slave raid. Not a raid to gain slaves, a raid to rescue them.

The troops had been human, most of them. Teroenza had seen their images on his communications monitors from his headquarters at Colony One. Two ships had spiraled down through Ylesia’s treacherous air currents, but only one had managed to land safely. The other vessel had gotten caught in a wind shear, and was destroyed.

Which was only justice, Teroenza thought grumpily as he surveyed the damage the remaining ship had caused. Meddlers! The group had landed, then armed troops dressed in green and khaki uniforms had leaped out and attacked the Ylesian guards. A firefight had ensued, and more than a dozen guards had been killed.

Then the attackers had stormed the refectory where the pilgrims were having breakfast. They’d entreated them to come with them, saying they were here to rescue them from slavery.

Teroenza made a soft whuffling sound that was his species’ equivalent of a chuckle. Stupid raiders! Stupid to think the pilgrims would renounce the Exultation for freedom. Only two pilgrims out of the two hundred in the mess hall had run to join the invaders.

And then—Teroenza’s expression darkened—she had stepped forward to address the assembled pilgrims. The High Priest had thought her dead long since. He remembered her very well. Pilgrim 921, birth name Bria Tharen. A Corellian … and a traitor.

Bria had argued with the pilgrims, telling them the truth about the Exultation. She’d told the group that someday they’d thank her—and then she’d given the order for her troops to turn stun beams on the crowd. Pilgrims had fallen in their tracks.

The group of Corellians had gotten away with nearly a hundred prime slaves. Teroenza cursed softly. Bria Tharen! He couldn’t decide which Corellian he hated more, Bria or that accursed Han Solo.

Teroenza was worried about this raid. There was money behind this group. Ships and weapons cost money. They were well organized and efficient, like a real military cadre. Who were they?

Teroenza had heard of various rebel groups rising against the Empire. Could the squadron of soldiers that attacked Colony Three today have been part of such a group?

The High Priest experienced a flicker of satisfaction, though, when he imagined how miserable the rescuers would be when the stunned pilgrims awakened. The t’landa Til knew only too well how addicted most humanoids quickly became when exposed to the Exultation on a daily basis.

By now the pilgrims must be missing the Exultation a great deal. They would be screaming and wailing and making threats, begging to return to Ylesia. They might even commandeer the rebel ship and bring it back here, like faithful pilgrims. One thing was certain … tonight the Corellian rebels would have their hands full.

The thought made Teroenza smile.

Several days after Boba Fett’s attempt to capture him, Han went to see Jabba and Jiliac to tell them that he would be scarce on Nar Shaddaa for a while. He’d decided to take Xaverri up on her offer, and become her assistant during her next tour. He had a feeling Boba Fett wouldn’t be easily discouraged, and it wouldn’t hurt to get off Nar Shaddaa for the next few months.

But the words died unspoken on his lips. The moment he was ushered into their presence, Jabba hailed him with impatient cries, ordering him to prepare the Star Jewel for an immediate trip to Nal Hutta. The emissaries sent from the Desilijic and the Besadii kajidics had convened a meeting of the Hutt kajidics for the next day. Apparently Besadii had been holding up the negotiations, but had suddenly made several important concessions, in the interest of holding the meeting quickly.

“Today?” Han said, thinking that he’d have to cancel his lesson with Lando this afternoon. “That’s pretty short notice, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jiliac agreed. “We know of no reason for things to have been speeded up, but something must have happened.”

“Okay, I’ll take you down this afternoon,” Han said. “Just give me an hour or so to get the ship ready, and check out our course.”

“And, Captain Solo, you must be prepared to give us your smoothest flight,” Jabba cautioned. “No turbulence. My aunt is in a delicate condition, and she must not be jostled.”

Han glanced around for another Hutt, but saw only Jiliac. “Your aunt? I beg your pardon, Lord Jabba? There will be three Hutts for me to transport?”

“No, human!” Jabba was impatient. “Jiliac and myself, as always! Don’t you have eyes? Didn’t you notice her skin texture? Her condition is plain!”

Han looked over at Jiliac, and suddenly realized that the Hutt did appear different. Warty excrescences had erupted on the being’s face, and purplish patches mingled with the greenish ones on the leathery tan skin. Jiliac also appeared bigger, and rather lethargic. Oh, wonderful, I get to play nursemaid to a sick Hutt? Great!

“Uh, Lord Jiliac, are you feeling—” Han began, only to have Jabba round on him with withering scorn.

“Human idiot! Can’t you see that Lord Jiliac is now Lady Jiliac? She is expecting! In her delicate condition, she really should not make this effort, but we Desilijic are nothing if not faithful to our duty!”

She? Pregnant? Han’s mouth dropped open, and Chewie roared softly in surprise.

Han recovered quickly, and bowed to Jiliac. “Your pardon, Lady Jiliac. I am not familiar with your species’ … uh, er … reproductive habits. I meant no offense.”

Jiliac blinked at Han sleepily. “No offense taken. My people reproduce as they will, and I decided it was time for me to do so. My child is due in a few months. I will be able to make the trip safely, my nephew Jabba is merely over-protective. But a smooth flight would be advisable.”

“Yes, lady,” Han said, bowing. “Smooth flight to Nal Hutta. Leaving this afternoon. I’ll get right on it.”

“Very well, Captain. You are dismissed. We wish to leave as soon as possible.”

Han bowed again, and left, with Chewie trailing behind him. As soon as he was out of sight, he shook his head. Hutts! The more I get to know them, the weirder they are …

A veritable tide of Hutts wriggled and glided toward the large Hutt Grand Council Hall on Nal Hutta. Jabba and Jiliac undulated along, side by side, accompanied by the Desilijic security guards. Most of the Hutts preferred to move under their own power if they still could. It was permissible to show weakness before humans and other underlings, but in the company of their own kind, Hutts preferred to appear strong and fit. All of Desilijic moved under their own power, and among the Besadii clan, only Aruk was too old and corpulent to manage without his sled.

As the Hutts moved toward the council chambers, they and their guards passed through multiple security and scanning devices. None of the guards was allowed a weapon, and each attendee was scanned, internally as well as externally, to make sure no dangerous substances were being smuggled into the hall. Hutts were not trusting beings, especially in the company of other Hutts—and with good reason. Long ago, every prominent Hutt on Nal Hutta had been eliminated en masse by a single ingenious assassin.

Hutts were determined that nothing like that would ever happen again.

The Grand Council Hall was a huge room, big enough to comfortably hold nearly fifty Hutts. At the moment twenty-seven Hutts were gathered—representatives of all the major clans and kajidics, as well as “neutral” parties from the Hutt government who would be overseeing and administering the conference.

The Hutt homeworld was governed by the Grand Council—an oligarchy composed of one representative appointed by each major Hutt clan. In reality, though, the power of the crime syndicates—the kajidics—was far greater than that of the Grand Council.

Jabba and Jiliac had summoned two other Desilijic members to attend them. Aruk had brought the Besadii contingent, consisting of himself, his offspring Durga, and his nephew Kibbick. Jabba was pleased to note that a t’landa Til trailed in Kibbick’s wake. Jiliac was right, Besadii had indeed summoned Teroenza.

After the mass of Hutts had arranged themselves in a circle around the speaker’s platform, the conference was brought to order by the Executive Secretary of the Grand Council, a Hutt named Mardoc. After each of the clans had officially identified itself and its contingent, Mardoc spoke again:

“Comrades-in-power, siblings-in-profit, I have convened you today to discuss some very serious developments on the Besadii colony world of Ylesia. I ask Lord Aruk to speak.”

Aruk moved his sled closer to the speaker’s platform. He waved his small arms at his fellow Hutts for emphasis and began, “Fellow Hutts. Two days ago Colony Three on Ylesia was attacked by well-armed terrorists. Kibbick and our overseer, Teroenza, barely escaped with their lives. Much destruction was done, and the attackers made off with nearly one hundred valuable slaves.”

A ripple of consternation ran around the conference room as the assorted Hutts reacted to Aruk’s news. Jabba realized that Aruk was staring straight at him and Jiliac. Gauging our reaction, he realized. For just a moment, Jabba wondered if Jiliac had decided to play it ultra-subtle, and had arranged the raid, but not told him. After a moment’s thought, however, he rejected the notion. His Aunt was so caught up in her recent pregnancy that she had little energy for plotting—especially commando raids. Besides, Jiliac normally eschewed direct assaults, preferring to work against enemies in more subtle ways.

“Hutt brethren, we of the Besadii clan demand that Jiliac, as head of clan Desilijic, personally assure us that this terrible raid, this theft of valuable Besadii property, was not done by Desilijic! Otherwise, this means war between our kajidics!”

A collective gasp echoed through the Grand Hall. Aruk’s challenge hung in the air like the smoke from the hookahs some of the Hutt Lords were smoking.

Slowly, Jiliac pulled herself up, appearing almost regal in her new maternal dignity. “Fellow Hutts,” she said. “Desilijic is innocent of any taint of aggression in this matter. As a guarantee of this, Desilijic pledges that if any link can be discovered between the raiders and Desilijic, Desilijic will remit to Besadii the sum of one million credits.”

Silence for a beat, then Aruk inclined his head in the Hutt equivalent of a bow. “Very well. Never let it be said that Desilijic refused to back its integrity with money. We ask that the Grand Council investigate and give us their findings in one month.”

Mardoc agreed, but then yielded the floor to Jiliac when she indicated that she had more to say. “However, I wish that I could say the same for Besadii. Just a few months ago, my nephew here”—she indicated Jabba—“was brutally attacked by hired mercenaries. Only the fact that we cannot definitively state who sent them keeps us from leveling accusations at our rivals! Unlike Besadii, we do not make accusations unless we have proof.”

Another hubbub of voices and whispers erupted in the Grand Hall.

Aruk drew himself up to his most impressive height, his rheumy old eyes red-rimmed. “Besadii has done nothing wrong!”

“Do you deny that you sent Drell pirates to assassinate my nephew?”

“Yes!” thundered Aruk.

The resulting barrage of threats, insults, and rhetoric from both sides made it necessary for Mardoc to call for a recess. Jabba watched the Hutts around him, talking in small groups, and began wondering just who it was who had attacked Ylesia. If it wasn’t Desilijic, then who?

Did Ylesia have a new rival in the slave trade?

Durga the Hutt lay stretched beside his parent on his repulsor sled during the afternoon session. He was concerned about Aruk. The conference had been going on for hours, and Aruk had been in the middle of it the whole time. Durga knew that his parent wasn’t up to this level of stress. Aruk was a very old Hutt, nearly a thousand years old.

The young Hutt listened intently, aware that his parent would quiz him point by point on the conference. Beside Durga, Kibbick blinked slowly, obviously fighting sleep. Durga looked at his cousin scornfully, Kibbick was an idiot. Didn’t he understand that these kinds of meetings, these feints and counterfeints, thrusts and parries and ripostes, constituted the life’s fluid of Hutt society? Didn’t he understand that power and profit were food and drink and breath to their people?

This was the first Hutt conference to be held in Durga’s short lifetime, and he was pleased that his parent had allowed him to attend. Durga knew that because of the birthmark he’d been born with, some of the Besadii kajidic would question whether he was fit to lead Besadii when Aruk died.

Durga knew that he had all the most essential qualities to lead Besadii. He was smart, scheming, devious, and ruthless. All estimable qualities in a Hutt. But he had to demonstrate those qualities to Besadii, before Aruk died, or he’d have trouble succeeding his parent.

If only I could take over Ylesia, instead of Kibbick, Durga thought. He knew that his father had spent a good part of yesterday evening raging at Kibbick for allowing Teroenza to take over the running of Ylesia. Aruk had also sternly advised the t’landa Til that he must know his place, lest he lose his position as High Priest. Teroenza had cowered before the old Hutt Lord, but Durga thought he’d caught a flash of anger from him. He resolved to keep a careful eye on Teroenza.

Kibbick, on the other hand, had simply whined about how unpleasant life was on Ylesia, and how hard he was working. Aruk had let him off with a stern warning. Durga privately thought that Aruk should have relieved him of his post. Idly, he wondered whether assassinating his cousin was a good idea …

But he had a feeling that Aruk wouldn’t like it. So that meant he couldn’t do it while his parent lived.

Not that Durga wished Aruk’s death. He was genuinely fond of his parent, as he knew Aruk was fond of him. Durga knew only too well that he owed Aruk his life in every possible way. Most Hutt parents would not have allowed a child with a birthmark to live.

Durga also wanted to make Aruk proud of him. That motivation was even stronger in him than his need to gain power and profit—something that he knew would be seen as practically sacrilegious by other Hutts, so he never revealed it.

Durga watched as Jabba the Hutt wriggled forward to take the floor. The second-in-command of Desilijic was said to be an exemplary Hutt in many ways, but most Hutts found his preoccupation with humanoid females both perverse and inexplicable. Still, Jabba was sharp, Durga had to grant him that, as he listened to him speak.

“Honored Hutt Lords, listen to me! Besadii claims that their recent expansions on Ylesia are just good business, but shall we allow good business for one kajidic to undermine the financial underpinnings of our world? Besadii has grabbed such a large share of the spice trade, and the slave trade, that we must all make them see reason! What does it profit them to fill their own coffers if their policies bring disaster to our world?”

“Disaster?” Aruk’s voice boomed out so deep and authoritative that Durga felt a ripple of pride. His parent was as fine a Hutt leader as had ever been born! “Disaster, my friends? We had one hundred and eighty-seven percent profit in the past year! How could this possibly be construed to be anything but something to be praised and honored for? I ask you that, Jabba! How could it?”

“Because some of your profit has come out of the coffers of your fellow Hutts,” Jabba pointed out. “It is fine to take from others, from humans and Rodians and Sullustans and from all the other creatures of the galaxy. That is why they are there—so that we Hutts may profit from them. But there is a danger in pulling away too much income from Nal Hutta and your fellow Hutts.”

“Oh?” sarcasm tinged Aruk’s voice. “And what is that danger, Lord Jabba?”

“Too much conspicuous profit may bring us to the attention of the Emperor or his minions,” Jabba pointed out. “Nal Hutta is far from Imperial Center. Out here near the Rim Territories, we are protected to some extent by distance, and protected even more by Moff Sarn Shild, whom we generously support in the style to which he has become accustomed. But if any one Hutt clan makes a point of having tremendous wealth, it may bring all of us to the attention of the Emperor. And that, fellow Hutts, is an attention we do not want.”

Durga heard the other Hutts murmuring, and had to admit that Jabba had made a good point. When the Empire took a close interest in any one world, it was always unfortunate for that world.

Durga wondered how Jabba and Jiliac had discovered that Besadii was behind the attack of Drell pirates. Too bad they’d missed their chance to rid Nal Hutta of Jabba. Without Jabba, Jiliac would be easier to get out of the way. Jabba was a crafty Hutt, who was protective of his Aunt. His security forces were better than Jiliac’s.

The Hutt Lords were unable to reach a conclusion about Besadii’s off-the-scale profits. The discussion rambled on, degenerated into personal insults, then ended with no conclusion.

Aruk took the floor again. He was still concerned about the recent violence. Jiliac acknowledged that she was concerned, too. Durga was surprised that they could agree on anything. Finally, Desilijic and Besadii united to put forward an unprecedented proposal.

“I propose,” Aruk said, in summary, “that the Grand Council declare a moratorium on violence between the kajidics for at least the next three standard months! Who will support me in this?”

Jiliac and Jabba voiced their enthusiastic approval, then, one by one, the representatives of the other clans chimed in. Mardoc declared Aruk’s proposal adopted.

Durga looked up at his parent and felt another wave of pride. Aruk is a giant among Hutts!

Much later that night, as both Hutts prepared to sleep in Jiliac’s Nal Hutta mansion, which was located on an island in one of Nal Hutta’s more temperate zones, Jiliac turned to Jabba. “Aruk is dangerous. I am more convinced of it than ever.”

“Yes, he was quite impressive when he managed to rally the clans,” Jabba agreed. “He has … charisma. He can be very persuasive.”

“It is truly ironic that it was Aruk who wound up proposing my idea about the moratorium,” Jiliac said. “But as the meeting progressed, I realized that if I hoped to convince the others of the wisdom of the moratorium, the idea would have to come from Aruk.”

Jabba nodded. “He is a forceful orator, Aunt.”

“An orator who must be deprived of his voice, or Desilijic will suffer even more,” Jiliac said soberly. “A three-month moratorium on inter-kajidic violence will free our minds so that we may look at the problem of Aruk without distractions.”

Jabba blinked his bulbous eyes at his aunt as she settled herself comfortably on her padded resting spot. “What are you thinking, Aunt?”

Jiliac was silent for a moment, then said, “I am thinking that this is our chance to strike at Aruk’s weak spot.”

“His weak spot?”

“Yes, Nephew. Aruk has a weak spot, and it has a name. And that name is …”

“Teroenza,” Jabba said.

“Correct, Nephew.”

When Teroenza boarded Kibbick’s space yacht for the trip back to Ylesia, he was in a very bad mood. Aruk had not permitted them to have any kind of a holiday on Nal Hutta, stressing that they must get back to Ylesia to see to the rebuilding after the raid.

Teroenza had been profoundly disappointed. He’d hoped to see his mate, Tilenna, while he was home.

But Aruk had said “no,” and said it with such stern disapproval that Teroenza hadn’t dared to ask again.

So here he was, stuck with that idiot Kibbick for company. When he could have been sporting with his lovely mate in a delicious, sensual mud wallow.

Disgustedly, Teroenza plodded into his large, well-appointed cabin, and sank into his resting sling. Blast Aruk! The Hutt Lord was getting irrational in his old age—irrational and mean. Meaner, that is, than he’d been before.

The High Priest still smarted from the “financial review” he’d been forced to sit through. Aruk had questioned every expenditure, carped about every extra credit. He’d gone on and on about how the bounty Teroenza had posted on Solo was completely unnecessary. “Let Boba Fett blast him into atoms!” he’d raged. “Disintegrations are much cheaper! Allowing yourself personal revenge on Solo is simply self-indulgent!”

Grumpily, Teroenza reached out and turned on his comm unit. Words in Huttese formed on the screen, even before he could key in his personal code.

Eyes widening, Teroenza read the following message: “This message will vanish in sixty seconds. Attempting to save it will destroy your comm unit. Memorize the following comcode and reply to it.”

A complicated comcode followed.

Intrigued, Teroenza memorized the code. As promised, in sixty seconds, it blinked off, to be replaced by the words “What do you want most? We’d like to know. Perhaps we can help each other.”

The message, of course, was unsigned, but Teroenza had a good idea of who had sent it. As he sat watching it blink off, to be replaced by his comm unit’s standard greeting and request for ID code, Teroenza realized what this meant.

Would he reply to the message?

Was he a traitor?

What did he want most?