The ancient troopship, a relic of the Clone Wars, hung in orbit over the planet Corellia, silent and seemingly derelict. Looks were deceiving, however. The old Liberator-class vessel, once called Guardian of the Republic, now had a new life as Trader’s Luck. The interior had been gutted and refitted with a motley assortment of living environments, and now contained nearly one hundred sentient beings, many of them humanoid. At the moment, however, only a few of them were awake, since it was the middle of the sleep cycle.

There was a watch on the bridge, of course. Trader’s Luck spent much of its time in orbit, but it was still capable of hyperspace travel, even though it was slow by modern standards. Garris Shrike, the leader of the loosely allied trading “clan” that lived aboard the Luck, was a strict task-master, who followed formal ship’s protocols. So there was always a watch on the bridge.

Shrike’s orders aboard the Luck were always obeyed; he was not a man to cross without a good reason and a fully charged blaster. He ruled the clan of traders as a less-than-benevolent despot. A slender man of medium height, Garris was handsome in a hard-edged way. Streaks of silver-white above his temples accentuated his black hair and ice-blue eyes. His mouth was thin-lipped; he seldom smiled—and never with good humor. Garris Shrike was an expert shot and had spent his early years as a professional bounty hunter. He’d given it up, though, due to bad “luck”—meaning that his lack of patience had caused him to lose the richest bounties reserved for live delivery. Dead bodies were frequently worth far less.

Shrike did possess a warped sense of humor, especially if the pain of others was involved. When he was gambling and winning, he was subject to bouts of manic gaiety, especially if he was also drunk.

As he was at the moment. Sitting around the table in the former wardroom of the enlisted officers, Shrike was playing sabacc and drinking tankards of potent Alderaanian ale, his favorite beverage.

Shrike peered at his card-chips, mentally calculating. Should he hold pat and hope to complete a pure sabacc? At any moment the dealer could push a button and the values of all the card-chips would shift. If that happened, he’d be busted, unless he took an additional two and tossed most of his hand into the interference field in the center of the table.

One of his fellow players, a hulking Elomin suddenly turned his tusked head to glance behind him. A light on one of the auxiliary “status” panels was blinking. The huge, shaggy-furred Elomin grunted, then said in guttural Basic, “Something funny about the lockout sensor on the weapons cache, Captain.”

Shrike insisted on “proper” protocol and chain of command, especially as it applied to himself. Unless engaged in some planetside caper, he always wore a military uniform while aboard the Luck—one he’d designed himself, patterned on the dress uniform of a high-ranking Moff. It was hung about with “medals” and “decorations” Shrike had picked up in pawnshops across the galaxy.

Now, hearing the Elomin’s warning, he glanced up a little blearily, rubbed his eyes, then straightened up and dropped his card-chips onto the tabletop. “What is it, Brafid?”

The giant being wrinkled his tusked snout. “Not sure, Captain. It’s reading normal now, but something flickered, as though the lock shorted out for a second. Probably just a momentary power flux.”

Moving with such unusual grace and coordination that even the foppish “uniform” couldn’t detract from his presence, the captain rose and walked around the table to study the readouts himself. All signs of intoxication had vanished.

“Not a power flux,” he decided after a moment. “Something else.”

Turning his head, he addressed the tall, heavyset human on his left. “Larrad, look at this. Somebody shorted out the lock and is running a sim to fool us into thinking it’s just a power flux. We’ve got a thief aboard. Is everyone armed?”

The man addressed, who happened to be Shrike’s brother, Larrad Shrike, nodded, patting the holster that hung on the outside of his thigh. Brafid the Elomin fingered his “tingler”—an electric prod that was his weapon of choice—though the hairy alien was large enough to pick up most humanoids and break them over his knee.

The other person present, a female Sullustan who was the Luck’s navigator, stood up, patting the scaled-down blaster she wore. “Ready for action, Captain!” she squeaked. Despite her diminutive height, flapping jowls, and large, appealing bright eyes, Nooni Dalvo appeared almost as dangerous as the hulking Elomin who was her closest shipboard friend.

“Good,” Shrike grunted. “Nooni, go post a guard over the weapons locker, just in case he comes back. Larrad, activate the biosensors, see if you can ID the thief and where he’s heading.”

Shrike’s brother nodded and bent over the auxiliary control board. “Corellian human,” he announced after a moment. “Male. Young. Height, 1.8 meters. Dark hair and eyes. Slender build. The bioscanner says it recognizes him. He’s heading aft, toward the galley.”

Shrike’s expression hardened until his eyes were as cold and blue as the glaciers on Hoth. “The Solo kid,” he said. “He’s the only one cocky enough to try something like this.” He flexed his fingers, then hardened them into a fist. The ring he wore, made from a single gem of Devaronian blood-poison, flashed dull silver in the bulkhead lights. “Well, I’ve gone easy on him so far, ’cause he’s a good swoop pilot, and I never lost when I bet on him, but enough is enough. Tonight, I’m going to teach him to respect authority, and he’s going to wish he’d never been born.”

Shrike’s teeth flashed, much brighter than the gem in his ring. “Or that I’d never ‘found’ him seventeen years ago and brought his sniveling, pants-wetting little behind home to the Luck. I’m a patient, tolerant man …” he sighed theatrically, “as the galaxy knows, but even I have my limits.”

He glanced over at his brother, who was looking rather uncomfortable. Garris wondered if Larrad was remembering the Solo kid’s last punishment session a year ago. The youth hadn’t been able to walk for two days.

Shrike’s mouth tightened. He wouldn’t tolerate any softness among his subordinates. “Right, Larrad?” he said too softly.

“Right, Captain!”

Han Solo gripped the stolen blaster as he tiptoed along the narrow metal corridor. When he’d wired into the sim and jimmied the lock into the weapons cache, he’d only had a moment to reach in and grab the first weapon that came to hand. There’d been no time to pick and choose.

Nervously, he pushed strands of damp brown hair back from his forehead, realizing he was sweating. The blaster felt heavy and awkward in his hand as he examined it. Han had seldom held one before, and he only knew how to check the charge from the reading he’d done. He’d never actually fired a weapon. Garris Shrike didn’t permit anyone but his officers to walk around armed. Squinting in the dim light, the young swoop pilot flipped open a small panel in the thickest part of the barrel and peered down at the readouts. Good. Fully charged. Shrike may be a bully and a fool, but he runs a taut ship.

Not even to himself would the youth admit how much he actually feared and hated the captain of Trader’s Luck. He’d learned long ago that showing fear of any sort was a swift guarantee of a beating—or worse. The only thing bullies and fools respected was courage—or, at least, bravado. So Han Solo had learned never to allow fear to surface in his mind or heart. There were times when he was dimly aware that it was there, deep down, buried under layers of street toughness, but anytime he recognized it for what it was, Han resolutely buried it even deeper.

Experimentally, he swung the blaster up to eye level and awkwardly closed one brown eye as he sighted along the barrel. The muzzle of the weapon wavered slightly, and Han cursed softly under his breath as he realized his hand was trembling. Come on, he told himself, show some backbone, Solo. Getting off this ship and away from Shrike is worth a little risk.

Reflexively, he glanced over his shoulder, then turned back just in time to duck under a low-hanging power coupling. He’d chosen this route because it avoided all the living quarters and recreation areas, but it was so narrow and low-ceilinged that he was beginning to feel claustrophobic as he tiptoed forward, resisting the urge to turn and look back over his shoulder.

Ahead of him, the near tunnel widened out, and Han realized he was almost at his destination. Only a few more minutes, he told himself, continuing to move with a stealthy grace that made his progress as soundless as that of a wonat’s furred toe-pads. He was skirting the hyperdrive modules now, and then a larger corridor intersected. Han turned right, relieved that he could now walk without stooping.

He crept up to the door of the big galley and hesitated outside, his ears and nose busy. Sounds … yes, only the ones he’d been expecting to hear. The soft clatter of metal pans, the splooooch of dough being punched, and then the faint sounds of it being kneaded.

He could smell the dough, now. Wastril bread, his favorite. Han’s mouth tightened. With any luck, he wouldn’t be here to eat any of this particular batch.

Sticking the blaster into his belt, he opened the door and stepped into the galley. “Hey … Dewlanna …” he said softly. “It’s me. I’ve come to say good-bye.”

The tall, furred being who had been vigorously kneading the wastril dough swung around to face him with a soft, inquiring growl.

Dewlanna’s real name was Dewlannamapia, and she had been Han’s closest friend since she’d come to live aboard Trader’s Luck nearly ten years ago, when Han had been about nine. (The young swoop pilot had no idea of when he’d been born, of course. Or who his parents had been. If it hadn’t been for Dewlanna, he wouldn’t even have known that his last name was “Solo.”)

Han couldn’t speak Wookiee—trying to reproduce the growls, barks, roars, and rumbling grunts made his throat sore, and he knew he sounded ridiculous—but he understood it very well. For her part, Dewlanna couldn’t speak Basic, but she understood it as well as she did her own language. So communication between the human youth and the elderly Wookiee widow was fluent, but … different.

Han had gotten used to it years ago and never thought about it anymore. He and Dewlanna just … talked. They understood each other perfectly. Now he hefted the stolen blaster, careful not to point it at his friend. “Yes,” he repiled in responce to Dewlanna’s comment, “tonight’s the night. I’m getting off Trader’s Luck and I’m never coming back.”

Dewlanna rumbled at him worriedly as she automatically resumed kneading her dough. Han shook his head, giving her a lopsided grin. “You worry too much, Dewlanna. Of course I’ve got it all planned. I’ve got a spacesuit stashed in a locker near the robot freighter docks, and there’s a ship docked there now that will be departing as soon as it’s unloaded and refueled. A robot freighter, and it’s headed where I want to go.”

Dewlanna punched her dough, then growled a soft interrogatory.

“I’m heading for Ylesia,” Han told her. “Remember I told you all about it? It’s a religious colony near Hutt space, and they offer pilgrims sanctuary from the outside universe. I’ll be safe from Shrike there. And”—he held up a small holodisk where the Wookiee cook could see it—“look at this! They’re advertising for a pilot! I already used up the last of my payout credits from that job we pulled, to send a message, telling them I’m coming to interview for the job.”

Dewlanna roared softly.

“Hey, I can’t let you do that,” Han protested, watching the cook set the loaves into pans and slide them into the thermal grid to bake. “I’ll be okay. I’ll lift some credits on my way to the robot ship. Don’t worry, Dewlanna.”

The Wookiee ignored him as she shuffled quickly across the galley, her hairy, slightly stooped form moving rapidly despite her advanced age. Dewlanna was nearly six hundred years old, Han knew. Old even for a Wookiee.

She disappeared into the door of her private living quarters, and then, a moment later, reappeared, clutching a pouch woven of some silky material that might even, from the look of it, be Wookiee fur.

She held it out to him with a soft, insistent whine.

Han shook his head again, and childishly put his hands behind his back. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not taking your savings, Dewlanna. You’ll need those credits to buy passage to join me.”

The Wookiee cocked her head and made a short, questioning sound.

“Of course you’re going to join me!” Han said. “You don’t think I’m going to leave you here to rot on this hulk, do you? Shrike gets crazier every year. Nobody’s safe aboard the Luck. When I get to Ylesia and get settled in, I’m going to send for you to join me. Ylesia’s a religious retreat, and they offer their pilgrims sanctuary. Shrike won’t be able to touch us there.”

Dewlanna reached inside the pouch, her hairy fingers surprisingly dexterous as she sifted through the credit vouchers inside. She handed several to her young friend. With a sigh, Han relented and took them. “Well … okay. But this is just a loan, okay? I’m going to pay you back. The salary the Ylesian priests are offering is a good one.”

She growled her assent, then, without warning, reached out to ruffle his hair with her massive paw, leaving it sticking out in wild disarray. “Hey!” Han yelped. Wookiee head rubs were not to be taken lightly. “I just combed my hair!”

Dewlanna growled, amused, and Han drew himself up indignantly. “I do not look better scruffy. I keep telling you, the term ‘scruffy’ ain’t complimentary among humans.”

He stared at her, his indignation vanishing as he realized that this was the last time he’d see her beloved furry face, her gentle blue eyes, for a long time. Dewlanna had been his closest—and frequently only—friend for so long now. Leaving her was hard, very hard.

Impulsively, the Corellian youth threw himself against her warm, solid bulk, hugging her fiercely. His head reached only to the middle of her chest. Han could remember when he’d barely stood as tall as her waist. “I’m going to miss you,” he said, his face muffled against her fur, his eyes stinging. “You take care of yourself, Dewlanna.”

She roared softly, and her long, hairy arms came around him as she returned the embrace.

“Well, ain’t this a touching sight,” said a cold, all-too-familiar voice.

Han and Dewlanna both froze, then wheeled to face the man who’d entered through the Wookiee’s quarters. Garris Shrike lounged in the doorway, his handsome features set in a smile that made Han’s blood coagulate in his veins. Beside him, he could feel Dewlanna shudder, either with fear or loathing.

Two other crew members—Larrad Shrike and Brafid the Elomin—were visible over Shrike’s shoulder. Han balled his fists with frustration. If it had only been Shrike, he might’ve chanced jumping the Luck’s Captain. With Dewlanna to help him, they might have been able to subdue Garris, but with Larrad and the Elomin also present, they didn’t have a chance.

Han was acutely conscious of the stolen blaster shoved into his belt. For a moment he considered going for it, but he abandoned that idea. Shrike was known for being fast on the draw. There was no way he could beat him, and that might get both Dewlanna and himself killed. Shrike was clearly in a rage.

Han licked dry lips. “Listen, Captain,” he began. “I can explain—”

Shrike drew himself up, his eyes narrowing. “You can explain what, you cowardly little traitor? Stealing from your family? Betraying those who trusted you? Stabbing your benefactor in the back, you sniveling little thief?”

“But—”

“I’ve had it with you, Solo. I’ve been lenient with you so far, because you’re a blasted good swoop pilot and all that prize money came in handy, but my patience is ended.” Shrike ceremoniously pushed up the sleeves of his bedizened uniform, then balled his hands into fists. The galley’s artificial lighting made the blood-jewel ring glitter dull silver. “Let’s see what a few days of fighting off Devaronian blood-poisoning does for your attitude—along with maybe a few broken bones. I’m doing this for your own good, boy. Someday you’ll thank me.”

Han gulped with terror as Shrike started toward him. He’d lashed out at the trader captain once before, two years ago, when he’d been feeling cocky after winning the gladitorial Free-For-All on Jubilar—and had been instantly sorry. The speed and strength of Garris’s returning blow had snapped his head back and split both lips so thoroughly that Dewlanna had had to feed him mush for a week until they healed.

With a snarl, Dewlanna stepped forward. Shrike’s hand dropped to his blaster. “You stay out of this, old Wookiee,” he snapped in a voice nearly as harsh as Dewlanna’s. “Your cooking isn’t that good.”

Han had already grabbed his friend’s furry arm and was forcibly holding her back. “Dewlanna, no!”

She shook off his hold as easily as she would have waved off an annoying insect and roared at Shrike. The captain drew his blaster, and chaos erupted.

“Noooo!” Han screamed, and leaped forward, his foot lashing out in an old street-fighting technique. His instep impacted solidly with Shrike’s breastbone. The captain’s breath went out in a great houf! and he went over backward. Han hit the deck and rolled. A tingler bolt sizzled past his ear.

“Larrad!” wheezed the captain as Dewlanna started toward him.

Shrike’s brother drew his blaster and pointed it at the Wookiee. “Stop, Dewlanna!”

His words had no more effect than Han’s. Dewlanna’s blood was up—she was in full Wookiee battle rage. With a roar that deafened the combatants, she grabbed Larrad’s wrist and yanked, spinning him around and snapping him in a terrible parody of a child’s “snap the whip” game. Han heard a crunch, mixed with several pops as tendons and ligaments gave way. Larrad Shrike shrieked, a high, shrill noise that carried such pain that the Corellian youth’s arm ached in sympathy.

Grabbing the blaster from his belt, Han snapped off a shot at the Elomin who was leaping forward, tingler ready and aimed at Dewlanna’s midsection. Brafid howled, dropping his weapon. Han was amazed that he’d managed to hit him, but he didn’t have long to wonder about the accuracy of his aim.

Shrike was staggering to his feet, blaster in hand, aimed squarely at Han’s head. “Larrad?” he yelled at the writhing heap of agony that was his brother. Larrad did not reply.

Shrike cocked the blaster and stepped even closer to Han. “Stop it, Dewlanna!” the captain snarled at the Wookiee. “Or your buddy Solo dies!”

Han dropped his blaster and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

Dewlanna stopped in her tracks, growling softly.

Shrike leveled the blaster, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Pure malevolent hatred was etched upon his features, and then he smiled, pale blue eyes glittering with ruthless joy. “For insubordination and striking your captain,” he announced, “I sentence you to death, Solo. May you rot in all the hells there ever were.”

As Han froze, expecting the bolt to fry him any moment, Dewlanna roared, shoved Han aside, and leaped for Shrike. The blaster’s energy beam caught her full in the chest, and she went down in a heap of charred fur and burned flesh.

“Dewlanna!” Han yelled in anguish. With a quickness he hadn’t known he possessed, he dived at Shrike, hitting the captain in a driving tackle around his knees. Shrike went over backward again, and this time his head impacted solidly with the deck. He sagged, out cold.

Han crawled back to his friend, turning her over gently, seeing the great hole the blaster beam had bored into her chest. He knew immediately that the wound was mortal. No medical droid ever constructed could heal this. Dewlanna moaned, gasped, and fought with all her great Wookiee strength to breathe. Han slid his arms beneath her shoulders and tried to ease her struggle. Her blue eyes opened and, after a moment, fixed on his. Lucidity returned, and she rumbled softly.

“No, I won’t leave you!” Han replied, clutching her harder. Tears blurred his vision, and she swam below him in a sea of brown fur. “I don’t care if I get away! Oh, Dewlanna …”

Making a great effort, she raised a huge, furred paw-hand and grasped his arm. Han had to struggle to translate her speech. “I know,” he choked, talking aloud so she’d know he understood her. “I know you care about me …” she rumbled again, “as much as you do your own children.”

Han swallowed, his throat tight and aching. “I … I feel the same way, Dewlanna. You’re the closest thing to a mother I’ll ever have.”

A long moan of anguish made her shudder. She rumbled at him again. “No,” Han insisted. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll stay with you till … till …” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Dewlanna grabbed his arm with a ghost of her old strength and growled at him urgently. “If I …” Han was having trouble comprehending her slurred speech, “if I die … nothing? Oh, you’re saying that if I don’t live, you’ll have died for nothing?”

She nodded, her eyes in their nest of hair holding his with all the intensity she could muster. Han shook his head stubbornly. How could he abandon her to die alone?

Dewlanna rumbled softly, faintly. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll be safe, one with the life-power,” Han said, trying to sound sincere. He knew some Wookiees believed in a unifying power that bound all of existence together. Personally, he thought this power—he’d never been able to translate the term accurately, the Wookiee word could have meant “strength,” or “force,” too—that Dewlanna believed in so steadfastly was just superstition.

But if it comforted her to believe in it during her dying moments, Han wasn’t going to argue with her. He remembered the words she’d said to him several times. “Dewlanna, may the life-power be with you …” For a moment he wished that he, too, could believe …

She moaned with pain. Han could see she was going fast. Then Dewlanna rumbled feebly, and again he automatically translated. “Your last request …” He choked, barely able to get the words out, “You want me … to go … to live. And to be … happy.”

Han struggled not to break down. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll go. I still have time to get aboard that robot ship before it takes off.”

Dewlanna whined faintly.

“I promise,” he agreed, his voice ragged. “I’ll go now. And I swear I’ll always remember you, Dewlanna.”

She was beyond speech now, but he was sure she’d heard him. He laid her gently on the deck, then rose and picked up the blaster. Then, after giving Dewlanna one final look, Han turned and raced out the door.

His running feet resounded through the corridors of Trader’s Luck; the time was past for stealth. He had to reach the docking bay, and that robot Ylesian freighter! Han had no idea when it was due to blast away from the Luck, but the loading schedule posted for the space dock workers had listed it as being ready for blastoff as soon as the droids finished fueling. And when he’d swiped the spacesuit and hidden it, they’d just started that process.

The Ylesian Dream might be leaving any moment!

Gasping, Han sprinted for the lock, his feet thudding along the decks that had been his playground ever since he was old enough to remember. In the distance, he could hear sleepy voices, interspersed with shouts and orders.

I can’t let them catch me. Shrike will kill me. The certainty lent speed to his flying feet.

He skidded around the final turn and grabbed the spacesuit he’d hidden behind some fueling equipment. The helmet flopped over his arm, banging him in the midsection as he hastily keyed in the code he’d stolen into the airlock door.

Seconds passed. The sounds of pursuit were growing louder. But surely they’d think he was headed for the shuttle deck or even the lifepods. Nobody would guess he’d be crazy enough to try stowing away on a robot freighter—at least that’s what he was counting on …

The lock hissed open. Han leaped inside, closed the hatch, and began yanking on the spacesuit. He checked the air storage. Full. Good. He’d originally planned to bring along some extra air paks, but he didn’t dare venture back out. The pak on the suit was good for two days. That should be enough, unless the Dream was a really slow vessel. Since it was a robot-drone, he had no way of discovering what course it would be following, or how fast it was scheduled to go.

Han grimaced. Only a desperate man would use this method of escape. He was desperate, all right. He just hoped he wouldn’t arrive on Ylesia dead because he’d run out of air.

Let’s see … food pellets … full. Water tank … full. Good. That was Captain Shrike again, insisting that all ship’s equipment be maintained in perfect working order.

Han dragged the suit up over the arms of his ship’s gray jumpsuit and closed the seam running up the front. He picked up the helmet, clumsy because of the gloves, and settled it over his head. It was mostly glassine, and he could see every direction except directly behind him. A bank of holos ran around the bottom rim of the helmet, giving him his vitals, amount of air remaining, and all the other information he needed to survive. Han could “talk” to his suit in a limited fashion by bumping his chin against the communications lever and giving the suit instructions concerning his temperature, air mix, and so forth.

Okay, this is it, the young man thought as he clumped over to the connecting hatch and keyed in the final sequence to equalize pressures between the lock and the Ylesian Dream. He could faintly hear a hiss as the air was pumped out of the lock. The Dream, being a robot, didn’t need air to operate. The ship would be filled only with vacuum.

Finally, the hatch opened, and Han stepped inside.

It was crowded with equipment and cargo, and the corridors were very narrow. The Dream wasn’t constructed to accommodate a living crew, only for routine maintenance, and Han had to turn sideways to squeeze in. The youth was fleetingly grateful that all standard engineering was designed to function in gravity. Otherwise, he might’ve had to contend with zero gee, and that would have been a real pain.

He’d been outside the Trader’s Luck with the welding crew in spacesuits several times since he’d been considered old enough for hazardous ship’s duty, hanging in space, tethered to the ship only by a seemingly fragile umbilical. It had been kind of exciting the first couple of times, but Han didn’t particularly care for weightlessness, and he’d soon learned never to look “down.” Seeing nothing but space beneath his feet for light-years and light-years was enough to make his head swim.

Han clumped toward the “bridge,” figuring that was where the maximum amount of room would be. He reached it in only moments—the Dream was a small ship. If her cargo list was correct, she’d brought in a shipment of top-grade glitterstim spice, and would be leaving with a cargo of high-quality Corellian electronic components that could be used in factory maintenance.

Han wondered for a moment whom Garris Shrike had paid off to be able to receive a shipment of spice. The substance was rigidly controlled by most planetary governments and also by the Imperial trade commission.

He turned sideways to enter the bridge—and froze.

What in the name of all the Sons of Barab is an astromech droid doing on the bridge? Everyone knew a droid couldn’t pilot a ship by itself, so it couldn’t be piloting. Han grimaced behind the glassine helmet. This droid must be there as a sort of burglar alarm, a sophisticated communications device to help deter portside thieves or space pirates. Han knew that one of the reasons the Ylesian priests were eager to hire a pilot—preferably a Corellian, their ad had read—was that they’d been losing robot ships to piracy.

As he froze, hoping the droid wasn’t aware of his presence, the young man felt the Dream shudder. We’re undocking! I’ve got to get braced for breakaway thrust!

Quickly he edged away from the bridge and headed back toward the cargo area. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and just in time. A small space that he could sit down in, just the right size to allow him to brace himself with his arms and legs.

The Dream shuddered again, and then again. Mentally, Han pictured the docking clamps falling away, one by one. One more to go, then—

The ship shuddered one more time, then lurched violently. Since the Dream wasn’t supposed to be manned, it could utilize acceleration patterns that were much rougher than those used in a vessel with a living crew.

Wham! Han’s body jerked, then he braced himself against the thrust of violent acceleration. The Dream was undocked and away!

Mentally, Han pictured them thrusting away from Trader’s Luck, out of the embrace of Corellia’s gravity field. Closing his eyes, he pictured his homeworld turning lazily against the backdrop of stars. Corellia was a pretty planet, with narrow blue seas, green-brown forests, tan deserts, and large cities. On the nightside it glittered like a battle remote studded with lights …

The hardest thrust of acceleration hit then, and Han was pinned uncomfortably against the cargo container. We’ve made the jump to lightspeed, he realized.

Moments later, as the ship’s speed evened out, he was able to move again. He flexed his arms and legs, wincing as bruises made themselves felt. From the fight in the galley, he realized. The thought made him remember Dewlanna with a sudden, visceral sadness. Tears stung his eyes, and he fought them back fiercely. Crying in a spacesuit helmet was a lousy idea, since you couldn’t wipe your face.

Han sniffed, trying to blink back the tears. Dewlanna … he thought. His friend had given her life to give him this chance.

Get hold of yourself, Solo, he ordered himself sternly. His throat ached, but Han gulped, swallowed hard, then bit his lip until the urge to cry receded. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, and what was the point? It wouldn’t bring Dewlanna back …

Han knew Dewlanna believed in an afterlife of the spirit. If she was right about that, then maybe she could hear him now.

“Hey, Dewlanna,” Han whispered, “I made it. I’m on my way. I’m going to Ylesia, and I’m going to become the best pilot in the sector. I’ll learn enough—and earn enough—to apply for the Academy, the way we always dreamed. I’m free, Dewlanna.” His voice broke. We’re safe, Dewlanna. Shrike can’t touch either of us, now …

Wedged into his little crevice, the young pilot smiled with grim determination. I’m free, and I owe it all to you. I’ll never forget it, either. If I ever get a chance to pay you back by helping one of your people, I swear to anything that’s out there—any god, or life-power, or force—I won’t hesitate.

Han Solo took a long, deep breath of canned spacesuit air. “Thank you, Dewlanna,” he whispered.

Wherever she was now, he hoped she could hear him.