When Han awoke from exhausted sleep, he was completely disoriented at first. Where am I? he wondered groggily. Memory came rushing back in swift, violent images: his own hand holding a blaster … Shrike’s face twisted with hatred and rage … Dewlanna, gasping, dying alone …

He swallowed hard, his throat aching. Dewlanna had been part of his life since he was just a little kid, eight, perhaps, or nine. He remembered the day she’d come aboard with her mate, Isshaddik. Isshaddik had been outlawed from the Wookiee homeworld for some crime that Dewlanna had never referred to. She’d followed her mate into exile, leaving behind all that she’d ever known—her home and their grown cubs.

A year or so later, Isshaddik had been killed during a smuggling run to Nar Hekka, one of the worlds in the Hutt sector. Shrike had announced to Dewlanna that she could remain aboard Trader’s Luck as cook, since he’d grown to like the foods she prepared. Dewlanna could have gone back to Kashyyyk—after all, she’d committed no crime—but she’d chosen to stay aboard the Luck.

Because of me, Han thought as he located the water dispenser nipple inside his helmet and took a cautious sip. Then he tongued up a couple of food pellets and washed them down with another swallow. It wasn’t the same as food, but they’d keep him going for the day … She stayed because of me. She wanted to protect me from Shrike …

He sighed, knowing it to be true. Wookiees were among the most steadfast and loyal companions in the galaxy, or so he’d heard. Wookiee loyalty and friendship was not lightly given, but once bestowed, it never wavered.

He leaned back in his alcove, checking the air pak. Three-quarters left. Han wondered how far the Dream had traveled while he’d slept. In a little while he’d go to the control room, see if he could decipher the instrumentation on the autopilot.

Han’s mind drifted back in time, remembering Dewlanna sadly, then as he relaxed, his mind wandered to even earlier days. His earliest “real” memory—everything else was just meaningless fragments, snatches of images too old and distorted to have any meaning—was of the day Garris Shrike had brought him “home” to Trader’s Luck …

The child huddled in the mouth of the dank, filthy alley, trying not to cry. He was too big to cry, wasn’t he? Even if he was cold and hungry and alone. For a moment the child wondered why he was alone, but it was as if a huge metal door slammed down on that thought, shutting everything behind it. Behind the door lay danger, behind that door lay … bad things. Pain, and … and …

The boy shook his head, and his lank, filthy hair fell straggling into his face. He pushed it back with a hand that was so grimed with dirt that his natural skin color barely showed. He wore only a pair of ragged pants and a torn, sleeveless tunic that was too small. His feet were bare. Had he ever had shoes?

The child thought that perhaps he remembered shoes. Good shoes, nice ones, shoes that someone had put on his feet and helped him fasten. Someone who was gentle, who smiled instead of scowled, someone who was clean and smelled good, who wore pretty clothes—

SLAM!!

The door came down again, and little Han (he knew that was his name, but knew of no other that went with it) winced from the pain in his mind. He knew better than to let those thoughts fill his mind. Thoughts and memories like that were bad, they hurt … better not to think them.

He sniffled again and wiped futilely at his runny nose. He realized he was standing in a puddle of foulness, and that his feet were so cold he could barely feel them. It was night now, and it promised to be a cold one.

Hunger twisted in Han’s stomach like a living thing, a creature that bit painfully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Had it been this morning when he’d found that kavasa fruit in a garbage dump, the ripe, juicy one that was only half-eaten? Or had that been last night?

He couldn’t keep standing here, the little boy decided. He had to move. Han stepped out of the alley, onto the pathwalk. He knew how to beg … who was it that had taught him?

SLAM!

Never mind who’d taught him, they had taught him well. Adjusting his features to their most pitiful, Han shuffled toward the nearest passerby. “Please … lady …” he whimpered. “Hungry, I’m so hungry …” He held out his hand, palm up. The woman he addressed slowed fractionally, then suddenly looked down at his dirty palm and recoiled, holding her skirts back so they wouldn’t brush against him.

“Lady …” Han breathed, turning with more than professional interest to watch her walk away. She had on a nice dress, soft and shiny, sort of … glowing … in the harsh streetlights of the Corellian harbor town.

She reminded him of someone, with her big, dark eyes, her smooth skin, her hair—

SLAM!

He began to sob, hopelessly, his small body shaking from cold, hunger, grief, and loneliness.

“Hey, there! Han!” the sharp but not unfriendly voice broke through his wall of misery. Sniffling and gulping, Han looked up to see a tall form bending over him. Black hair, pale blue eyes. He smelled of Alderaanian ale, and the smoke from half a dozen proscribed drugs, but he was steady on his feet, unlike many of the other passersby.

Seeing that Han was looking up at him, the man squatted down onto his heels, which brought him to only a little above Han’s eye level. “You’re too big to cry in the street, you know that, don’t you?”

Han nodded, still sniffling, but trying to control himself. “Y-yeth … yes.” At first he lisped a little, the way he had when he’d first learned to talk. That was a long, long time ago, Han thought. He’d been talking since the cold season, and it was soon going to be cold season again. He’d been talking since …

SLAM!

The child shuddered again as his mind resolutely shut away all his memories of that beforetime. Something else surfaced, something he’d overlooked at first in his misery. Han’s eyes widened. This man had called him by name! How does he know my name?

“You … who are you?” Han whispered. “How do you know my name?”

The man grinned, showing many teeth. It was meant to be a friendly expression, Han could tell, but there was something about it that made him shudder. It reminded him of the packs of canoids that hunted prey in the alleys. “I know lots of things, kid,” the man replied. “Call me Captain Shrike. Can you say that?”

“Y-yes. Cap-tain Shrike,” Han parroted uncertainly. He hiccuped as his sobbing died away. “But … but how did you know my name? Please?”

The man put out a hand as if to ruffle his hair, then seemed to take in the dirt and scritchies inhabiting his young scalp and think better of it. “You’d be surprised, Han. I know almost everything that goes on here on Corellia. I know who’s lost and who’s found, who’s for sale and who’s sold, and where all the bodies are buried. Matter of fact, I’ve had my eye on you. You seem like a smart lad. Are you smart?”

Han drew himself up, eyed the man levelly. “Yes, Captain,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady. “I’m smart.” He knew he was, too. Anyone who wasn’t didn’t last for months on the streets, the way he had.

“Good, that’s the lad! Well, I could use a smart lad to work for me. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll give you a square meal and a warm place to sleep.” He grinned again. “And I just bet you’d like to see my ship.” He pointed up at the darkening sky.

Han nodded eagerly. Food? A bed? And especially … “A spaceship? Yes, Captain! I want to be a pilot when I grow up!”

The man laughed and held out his hand. “Well come on, then!”

Han let the big hand engulf his, and the two of them walked away together, toward the spaceport …

Han stirred and shook his head. I should never have gone with him that day, he thought. If I hadn’t gone with him, Dewlanna would still be alive …

But if he hadn’t gone with Shrike, he’d probably have awakened some night in the alley to find that vrelts had chewed his ears and nose off, the way they had one of the other “alley urchins” that Garris Shrike had “rescued.”

Han smiled grimly. Captain Shrike didn’t have an altruistic bone in his body. He collected children and used them to turn a profit. Almost every planet the Luck visited, Shrike loaded up a group of his “rescuees” and took them down to the streets in the shuttle. There he left them under the supervision of a droid he’d programmed himself, F8GN. Eight-Gee-Enn assigned them to their “territories” and kept track of their proceeds as the children roamed the streets, begging and pickpocketing.

They used the littlest ones, the skinniest ones, the deformed ones for begging. The vrelt-gnawed girl, Danalis, had always done well. Shrike kept her working hard for years by promising her that when she’d earned enough for him, he’d get her face fixed for her, so she’d look human again.

But he never had. When she was about fourteen, Danalis evidently realized that Shrike was never going to make good on his promises. One “night” she went into the Luck’s airlock and cycled it—without first putting on a suit.

Han had been on the cleanup crew. He shuddered at the memory.

Poor Danalis. He could still picture her in his mind, handing over a day’s begging receipts to Eight-Gee-Enn. The droid was tall and spindly, made from coppery-reddish metal. It had been repaired so many times that it had patches everywhere, as though the droid were wearing a much-mended garment. Copper patches, gold-colored patches, steel-colored patches—and one round, silvery one on the top of its head.

Han could still hear the droid’s voice in his mind. Eight-Gee-Enn had had something wrong with its speakers, and its “voice” had alternated between sounding deep and unctuous, to shrill, mechanical squeakiness. But no matter how the droid sounded, they’d all paid attention to what Eight-Gee-Enn said …

“Now, dear children, have you all got your territory assignments?” The copper-colored droid swiveled its head a little rustily on its pipe-stem neck, regarding the eight children from Trader’s Luck as they stood ranged before it.

All of the children, including five-year-old Han, affirmed that they did, indeed, have their territories. “Very well, then, dear children,” the droid continued in its deep, then squeaky tones, “let me now give you your job assignments. Padra”—the droid looked down at a small boy only a year or so older than Han—“today we’re going to give you your first chance to show us how helpful you can be to these poor citizens who are burdened with credit vouchers, jewelry, and expensive private comlinks.” The droid’s eyes glittered eerily. They were different colors—one had burned out long ago, and Shrike had replaced it with a lens scavenged from a junked droid, giving F8GN one red “eye” and one green.

“Are you willing to help out these poor, benighted citizens, Padra?” Eight-Gee-Enn asked, cocking its metal head inquiringly, its voice dripping artificial camaraderie.

“Sure am!” the boy cried. He gave Han and the other small children a triumphant glance. “No more baby begging for me!” he whispered excitedly.

Han, who was barely beginning to learn the skills necessary to pick pockets swiftly and undetectably, felt a stir of envy. Picking pockets was easy, once you learned how to do it well. It was far easier to meet Eight-Gee-Enn’s quota for a day’s “work” picking pockets than it was by begging. Begging required accosting at least three marks, roughly, in order to gain one donation.

But pickpocketing … now, that was the best way to earn big money! If you chose the right mark, you could gain enough in one grab to give Eight-Gee-Enn your quota before noon, and then you were free to play. Han wondered whether Eight-Gee-Enn would give him some practice time if he hurried and begged his quota for the day before the others finished.

It was fun to practice with the spindly reddish droid, because Eight-Gee-Enn looked so funny in clothes! The droid would put on street clothes typical to the planet they were on, and then either stand still or stroll past his student. Han had learned to relieve the droid of the concealed chrono, credit vouchers, and even some kinds of jewelry without Eight-Gee-Enn detecting his fingers in the process.

But he couldn’t do it one hundred percent of the time. Han scowled a little as he trudged away. Eight-Gee-Enn demanded perfection from its little band, especially from the pickpockets. The droid wouldn’t let him start picking pockets until it was sure that Han could do so perfectly, every time.

Absently, he picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it into his hands, then smeared his already sweating face. What planet was this, anyway? He couldn’t recall hearing its name. The native people were greenish-skinned, with small, swively ears and huge dark purple eyes. Han had only learned a few words in their language, but he was a quick study, and he knew that by the time Trader’s Luck moved on, he’d be able to understand it well, and speak it—at least the gutter argot—passably.

Wherever this was, it was hot. Hot and humid. Han glanced up at the pale, greenish-blue sky, in which blazed a pale orange sun. The prospect of spending several hours on his appointed street, whining, begging, and cajoling passersby for alms wasn’t an attractive one. I hate begging, Han thought sourly. When I get a little older, I’m going to make them let me steal, instead of beg. I’m sure I’ll be a good thief, and I’m not that good a beggar.

He knew his appearance was all right—he’d gotten taller in the past couple of years, but he was still underweight enough to be called skinny. And he knew how to make his voice servile, his manner cringing and cowering, as though only desperation were driving him to plead for alms.

Maybe it was his eyes, Han thought. Maybe the secret resentment and shame he felt at having to beg showed in them and potential marks could see it. Nobody respected a beggar, and Han, more than almost anything, had an undeclared desire to be respectd.

Not just respected, he wanted to be respectable. He couldn’t recall much about his life before Garris Shrike had found him begging on Corellia, but Han somehow knew that once upon a time, things had been different.

Long ago, he’d been taught to believe that begging was shameful. And that stealing … stealing was worse. Han bit his lip angrily. He knew that someone, perhaps the parents he couldn’t remember, had taught him these things. Once, long ago, he’d been taught different ways … different values.

But now—what could he do? Aboard Trader’s Luck, there was one cardinal rule. If you didn’t work, you begged or stole. If you refused to work, beg, or steal, you didn’t eat. Han had no other skills to offer. He was too little to pilot, not strong enough to load smuggled cargo.

But I won’t always be! he reminded himself. “I’m growing every day! Soon I’m going to be big, in just five more years I’ll be ten, and then, maybe, I’ll be big enough to pilot!”

Han had discovered that when he made up his mind to accomplish something, he could do it. He was sure that piloting would be no exception.

And when I can pilot, that’ll be my way off Trader’s Luck, he thought, his mind slipping automatically into an old dream, one that he never told anyone about. Once he’d confided it to one of the other children, and the little vrelt blabbed it to everyone. Shrike and the others laughed at Han for weeks, calling him “Captain Han of the Imperial Navy,” until Han wanted to crawl away, hands over his ears. It took all his control to just shrug and pretend not to care …

Yeah, and when I’m the best pilot around, and I’ve made lots of credits, I’ll apply to the Imperial Academy. I’ll become a Naval officer. Then I’ll come back and get Shrike, arrest him, and he’ll get sent to the spice mines on Kessel. He’ll die there … The thought made Han’s mouth curl up in a predatory smile.

At the far end of his fantasy, Han pictured himself, successful, respected, the best pilot in the galaxy, with a ship of his own, lots of loyal friends, and plenty of credits. And … a family. Yeah, a family of his own. A beautiful wife who adored him, who’d share adventures with him, and kids, maybe. He’d be a good father. He wouldn’t abandon his children, the way he’d been abandoned …

At least, Han supposed that he’d been abandoned, though he couldn’t remember a thing about it. He didn’t even know his last name, so he couldn’t try to trace his family. Or maybe … maybe his parents hadn’t abandoned him …

Maybe they’d been killed, or he’d been kidnapped away from them. Han decided that he preferred that scenario. If he thought of his parents as dead, he wasn’t so mad at them, because people couldn’t help it if they died, right?

Han decided that from now on, he’d think of his mother and father as dead. It was easier that way …

He knew he’d probably never know the real truth. The only person who knew anything about Han’s background was Garris Shrike. The captain kept telling Han that if he was good, if he worked and begged hard, if he earned enough credits, someday Shrike would tell him the secrets behind how he’d come to be wandering the streets of Corellia that day.

Han’s mouth tightend. Sure Captain, he thought just like you were going to get Danalis’s face fixed …

The child glanced up at the street signs. He couldn’t read the ones in the native language, but there was a Basic translation beneath each. Yeah, this was his territory, all right.

Han took a deep breath, then rearranged his features. A green-skinned female clad in a short robe was coming toward him. “Lady …” he whined, cringing his way toward her, little hand held out in appeal, “please, beautiful gracious lady, I beg your help … alms, just one little credit, I’m so hungreeeeee …”

The little cupped green ears swiveled toward him, then she averted her head and swept past.

Under his breath, Han muttered an uncomplimentary term in smuggler’s argot, and then turned to wait for the next mark …

Han shook his head and forced himself out of his reverie. Time to go and check on the Ylesian Dream’s progress.

Hauling himself up out of his cubbyhole, the young pilot made his way through the cramped passageways until he reached the bridge. The astromech droid was still there, its lights flashing away as it “thought” its own thoughts. It was a relatively new R2 unit, still shiny-bright silver and green, with a clear dome atop its head. Inside the dome Han could see lights blinking as it worked. It was hooked into the ship’s robot controls by means of a cable.

The R2 droid must have been equipped with a motion sensor, because it swiveled its domed “head” toward Han as he clumped boldly onto the bridge in his spacesuit.

The lights flashed frantically as it “talked,” but of course the sound waves didn’t travel in vacuum. Han turned on his suit’s communications unit, and suddenly his helmet was filled with distressed bleeps, blurps, and wheeps.

“Whee … bleewheeeep … wheep-whirr-wheep!” the R2 astromech announced in evident surprise. Han looked around for its counterpart droid and didn’t see one. He sighed. His suit’s communicator would transmit what he said to the droid, but how was he supposed to actually talk to the consarned R2 without an interpreter? How did whoever had programmed the droid talk to it?

He activated his suit communicator. “Hey, you!”

“Blurpp … wheeep, bleep-whirrr!” the unit replied helpfully.

Han scowled and cursed at the unit in Rodian, trader argot, and, finally, Basic. “What am I going to do now?” he snarled. “If only you had a Basic-speech module.”

“But I do, sir,” announced the droid in a matter-of-fact voice. Its words were flat, mechanical, but perfectly understandable.

Han gaped at the machine for a moment, then grinned. “Hey! This is a first! How come you can talk?”

“Because there was not room aboard this vessel for both an astromech unit and a counterpart unit, my masters programmed me with a Basic-speech transmissions module so I could communicate more easily,” the droid replied.

“All right!” Han cried, feeling a surge of relief. He didn’t like droids much, but at least he’d have someone to talk to, and it might actually prove necessary for the two of them to communicate. Space travel was usually routine, and safe … but there were exceptions.

“I regret, sir,” the R2 added, “that you are guilty of unauthorized entry, sir. You are not supposed to be here.”

“I know that,” Han said. “I hitched a ride on this ship.”

“I-beg-your-pardon, this unit does not understand the term used, sir.”

Han called the R2 unit an uncomplimentary name.

“I-beg-your-pardon, this unit does not understand—”

“Shut up!” Han bellowed.

The R2 unit was silent.

Han took a very deep breath. “Okay, R2,” he said. “I am a stowaway. Is that word in your memory banks?”

“Yes it is, sir.”

“Good. I stowed away aboard this ship because I needed a ride to Ylesia. I’m going to take a job piloting for the Ylesian priests, understand?”

“Yes, sir. However, I must inform you that in my capacity as a watch-droid assigned to safeguard this vessel and its contents, I must seal all the exits when we reach Ylesia, then inform my masters that you are aboard, thus expediting your capture by their security staff.”

“Hey, little pal,” Han said generously, “when we reach Ylesia, you just go right ahead and do that. When the priests see that I fit all their requirements, they won’t give a vrelt’s ass how I arrived there.”

“I-beg-your-pardon, sir, but this unit does not—”

“Shut up.”

Han glanced down at his air pak readout, then said, “Okay, R2, I’d like to check on our flight path, speed, and ETA to Ylesia. Please display that information.”

“I regret, sir, that I am not authorized to give you that information.”

Han was coming to a slow boil; he barely restrained himself from kicking the recalcitrant droid with his heavy space boot. “I need to check our flight path, speed, and ETA because I’ve got to compute how my air is holding out, R2,” he explained with exaggerated patience.

“I-beg-your-pardon, sir, but this unit—”

“SHUT UP!”

Han was starting to sweat now, and the suit’s refrigeration unit revved up a little faster. He struggled to keep his tones calm. “Listen carefully, R2,” he said. “Don’t you have some kind of operating systems program that orders you to attempt to preserve the lives of intelligent beings whenever you can?”

“Yes, sir, that programming is included with all astromech droids. For a droid to deliberately harm or fail to prevent harm to a sentient being, its operating system module must be altered.”

“Good,” Han said. That fit in with what he knew about astromech programming. “Listen to me, R2. If you don’t show me our flight path, speed, and ETA, you may be responsible for my death, from lack of air. Do you understand me now?”

“Please elaborate, sir.”

Han explained, with exaggerated patience, his situation. When he finished, the droid was silent for a moment, evidently cogitating. Finally, it whirred once, then said, “I will comply with your request, sir, and will display the information requested on the diagnostic interface screen.”

Han breathed a long sigh of relief. Since the ship was basically a giant robot drone, it had no controls visible on its control boards, just assorted blinking lights. But, in order to service the ship, there was a screen built into the control board. Han stepped carefully around the R2 unit and stared down at the screen.

Information scrolled across it, so rapidly no human could have read it. Han turned to the R2 unit. “Put that data back up, and this time, leave it there until I can read it! Get it?”

“Yes, sir.” The droid’s artificial voice sounded almost meek.

Han studied the figures and diagram that appeared on the screen for several minutes, feeling his uneasiness grow into real fear. He had nothing to write with, and no way to access the navicomputer, but he had a bad feeling about what he was seeing. Biting his lip, he forced himself to concentrate as he ran the figures in his head, over and over.

Ylesian Dream’s flight path had been set to take it in a circuitous route to the planet, in order to avoid the worst of the pirate-infested areas of Hutt space. And the little freighter’s speed was set far lower than the ship was capable of, slower than even Trader’s Luck normally traveled through hyperspace.

Not good. Not good at all. If their speed and course weren’t altered, Han realized, he’d run out of air about five hours before the Dream set down on Ylesian soil. The ship would land with a corpse aboard … his.

He turned back to the R2 unit. “Listen, R2, you’ve got to help me. If I don’t alter our course and speed, I won’t have sufficient air to make the trip. I’ll die, and it will be your fault.”

The R2 unit’s lights flashed as the machine contemplated this revelation. Finally, it said: “But I did not know you were on board, sir. I cannot be held responsible for your death.”

“Oh, no.” Han shook his head inside his helmet. “It doesn’t work that way, R2. If you know about this situation and do nothing, then you will be causing the death of a sentient being. Is that what you want?”

“No,” the droid said. Even its artificial tones sounded faintly strained, and its lights flickered rapidly and erratically.

“Then it follows,” Han continued inexorably, “that you must do whatever you can to prevent my death. Right?”

“I … I …” The droid was quivering now in agitation. “Sir, I am constrained from assisting you. My programming is in conflict with my hardware.”

“What do you mean?” Han was worried now. If the little droid overloaded and went dead, he’d never be able to access the manual “diagnostic” controls that he knew had to be in these panels somewhere. They’d be tiny, something for the techs to use to test the robot drone’s autopilot.

“My programming is constraining me from informing you …”

Han took one huge stride over to the little droid and knelt in front of it. “Blast you!” He pounded his fist on top of the droid’s clear dome. “I’ll die! Tell me!”

The droid rocked agitatedly, and Han wondered if it would simply fall apart with the strain. But then it said, “I have been fitted with a restraining bolt, sir! It prevents me from complying with your request!”

A restraining bolt! Han seized on this bit of information with alacrity. Let’s see, where is it?

After a moment he spotted it, low down on the droid’s metal carapace. He reached down, grasped it, and tugged.

Nothing. The bolt didn’t move.

Han gripped harder, tried twisting. He grunted with effort, really sweating now, imagining he could feel those molecules of oxygen running out in a steady stream. He’d heard that hypoxia wasn’t an especially bad way to die—compared to explosive decompression or being shot, for example—but he had no desire to find out firsthand.

The bolt didn’t move. Han tried harder, jerking at it, swearing in half a dozen alien tongues, but the stubborn thing didn’t budge.

Got to find something I can hit it with, Han thought, glancing wildly around the control cabin. But there was nothing—not a hydrospanner, a wrench—nothing!

Suddenly he remembered the blaster. He’d left it on the floor in his little cubicle. “Wait right here,” Han instructed the R2 unit, and then he was squeezing back through the narrow corridors.

Shooting a blaster inside a spaceship—even an unpressurized spaceship—wasn’t a good idea, but he was desperate.

Han returned with the weapon, and examined the settings. Lowest setting, he thought. Narrowest beam. Clumsy in his spacesuit gloves, he had trouble adjusting the power setting and beam width.

The R2’s lights had been flashing frenetically ever since he’d returned, and now it wheeped plaintively. “Sir? Sir, may I ask what you’re doing?”

“I’m getting rid of that restraining bolt,” Han told it grimly. Aiming and narrowing his eyes, he squeezed delicately.

A flash of energy erupted, and the little droid WHEEEEPPPPED! so shrilly it sounded like a scream. The restraining bolt fell to the deck, leaving behind a black burn scar on the otherwise shining metal of the R2 unit.

“Gotcha,” Han said with satisfaction. “Now, R2, be good enough to point me toward the manual interfaces and controls in your ship here.”

The droid obediently extruded a mobile wheeled “leg” and rolled over to the control banks, its interface cable trailing behind it. Han went over and crouched before the instrument panel, awkward in his suit. Following the droid’s instructions, he wrenched off the top of one featureless control panel and studied the tiny bank of controls. Cursing at the awkwardness of trying to manipulate the controls while wearing spacesuit gloves, Han began using the manual interface mode to disengage the hyperdrive. Altering course and speed could only be done in realspace.

Once they were back in realspace, Han painstakingly computed a new course, using the R2 unit to perform the more esoteric calculations for the jump that would send them back into hyperspace.

It took the young Corellian a while to lay in their new course and speed, but finally Han triggered the HYPERDRIVE ENGAGE switch again. A second later he felt the lurch as the drive kicked in. Han clung grimly to the instrument panel as the ship hurtled into hyperspace on its new course, at a greatly increased rate of speed.

As the ship steadied around him, Han drew a long, long breath and let it out very slowly. He slumped to the deck and sat there, his legs stuck out before him. Whew!

“You realize, sir,” said the R2 unit, “that you will now have to land this craft manually. Altering our course and speed has invalidated the existing landing protocols programmed into the ship.”

“Yeah, I know,” Han said, leaning wearily back against the console. He took another sip of water and then ate two tablets. “But there’s no other way. I just hope I can work the controls fast enough to land us.” He glanced around him at the nearly featureless control room. “I wish this bucket of bolts came with a viewscreen.”

“An autopilot cannot see, sir, so visual data is useless to it,” the R2 unit pointed out helpfully.

“No!” Han said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I thought droids could see just like we can!”

“No, sir, we cannot,” R2 told him. “We recognize our surroundings by visual relays that translate into electronic data within our—”

“Shut up,” Han said, too tired even to enjoy baiting the droid.

Leaning back against the console, he closed his eyes. He’d done all that he could to save his life, by bringing the ship to Ylesia on a much more direct route, at a faster speed.

Han drifted into sleep and dreamed of Dewlanna, as she had been long ago, when they’d first known each other …

Han was halfway through the window when he heard the shout behind him. “We’ve been robbed!”

Clutching his small sack of loot, he kicked, wriggling, trying to squeeze through the narrow enclosure. In the dark outside lay safety. A feminine cry of dismay: “My jewelry!”

Han grunted with effort, realizing he was stuck. He fought back panic. He had to get away! This was a rich house, and when someone summoned the authorities, they were certain to come immediately.

Silently he cursed the new vogue in Corellian architecture that had caused this luxurious home to be built with floor-to-ceiling narrow windows. The windows were advertised as being able to thwart burglars. Well, there might be some truth to that, he decided grimly. He’d sneaked in earlier through one of the doors that led to the gardens, then hidden out until he’d felt safe in believing that all the inhabitants were asleep. Then he’d ventured out to pick and choose among their treasures. He’d been confident that he could wiggle his skinny, nine-year-old self through those windows and make good his escape.

Han grunted with effort again, kicking frantically. It was possible he was wrong about that …

A voice behind him. The woman. “There he is! Get him!”

Han turned a little more sideways, wriggled violently, and then suddenly he was through the window and falling. He didn’t let go of his sack, though, as he crashed down onto the manicured bed of flowering dorva vines. Breath whooshed out of his lungs, and for a moment he just lay there, gasping, like a drel out of water. His leg hurt, and so did his head.

“Call the security patrol!” The masculine shout came from inside. Han knew he had only seconds to make good his escape. Forcing his leg to bear his weight, he rolled over and staggered to his feet.

Trees ahead in the moonslight … big ones. He could lose himself in them, easy.

Han half limped, half ran to the shelter of the trees. He resolved not to let Eight-Gee-Enn know what had happened. The droid might accuse him of slowing down now that he was going on ten.

Han grimaced as he ran. He wasn’t slowing down, he just hadn’t been feeling well today. He’d had a dull headache ever since he’d awakened, and had been tempted to turn himself in on sick call.

Since Han was almost never ill, he’d probably have been believed, but he didn’t like showing weakness in front of other denizens of Trader’s Luck. Especially Captain Shrike. The man never missed an opportunity to ride him.

He was in the shelter of the trees, now. What next? He could hear the sound of running footsteps, so he didn’t have much time to decide. His muscles made that decision for him. Suddenly the sack was clenched in his teeth, there was bark against his palms, and the soles of his beat-up boots were braced against branches. Han climbed, listened, then climbed again.

Only when he was high in the tree, above the range of a casual glance by pursuers, did he slow down. Han settled back on a limb, against the tree trunk, panting, his head whirling. He felt dizzy, nauseated, and for a moment he was afraid he’d be sick and give himself away. But he bit his lip and forced himself to stay still, and presently he felt a little better.

Judging from the star patterns, it was only a few hours until dawn. Han realized that he was going to have trouble making the rendezvous with the Luck’s shuttle. Would Shrike just abandon him, or would he wait?

Far below him, people were searching the wooded area. Lights strobed the night, and he huddled close to the tree trunk, eyes closed, clinging desperately despite his dizziness. If only his head didn’t throb so …

Han wondered whether they’d bring in bioscanners, and shivered. His skin felt hot and tight, even though the night was cool and breezy.

Dark waned on toward dawn. Han wondered what Dewlanna was doing, whether she’d miss him if the Luck left orbit without him.

Finally, the lights went out, and the footsteps faded away. Han waited another twenty minutes to make sure his pursuers were truly gone, then, holding the sack gripped in his teeth, he carefully climbed down, moving with exaggerated care because his head hurt so much. Every jar, even walking, made his head swim, and he had to grit his teeth against the pain.

He walked … and walked. Several times he realized he’d been dozing while he walked, and a couple of times he fell down and was tempted to just stay there. But something kept him moving, as dawn brightened the streets and houses around him. Corellian dawns were beautiful, Han noticed dazedly. He’d never before noticed how pretty the colors were in the sky. If only the light didn’t hurt his eyes so …

Dawn turned to day. Cool gave way to warmth, then heat. He was sweating, and his vision was blurred. But finally, there it was. The spaceport. By this time Han was moving like an automaton, one foot in front of the other, wishing he could just lie down and sleep in the road.

Before him, now … the Luck’s shuttle! With a gasp that was nearly a sob, the boy drove himself forward. He was almost to the ramp when a tall figure emerged. Shrike.

“Where in the blazes have you been?” There was nothing friendly in the captain’s grasp upon his arm. Han held up the sack, and Shrike grabbed it. “Well, at least you didn’t come back empty-handed,” the captain grumbled.

Quickly he sifted through the contents, nodding his satisfaction. Only when he was finished did Shrike seem to notice that Han was swaying on his feet. “What’s wrong with you?”

Now beyond coherent speech, Han could only shake his head. Consciousness was fading in and out on him like a jammed transmission.

Shrike shook him a little, then put a hand on the boy’s forehead. When he felt the heat, he cursed. “Fever … should I leave you here? What if it’s contagious?” He frowned, clearly struggling to decide. Finally he hefted the sack of loot again. “Guess you’ve earned a sick day, kid,” he muttered. “C’mon.”

Han tried to make it up the ramp, but then he stumbled and everything went dark …

He swam up into partial consciousness a long time later, to the sound of voices arguing, one in Wookiee, the other in Basic. Dewlanna and Shrike.

The Wookiee growled insistently. “I can tell he’s really sick,” Shrike agreed, “but you can’t kill one of my kids with a blaster set on full. He’ll be okay after a couple of days rest. He doesn’t need a medical droid, and I’m not springing for it.”

Dewlanna snarled, and Han, automatically translating, was surprised at how insistent the Wookiee was being. He felt a furred paw-hand lay something cold on his forehead. It felt wonderful against the heat.

“I told you no, Dewlanna, and I meant it!” Shrike said, and with that, the captain stomped out, cursing the Wookiee in every language he knew.

Han opened his eyes to see Dewlanna bending over him. The Wookiee rumbled gently at him. Han struggled to speak. “Pretty bad …” he conceded, in response to her question. “Thirsty …”

Dewlanna held him up and gave him water, sip by slow sip. She told him that he had a high fever, so high that she was afraid for him.

When Han finished the water, she stooped down and scooped the child up into her arms. “Where … where’re we …”

She told him to hush, that she was taking him planetside, to the medical droid. Han’s head was swimming, but he made a great effort. “Don’t … Captain Shrike … really mad …”

Her answer was short and to the point. Han had never heard her curse before.

He faded in and out as they moved through the corridors, and his next clear memory was of being strapped into the seat of a shuttle. Han had never known Dewlanna could pilot, but she handled the controls competently with her huge, furred hands. The shuttle slipped loose from its moorings, and then accelerated toward Corellia.

The fever was making Han light-headed, and he kept imagining that he heard Shrike’s voice, cursing. He tried to say something about it to Dewlanna, but found he didn’t have the strength to get the words out …

He next regained consciousness in the medical droid’s waiting room. Dewlanna was sitting down, with Han’s scrawny form still clutched protectively in her arms.

Suddenly a door opened, and the droid appeared. It was a large, elongated droid, equipped with anti-grav units so that it floated around its patient as Dewlanna placed Han on the examining table. Han felt a prick against his skin as the droid took a blood sample.

“Do you understand Basic, madame?” inquired the droid.

For a moment Han was about to answer that of course he understood Basic, and who was Madame?—but then Dewlanna rumbled. Oh, of course. The medical unit was talking to her.

“This young patient has contracted Corellian tanamen fever,” the droid told Dewlanna. “His case is quite severe. It is fortunate that you did not wait any longer to bring him to me. I will need to keep him here and observe him until tomorrow. Do you wish to stay with him?”

Dewlanna rumbled her assent.

“Very well, madame. I am going to use bacta immersion therapy to restore his metabolic equilibrium. That will also bring his fever down.”

Han took one look at the waiting bacta tank and feebly tried to make a run for the door. Between them, Dewlanna and the medical unit restrained him easily. The boy felt another needle prick his arm, and then the whole universe tilted sideways and slid into blackness …

Han opened his eyes, realizing his reverie had turned into sleep, then dreams. He shook his head, remembering how wobbly he’d been when Dewlanna and the droid helped him out of the bacta tank. Then Dewlanna paid the droid out of her own small store of credits and piloted them back to Trader’s Luck.

The young pilot grimaced. Boy, Shrike had been mad. Han was worried that he’d space them both. But Dewlanna never showed even the slightest sign of fear as she stood between the captain and Han, insisting that she’d done the right thing, that otherwise the boy would have died.

In the end, Shrike subsided because one of the pieces of jewelry Han had stolen that night turned out to be set with a genuine Krayt dragon pearl. When the captain discovered what it was worth, he was mollified.

But he didn’t pay Dewlanna back for Han’s medical bills …

Han sighed and closed his eyes. Dewlanna’s loss was like a knife wound—no matter how he tried, he couldn’t get away from the pain, and the memories. He’d let down his guard and suddenly find himself thinking of her as still alive, visualize himself talking to her, telling her about his troubles with the recalcitrant R2 unit—only to be brought up short with pain nearly as searing and immediate as he’d felt yesterday when he’d held her dying body.

Han swallowed another sip of water, trying to ease the tightness in his throat. He owed Dewlanna … owed her so much. His life—even his true identity—he owed Dewlanna for that, too …

Han sighed. Until he was eleven years old, his only name had been “Han.” The boy often wondered and worried about whether he had a last name. One time he mentioned his concern to Dewlanna, along with his conviction that if anyone knew who he really was, it was Shrike.

Very soon after that, Dewlanna learned to play sabacc …

Han heard the soft scratch on the door to his tiny cubicle and woke instantly. Listening, he heard the scratch again, then a soft whine. “Dewlanna?” he whispered, sliding out of bed and sticking his bare feet into his ship’s coveralls. “Is that you?”

She rumbled softly from outside the door. Han yanked up his jumpsuit, sealed it, and opened the door. “What do you mean, you have exciting news for me?”

Dewlanna came in, her huge, furred body fairly bouncing with excitement. Han waved her past him, and she sat on the narrow bunk. Since there was no place else to sit, Han settled down beside her. The Wookiee cautioned him to keep his voice low, and glancing at the chrono, Han realized it was the dead of night.

“What are you doing up now?” he asked, puzzled. “Don’t tell me you were playing sabacc this late?”

She nodded at him, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement amid her tan and chestnut hair.

“So what’s going on, Dewlanna? Why did you need to talk to me?”

She rumbled softly at him. Han sat up straight, suddenly transfixed. “You found out my last name? How?”

Her answer was a single name. “Shrike,” Han muttered. “Well, if anyone knows, it’s him. What … how did it happen? What’s my name?”

His name, she told him, was “Solo.” Shrike had gotten very, very drunk, and he started bragging about how much the Krayt dragon pearl was worth, what a good deal he’d gotten when he sold it. Dewlanna asked Shrike innocently if Han came from a long line of successful thieves. Shrike, she reported, exploded into laughter at the suggestion. “Maybe some branches of the family, but this Solo?” he sputtered, wheezing with merriment, pausing to gulp more Alderaanian ale, “I’m afraid not, Dewlanna. This kid’s folks were …”

And at that point, the captain suddenly halted in midword, fixing the Wookiee with a suspicious glare. “So why do you care, anyhow?” he demanded, his momentary good humor gone.

Dewlanna answered only by covering Shrike’s bet, and raising.

“Solo,” Han whispered softly, trying it on for size. “Han Solo. My full name is Han Solo.”

He looked up at Dewlanna, and a wide grin spread across his features. “I like it! It sounds great!”

Dewlanna whined softly and, slinging a long arm around him, gave the boy a hug …

Han smiled, remembering, but it was a sad smile. Dewlanna had meant well, but her discovery that his name was “Solo” had led to one of the worst episodes of his young life. The next time the Luck was in orbit around Corellia, he’d stolen time away from his pickpocketing and burglary duties and had gone to one of the public archives to do some research.

Shrike didn’t like his “rescuees” to spend any time on furthering their education. Each child aboard Trader’s Luck was given an elementary-level education via the ship’s computer, so he, she, or it could learn to read and count money. Beyond that, Shrike discouraged the children from pursuing higher learning.

It was partly because he automatically wanted to flout Shrike’s wishes, and partly due to Dewlanna’s encouragement, that Han had kept up his studies in secret. He had a tendency to ignore subjects he didn’t like—such as history—and to spend all his time on subjects he enjoyed—such as reading adventure stories and solving math equations. Han knew how important math was to anyone who wanted to be a pilot, so he worked hard at mastering as much of it as he could.

Once Dewlanna discovered what he was doing, she monitored his curriculum, making him study subjects that he would otherwise have skipped, leaving gaps in his knowledge. Reluctantly, Han tackled the physical sciences, and history.

He was surprised to discover that some real historical battles were just as exciting as anything he’d read in adventure sagas.

That day in the public archives on Corellia, Han applied some of his newly learned research skills to learning about his new surname. The results were surprising. When Han looked up the last name “Solo” in the historical records, he was astounded to discover that the name was well known on Corellia. A “Berethron e Solo” had introduced democracy on Han’s homeworld three centuries ago. He’d actually been a ruler, a king!

But there’d been another Solo, more recently, who was equally famous—or, to put it more accurately, infamous. About fifty years ago, a descendant of Berethron, Korol Solo, had fathered a son named “Dalla Solo.” The young man, taking the alias “Dalla Suul” in an effort to disguise his identity, had made quite a name for himself as a murderer, kidnapper, and pirate. “Dalla the Black” had become a name to make children quake in their beds on lonely outpost colonies or tramp freighters …

The child Han wondered whether he was related to these men. Did royal blood run in his veins? Or the blood of a pirate and murderer? He’d probably never know, unless, somehow, he could persuade Shrike to divulge what he knew. He read about Dalla Suul’s exploits as a thief, and smiled grimly, wondering if he was actually following some kind of family tradition.

Then he began checking the more recent Corellian news files and society pages in the computer. A search for the surname “Solo” brought up a name. Tiion Sal-Solo. She was a wealthy but reclusive widow with one child, a son. Thrackan Sal-Solo was six or seven years older than Han, in his late teens.

What if I’m related to this Tiion Solo, or she knew my parents? Han wondered. This could be my best chance yet to get away.

When he went back to Trader’s Luck, Han talked it over with Dewlanna. The Wookiee agreed with him that while it was risky, Han had to take the chance of contracting the Solo family.

“Of course,” Han said, resting his chin on his fist and looking dejectedly at the table, “once I did that, I couldn’t see you again, Dewlanna.”

The Wookiee growled softly, telling Han that of course he’d see her. Just not aboard Trader’s Luck.

“The last time I ran away, Shrike beat me so hard I couldn’t sit down for days,” Han said softly. “If Larrad hadn’t reminded him that he had something else to do, I really think he might’ve killed me.”

Dewlanna rumbled. “You’re right,” Han agreed. “If this Solo family takes me in, they’re powerful enough and rich enough to protect me from Shrike.”

Han even knew something about the rules and manners required of people living in Corellian high society. Every so often, Shrike would run a major scam on rich folks on Corellia. Han had been part of the background during several such con operations.

Shrike would rent a wealthy estate on Corellia, and then set up a “family unit,” to provide a respectable backdrop to the scam. Han and the other children detailed to such a “family” would be sent to live on the estate. He’d go to a rich-kids school, and one of his jobs during the scam was to make friends with the children of the wealthy and bring them home to play. Several times, this had resulted in valuable contacts whose parents had been duped into “investing” in Garris Shrike’s current scam.

Just a few weeks past, Han had been attending such a school—a school so well known that it had merited a visit from the famous Senator Garm Bel Iblis. Han had raised his hand and asked the Senator two questions that had been insightful and intelligent enough to make the Senator really notice him. After class was over, Bel Iblis had stopped Han, shaken his hand, and asked him his name. Han had glanced around quickly, seeing that nobody else was within earshot, and proudly told the Senator his real name. It had felt great to be able to do that …

Shrike recruited Han frequently for his scam operations, partly because of the boy’s easygoing charm and winning smile, and partly because Han’s clandestine studies made him fit into his grade level better than most of the other children. Han had also gained a small reputation as an up-and-coming swoop and speeder pilot—a rich man’s sport if there ever was one. He’d met lots of kids from wealthy families while swoop racing, and several times Shrike had managed to lure their parents into whatever scam he was currently running.

In a year, Han would be eligible to race in Corellia’s Junior Championship division. That would mean big prize money—if he won.

Han both liked and disliked these assignments. He liked them because he got to live in the lap of luxury for weeks, sometimes months. Swoop and speeder racing was life and breath to him, and he got to practice every day.

He disliked these con operations because he always wound up caring about some of the kids he was ordered to befriend, and all the while he knew they and their families would be irrevocably injured by Shrike’s scheme.

Mostly, Han managed to stifle any guilt feelings he felt. He was becoming good at putting himself first. Other people—with the sole exception of Dewlanna—had to come second or not at all. It was self-preservation, and Han was very, very good at that.

I still am, Han thought as he got up from the deck of the Ylesian Dream and went to check on their course and speed. The young Corellian smiled and nodded as he read the instrument readings. Right in the groove, he thought. We’re going to make it.

He checked his air pak, seeing it was more than half-gone.

For a moment Han was tempted to explore the Dream further, but he resisted the impulse. Moving around would just cause him to use up his oxygen faster, and he was skirting the edge of safety as it was.

So he settled back down, and the memories came back. Aunt Tiion. Poor woman And dear cousin Thraken as hre remembered, Han’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral grin that was more like a canoid’s snarl …

Han swung down off the high stone wall and landed lightly on the balls of his feet. Through the trees he could see a large structure built of the same native stone as the wall, so he headed toward it, staying in the tree-shadow whenever possible.

When he reached the house, he halted, staring at it in amazement. He’d seen a lot of rich mansions, even lived in more than a few, but he’d never seen anything like the Sal-Solo estate.

Towers festooned with creeping vines, four of them, stood at each corner of a large, squarish stone building. An ancient gardener droid moved about arthritically, pruning the bushes that grew down to the edge of a large trench filled with water. Han walked around to the side and saw, to his surprise, that the stretch of water completely surrounded the house. There was no way to enter the place, except to cross a narrow wooden bridge that spanned the water and led up to the front door.

Han had been interested in military tactics ever since he was small, and he’d read up on them. He studied the Sal-Solo mansion, realizing it was built to almost military fortress standards of impregnability. Well, that sort of fit in with what he’d read about the Solo family. They didn’t socialize, didn’t attend charity events or go to plays or concerts.

In all the times he’d posed as a rich kid, he’d never heard anyone mention the Solo family—and the way those rich people talked about each other, he’d have heard something if they ever mingled with their peers.

Han walked cautiously toward the house. He’d exchanged his ship’s gray jumpsuit for a “borrowed” pair of black pants and a pale gray tunic. He didn’t want anyone finding out where he’d come from.

When he was nearly to the beginning of the causeway, he stood behind one of the large, ornamental bushes and warily peered across the water to the house. What should he do now? Just walk up and activate the door signal? He bit his lip, undecided. What if they called the authorities on him, reported him as a runaway? Shrike would descend on him so fast—

“Gotcha!”

Han gasped and jumped as a hand closed over his upper arm, hauling him around bodily.

The person who’d grabbed him was head and shoulders taller than the younger boy. He had darker hair than Han, and was stockier as well. But it was his face that made Han stand staring at him in blank amazement.

Han gaped, speechless, at the older boy. If he’d ever doubted that he was really related to the Solo family, those doubts died an instant death. The face of the youth who was holding his arm looked like an older version of the face Han saw in the mirror every morning.

Not that they were twins or anything. But there was too much resemblance in their features to be coincidence. The same shape of the brown eyes, the same kind of lips, the same quirk to the eyebrows … the same nose and jaw-line …

The other boy was gaping back at Han, having evidently noticed the same thing. “Hey!” He shook Han’s arm roughly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Han Solo,” Han replied steadily. “You must be Thrackan Sal-Solo.”

“So what if I am?” the other said sullenly. Han was beginning to feel uneasy about the way the boy was eyeing him. He’d seen vrelts with more warmth in their eyes. “Han Solo, eh? I never heard of you. Where do you come from? Who’s your mother and father?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that,” Han said evenly. “I ran away from where I was staying, because I wanted to find my family. I don’t know anything about myself except my name.”

“Huh …” Thrackan was still staring. “Well, I guess you must be one of the family …”

“Looks like it,” Han agreed, not realizing until he spoke that it was a pun. But Thrackan didn’t appear to notice. He seemed mesmerized by Han and, releasing his grip on the other’s arm, walked around him, studying him from every angle.

“Where did you run away from?” Thrackan asked. “Will anyone come looking for you?”

“No,” Han said shortly. He wasn’t about to trust Thrackan with anything that could come back to haunt him. “Listen,” he said, “we look alike, so we must be related, right? Could we … could we be brothers?” Funny, but after all his dreaming about finding a family that would rescue him from Trader’s Luck, Han found himself hoping that wasn’t the case.

“Not a chance,” Thrackan said with a curl of his lip. “My dad died a year after I was born, and my mom shut herself up here ever since. She’s kind of … a loner.”

That fit with what Han had read about the Sal-Solo family. Tiion Solo had married a man named Randil Sal, some twenty years ago. The public records had carried his obituary.

“Maybe she’d know something about me,” Han said. “Could I see her?” He took a deep breath. “Please?”

Thrackan seemed to consider. “Okay,” he said finally, “but if she gets … upset, you’ve got to leave, okay? Mom doesn’t like people. She’s like her grandfather, won’t have human servants, just droids. She says humans betray and kill each other and droids never do.”

Han followed Thrackan into the huge house, through rooms full of shrouded furniture and paintings draped against dust. The family, Thrackan explained, used only a few rooms, to save the cleaning droids time and effort.

Finally, they came to Thrackan’s mother’s sitting room. Tiion Solo was a pale, dark-haired woman, plump and unhealthy-looking. She was far from attractive. But, looking at her, studying her face, seeing the bones beneath the puffy flab, Han thought that once, long ago, she might have been beautiful. Seeing her features, a memory stirred within him, so faint …

Once, he’d seen features similar to hers, Han thought. Long ago, far away. The “memory,” if memory it was, was as fleeting and elusive as a drift of smoke.

“Mother,” Thrackan said, “this is Han Solo. He’s related to us, isn’t he?”

Tiion Sal-Solo’s gaze traveled to Han’s face, and her eyes widened in distress. She stared at the boy in horror. Her mouth worked, and a thin, shrill mewling sound emerged. “No … no!” she cried. Tears gathered in her brown eyes, coursed down the flabby cheeks. “No, it isn’t possible! He’s gone! They’re both gone!”

Burying her face in her hands, she began to weep hysterically.

Thrackan grabbed Han by the arm and dragged him out of the house. “Now look what you did, you little idiot,” the youth said, glancing uneasily up at his mother’s window. “She’ll be a mess for days, she always is when she gets like that.”

Han shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. She just looked at me, that’s all. What’s wrong with her?”

With a muffled curse, Thrackan backhanded Han across the face so hard it split the younger boy’s lip. “Shut up!” he snarled. “You’ve got no right to talk about her! There’s nothing wrong with her, hear me? Nothing!”

The blow stung, but Han had been hit often, by experts, and one thing he knew was how to take a punch and stay on his feet. For a moment he was tempted to fly at the older boy’s throat, but he made himself relax. There had been genuine pain in Thrackan’s eyes as he defended his mother. Han figured he might have done the same thing, if he’d ever had a mother. I have to stay here, he reminded himself. Anything is better than Shrike …

“Sorry,” he managed to say.

Thrackan looked a little abashed. “Just watch what you say about my mom, okay?”

The next six weeks were some of the strangest of Han’s life. Thrackan allowed Han to stay with him in his rooms (Tiion almost never came into Thrackan’s part of the house), and the two of them spent time talking and getting to know each other.

Thrackan was a demanding host, Han soon learned. Han had to agree with him completely, and rush to do his bidding, or he lost his temper and cuffed the younger boy. Thrackan made Han pilot him around the countryside in an aging landspeeder, and the two of them even went on a few expeditions to vacant estates Thrackan knew about, whose inhabitants were away on vacation. Thrackan would demand that Han pick the locks and disable the security systems, and then the older boy would steal whatever took his fancy.

Han began to wonder whether he’d done himself any favor by running away from Trader’s Luck. Two things kept him at the Solo estate: his fear that if he displeased Thrackan, the older boy would turn him over to the authorities—thus allowing Shrike to locate him; and his hope that Thrackan would break down and tell Han everything he knew about who Han really was. He kept hinting that he knew how they might be related.

“All in good time,” Thrackan would say when Han tried to pry information out of him. “All in good time, Han. Let’s go flying. I want you to teach me to pilot the speeder.”

Han tried, but Thrackan wasn’t very good at it. The older boy nearly crashed them several times before he mastered even the rudiments of flying the small craft.

I have to get out of here, Han kept telling himself. I’ll run away to some other world, where they’ll never find me. Maybe I can get adopted or get a job or something. There’s got to be some way …

But he couldn’t think of any way to get free of Thrackan. The older boy was vindictive, sadistic, and just plain mean. Several times Han saw him torture insects or animals, and when he realized that his actions disturbed the younger boy, he did it frequently. Han had never had a pet, but he tended to like furred creatures because of Dewlanna.

He missed her every day.

The situation became more and more explosive, until one day Thrackan really lost his temper with Han. Grabbing the younger boy by the hair, he dragged him to the kitchen, picked up a knife, and held it before Han’s eyes. “See this?” he snarled. “If you don’t apologize, and don’t do exactly what I say, I’m going to cut your ears off. Now apologize!” He shook Han hard. “And you’d better make me believe it!”

Han stared at the shining blade of the knife, and wet his lips. He tried to force out words of apology, but a huge burst of red rage welled up in him. All the insults, all the cuffs and blows and beatings—Shrike’s as well as Thrackan’s—seemed to come to a head.

With a bellow as loud as a Wookiee’s, Han went berserk. He slammed his fist against Thrackan’s arm, sending the knife flying, and slammed his other elbow into Thrackan’s stomach. The breath whooshed out of the older boy, and before Thrackan could recover himself, Han was all over him.

Kicking, biting, punching, gouging—Han used every dirty trick he’d learned on the streets to beat up Thrackan. Stunned and reeling from Han’s fury, Thrackan never did recover, until the fight ended with Han sitting astride Thrackan, holding the knife to the older boy’s throat.

“Hey …” Thrackan’s eyes glittered like a trapped vrelt’s. “Hey, Han, stop kidding around. This isn’t funny.”

“Neither is cutting off my ears,” Han said. “Listen, I’ve had it. You tell me what you know, and you tell me right now, or I swear I’ll cut your throat wide open. And then I’m leaving here. I’ve had it with you.”

Thrackan’s dark eyes were wide with fear. Something he’d seen on Han’s face must have convinced the older boy that Han was so angry he would be wise not to push him. “Okay, okay!”

“Now,” Han said. “Talk.”

Stammering with fear, Thrackan told the story.

Years ago, Thrackan’s grandfather, Denn Solo, and his grandmother, Tira Gama Solo, had lived on the fifth inhabited planet in the Corellian system, a colony world called Tralus. Those were perilous times, and roving bands of raiders and pirates threatened many outlying worlds. The raiders never reached Corellia, but they reached Tralus. A fleet of them landed and devastated the entire colony.

“Grandma Solo was pregnant,” Thrackan gasped, because it was hard to breathe with Han sitting on his chest. “And the night their town was attacked, she had her babies. Twins. One of them was later named Tiion. Grandma Solo took her and ran away from the raiders. She managed to hide in a cave in the hills.”

“Tiion,” Han said. “Your mother.”

“Right. The other baby was a boy, Grandma Solo said. Her husband took him. There hadn’t even been time to name them. Grandma said it was terrible. Fires everywhere, and people running and screaming. She and Grandpa Denn got separated in the rush to escape.”

“And?” Han flexed his hand slightly, and the blade moved against Thrackan’s throat.

“Like I said, Grandma Solo and Tiion escaped. But Grandpa Solo and the baby boy vanished. They were never heard from again.”

“So who does that make me?” Han said, completely baffled.

“I don’t know,” Thrackan said. “But if I had to guess, I’d guess that you’re my cousin. That somehow Grandpa Solo and his son got away, and that you’re the son of his son.”

“Doesn’t anybody know anything but that?” Han demanded, feeling desperate. This was a total dead end—the disappointment was crushing. “Servants?”

“Grandpa Solo didn’t like human servants. He always had droids. And when Grandma Solo made it back to her family on Corellia, Great-grandpa Gama had all the droids’ memories erased. He thought it would be easier on her that way. He wanted her to get married again, start a new life.” Thrackan struggled to take a deep breath. “But she never did.”

“So what happened to your mom?”

“I don’t know. She’s always been afraid to trust people, and she hates crowds. After my dad died, she just wanted to shut herself away. So she did.”

Han’s knife hand drooped, and he shook his head. “Okay,” he said. “I’m go—”

With a sudden heave, Thrackan threw him off, and then, before Han could counter the move, their positions were reversed. Han gazed up at his cousin, knowing that he’d be lucky to live through this. Thrackan’s dark eyes blazed with hate, rage, and sadistic pleasure. “You’re going to be very, very sorry, Han,” he said quietly.

And Han was.

Thrackan locked him in a bare storeroom for three days, giving him only bread and water. On the afternoon of the third day, as Han was sitting listlessly in a corner, Thrackan unlocked the door. “I’m afraid this is good-bye, coz,” he said cheerfully. “Someone’s here to take you home.”

Han looked around desperately as Garris and Larrad Shrike followed Thrackan into the room, but as he already knew, there was nowhere to run …

Han shook his head and refused to let himself think about the days that had followed. Shrike had been held back in his punishment only by the fact that he hadn’t wanted to “damage” Han permanently because of his growing reputation as an expert speeder and swoop pilot. But there had been lots of things he could do that wouldn’t cause permanent damage, and he had done most of them …

The only time Han had been beaten more severely was after the debacle on Jubilar, when he was seventeen. Han had already been bruised and sore from the gladitorial Free-For-All he’d been forced to fight in, after being caught cheating at cards. That time, Shrike hadn’t bothered with a strap, he’d just used his fists—battering the boy’s face and body until Larrad and several others had pulled him off Han’s unconscious form.

And now he’s killed Dewlanna, Han thought bitterly. If anyone ever needed killing, it’s Garris Shrike.

For a moment he wondered why it had never occurred to him to kill the unconscious Shrike before he’d made his getaway aboard the Ylesian Dream. He’d have been doing the inhabitants of Trader’s Luck a favor. Why hadn’t he? He’d had the blaster in his hand …

Han shook his head. He’d never shot anyone before yesterday, and killing an unconscious man just wasn’t his style.

But Han knew, without being told, that if Garris Shrike ever caught up with him in the future, he was a dead man. The captain never forgot and he never forgave. He specialized in carrying grudges against anyone who had ever wronged him.

Han got up again to check their course, and his air pak. Only a few hours worth of air left, now. He did some mental calculations, while staring at the display. Close. It’s going to be close. I’d better be ready to pop the cargo door on this crate as soon as we land … It’s going to be very, very close …