On the way back to Nar Shaddaa, Chewbacca flew the Hutt courier ship Quicksilver competently, but his mind was not completely on his work. The Wookiee glanced over at his partner, the human to whom he’d sworn a life debt, and his blue eyes crinkled with concern. Han was slumped in the copilot’s seat, scowling blackly at the star-lined void of hyperspace. He’d been like this for days now, ever since he’d boarded Quicksilver following his mission to the Moff’s residence on Coruscant. He rarely spoke, and when he did, all he did was complain and make sarcastic comments.

And he complained about everything—the food, the speed of the little courier ship, Chewie’s piloting, the tedium of space travel, the greed of the Hutts … any subject the Wookiee had tried to introduce, Han had had a great many negative things to say about it.

For the first time since he’d met the Corellian, Chewbacca actually wondered whether there might be circumstances under which renouncing a life debt was the honorable thing to do. More honorable, say, than murdering the person to whom one owed the life debt …

“This thing moves like a thousand-year-old Hutt,” Han grumbled. “You’d think with the size of the engines, she’d be able to make some speed … think you could get her to go a little faster if I got out and pushed?”

Chewbacca restrained himself and commented that it wouldn’t be too long now before they were back on Nar Shaddaa.

“Yeah, and it can’t be too soon for me,” Han said bitterly. He got up and paced nervously around the cramped cabin. When he turned abruptly, he whacked his head on a low stanchion and began cursing a blue streak.

When he finally began to repeat himself, Han growled, then threw himself back into the copilot’s seat. “After we return the Hutts’ little bucket of bolts to them, I guess we’ll have to head for Smuggler’s Run. If the Br—” he seemed to choke on the word, then amended, “if that blasted ship of ours will make it through the asteroid field.”

Chewbacca asked why they’d be heading for Smuggler’s Run. Wynni, he pointed out, would likely be at Smuggler’s Run, and she was the last person he wanted to see. The Wookiee wasn’t sure he could take much more of the way she was so free with her paws.

“Listen, pal”—Han’s voice dripped sarcasm—“in case it ain’t occurred to you, it’s all over for Nar Shaddaa. Moff Sarn Shild has probably already ordered his fleet to assemble out near Teth. We’re shakin’ the dust of that miserable excuse for a moon off our feet for good.”

What fleet? Chewbacca wanted to know.

“Oh, each Imperial Moff has his own discretionary ‘peacekeeping’ squadron,” Han said, propping his boots on the console, not bothering to look before he plunked them down. Chewie was relieved to see that he missed the DECELERATE control. Sudden decelerations while in hyperspace were not a good idea. “No doubt Shild has one, too. His fleet’s probably not the best, but it’ll be more than enough for the mission.”

Chewbacca was confused. Why wouldn’t the Moff’s fleet be the best available?

“Oh, it’s just the way things go in the Imperial Navy. Since Hutt space is out here in the Rim, far from ‘civilization’—that is, Coruscant—I’d bet Sarn Shild got stuck with all the older ships and weaponry, while all the newest, best stuff went to Rampa 1 and Rampa 2.”

Rampa 1? Chewie asked. He’d thought only Rampa 2 had experienced an uprising.

“Yeah, well, when the citizens of Rampa 1 heard about what was going on, they rose up, too,” Han said. “For all the good it’s gonna do ’em.”

Chewie commented that he hated the Empire that had enslaved him, and wished he could help bring it down.

Han snorted. “Hey, pal, don’t hold your breath. Palpatine’s got more weapons and starships than he knows what to do with. Any rebellion against the Empire is doomed.”

The Wookiee pilot did not believe his partner’s pronouncement, and said so. It made sense to him that at some point the Imperial worlds, tired of Palpatine’s iron fist, would unite and rebel.

Han shook his head sourly. “Never happen, Chewie. And if it did, they’d be doomed. Just like Nar Shaddaa is doomed.”

Chewie commented that it wasn’t the Wookiee way to run away from a fight. Didn’t Han want to fight back against the Imperial fleet? He was certain that the smugglers were much better pilots—and certainly better shots—than the Imperials. Maybe they could defeat the Imperial attack.

Han laughed out loud at the suggestion.

Annoyed, Chewie’s lips skinned back from his teeth, and he snarled at his human partner.

Han sat up in a hurry, looking startled. Chewie rarely showed temper to the Corellian, and Wookiee anger was not something to be taken lightly. “Hey, no need to get sore about it! I can’t help it if Nar Shaddaa doesn’t stand a chance! It ain’t my fault!”

The Wookiee growled, low in his throat.

“Okay, okay,” Han soothed. “I’ll definitely warn ’em, so they can get away. I’ll talk to Mako about it, soon as we’ve reported in to Jiliac, okay?”

Chewbacca subsided, and went back to piloting. But the Wookiee was still thinking, still adding things up. He commented on Han’s ill temper.

“Whaddaya mean, I’ve been hard to live with?” Han was indignant. “Nothin’s wrong!”

Chewbacca’s comment was short and to the point.

Han flushed. “Whaddaya mean, this has somethin’ to do with a woman?” he demanded indignantly. “What makes you think that?”

Chewie reeled off a list of reasons, then put forth his best guess as to exactly which woman Han was upset about.

Han cursed, scowled, then, finally, slumped down and put his hands over his face. He rubbed his forehead and groaned aloud. “You’re right, Chewie,” he mumbled. “It was her. Bria. With Sarn Shild. I couldn’t believe it. How could she?”

Chewbacca noted that appearances could sometimes be deceiving.

Han shook his head. “Not this time,” he said miserably. “She called him ‘Sarn darling.’ ”

The Wookiee wondered whether Bria might be married to the Moff.

Han sighed. “Nope. It wasn’t that … formal … a relationship. Chewie, I can’t believe she’d do that! It’s so … cheap!”

Chewbacca tried to be comforting, reminding Han that sometimes sentients had to do things they didn’t particularly like because they were necessary. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances in Bria’s case, too.

Han tried to smile. “Thanks, pal. I wish I could say I thought you were right. But …” He shook his head, and subsided into silence.

It was a very silent flight back to the landing platform on Nar Shaddaa.

Han and Chewie reported to Jiliac and Jabba the moment they returned to Nar Shaddaa. The Hutts were not pleased to hear that Sarn Shild was no longer in their pay. “We shall have to do some investigating about this fleet and the situation,” Jiliac said. “Come back in two hours, Captain Solo.”

Han shrugged and agreed. He had his ten thousand credits, he’d checked his balance before he’d left Nar Shaddaa. So he was willing to do the Hutts’ bidding for a little while longer. Besides, in two hours, he’d be able to find Mako and pass along the warning to the older smuggler.

Mako was even more upset than Jiliac and Jabba when he heard the situation. “Keep this quiet, Han,” he said softly, staring out across the awnings and walkways of Nar Shaddaa. They were standing on his little balcony outside his ramshackle flat. “If the citizens get wind of this, there’ll be mass panic. An Imp fleet ain’t nothing to mess with.”

“But with enough warning, maybe they could evacuate—” Han began, only to break off at Mako’s quick headshake.

“Not a chance, kid. Too many of ’em don’t have anywhere else to go. Take that Jarik Solo kid who’s been riding with you and Chewie. He’s a rat from the deep-down streets, born and ‘raised’—not that anyone likely raised him—here on Nar Shaddaa. There’s millions like him, Han. And if the Imps are out to teach Nar Shaddaa a lesson, then a whole lotta people are gonna die.”

Han was considerably sobered by his talk with Mako. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. He realized how lucky he and Chewbacca were, to be able to climb aboard their ship and fly away from the danger. He resolved that if it came to that, he’d take Jarik with him. He’d grown to like the youth.

But what about all the other sentients who wouldn’t be able to get out? Nar Shaddaa had shields, but they wouldn’t be able to stand for long against an Imperial bombardment. Han had a sudden, vivid vision of these crumbling towers in flames from Imperial turbolasers. People would be fleeing, filling the streets, screaming, cowering, clutching children against them. Rodians, Sullustans, Twi’leks, Wookiees, Gamorreans, Bothans, Chadra-Fans … and more. Not to mention humans. Lots of humans. The Corellian section was full of them …

Han reported back to Jiliac’s audience chamber in a very troubled frame of mind.

The Hutt leader fixed him with a somber gaze. “What you have said is true. We checked our sources on Teth, and the Moff has indeed ordered his discretionary fleet to assemble there. Since some elements of the fleet have been out on patrol, it will take a week or possibly two for all the ships to converge on Teth, and then a minimum of several days to prepare for an assault on Nal Hutta. We are taking measures to ensure our safety on Nal Hutta.”

But what about Nar Shaddaa? Han wondered. It was a pretty good bet that the self-centered Hutts would give the Smuggler’s Moon barely a thought, in comparison to protecting their safety, and that of their homeworld.

“We have discovered that Shild’s fleet is under the command of Admiral Winstel Greelanx. You used to be an Imperial officer, Captain. Do you know him?”

“No,” Han said. “Never heard of him. But it’s a big Navy.”

“True,” Jiliac said. “Our sources have assured us that Admiral Greelanx, while a competent officer, has, in the past, not been above furthering his own fortunes when the opportunity arises. He was in charge of several Imperial fleets doing customs patrol in the past, and we have confirmed that under the right circumstances he can be bribed.”

Han nodded, not really surprised, much less shocked. The pay scale for an Imperial officer wasn’t that good. He’d heard of more than one Imp officer on the take.

“With that in mind, we want you to go and see him, Captain,” Jiliac continued. “We want you to negotiate with him on our behalf.”

“Me?” The thought of just marching right into the middle of an Imperial fleet was not appealing. And offering a bribe to an Imperial officer carried the death penalty should he be caught. “But—”

“You are our best choice, Captain Solo,” Jiliac said.

“But—”

“No buts, Han my boy,” Jabba said, in those overly friendly tones he’d adopted recently. “You can handle this assignment better than anyone else. You were an Imperial officer. We will get you a uniform, forged orders, and a military ID. You can get in to speak with Greelanx, take him a small ‘gift’ from us. You speak his language, Han. You can talk to him in terms he will understand.”

“Credits are what he’ll understand,” Han said. “Lots of them.”

“We have been delegated to act on behalf of all Nal Hutta,” Jiliac said. “Money is no object to ensuring the Admiral’s … cooperation.”

“But …” Han was thinking fast, “you can’t expect him to not attack. The Moff would notice he hadn’t fulfilled his orders. They’d court-martial him. And then they’d send an even bigger fleet to wipe us out!”

“And the next Admiral they appoint may not be amenable to our … persuasions,” Jiliac said, nodding her massive head in agreement. “That is why we want Admiral Greelanx to stay in command. But there must be some way for us to ensure an Imperial defeat.”

Han frowned. The entire thrust of his education at the Imperial Academy had been on ensuring victory for the Empire. “I don’t know …” he said uncertainly.

“Couldn’t we pay the Admiral to put his ships in the wrong positions, so they’re not able to fire properly, or something of the kind?” Jiliac asked. “We Hutts are not military-minded sentients, Captain. What kinds of things would bring about the result we want? An Imperial defeat, without it being obvious that we paid Greelanx off.”

“Well …” Han thought hard, “maybe he’ll sell us his battle plan. With that in hand, we could create a defense that would put all of our ships in just the right spot to—maybe—defeat the Imperial fleet. Maybe. Especially if Greelanx had been paid to cut and run as soon as he could justify a withdrawal.”

“Under what circumstances should we not attempt to engage the Imperial fleet?” Jiliac asked.

“If Shild’s fleet has a Victory Star Destroyer or—worse—one of the Imperial Star Destroyers, forget it, Your Excellency. But the Imps tend to assign older vessels to duty out here in the Rim. So maybe there’s a chance.”

Jabba was obviously impressed by Han’s knowledge. “Another reason why you are the right person to undertake this mission, Han my boy. You will be able to assess the strength of the Moff’s fleet, as few others could do.”

Han looked over at Chewbacca. Even without asking the Wookiee, he could see that Chewie wanted to go for it—to do anything they could to help their adopted home. Han thought about Shug’s spacebarn, and all the good times he’d had there with his friends. Sure, he’d had dreams of living a respectable life, of becoming a real “citizen”—but those dreams were in the past. He was a smuggler now, and probably a smuggler forever. He liked being a smuggler.

Thoughts of the towers of Nar Shaddaa in flames, of innocent sentients slaughtered, decided him. “All right. I’ll get in to see Greelanx and talk to him.”

“Emphasize that this is an offer no sentient in his right mind could refuse,” Jiliac said. “We will pay well.”

“I’ll make sure he understands,” Han said.

“When can you leave?” Jabba wanted to know. “Time is short.”

“Get me the uniform and the ID and I’ll leave tonight,” Han said. “All I have to do is get a haircut …”

It felt very strange to be back in uniform again, Han decided as he walked casually along the permacrete of the Imperial base on Teth three days later. He tried not to fidget in his gray uniform with its blue and red lieutenant’s insignia. Wearing the short-brimmed cap again felt odd, too. And he missed his old boots. These new boots weren’t properly broken in, and were a shade too small. They pinched his toes.

The sentry at the gate had scanned his ID, then given only a cursory glance at Han’s orders before saluting and waving him through.

Han was watching for a special group of young officers. There should be shuttles going up to the Admiral’s flagship, the Dreadnaught Imperial Destiny, throughout the afternoon, filled with officers and enlisted men reporting aboard after their last few hours of leave.

They’d be spending the next week preparing the big ship for its mission against the Hutt worlds. From what Han had been able to tell from passing the fleet while making their landing approach, Greelanx’s force consisted of three Dreadnaughts—the Imperial Destiny, the Pride of the Senate, and the Peacekeeper—four bulk cruisers, plus nearly a score of customs and patrol ships, including some Guardian-class light cruisers and a couple of Carrack-class light cruisers. Lots of TIE fighters in the holds of the bigger ships, of course.

Certainly enough power to utterly destroy Nar Shaddaa, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be. Han had seen no Star Destroyers, and it was a safe bet that if Greelanx’s squadron included one, that would be his flagship.

As he walked along, Han noticed a milling group of young officers queuing up before an Imperial shuttle. Here I go, he thought, walking purposefully up to them, then falling in at the back of the line. Now that he was back in the uniform, his shoulders were automatically straighter, his steps more precise, his eyes forward.

The young officers filed aboard the ship, and took seats in the shuttle, strapping in. Han’s seatmate gave him a pleasant nod. Han nodded back and smiled. The crew complement of a Dreadnaught was 16,204, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would realize for a long time that Lieutenant “Stew Manosk” was an interloper.

The flight up to the Dreadnaught was uneventful. Han’s seatmate fell asleep. Han smiled. Too much shore leave, perhaps?

After they docked with the Destiny, Han filed off the ship, then headed for the nearest unoccupied datapad. The ship was big enough that nobody would be too surprised to see him call up a schematic showing what was located on each deck.

There we go … level four, section three …

Han quickly headed for the nearest turbolift. He boarded one, then was quickly shuffled into the back, as others crowded in on the next deck. Han was staring straight ahead when he suddenly realized to his horror that he knew the young officer standing near the door!

It was Tedris Bjalin, the young lieutenant who had, so systematically, stripped Han’s uniform of rank during his court-martial.

Han surreptitiously eased himself as far to the right as he could, behind a taller man, crossing his fingers that Tedris wouldn’t turn around. The lieutenant didn’t, and he got off at the next floor.

Han breathed a long, quiet sigh of relief. Of all the lousy coincidences, one of the few guys who could ID me! Actually, it wasn’t such an odd coincidence. Tedris was from the Outer Rim Territories. It wasn’t too surprising that he’d be assigned out here, since he knew these spaceways. I’ll just have to make sure I stay out of his way …

Once on level four, Han walked quickly along, looking for the corridor leading to section three. He found it, turned in, then walked down to the end. The highest-ranking officers always had offices with a viewport. One of the privileges of rank.

Han found the correct door, then hesitated, squared his shoulders, and felt in his pocket for the Hutt gift. It was a lovely (and quite valuable) man’s ring, platinum, set with a large and flawless Bothan glitterstone.

The anterior office was occupied by a silver droid, who was sitting before a desk, entering data on a datapad. The droid looked up as Han entered. “May I help you, Lieutenant?”

“I need to see Admiral Greelanx,” Han said.

“Do you have an appointment, Lieutenant?”

“No, not exactly,” Han said. “But I know he’ll want to see me. I have some … information … for him. You know what I mean?” He leered, then winked, deliberately attempting to overload the “inference” circuits in the droid’s programming.

The silver droid’s green eyes flashed slightly as the creature tried to interpret what Han was saying. Finally, it stirred. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, perhaps you should speak with the Admiral’s aide.”

“Sure,” Han said, standing at ease.

The droid hastened into the next room, and Han could faintly hear it expostulating with someone inside. Finally, it came back out, followed by an extremely irritated-looking senior lieutenant. Han snapped to attention and saluted. “What’s going on here, Lieutenant?” the man snapped.

“Sir, Lieutenant Stew Manosk, requesting to see the admiral, sir!”

“State your business, Lieutenant,” the man, whose name badge identified him as “Kern Fallon,” ordered.

“Sir, I have a message for the admiral. It’s a … personal … message, sir.” Han was taking a calculated risk that Greelanx was as morally corrupt as many of the high-ranking Imperial officers he’d encountered. If the man took bribes, then there was a good chance that he was far from being an ascetic type where the ladies were concerned …

Fallon raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?”

Han sensed that he was being tested, and didn’t change expression. “Sir, she told me to give the message only to the admiral, sir.”

“ ‘She’?” Fallon’s voice fell until he was whispering. “You mean Malessa?”

Han allowed his eyes to widen and gambled. “Sir, this message is from Lady Greelanx!” he said, in shocked tones. “Who is Malessa?”

If Malessa is Lady Greelanx’s name, I’m done for, he thought.

But his luck held. Senior Lieutenant Fallon’s eyes went wide. “Lady Greelanx, but of course! I meant her, I just … slip of the tongue, Malessa is my wife, I just … slip of the tongue, I assure you, I was just thinking of her … wait just a moment …”

Fallon bustled inside, and Han allowed himself a smug smile. Pure sabacc, he thought. It had been a fairly safe bet that good old Admiral Greelanx had a mistress or two on the side …

Moments later he was in the admiral’s large inner office, with its tasteful furnishings and viewport that allowed the admiral to admire his squadron as they hung in orbit.

Greelanx was a stocky man of medium height, with thinning gray hair and a small, squarish mustache. He was standing behind his desk when Han entered, looking somewhat alarmed. “Lieutenant? You bring a message from my wife?”

Han took a deep breath and said, “Sir, what I have to convey can only be said in utter privacy, sir.”

Greelanx studied him for a moment, then beckoned Han closer and slapped a control beneath his desk. “Privacy screen on, and jamming activated,” he said. “Now, tell me what this is all about.”

Han held out the ring. “Admiral, I bring you a gift from the Hutt Lords of Nal Hutta. They want to deal.”

Greelanx’s eyes lit up at the sight of the valuable piece of jewelry, but he did not touch it. “I see,” he said. “I can’t say I’m surprised, either. The slugs don’t want to have their comfortable, crime-ridden lives disturbed, eh?”

Han nodded. “That’s about the size of it, Admiral. And they are willing to pay well for the privilege. We’re talking all the Lords of Nal Hutta, here. They are prepared to be very generous.”

Greelanx finally allowed himself to pick up the ring and examine it, then he slipped it onto his finger. It fitted perfectly. “Suits you very well, sir,” Han said.

“Yes, it does,” Greelanx agreed. He toyed with the ring, sliding it back and forth thoughtfully. “I must admit, I find the Hutt offer … tempting,” he said, finally. “Especially since I plan to retire next year. It would be nice to have a chance to … augment … my pension.”

“I quite agree, sir.”

“But my orders are clear, and I cannot go against them,” Greelanx said, slipping the ring off and holding it out toward Han. “I’m afraid we cannot do business, young man.”

Han tensed, but made himself stay calm. He could tell Greelanx was really tempted. “Sir, what are your orders?” he asked. “Perhaps we can think of something that will benefit us both, and yet leave you free of any charge of wrongdoing.”

Greelanx laughed bitterly, a short, bitten-off laugh. “Hardly, young man. My orders are to enter the Hutt system, execute order Base Delta Zero upon the Smuggler’s Moon, Nar Shaddaa, and then blockade Nal Hutta and Nar Hekka until the Hutts agree to allow full customs inspections and a complete military presence on their worlds. The Moff doesn’t want to cripple the Hutts too badly, but he wants Nar Shaddaa reduced to rubble.”

Han swallowed, his mouth dry. Base Delta Zero was an order that called for the decimation of a world—all life, all vessels, all systems—even droids were to be captured or destroyed. His worse nightmare come true.

“Admiral … have you completed your battle plan?” Han asked.

“My staff has been working on it,” Greelanx said. “And I am reviewing it now. Why?”

“The Hutts would like to purchase the detailed plan, sir,” Han said. “Name your price.”

Greelanx was obviously intrigued by Han’s statement. “Buy the battle plan?” he said, his voice expressing surprise. “What good will that do you?”

“Give us a fighting chance, perhaps, sir,” Han said.

“Us?” the admiral looked sharply at Han. “You’re one of them? A smuggler?”

“Yes, sir.”

Greelanx shrugged. “I’m surprised,” he admitted. “You wear the uniform well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Han said, and he meant it.

Greelanx paced slowly around the office, obviously thinking, tossing the ring up and then catching it. Finally, he came to stand before Han again. “You’re saying that your Hutt employers will pay me what I ask for my battle plan,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Han said. “For that, and for taking the first reasonable, strategically justifiable opportunity to withdraw your squadron. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Hmmmmmm …” Greelanx thought some more, then, finally, as if making a decision, he slipped the ring back on his finger. “Very well, young man, we have a deal,” he said. “I want my payment in gems … small, easy to dispose of, and not terribly traceable. I shall make you a list of the types and weights I wish.”

“Fine, sir,” Han said. “You do that.”

“Sit down, over there.” Greelanx pointed to a couch across his office. “I’ll finish reviewing the battle plan, and then you can have it.”

Han nodded, and went to sit down, as told. He was a little surprised that it had been that easy. He wondered if he should be suspicious of Greelanx, but the man seemed genuinely motivated by greed. But there was something else going on, too … something Han couldn’t put his finger on …

Greelanx worked for nearly two hours, then, finally, stood up and beckoned Han into the privacy field again. “I have it,” he said. “Nothing terribly inspired, standard Imperial tactics, but eminently workable. We should be able to cut any smuggler fleet to ribbons, I’m afraid.”

“That’s our concern,” Han said. “You just stick to this, Admiral”—he indicated the battle plan—“and when you can justifiably withdraw your squadron, you do it. I’ll be back to pay you.”

“You are a pilot, are you not?” Greelanx asked.

“You bet I am, sir,” Han said. He grinned at the older man. “You’re going to wish you had me on your side.”

The admiral chuckled. “Cocky, aren’t you? But the best pilots always are. Very well, then, I’ll leave a shuttle for you at these coordinates.” He added a line to the sheet of flimsy containing the battle plan. “Wear that uniform. All the docking codes you’ll need will be in the navicomputer. I’ll expect you one week to the day and hour after the attack. Is that understood?”

Han nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand. I’ll be back, count on it. The Hutts are only too aware of their danger. They’ll pay off, no complaints.”

At least none you’ll hear, he added silently.

“Very well. That concludes our business,” Greelanx said. “Although, young man, I believe you are overly optimistic about your chances against my squadron.”

Han nodded. “Noted, Admiral. But all we want is a fighting chance.”

“You’ll get it,” Greelanx said. “But your people had better be prepared to defend themselves. My attack will be genuine.”

Han saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Then he executed a perfect about-face, and strode from the room.