She’ll come back, was Han’s first thought, and I’ve lost her forever … was his second. He stared wildly around the room, feeling as if it might explode if he didn’t DO something. With a loud curse he hurled his jacket at the wall, then he yanked the pillows off the bed and flung them, too. Not enough—Han wondered frantically if he were going mad. His head felt too small to contain his mind, and he was filled with the need to howl his pain and anguish aloud, like a Wookiee.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHH!” he cried, and grabbing the battered chair that was one of the room’s three pieces of furniture, Han swung it over his head and sent it crashing full-tilt into the door. A loud curse from his next-door neighbor followed. The chair lay there on the threadbare floor matting, unbroken. The door was still intact, too.

Han collapsed onto the bed and just lay there for several minutes, head buried in his arms. The pain came and went in waves. His chest ached, simply breathing hurt. His only relief came when he felt numb all over.

Somehow, the numbness was the worst of all.

After a long time, it occurred to Han that he had not finished Bria’s letter. Except for the pile of credit vouchers, it was all he had left of her, so he dragged himself upright and squinted in the dim light to read the shaky words on the flimsy:

Han made himself finish the letter all the way through. Each word burned its way into his mind like a laser torch. When he finished, he decided to go back and reread it, because he was trying to put off the moment when he’d have to start feeling and thinking again. While he was reading Bria’s flimsy, it was as if she were still here. He could almost hear her voice. Han knew that the moment he stopped reading, she would be gone again.

But this time, although he squinted hard, he couldn’t make out the words. They were too blurred.

“Honey,” he whispered to the letter, his throat so raw that he could barely force the words out, “you shouldn’t have done this. We were a team, remember?”

Hearing himself use the past tense, Han shuddered, like a man in the grip of a fever. He got up and began pacing back and forth, back and forth. Moving seemed to be the only thing that could help him bear this. Waves of anger and frustration alternated with moments of grief so profound that he thought it might be easier to go mad.

She lied. Never loved me. Rich girl, stuck-up, just having a fling … used me to escape, used me till she got bored. I hate her …

Han groaned aloud, shaking his head. No I don’t. I love her. How could she do this to me? She said she loved me. Liar! Liar? No … she meant it. Face it, Han, she’s been suffering, you know it. Bria was troubled, in pain …

Yes, she’d been in pain. Han remembered all those nights he’d found her sobbing, and had held her, tried to comfort her. Baby … why? I tried so hard to help. You shouldn’t be alone. You should have stayed. We’d have worked it out …

He was terrified that her addiction might send her running back to Ylesia. Han had no illusions about Teroenza’s reaction if she did. The t’landa Til had no capacity to feel pity or to be merciful. The High Priest would order Bria killed if he ever laid eyes on her again.

Han stared dazedly around the squalid little room. Had it only been last night that they’d been here, in each other’s arms? Bria had held him tightly, fiercely. Now Han realized the reason for her passion. She’d known she was holding him for the last time …

He shook his head. How could things change so irrevocably in just a few hours?

Turn time back, some childish part of his mind said. Make it be THEN, not NOW. I don’t like NOW. I want it to be THEN …

But of course that was stupid. Han caught his breath, and the sound was ragged, filled with pain. Almost a sob.

Suddenly he couldn’t stand being here, seeing this dreadful little room, any longer. Stuffing his few belongings into his small bag, Han distributed handfuls of credit vouchers into his inside pockets, against his skin. Then he put on his ancient jacket and stuffed the blaster into the front of it.

He walked out, down the hall, past the sleazy-looking woman at the desk.

And kept walking …

All day he walked, moving like a droid through the unsavory crowds of this area, which was one of the “borderline” red-light districts that intersected with one of the nonhuman enclaves. He did not eat, could not face the idea of food.

He was always conscious of the stolen blaster in the front of his jacket. With part of his mind, Han rather hoped that someone would try to rob him. That would give him an excuse to lash out, to maim or kill—he wanted to destroy something. Or someone.

But nobody bothered him. Perhaps there was some aura he projected, some body language that warned others to keep “hands off.”

His mind kept playing tug-of-war with his heart. He went over and over everything they’d ever said and done. Had he done something wrong? Was Bria a lovely, troubled, but decent girl fighting a deadly addiction? Or was she a spoiled, callous rich kid who’d been playing a cruel game? Had she ever really loved him?

At some point Han found himself on a street corner between two massive stone piles of rubble. In his hands was Bria’s flimsy, and he was trying to read it by the flickering light of a brothel’s sign. Han blinked. Must be raining … His face was wet …

He looked up at the sky, but of course, there was no sky, only a rooftop, high above. He held out a hand, palm up. No rain.

Folding the letter, Han put it away carefully. He resisted the momentary urge to shred it, or blast it into cinders. Something told him he’d regret it if he did.

Whatever she was, she’s GONE, he decided, straightening his shoulders. She’s not coming back, and I’ve gotta pull myself together. First thing tomorrow, I go looking for Nici the Specialist at The Glow Spider …

Han realized it was now late at night. He’d been wandering the streets for twelve or fifteen hours. Fortunately, in this district, some places never slept. The Corellian realized that he needed both food and sleep—he was so empty and exhausted that his head spun.

He began walking slowly back the way he’d come, realizing that every step felt as though he were treading on burning sand. His soles were abraded and blistered, and he limped.

The pain in his feet was a welcome distraction.

From now on, it’s just me, Han Solo, he thought, stopping and peering up at the night sky, barely visible at the top of an airshaft. One star—or was it a space station?—winked against the blackness. Han’s mental declaration had the conviction of a sworn oath. Nobody else. I don’t care about anybody else. Nobody gets close, from now on. I don’t care how pretty she is, how smart, or how sweet. No friend, no lover … nobody is worth this kind of pain. From now on, it’s just me … Solo. With one part of his mind, he realized the grim irony of his inadvertent play on words, and he chuckled hollowly. From now on, his name was him. His name had come to stand for what he was, what was inside him.

Solo. From now on. Just me. The galaxy and everyone in it can go to blazes. I’m Solo, now and forever.

The last of the youthful softness had vanished from Han’s features, and there was a new coldness, a new hardness in his eyes. He walked on into the night, and his boot heels sounded hard against the permacrete—as hard and unrelenting as the shell now sheathing his heart.

   A week later Han Solo walked toward the Hall of Admissions of the Imperial Space Academy. The building was a huge, topmost-level structure, massive and quietly, solidly dignified in design.

The light from Coruscant’s small white sun made him blink. It had been a long time since he’d seen sunlight, and his eyes were still sensitive, still easily irritated.

Having one’s retinal patterns altered was possible, as Han had just proved, but it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. He’d had the laser surgery and cell rearrangement, then he’d spent a day in a bacta tank, healing. He’d then worn a bacta visor for three more days, lying in a little back room at Nici’s “clinic.”

He’d put his forced inaction to good use, though, and had listened to hours of canned history and literature recordings, boning up for the examinations he hoped to begin. Han was under no illusions that the Academy testing would prove easy for him. His education had been spotty, at best.

Nici the Specialist had been worth every credit of his exorbitant fee. “Han Solo” now existed in the Imperial database, along with his retinal patterns, and other identifying marks. (Most of these scars were brand-new, carefully placed on his body by Nici’s medical droids. Han had had most of his old scars erased.)

“Han Solo” now had IDs that were indistinguishable from those possessed by every loyal citizen of the Empire. For the first time in more than a decade, he was “clean”—Han Solo wasn’t wanted by anyone for anything. He no longer had to glance guiltily behind him or try to grow eyes in the back of his head. He didn’t have to stay alert for the betraying flash of light of a suddenly revealed blaster muzzle. He still tensed at loud noises, but that was just reflex.

Han Solo was a regular citizen, not a hunted fugitive.

He still had Vykk Draygo’s and Jenos Idanian’s IDs, buried deep in a credit case, but he was simply waiting for a good chance to dispose of them. Han’s face had never appeared on a WANTED poster or in a database, only his original retinal patterns. And they were gone, erased.

As he mounted the stone steps to the Hall of Admissions, Han’s strides were sure and confident. He walked up to the human recruiting officer sitting behind the desk and smiled politely. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Han Solo, and I’d like to apply for admission into the Imperial Academy. I’ve always wanted to be a Naval officer.”

The clerk did not smile back, but he was civil. “May I see your identification, Mr. Solo?”

“Certainly,” Han said, and laid it on the desk.

“This will take a moment. Please take a seat.”

Han sat, feeling inner tension, but telling himself he had nothing to be afraid of. Renn Tharen’s credits had seen to that …

Minutes later the clerk handed Han’s IDs back to him and offered a remote smile. “Everything checks out, Solo. You can begin the application and testing process today. Are you aware that over fifty percent of the candidates are not accepted? And that fifty percent of those accepted never complete their course at the Academy?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Han said. “But I’m determined to try. I’m a good pilot.”

“The Emperor needs good pilots,” the man said, his smile actually genuine for a moment. “Very well, let’s get you started …”

   The next week was a calculated nightmare. The first step was a thorough physical, more detailed than any Han had experienced before. The medical droids poked and prodded places that made Han long to give them a swift kick in their circuitry, but he bore it all stoically.

He was very tense during the eye exam, but Nici’s droid had been an expert. The Imperial medical droid found nothing wrong.

Han passed the physical with flying colors. His reaction time and reflexes were in the topmost percentile.

Then came the hard part …

Day after day, a steadily dwindling group of cadet candidates were ushered into private examination rooms. Each room came equipped with an examination droid, who posed the questions to the candidates, recorded their scores, and kept tabulations of their standing.

Each night Han went back to his tiny little cubicle in yet another flophouse and fell asleep, exhausted, only to dream all night of taking exams:

“Cadet Candidate Solo, I am going to show you four types of body armor. Which of these was used by the Mandalorian forces during the last century?”

And, “Cadet Candidate Solo, in what year did our glorious Emperor become President of the Imperial Senate? What historical event preceded his election?”

And, “Cadet Candidate Solo, if a Victory-class Star Destroyer leaves Imperial Center at the displayed time, and carries the mass and weight of armament, cargo, and troops, as displayed on this screen, which course and approach vector to the Daedalon system will produce the most fuel efficiency? Which course and approach vector will produce the best speed? Be prepared to show the figures for your answer.”

And, “Cadet Candidate Solo, which battle of the Noolian Crisis brought about the liberation of the Bothan Sector? On what date was it fought?”

Worst of all, as far as Han was concerned, were the “cultural” questions. Each cadet was expected to be an officer and a gentleman (or woman), and a certain amount of cultural acumen was required. Han sweated his way through questions such as, “Cadet Candidate Solo, I am going to play music from three different worlds. Please identify the planet of origin of each piece of music.”

Ironically, Han was much better at answering the art questions than the music ones. His background as a thief and burglar had given him at least a passing acquaintance with Art History and modern Galactic Art.

When, after three days of relentless examinations, Han found himself still listed among the CADET CANDIDATES on the vid-board in the giant Hall of Admissions, he was both surprised and ecstatic.

The piloting tests covered the last two days of the week-long testing period. During this portion, Han’s experience stood him in good stead. The candidates were taken off-world in large transports and shipped to nearby Imperial bases. Only one section of the advanced-placement testing was conducted on Coruscant itself.

Every day, the candidates practiced piloting in a variety of different situations. Han did well, and knew he’d passed each test. Only one off-note was struck—one of Han’s testing officers (human instructors were used during this portion) commented sourly to the other instructors that he felt that Han’s “fastest time for assigned run” score should be stricken because it was highly irregular for a cadet candidate to fly a shuttle through Emperor Palpatine’s Arch of Triumph on Imperial Center, rather than above it.

“He frightened several thousand Imperial citizens! We received hundreds of complaints!” the officer sputtered.

The head testing officer shrugged. “Nobody was injured, right?”

“Correct, sir.”

“Then Cadet Candidate Solo’s score stands. Those citizens could use a little excitement from time to time. Good for their circulation,” the head testing officer decided.

Han was careful not to let on that he’d overheard the exchange.

The Corellian knew that while he’d done well on the piloting examinations, he’d passed several of the other subjects by the barest skin of his teeth.

Several times a “minus” sign appeared beside his name, indicating that he would be slated for remedial studies in that area, should he pass and be accepted into the Academy.

Not surprisingly, “Music” was among those areas, as was “Ancient Pre-Republic History,” “Interspatial Quantum Physics,” and “Nonlinear Hyperspace Geometry.”

Han studied every night and fell asleep to the sounds of “cram recordings” droning reams of information as he slumbered. Actually, Han didn’t really mind dreaming endlessly about the examinations each night.

It beat dreaming of Bria.

Finally, the day came when he stood before the vid-board and looked for his name on the list of DISQUALIFIED CANDIDATES—and failed to find it.

Heart pounding, scarcely daring to hope, he went over to look at the other list across the Hall, the one labeled CADETS ACCEPTED.

Han Solo.

There it was, in glowing letters. Han stared at it, unable to think, hardly daring to believe it.

But there it was. He hung around the Hall for an hour, and went back three different times, and it was there every time. Finally, after the third time, Han allowed himself to whisper, “Yes!” and pump his fist into the air in triumph.

He walked down the steps and out into the massive top-level plaza, feeling the cold evening air of Coruscant, like a dash of cold, refreshing water.

This calls for a celebration, he thought exultantly.

Han treated himself to dinner at one of the posh upper-level restaurants, not too far from the Hall of Admissions. He ordered nerf medallions in tangy redor sauce, with a side order of fried tubers, and a salad of assorted greens. He also ordered an Alderaanian ale, which he sipped slowly, savoring it.

Once, during dinner, he glanced around at the beautiful decor, taking in the swanky metal and living ice sculpture, the muted jizz trio, and the human servers. Several highranking Imperial officers were there, escorting attractive women in beautiful evening gowns. Han raised his glass unobtrusively into the air and whispered, “Bria, I made it. I sure wish you were here to share this with me, sweetheart …”

After paying the exorbitant price for the meal without a single regret, Han walked out of the restaurant and strolled across the broad, elegant plaza. The weather deflector mounted high above the plaza kept off most of the wind, so he was almost warm enough as he walked. He sealed up his old jacket against the chill.

All around him, and above him, Han could see the topmost spires and roofs of the highest buildings. This plaza was located right below the highest level in this part of Coruscant. Long, corkscrewed ramps led up to the upper level, in addition to the ubiquitous turbolifts.

Once out of the brightest glare of the lights, Han leaned against a railing and tried to see the stars. He picked out one or two of the brightest, but the horizon completely overshadowed the heavens. Red and green auroras shimmered and flickered, seemingly painted against the blackness by some mad, gargantuan artist. It was a breathtaking view.

I made it!

Han smiled …

And then froze, as something hard and small and round jabbed into the small of his back. The muzzle of a blaster. A voice Han recognized, even though it had been nearly five months since he’d heard it, said jovially, “Hey, Han. Good to see you again, boy. I have to admit, you weren’t easy to find.”

This can’t be happening, Han thought. Not now! It’s not fair!

The genial tones held a chuckle, now. “Han, why don’t you turn around real slow and easy, and let’s talk face-to-face.”

Han turned, very slowly, and as he had known he would, found himself face-to-face with Garris Shrike. The captain of Trader’s Luck had replaced his gaudy uniform with his old bounty hunter’s garb of scarred leather vest, trousers, and snug-fitting Alderaanian nerf-wool tunic, but otherwise he looked exactly the same as he had the night Han had left him sprawled unconscious on the deckplates.

No … Han thought, there’s something different …

After a moment he realized that he was looking slightly down at Shrike. It’s me that’s different. I’ve grown a little. I’m taller …

Shrike scrutinized him. “Well … ain’t you handsome, boy,” he said. “Too bad you can’t come back with me to the Luck and let some of the ladies get a look at you. You’d be a real favorite, I’m sure.”

Han finally found his voice. “What do you want, Garris?” he demanded coldly.

“Oh, so it’s ‘Garris’ now, is it? Think you’re my equal, do you?” The man backhanded Han viciously across the face. When Han started to react, the blaster dug threateningly into his midsection. Silently the younger man wiped blood from a split lower lip. “Well, you’re not my equal, and don’t you forget it. All you are to me is a pile of credits from the Hutts for bringing ‘Vykk Draygo’ back to them alive.”

“The Hutts are looking for me?” Han asked, stalling for time.

“They’re looking for Vykk Draygo, and Jenos Idanian, and all the rest of your aliases, boy. But you’re ‘Han Solo,’ now, aren’t you? And I’m the only one in the whole galaxy, practically, who knew that Han Solo was also Vykk Draygo and all those others. So when I saw the Hutt advert, I decided to come out of retirement just for you. Too many credits to pass up.”

“I see,” Han said.

Shrike rocked his head back with another hard slap. “No, you don’t see, Han. You don’t see that things ain’t been going good for the Luck lately. You don’t see that Larrad’s never been the same since your Wookiee hag dislocated his arm. Those credits from the Hutts are gonna turn things around for all of us.”

“Really?” Han asked. “I don’t see how just capturing me is going to change your luck. You’d do better to pull some kind of scam on Gamorr. And I’m afraid … Garris … that I can’t go along with this little scheme of yours …” As he spoke, Han had begun lowering his voice, little by little, speaking more and more softly. Unconsciously, Shrike leaned forward slightly to hear—

—just as Han, with a wild scream, leaped straight at him. One arm swept up in a block, sweeping Shrike’s arm, and almost at the same moment, Han brought his knee up into the man’s groin. As Shrike doubled over with a grunt, Han punched him in the jaw, hard. The captain went down.

The blaster dropped out of Garris’s hand, and Shrike grabbed for it. Han kicked it away, sending it skittering into the black, sharp-edged shadows. Then he leaped over Shrike’s crouched form and bolted for the ramp leading up to the tallest roof. From there he could hide and catch a horizontal tube or a turbolift.

Han couldn’t believe he’d actually managed to down Shrike in a fight. While he’d been growing up, he’d lived in terror of the captain’s temper and his hard fists.

Han reached the ramp and went up the corkscrew with the rush of a ship using full thrusters. He reached the top of the ramp and hesitated, looking around. The rooftop looked otherworldly with its double-edged shadows from Coruscant’s two small moons, edging everything into aching, sparkling white and bands of gray that plunged into impenetrable darkness.

As Han headed out across the rooftop, still scanning for a turbolift, a blue bolt shot out of the darkness at his right. The shot had come from the doorway of a turbolift. Blaster on stun! Han thought, running again, zigzagging frantically. Shrike? How could he have got up here so fast?

Another stun beam.

Han bolted across the rooftop like a vrelt running before a blaster ray, running as he’d never run before in his life. He passed another turbolift entrance, pulled up, and headed toward it. As he reached it, the door opened, and Shrike stood there, silhouetted in the doorway, blaster in hand.

Han skidded to a halt on the icy permacrete and reversed direction. Shrike here? Who fired those other shots, then?

But he was too busy racing across the rooftop to give the question much consideration.

Shrike’s blaster spat, blue-green in the shadows. The uppermost level was mostly reserved for courting couples and was not well lit. Only the light of Coruscant’s two small moons illumined the area.

Han’s breath was visible in the darkness as he raced across the permacrete, leaping over curbs and exposed conduits. The uppermost spires of several buildings stuck up from the permacrete like grotesque stone evergreens. Han hurdled one and skidded on hoarfrost as he landed. It was cold up here, away from the protection of the weather deflector. His leather jacket offered little protection.

“Stop or I’ll fry your ass!” Shrike yelled, and another stun beam split the night.

Han lengthened his strides, fleeing like a hunted animal, desperate to escape. Daring to look back over his shoulder, he saw Shrike’s dark form light up faintly in the reflected glow from another stun beam.

Turning forward again, Han ran faster, harder—only to come to a screeching halt and stand teetering on the edge where the permacrete dead-ended!

Arms windmilling, Han threw himself backward. He had a brief glimpse of the gorgeously lit plaza, ten or more stories below him, including the elegant restaurant where he’d eaten dinner. Through the shimmer of the weather deflectors, he could see the elegant statues, the exotic flowers and greenery …

Dinner seemed a lifetime ago.

Han turned right, skidding a little, and headed the other way. Another stun beam lashed at him. His breath burned his chest as he gasped in the freezing air.

He hurdled another spire, felt it brush the inside of his trouser leg, but made it and ran on, dodging into a patch of shadow to escape another stun bolt.

The shadow suddenly gave way to complete and utter emptiness as an airshaft dropped away into nothingness!

Han was going too fast to stop. With a yell of terror, he leaped as hard as he could—

—and managed to clear the yawning gap. He landed heavily on the other side, fell, and rolled over, gasping, wind knocked out, trying to get to his feet again. He skidded on the icy permacrete, flailing, just as a stun beam splatted right beside him.

Han’s entire right side went numb.

The Corellian crashed back to the permacrete with an agonized grunt. Letting himself go limp, he waited, hoping that he’d regain the use of his right side in time. Depending on the intensity level Shrike was using, it might take two minutes … or ten.

Breathing was torture, but Han gulped down every lungful, ignoring the pain. He needed to get his wind back, in case feeling returned to his right side.

Footsteps approached from his left. Shrike, going around the airshaft Han had hurdled. Han lay still. Only the white plume of his breath revealed that he still lived.

The footsteps paused beside him, circled him. Han could see Shrike’s form dimly, through his eyelashes. Then a boot kicked him viciously in his right leg. Han gasped with the pain. “You low-life scum,” Shrike spat. “For two credits I’d dump your worthless hide off the edge for what you did.”

The fact that Han could feel pain in the place where Shrike’s heavy boot had struck him was good. The stun paralysis was wearing off. But Han did not move, only lay limp as Shrike grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and dragged him over the permacrete, bumping and slithering, toward the nearest turbolift.

The trader captain was cursing steadily and, Han realized with a flare of satisfaction, walking with a distinct limp. The Corellian made himself the heaviest, deadest weight he could as he bumped along over the rooftop, feeling the icy scrape of the permacrete. His right hand tingled as it dragged, and that was good, too.

When Shrike reached the turbolift, he let go of Han’s collar. It was hard to just let himself fall, but Han managed to make it look good, without banging his head too hard. Shrike’s glittery-eyed countenance, a bruise darkening his jaw, appeared in his field of vision. “Now we’re going down in this lift, and you’re going to behave yourself, you little vrelt. We’re going to be real chummy, you and me. I’m going to say you’re my buddy who had too much to drink.”

Han could hear the turbolift coming. He flexed the muscles of his right leg, his right arm. They responded, if sluggishly. He didn’t have much time …

“So tell me, Han, did you make it into the Imperial Academy?” Shrike asked, just as though Han could speak. “Is that why you were out treating yourself good tonight, eh?”

He laughed. “The Imps must be real hard up if they’d take a loser like you.” He spat, and warm spittle hit Han’s face, just above his right eye. Han was careful not to react. The turbolift was very close. When those doors opened, Shrike would be distracted for a few precious seconds, and then … then he would make his move.

Imperceptibly, Han flexed his right fingers, and they answered the command of his brain. Shrike was still ranting. “Those Imperials … can’t shoot straight, can’t pilot, and can’t fight worth a hoot. It’s a wonder old Palpatine can get himself out of bed in the morning. All a bunch of losers …”

The turbolift doors opened. Shrike looked up, just as Han lunged up off the permacrete.

The element of surprise served him for a moment. Han managed to knock the blaster out of Shrike’s hand again, but then Garris was on him. Iron-hard hands clamped around the younger man’s throat. Han’s eyes bulged as he hooked a leg behind Shrike’s and sent the man over backward. Shrike didn’t release his grip, so Han went down with him, and they landed in a kicking, punching sprawl.

Han slammed a fist into Shrike’s midsection, heard the man grunt in pain. The fingers around his throat loosened for a second—then. Shrike released his grip and tried to gouge Han’s eye.

His right eye. The viciously gouging thumb skidded in Shrike’s own saliva, and Han turned his head and snapped like an animal. His teeth closed on Shrike’s thumb, clamped down. Shrike screamed as Han tore his flesh. The Corellian tasted blood.

Han took advantage of the man’s momentary distraction to bring his knee up into Shrike’s midsection. The older man’s breath whooshed out in a stinking rush of white, into the cold night air.

Han heaved upward, throwing Shrike off him. The man lost his grip and went sprawling backward. Han scrambled for where he’d heard the blaster land—and his fingers found it.

Shrike was already up and heading purposefully for the younger man, when Han came up onto his knees, the blaster pointed directly at him. Han ostentatiously thumbed the intensity level up to its highest setting. “Your turn to freeze, Shrike,” he said. Speaking brought on a spasm of coughing and searing pain in Han’s abused throat, but he managed to get Shrike in his sights.

Shrike laughed, and slowed, but didn’t stop. He was perhaps six meters away. “Now, Han, son,” he said coaxingly, “old Captain Shrike was just having a little fun with you, is all. I wasn’t going to turn you over to those Hutts, no indeed. Did you know you killed one of them, boy? Hutts don’t like that, no they don’t. They’re never going to stop searching for old ‘Vykk Draygo,’ you know?”

“Stop right there,” Han said, and was terrified to hear the quaver in his own voice. He’d never shot anyone down in cold blood before. Especially someone he knew. Could he do it?

Shrike grinned as if he could read Han’s mind. “C’mon, Han. You know you ain’t going to shoot me. You can’t. I’m like your daddy, almost.”

Han shook his head and replied with a Huttese obscenity so blistering that Shrike raised his eyebrows. “Oh, my, you’ve developed such a dirty mouth while you were gone, ain’t you, kid?”

He was still moving. Only about four meters separated them now. Han tightened his grip on the blaster, but he was horrified to realize the muzzle was wavering.

“Let’s go down below and talk about this, Han,” Shrike said, his voice low and soothing. “I won’t hurt you, you’ve got my word on it.”

“Your word?” Han laughed, then coughed. “That’s a laugh. Your word isn’t worth spit.”

“Sure, my word. Besides … if you shoot me, boy, you’ll never find out about your parents. Who they were … why you wound up being dumped into those alleys where I found you.”

Han stared at Shrike. “You know who they were? You know why I was abandoned?” He swallowed, and it was searing pain. “Tell me, and I may let you live.”

Shrike was almost within grabbing distance of the blaster now. Only a meter or so away. Han knew he should shoot him, knew Shrike couldn’t be trusted—but still he hesitated. “Tell me, Shrike!”

“I’ll tell you everything when you give me the blaster,” Shrike said. “Everything. You have my word.”

Shoot him! Now! Han’s mind screamed.

With a wash of red light, a blaster bolt struck Garris Shrike directly in the chest. The captain threw up his hands, a look of terror and pain contorting his features. He fell backward like a stone, dead before he hit the permacrete.

Han stared wildly at his hand. His finger was on the trigger of the blaster, but he hadn’t moved it … had he?

The shot, he realized, a second later, had come from behind him.

Han whirled, still on his knees, to find himself facing another man. He was human, young, medium tall, slender build. Darkish hair frosted by moonlight. He held a drawn blaster, and every line of him screamed “bounty hunter.”

“Okay, kid, it’s over,” he said, removing a pair of wrist-binders from his belt. “Stand up. You’re coming with me.”

Those first two shots! Han thought. It must have been him. He followed me up here, and just waited for Shrike to take me down, so he could step in and get me.

As if he’d sensed what Han was thinking, the bounty hunter added, “I knew old Shrike would find you. The Hutts don’t have a picture of you, so I followed Shrike, ’cause he practically raised you, didn’t he, Vykk? I knew he’d pick you out for me.”

No! Han’s mind screamed. Not now! Not again!

He was still stiff from the paralysis, exhausted and hurt from the fight with Shrike. Every muscle screamed with pain and weariness.

The bounty hunter gestured with the blaster. “Drop your blaster, kid, or I’ll stun you right in the head and scramble your brains good. The Hutts want you alive, but they didn’t say nothing about in your right mind. Drop it.”

Shaking, Han dropped the blaster from his nerveless fingers. With a grunt of effort, he tried to get up, but his right leg buckled beneath him.

“My leg …” he mumbled. “Right leg won’t take my weight … Shrike kicked me.”

“Yeah, I saw him. Not very professional of him, but old Shrike always was hot-tempered,” the bounty hunter said. Moving forward, he added, “Now I’m going to give you a hand up. Don’t try—”

With a demented howl, Han hurled himself headfirst into the bounty hunter’s midsection.

This man was younger than Shrike, stronger and faster. But Han was fighting like a madman, with the strength borne of utter desperation. He had nothing to lose, and he knew it.

The bounty hunter went over backward with a yell of surprise. Han threw himself after him, pummeling the man. Recovering himself, the bounty hunter slammed Han across the temple with the muzzle of his blaster.

Blood spurted, ran into Han’s left eye, but the Corellian didn’t let it slow him down. He clawed his way up the other’s body as though it were a jungle vine and headbutted the bounty hunter, slamming his forehead into the man’s nose. Han heard and felt cartilage break against the bone of his skull. The man’s shrill scream rang through the night.

Cursing, the bounty hunter grappled with Han, slamming him on the back and in the kidneys with the blaster. Han grabbed his arm and slammed his hand against the permacrete, wham … WHAM! The blaster dropped from the man’s fingers. Han butted the bounty hunter in the face again, ignoring the splitting of his own skin.

“You’re NOT taking me!” the Corellian yelled, slamming his head into the man’s face repeatedly. With a yell of terror, the bounty hunter heaved upward with all his strength and sent Han flying.

The Corellian hit, tried to roll, and slammed up against the structure that housed the turbolift. The bounty hunter, his face a gory mask from his broken nose and split lips, rushed for Han, murder in his eyes.

Han waited until the last possible second, then dodged. As the man went by, Han slammed his full weight into the other’s shoulder.

The bounty hunter’s head impacted with the stone structure with a crack that seemed to echo throughout the icy night.

The man jerked, went limp, then slid down the wall, to lie motionless on the permacrete.

Weaving, biting his lip, and swallowing bile, Han lurched to his feet and stumbled over to the man. Two fingers against his throat assured the Corellian that the bounty hunter was now as dead as Garris Shrike, who was lying sprawled a few meters away, staring up at the twin moons with blank, sightless eyes.

Han slid down the wall in his own turn and just sat there, his head whirling, sick and exhausted. He began to shake all over, and the bout lasted for nearly a minute.

Gotta get hold of myself, he thought dully. Gotta think. Think …

Climbing back to his feet, Han staggered over to the bounty hunter again and stood eyeing him. The man was about his own size, and he, too, had brown hair. Darker than Han’s own, but that might not be noticed …

Han’s breath puffed white as he yanked on the man’s boots, pulling them off. Slowly, methodically, he set about stripping the bounty hunter.

Five minutes later, Han stood swaying, dressed now in the bounty hunter’s clothing. Grimly, he began putting his own clothes onto the corpse … his worn gray pilot’s jumpsuit, his battered lizard-skin jacket, his boots. He replaced the bounty hunter’s blaster in his holster. Lastly, he took a handful of credits, and all of his faked IDs, and placed them in the man’s inside pocket, sealing the pocket shut. Then he sealed the jacket closed, too.

Stumbling and limping, Han went looking for Shrike’s blaster. He found it, finally, and went back to the body. Wincing, he adjusted it to its highest setting, aimed the weapon, then, turning his head to the side, he fired directly into the corpse’s face. When he forced himself to look, the dead man no longer had a face—or eyes.

Or retinas.

Han staggered away a few feet and was thoroughly, wretchedly, sick. The thought of what that meal had cost him made him even sicker …

With a groan of effort, he grabbed the body beneath the arms and dragged the bounty hunter across the icy permacrete, just as Shrike had dragged him. He went backward slowly, carefully, until he was once again beside that deep, deep airshaft that he’d jumped.

Han peered down, then looked away quickly, fighting dizziness. The shaft went down a long, long way.

He rolled the body to the edge, then, with a hard push of both hands, sent the bounty hunter over the edge, tumbling out into empty air.

Han didn’t watch the body fall. With dragging, limping steps, he lurched back to Shrike’s body and placed the captain’s blaster in the dead fingers. Then he pressed the button to summon the turbolift.

When the doors opened, he nearly fell into the lighted interior.

The turbolift started down, and Han stood swaying, bracing himself with both hands. He had to work at not passing out.

It had been a long night …