Agents of Chaos I: Hero's Trial

James Luceno

[09 mar 2003-scanned for #bookz by friendy]

[12 mar 2003-proofed for #bookz by friendy]

For my young son Jake,

and The New Jedi Order

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to extend heartfelt thanks to those who kept me on track and loaned a

hand along the way: Dan Wallace, who knows the expanded universe better than

anyone; Rob Brown, whose suggestions helped shape chapter 7; and Alex Newborn,

who steered me to a new character for chapter 14. Thanks, too, to Mike Kogge,

Matt Olsen, Eelia Goldsmith Henderscheid, Enrique Guerrero, and Kris Boldis for

their keen commentaries; fellow authors Robert Salavtore, Mike Stackpole, and

Kathy Tyers for their detail work; and Shelly Shapiro, Sue Rostoni, and Lucy

Autrey Wilson, without whom The New Jedi Order would never have taken shape.

Finally, infinite gratitude to my late friend and collaborator, Brian Daley.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Nom Anor; executor (male Yuuzhan Vong)

Malik Carr; commander (male Yuuzhan Vong)

Reck Desh; Peace Brigade mercenary (male human)

Droma; spacer (male Ryn)

Elan; priestess (female Yuuzhan Vong)

Harrar; priest (male Yuuzhan Vong)

Belindi Kalenda; New Republic Intelligence (female human)

Raff; battle tactician (male Yuuzhan Vong)

Roa; captain, Happy Dagger (male human)

Major Showolter; New Republic Intelligence (male human)

Luke Skywalker; Jedi Master (male human)

Mara Jade Skywalker; Jedi Master (female human)

Anakin Solo; Jedi Knight (male human)

Han Solo; captain, Millennium Falcon (male human)

Leia Organa Solo; New Republic ambassador (female human)

Tla; commander (male Yuuzhan Vong)

Vergere; Elan's familiar (female Fosh)

ONE

If the system's primary was distressed by the events that had transpired on and

about the fourth closest of its brood, it betrayed nothing to the naked eye.

Saturating local space with golden radiance, the star was as unperturbed now as

it was before the battle had begun. Only the conquered world had suffered, its

punished surface revealed in the steady crawl of sunlight. Regions that had once

been green, blue, or white appeared ash-gray or reddish-brown. Below banks of

panicked clouds, smoke chimneyed from immolated cities and billowed from tracts

of firestormed evergreen forests. Steam roiled from the superheated beds of

glacier-fed lakes and shallow seas.

Deep within the planet's shroud of cinder and debris moved the warship most

responsible for the devastation. The vessel was a massive ovoid of yorik coral,

its scabrous black surface relieved in places by bands of smoother stuff,

lustrous as volcanic glass. In the pits that dimpled the coarse stretches hid

projectile launchers and plasma weapons. Other, more crater-like depressions

housed the laser-gobbling dovin basals that both drove the vessel and shielded

it from harm. From fore and aft extended bloodred and cobalt arms, to which

asteroid-like fighters clung like barnacles. Smaller craft buzzed around it,

some effecting repairs to battle-damaged areas, others keen on recharging

depleted weapons systems, a few delivering plunder from the planet's scorched

crust.

Farther removed from the battle floated a smaller vessel, black, as well, but

faceted and polished smooth as a gemstone. Light pulsed through the ship at

intervals, exciting one facet, then another, as if data were being conveyed from

sector to sector.

From a roost in the underside of its angular snout, a gaunt figure, cross-legged

on cushions, scanned the flotsam and jetsam a quirk of a gravitational drift had

borne close to his ship: pieces of New Republic capital ships and starfighters,

space-suited bodies in eerie repose, undetonated projectiles, the holed fuselage

of a noncombat craft whose legend identified it as the Penga Rift.

In the near distance hung the blackened skeleton of a defense platform. Off to

one side a ruined cruiser rolled end over end in a decaying orbit, surrendering

its contents to vacuum like a burst pod scattering fine seeds. Elsewhere a

fleeing transport, snagged by the spike of a bloated capture vessel, was being

tugged inexorably toward the bowels of the giant warship.

The seated figure beheld these sights without cheer or regret. Necessity had

engineered the destruction. What had been done needed to be done.

An acolyte stood in the rear of the command roost, relaying updates as they were

received by a slender, living device fastened to his right inner forearm by six

insectile legs.

"Victory is ours, Eminence. Our air and ground forces have overwhelmed the

principal population centers and a war coordinator has installed itself in the

mantle." The acolyte glanced at the receiving villip on his arm, whose soft

bioluminescent glow added appreciably to the roost's scant light. "Commander

Tla's battle tactician is of the opinion that the astrogation charts and

historical data stored here will prove valuable to our campaign."

The priest, Harrar, glanced at the warship. "Has the tactician made his feelings

known to Commander Tla?"

The acolyte's hesitancy was answer enough, but Harrar suffered the verbal reply

anyway.

"Our arrival does not please the commander, Eminence. He does not dismiss out of

hand the need for sacrifice, but he asserts that the campaign has been

successful thus far without the need for religious overseers. He fears that our

presence will only confound his task."

"Commander Tla fails to grasp that we engage the enemy on different fronts,"

Harrar said. "Any opponent can be beaten into submission, but compliance is no

guarantee that you have won him over to your beliefs."

"Shall I relay as much to the commander, Eminence?"

"It is not your place. Leave that to me."

Harrar, a male of middle years, rose and moved to the lip of the roost's

polygonal transparency, where he stood with three-fingered hands clasped at the

small of his back - the missing digits having been offered in dedication

ceremonies and ritual sacrifices, as a means of escalating himself. His tall

slender frame was draped in supple fabrics of muted tones. A head cloth,

patterned and significantly knotted, bound his long black tresses. The back of

his neck showed vibrant markings etched into skin stretched taut by prominent

vertebrae.

The planet turned beneath him.

"What is this world called?"

"Obroa-skai, Eminence."

"Obroa-skai," Harrar mused aloud. "What does the name signify?"

"The meaning is unknown at present. Though no doubt some explanation can be

found among the captured data."

Harrar's right hand gestured in dismissal. "It's a dead issue."

A flash of weapons drew his eye to Obroa-skai's terminator, where a yorik coral

gunship was angling into the light, spewing rear fire at a quartet of snub-nosed

starfighters that had evidently chased it from the planet's dark side. The

little X-wings were closing fast, thrusters ablaze and wingtips lancing energy

beams at the larger ship. Harrar had heard that the New Republic pilots had

become adept at foiling the dovin basals by altering the frequency and intensity

of the laser bolts the fighters discharged. These four pursued the gunship with

a single-mindedness born of thorough self-possession. Such fierce confidence

spoke to qualities the Yuuzhan Vong would need to keep solidly in mind as the

invasion advanced. Largely oblivious to nuance, the warrior caste would have to

be taught to appreciate that survival figured as strongly in the enemy's beliefs

as death figured in the beliefs of the Yuuzhan Vong.

The gunship had changed vector and was climbing now, seemingly intent on

availing itself of the protection offered by Commander Tla's warship. But the

four fighters were determined to have it. Breaking formation, they accelerated,

ensnaring the gunship at the center of their wrath.

The X-wing pilots executed their attack with impressive precision. Laser bolts

and brilliant pink torpedoes rained from them, taxing the abilities of the

gunship's dovin basals. For every bolt and torpedo engulfed by the gravitic

collapses the dovin basals fashioned, another penetrated, searing fissures in

the assault craft and sending hunks of reddish-black yorik coral exploding in

all directions. Stunned by relentless strikes, the gunship huddled inside its

shields, hoping for a moment's respite, but the starfighters refused to grant it

any quarter. Bursts of livid energy assailed the ship, shaking it off course.

The dovin basals began to falter. With defenses hopelessly compromised, the

larger ship diverted power to weapons and counterattacked.

In a desperate show of force, vengeful golden fire erupted from a dozen gun

emplacements. But the starfighters were simply too quick and agile. They made

pass after pass, raking fire across the gunship's suddenly vulnerable hull.

Gouts of slagged flesh fountained from deep wounds and lasered trenches. The

destruction of a plasma launcher sent a chain of explosions marching down the

starboard side. Molten yorik coral streamed from the ship like a vapor trail.

Shafts of blinding light began to pour from the core. The ship rolled over on

its belly, shedding velocity. Then, jolted by a final paroxysm, it disappeared

in a short-lived globe of fire.

It looked as if the X-wings might attempt to take the fight to the warship

itself, but at the last moment the pilots turned tail. Salvos from the warship's

weapons crisscrossed nearby space, but no missiles found their mark.

His scarified face a deeply shadowed mask, Harrar glanced over his shoulder at

the acolyte. "Suggest to Commander Tla that his zealous gunners allow the little

ones to escape," he said with incongruous composure. "After all, someone needs

to live to speak of what happened here."

"The infidels fought well and died bravely," the acolyte risked remarking.

Harrar pivoted to face him fully, a bemused glint in his deeply set eyes. "Is

that respect I hear?"

The acolyte nodded his head in deference. "Nothing more than an observation,

Eminence. To earn my respect, they would have to embrace willingly the truth we

bring them."

A herald of lesser station appeared in the roost, offering salute by snapping

his fists to opposite shoulders. "Belek tiu, Eminence. I bring word that the

captives have been gathered."

"How many?"

"Several hundred - of diverse aspect. Do you wish to oversee the selection for

the sacrifice?"

Harrar squared his shoulders and adjusted the fall of his elegant robes. "I am

most eager to do so."

The transport gullet's diaphanous seal opened on an immense hold, packed to the

bulkheads with captives taken on and in the skies above Obroa-skai. Harrar's

entourage of personal guards and attendants moved into the hold, followed by the

priest himself, perched atop a levitated cushion, one leg folded beneath him,

the other dangling over the edge, The throbbing heart-shaped dovin basal that

kept the cushion aloft answered to Harrar's quiet prompts, attracting itself to

the hold's vaulted ceiling when the priest called for greater elevation, drawing

itself toward one or another distant bulkhead when Harrar wished to be borne

forward, backward, or to either side.

Well illuminated by bioluminescent patches that rashed the walls and ceiling,

the hold had been sectioned off into a score of separate inhibition fields,

arranged in two parallel rows and maintained by larger dovin basals. Pressed

shoulder to shoulder in each field stood scholars and researchers from a host of

worlds, humans and others - Bothans, Bith, Quarren, and Caamasi - all jabbering

at once in a welter of tongues, while black-clad wardens armed with amphistaffs

supervised the winnowing process. Meant for coralskipper sustenance rather than

living cargo, the immense space reeked of natural secretions, blood, and sweat.

Mostly, though, fear was in the air.

Harrar hovered on the cushion, surveying the scene with hooded eyes. His

retainers fell back so that he could proceed directly down the center aisle and

inspect prisoners to both sides. In order to reach the first pair of inhibition

fields, however, the priest was obliged to circumvent a large access shaft that

had been filled to overflowing with confiscated droids, hundreds of them, heaped

together in a mound of entangled limbs, appendages, and other mechanical parts.

When Harrar ordered a halt alongside the small mountain of machines, those

droids that constituted the summit began to tremble under his scrutiny. With a

whirring of strained servomotors, domed, rectangular, and humaniform heads

swiveled, audio sensors perked up, and countless photoreceptors came into sharp

focus.

A momentary avalanche sent several machines screeching and tumbling to the base

of the pile, far belowdecks.

Harrar's intrigued gaze fell on a contorted protocol droid whose upper right arm

boasted a band of colored cloth. He commanded the cushion to bring him within

reach of the immobilized machine. "Why are some of these abominations affecting

garments?" he asked his chief attendant.

"They appear to have functioned as research assistants, Eminence," the attendant

explained. "Obroa-skai's libraries could be accessed only by those who had

contracted with trained researchers. The symbol depicted on the machine's

armband is that of the so-called Obroan Institute."

Harrar was aghast. "Do you mean to say that serious researchers consorted with

these things as equals?"

The attendant nodded once. "Apparently so, Eminence."

Harrar's expression changed to one of contempt. "Allow a machine to think of

itself as an equal and it will soon come to consider itself superior." He

reached out, tore the armband from the droid's arm, and threw it to the deck.

"Include a representative sampling of these monstrosities in the sacrifice," he

ordered, "and incinerate the rest."

"We're done for," a muffled synthetic voice whined from deep within the pile.

Living arms of sundry lengths, colors, and textures reached imploringly for

Harrar as the cushion carried him toward the closest inhibition field. Some of

the prisoners begged for mercy, but most fell silent in stark apprehension.

Harrar regarded them indifferently, until his eyes happened on a furred

humanoid, from whose bulging brow emerged a pair of ringed, cone-shaped horns.

Bare hands and feet were hardened by physical labor, but the calluses belied a

deep intelligence evidenced in the creature's limpid eyes. The humanoid wore a

sleeveless sack-like garment that fell raggedly to the knees and was cinched at

the waist by a braided cord fashioned from natural fiber.

"What species are you?" Harrar asked in flawless Basic.

"I am Gotal."

Harrar indicated the belted sackcloth. "Your attire befits a penitent more than

a scholar. Which are you?"

"I am both, and I am neither," the Gotal said with purposeful ambiguity. "I am

an H'kig priest."

Harrar twisted spiritedly on the cushion to address his retinue. "Good fortune.

We have a holy one in our midst." His gaze returned to the Gotal. "Tell me

something of your religion, H'kig priest."

"What interest could you have in my beliefs?"

"Ah, but I, too, am a performer of rituals. As one priest to another, then."

"We H'kig believe in the value of simple living," the Gotal said plainly.

"Yes, but to what end? To ensure bountiful harvests, to escalate yourself, to

secure a place in the afterlife?"

"Virtue is its own reward."

Harrar adopted a puzzled look. "Your gods have said as much?"

"It is simply our truth - one among many."

"One among many. And what of the truth the Yuuzhan Vong bring you? Aver that you

recognize our gods and I may be inclined to spare your life."

The Gotal stared at him dispassionately. "Only a false god would thirst so for

death and destruction."

"Then it's true: you fear death."

"I have no fear of a death suffered in the cause of truth, the alleviation of

suffering, or the abolishment of evil."

"Suffering?" Harrar leaned menacingly toward him. "Let me tell you of suffering,

priest. Misery is the mainstay of life. Those who accept this truth understand

that death is the release from suffering. That's why we go willingly to our

deaths, for we are the resigned ones." He scanned the captives and raised his

voice. "We ask no more of you than we do ourselves: to repay the gods for the

sacrifices they endured in creating the cosmos. We offer flesh and blood so that

their work might endure."

"Our god demands no tribute other than good acts," the Gotal rejoined.

"Acts that raise calluses," Harrar said in disdain. "If this is all that is

expected of you, it's no wonder your gods have abandoned you in your time of

need."

"We have not been abandoned. We still have the Jedi."

Murmurs of fellowship moved through the throng of captives, reticently at first,

then with mounting conviction.

Harrar regarded the disparate faces below him: the labrous and the thin-lipped,

the rugose and the smooth, the hairless and the hirsute, the horned and the

furrowed. In their home galaxy, the Yuuzhan Vong had attempted to eradicate such

diversity, prompting wars that had raged for millennia and had claimed the lives

of peoples and worlds too numerous to count. This time, though, the Yuuzhan Vong

planned to be more circumspect, destroying only those peoples and worlds

necessary to complete the cleansing.

"These Jedi are your gods?" Harrar asked at last.

The Gotal took a moment to answer. "The Jedi Knights are the trustees of peace

and justice."

"And this 'Force' I have heard about - how would you describe it?"

The Gotal grinned faintly. "It is something you will never touch. Although if I

didn't know better, I would swear you were sprung from its dark side."

Harrar's interest was piqued. "The Force contains both light and dark?"

"As do all things."

"And which are you with regard to us? Are you so sure you embody the light?"

"I know only what my heart teaches."

Harrar deliberated. "Then this struggle is more than some petty war. This is a

contest of gods, in which you and I are but mere instruments."

The Gotal held his head high. "That may be so. But the final judgment is already

decided."

Harrar sneered. "May that belief comfort you in your final hour, priest - which,

I assure you, is close at hand." Again he addressed the multitudes. "Up until

now your species have faced only Yuuzhan Vong warriors and politicians. As of

today know that the true architects of I your destiny have arrived."

He beckoned his entourage forward. "This Force is a strange, stubborn faith," he

said quietly as one of his attendants came alongside the dovin basal cushion.

"If ever we're to rule here, we need to understand just how it binds these

myriad beings together. And we need to vanquish the Jedi Knights, once and for

all."

TWO

In a galaxy fraught with wonders, the convergence of columnar tree trunks and

forking branches that supported the Wookiee city of Rwookrrorro enjoyed a place

of special honor. Viewed from above against its backdrop of fathomless forest,

the city appeared to have been rescued from the planet's harsh underworld and

submitted to Kashyyyk's scudded sky as an example of nature and technology in

consummate poise.

At the outskirts of the city, distant from the circular buildings that rose from

its spongy floor and scaled the trunks of the giant trees themselves, atop a

massive fallen branch that spanned several treetops, a ceremony was in progress,

enacted in observance of nature's timeless cycle of life and death.

The participants, including two dozen Wookiees and humans of both sexes, were

arranged in a loose circle around a wooden table that happened also to be

circular. Some stood, others sat on their haunches or on the ground, but all

wore solemn expressions, save for the group's only nonliving members, the droids

C-3PO and R2-D2, whose alloy countenances remained, in all circumstances,

essentially neutral.

C-3PO stood with his bulbous head tilted slightly to one side and his arms bent

at angles rarely adopted by the life-form after which he had been modeled. To

the droid the rigid posture seemed entirely natural, a consequence of the way he

was put together and the ever-changing demands of the servomotors that permitted

him to gesticulate and move about. Beside him, R2-D2 stood still as a fixture,

locomotion struts planted firmly on the fallen wroshyr tree branch and center

tread retracted.

In passing, C-3PO noted that the view from the fallen branch was really quite

extraordinary. Fog was thick in the treetops, concealing the nearest of the

Wookiee nursery rings and diffusing the morning light as might a prism. The view

could even be said - though certainly not by him - to be breathtaking.

[We gather in memory of Chewbacca: honorable son, beloved mate, devoted father,

loyal friend and comrade in arms, champion and clan uncle to all of us in

spirit, if not in the traditional way.]

The Wookiee speaker was called Ralrracheen, though C-3PO had often heard him

referred to simply as Ralrra. He was tall and aged, even for his arboreal

species, but it wasn't the graying muzzle that distinguished him so much as his

curious speech impediment. On any other occasion C-3PO would have been tasked to

serve as translator and interpreter, but none of the humans present had need of

his polyglot faculties that particular morning.

[In Chewbacca, the defiant flame burned brightest,] Ralrra went on, black nose

twitching and long arms dangling at his sides. [On Kashyyyk or farr afield on

distant worlds, he was never less than courageous and incorruptible - a Wookiee

with heart enough for ten and eagerr strength enough forr fifty.]

Chewbacca had died six standard months earlier, during an ill-fated rescue

attempt on the planet Sernpidal, after it had been targeted for destruction by

the Yuuzhan Vong. The fact that it hadn't been possible to retrieve his body was

a source of sorrow to all, for had Chewbacca been returned to Kashyyyk a funeral

would have been held - though for honor family members only. What Wookiees did

with their dead remained a closely guarded secret. Some experts speculated that

the dead were cremated; others, that they were either buried within tree knots

or lowered by kshyy vines into the murky depths from which the species had

risen. Still others claimed that the dead were hacked to pieces with sacred

ryyyk blades and scattered on select wroshyr branches to be carried off by

predatory katarns or kroyie birds.

C-3PO understood that he may not have been allowed to attend the funeral, in any

case. Everyone attending the memorial was a member of Chewbacca's extended

family, but it was unlikely that the affiliation applied to him - much less to

his counterpart, R2-D2. For all their espousal to machines, intelligent and

otherwise, flesh and bloods could be extremely proprietary about matters of

kinship and family.

Close to Ralrra squatted Chewbacca's father, Attichitcuk, along with Chewbacca's

auburn-furred sister, Kallabow. Alongside them sat Chewbacca's widow,

Mallatobuck, and their son, Lumpawarrump, who had taken the name Lumpawaroo -

Waroo for short - on the successful completion of his rite of passage.

Interspersed among the Wookiee contingent stood assorted friends, kin-brothers,

cousins, nieces, and nephews - Lowbacca among the latter, a Jedi Knight.

The humans numbered only six: Master Luke, Mistress Leia, Master Han, and the

three Solo offspring, Anakin, Jacen, and Jaina. Conspicuously absent was Lando

Calrissian, who, much to Master Han's disquiet, had sent word that unexpected -

and unspecified - developments would prevent his attending. Master Luke's wife,

Mara, might have attended if a sudden relapse in her mysterious malady hadn't

forced her to remain on Coruscant.

The exquisitely carved table at the center of the circle rested on a carpet of

wroshyr tree leaves, its pedestal base entwined with dark-green kshyy vines and

its round top strewn with kolvissh blossoms, wasaka berries, Orga root, and the

glossy yellow petals of the syren plant. The cool air was redolent with the

aroma of smoldering tree-resin incense.

[Here on Kashyyyk, Chewbacca's mettle made itself known at an early age,] Ralrra

continued. [With his late friend Salporin] - he paused to glance at Salporin's

widow, Gorrlyn - [Chewbacca left the nursery ring to venture down along the

Rryatt Trail to the Well of the Dead, in the heart of the Shadow Forest. Armed

only with a ryyyk blade, he braved mock shyrr, jaddyyk moss, needlebug,

trap-spinnerr, and shadow-keeperr to harvest strands from the heart of the

flesh-eating syren, thus earning the right to wearr a baldric, carry a weapon,

and confirm the name he chose to be known by. Here, too, Chewbacca ventured into

the great Anarrad pit - not once or even twice, but five times, taking down the

taloned katarn on three of those hunts and once receiving a wound from the beast

in return.] Ralrra indicated a spot on his shaggy torso. [Here, on the left side

of his chest.

[In preparation for his marriage, which took place atop this very branch,

Chewbacca descended to the fifth level and there with hare hands captured a

quillarat and presented it to Malla as an expression of his love. And when it

came time for Waroo's initiation, Chewbacca was steadfast in his support and

encouraging of his son's quest of the scuttle grazerr.]

While some of Chewbacca's accomplishments on his homeworld were familiar to

C-3PO, his memory lacked anything in the way of corroborative data, so he

summoned recollections of his own experiences with the Wookiee and was

immediately inundated with a rapid-fire sequence of images, some of them dating

back twenty-five standard years.

His first sight of Chewbacca, standing like a cinnamon-colored tower outside

Docking Bay 94 in the Mos Eisley spaceport on Tatooine ... Chewbacca as a sore

loser in dejarik holoboard contests ... Chewbacca on Bespin's Cloud City,

incorrectly reattaching C-3PO's head after it had been used by Ugnaughts as a

plaything in a game of Wookiee in the Middle ... Master Han's assertion that

Chewbacca was always thinking with his stomach ... The many, many times

Chewbacca was referred to as "flea-bitten furball," "overgrown mophead,"

"walking carpet," or "noisy brute," occasionally by C-3PO himself - in imitation

of humans, of course - and always with affection, given Chewbacca's scrupulous

character and great size.

A sudden flutter gripped C-3PO, and he found that he was unable to summon

additional recollections. An unnatural and most discomfiting heat surged through

his circuitry, prompting him to run a diagnostic program, which ultimately left

the source of the glitch unrevealed.

Ralrra woofed, brayed, and barked.

[Natural curiosity compelled Chewbacca to leave Kashyyyk at an early age, but

like all of us he was soon enslaved by the Empire. Fortunately, Chewbacca

regained his freedom at the hands of a man of like strength and honorr - ourr

revered brotherr Han Solo. And in the company of Han Solo, to whom he had

pledged his life, Chewbacca was to play a crucial role in the Rebellion, and in

the events that led eventually to the downfall of Emperor Palpatine.]

C-3PO focused his photoreceptors on Master Han, whose eyes were red-rimmed and

narrowed, and whose right hand Mistress Jaina had taken between her own. The

dark-blue military-style trousers Master Han was wearing were similar to the

tattered pair he had attempted to preserve for posterity, but which only the

previous day had proved incapable of conforming to Master Han's slightly

increased waistline and had torn irreparably. Present during the incident - the

cause of no small measure of vexation to Master Han - C-3PO had assisted in

affixing to the outside seams of the replacement trousers twin embellishments

known as Corellian Bloodstripes.

Across from the father and daughter stood Master Jacen and Mistress Leia, her

head resting on her elder son's shoulder and her cheeks glistening with tears.

Near them squatted Master Anakin, brooding and withdrawn, along with Master

Luke, certainly no stranger to death, having lost both his natural and adoptive

parents, as well as Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda, two of his Jedi mentors.

[Chewbacca went on to become a soldierr in the New Republic,] Ralrra boomed and

rumbled. [He aided in Kashyyyk's liberation afterr the Battle of Endorr. But he

remained first and foremost devoted to Han Solo, as friend and indebted

protectorr, and as guardian to Han Solo's spouse and three children.] Ralrra

turned to Han. [It was Chewbacca's honorr to have been able to come to his

friend's rescue on several occasions, even as recently as the crisis involving

the Yevetha, when he freed Han Solo from imprisonment aboard a Yevethan

warship.]

Once more C-3PO tightened the focus of his photoreceptors on Master Han, who

lowered his head in abject grief, as Jaina stroked his shoulders. Master Han's

hip with Chewbacca was similar to C-3PO's R2-D2, though it seemed at times that

the two had been together even longer than had the human and the Wookiee.

R2-D2 must have been regarding Master Han, as well, for the astromech suddenly

rotated his monocular receptor to C-3PO and warbled tremulously, almost as if

he, too, had picked up an enigmatic flutter. C-3PO changed the cant of his head.

The past several months had afforded ample opportunities to study humans in

grief, but for all his observations he was no closer to understanding the

process than he had been before Chewbacca's death on that dreadful world. All

living beings eventually died, when not from the effects of age, then as the

result of accidents or illnesses almost too myriad to catalog. Death was in some

ways analogous to deactivation or memory erasure, but in fact it was something

quite different, a total ceasing-to-be - the end to all adventuring, indeed. In

the face of that revelation, C-3PO felt compelled to wonder if he hadn't been

wrong all along about his lot in life. If, as he so often declared, droids were

made to suffer, what then of flesh and bloods?

Perhaps it was better not to know.

As constructed, C-3PO was incapable of shedding tears or enduring heartbreak, as

it was called, but his programming did allow him to experience sorrow of a sort,

if not nearly to the depth experienced by humans and other living beings. And it

was suddenly clear that sorrow was the source of the flutter that continued to

plague him. Try as he might, he could not summon a sound thought, and with each

glance at Master Han his dismay increased.

As the one closest to Chewbacca - and perhaps because he was a very human being

- Master Han seemed to be suffering the most, alternating between anguish and

rage, despondency and agitation. The man C-3PO had once dismissed as impossible

was now deeply distraught, as unreachable as if he were encased in carbonite,

and there seemed nothing C-3PO could do to put the matter right. Being fluent in

millions of forms of communication did not guarantee an understanding of human

behavior, let alone human emotions. C-3PO was only a droid, after all, and not

very knowledgeable about such things.

There had been an incident during Master Han's courtship of then Princess Leia

when Master Han had had occasion to place a hand on C-3PO's arm and say, "You're

a good droid, Threepio. There's not many droids I like as much as I like you."

He had gone on to ask C-3PO's advice on matters of the heart, and C-3PO had

gladly provided a poem for Master Han to use as ammunition in his contest with

Prince Isolder for the princess's hand.

But curse my metal body, C-3PO said to himself. Why hadn't his maker equipped

him with the necessary programming to come to Master Han's aid now? Instead, all

he could offer was mindless philosophizing!

[Adventure is as alluring and potentially dangerous a thing as the heart of the

syren plant,] Ralrra roared plaintively. [But even Chewbacca's final act was one

of sacrifice, giving his life to save someone dearr to him.] The aged Wookiee

looked at young Anakin, then at Master Han and Mistress Leia. [And as everr he

kept his claws retracted in battle. Now, in the same way the branches of the

wroshyr seek out and support one anotherr, Chewbacca's spirit merges with and

gives sustenance to ourr own, strengthening us forr the challenges we have yet

to confront.]

Warfare had figured in C-3PO's existence for so long that a new invasion

shouldn't have come as a surprise. But there was something different about the

Yuuzhan Vong and the harrowing war they were waging on a galactic scale. It

wasn't merely that they didn't distinguish among species or among worlds - New

Republic, Imperial Remnant, or nonaligned - or even that their biotic warships

and weapons packed such awesome destructive power. What worried C-3PO most was

that this most recent conflict was one in which not even droids were spared. And

that meant that, like it or not, he might yet arrive at a true understanding of

grief and death.

The circular table was covered with foodstuffs - bowls of xachibik broth,

barbecued trakkrrrn ribs, forest-honey cakes, salad garnished with rillrrnnn

seeds, and flasks of wines, juices, and liquors. Humans and Wookiees were

conversing in groups, recounting tales of Chewbacca's exploits that brought

laughter, tears, or moments of sober reflection. The breeze had picked up,

stirring leaves and enlivening wind chimes.

Han sat dejectedly on a short-legged wooden stool, resting his elbows on his

knees. "Y'know, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I think I actually

envy Threepio."

Jaina followed her father's gaze to where the droid was standing with his squat

counterpart, looking completely at a loss. "It's better not to have a heart, you

mean."

"At times like this, anyway." Han exhaled wearily and ran his right hand down

over his face.

Jaina motioned to the table. "Let me get you something to eat, Dad. You must be

starved."

He managed a smile. "Thanks, sweetie, but I'm not hungry."

"You should have something anyway," she said in a maternal way.

Han brightened slightly and reached for her hand. "You help yourself, I'm fine."

She frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." He gestured with his chin. "Get going. Eat enough for the both of

us."

Reluctantly, Jaina headed for the table. Han watched her for a long moment as

she mingled with her siblings, Luke, and Lowbacca. Observing them, he wondered

what he might do if he could use the Force the way the Jedi did. Would he remain

on the light side, or would he avail himself of the sinister powers of the dark

side to teach the Yuuzhan Vong a thing or two about vengeance? Violent and

ghastly images blossomed in his mind like explosions, but he put a quick end to

them. He had had months of such images already, and they had come to nothing. No

amount of vengeful thinking was going to bring Chewie back.

He glanced at his hands and found them balled into fists. While he'd spent the

past six months isolated and incapacitated, often in the dark or secreted inside

a tapcaf on Coruscant, the Jedi had at least been taking the fight to the enemy,

and that was exactly what he needed to do.

He berated himself silently, then took a deep breath and blew it out through

pursed lips. Loosening his hands, he slapped his thighs in a gesture of finality

and got to his feet. He was starting out for the table when Mallatobuck and

several other members of Chewbacca's family approached him. Malla was cradling a

meter-long wooden box.

[Han Solo,] she said, smiling down at him, [we want you to have this.]

Han's brows knitted. He set the box down on the stool and unlatched its finely

wrought metal clasp. Inside, snug in a bed of cushioning material was a

beautifully carved bowcaster, its marked and blemished skeleton stock polished

to a deep brown gleam. An artfully disguised magnetic accelerator, the weapon

propelled explosive quarrels at extremely high speeds. This one was equipped

with a sighting scope and a recocking mechanism few human hands would be capable

of operating.

"I recognize this," Han said, nodding. He compressed his lips to trap a moan

fighting to escape him. "It's one of the first I ever saw him make."

Malla hooted. [Chewbacca fashioned it shortly after we married - while you were

here. He fashioned better versions in his time, but this one retains the warmth

and power of him.]

Han hefted the weapon. "I feel it." He turned and hugged Malla, his head barely

reaching her chin. "I'll treasure it."

Waroo handed Han a carry pouch made of hide. [This also belonged to my father. I

know he would have wanted you to have it.]

Han placed the curve-bottomed pouch over his shoulder, knowing full well that it

would hang down past his knees. Malla, Waroo, Lowbacca, and the rest boomed

their delight in earsplitting yowls. Jaina returned with a plate of food in time

to join in the laughter.

"If Chewie could see you now," she said, grinning for the first time all day.

Han backhanded a tear from his left eye, smiled, and put his arm around his

daughter's waist. "The big lug would bust a gut."

Jowdrrl, Chewbacca's chestnut-colored female cousin, growled something to Malla

that Han didn't catch. Seeing Han's inquisitive expression, Malla explained.

[Jowdrrl is wondering when you and your family will be returning to Coruscant.]

Han and Jaina traded shrugs. "I hadn't thought about it," Han said. "Tomorrow

sometime, I Suppose."

Jowdrrl lowed in elaboration. [I ask only because Dryanta and I need a small

measure of time to prepare.]

Han's features mirrored his bewilderment. "Prepare for what? Are you coming to

Coruscant with us?"

Chewbacca's father, Attichitcuk, yaupped in a meaningful way. [Jowdrrl and

Dryanta are arranging the feast for Waroo and Lowbacca's farewell.]

"Waroo and Lowbacca," Han said nervously.

[They will be assuming Chewbacca's life debt.]

Han's jaw came unhinged. He glanced from one Wookiee to the next in rising

dismay. "But - but you can't. Chewie's dead. All debts are off."

Attichitcuk issued a sustained, bass-register growl. [Death may have

extinguished my son's defiant flame, but our debt to you continues until yours

is extinguished.]

Her lower lip between her teeth, Jaina placed a comforting hand on her father's

arm, only to have it shrugged off. Han was shaking his head back and forth.

"No, no, I can't accept this. Chewie saved my life ten times over. He died

saving Anakin's life." His agitation increased as he spoke. "Besides, I'm the

one who owes all of you a life debt." He cut his eyes to the dark-brown son of

Dewlannamapia. "Your mother was kinder to me than my own." He searched out

Gorrlyn. "Your husband, Salporin, gave his life protecting Leia from Noghri

assassins." He appealed to Jowdrrl and Dryanta. "Your cousin Shoran died aboard

the Pride of Yevetha saving me!"

[As you would have died for them,] Attichitcuk rumbled, nearly showing his

fangs. [A life debt is just that.]

Malla, too, was glowering at Han. [You would not defame Chewbacca's memory by

refusing to allow his debt to be honored.]

Jaina swallowed audibly. "Dad doesn't mean any dishonor." She glanced at her

father. "Right, Dad?"

Han stared at her, mouth still ajar. Malla's vibrato growl had summoned a memory

of a day following the wedding when Han had tried to persuade Chewie into

remaining behind with his bride rather than accompanying him back to Nar

Shaddaa. He thought, too, of Groznik, a Wookiee who had attached himself to the

Rogue Squadron pilot Elscol Loro, wife of a man named Throm to whom Groznik was

life-debted.

"Right, right," he said at last, looking from Jaina to Malla. "I'd cut off my

arm before I'd dishonor Chewie's memory in any way. You know that. It's just

that ..."

Everyone waited.

"It's just that I'm not ready." He shook his head as if to clear it, then looked

up at Attichitcuk and the others. "Chewie's still alive for me. I can't just

allow him to be ... replaced. You've gotta understand that. He was more than a

protector. He was my closest friend."

The Wookiees exchanged sympathetic looks and indecipherable brays.

[He clings to his memory of my husband,] Malla remarked sadly.

[He needs time,] Attichitcuk growled, somehow without making it sound menacing.

"That's it," Han said, grasping at straws. "I just need time."

After what seemed an eternity, Chewbacca's father nodded his huge head. [Then

time we'll grant you. The life debt involves more than simply providing shelter

from bodily harm. It succors the spirit, as well.]

Han saw the truth of it. "I want that to go on."

Malla put her huge paws on his shoulders. [Then it shall.]

THREE

Holographic images of star systems and entire galactic sectors pirouetted in a

blue-gray shaft of projected light. Flashing overlays showed hyperspace lanes

that linked far-flung regions of space. The pressure of a fingertip against a

touch screen was sufficient to conjure information on individual worlds, stars,

or lightspeed routes. Dots of artificial light expanded to reveal data on native

species and cultures, planetary topography, population statistics, and in some

cases defense capabilities.

"It disheartens me to have to subject you to inert technology, Eminence,"

Commander Tla's tactician apologized, "but we have yet to discover a way to

separate the data from the metallic shells that sustain them. And until our

villips have had a chance to absorb the captured information, we have no choice

but to make do with some of the enemy's own machines. Each has been cleansed and

purified, but I'm afraid there is simply no disguising their vacuity of spirit."

Though repulsed by the devices that had been conveyed to him, Harrar granted the

tactician absolution. "To abhor a thing in ignorance is to fear it. A deeper

understanding of machine nature will only firm my resolve to see machines

exterminated." He waved his abbreviated hand. "Proceed."

The tactician, Raff, inclined his tattooed head in a bow, then raised a bony,

gloved hand to the animated hologram. "As you can see, Eminence, we have here

nothing less than a portrait of the galaxy. In broad strokes to be sure, and yet

detailed enough to aid us in our push toward the Core."

His protected forefinger made contact with the touch screen, and a

representation of the Obroa-skai and neighboring star systems took shape in the

cone of light.

Scrawniness wasn't confined to the tactician's hands. Rail-thin wrists poked

from the voluminous sleeves of his robe, and a spindly neck protruded like a

baton from the robe's high and equally spacious collar. Pledged in service to

Yun-Yammka, the god of war, Raff had a mouth that was a black-stained maw,

featuring an outsize tooth that sometimes wreaked havoc with the clarity of his

speech. But it was his powers of rumination and analysis that counted most.

Frequent rapport with war coordinators and dovin basals kept him abreast of

nearly all aspects of the war, from details on individual New Republic warships

to combat casualty statistics. In keeping with his abilities, his hairless and

distended cranium was adorned with etchings suggestive of the eddies and

convolutions of the enhanced brain contained within.

"Unfortunately, the bulk of the liberated data is historical in nature and of

dubious value. Obroa-skai dedicated itself to preserving cultural documents in

the original languages and access formats." The tactician gestured toward a

levitated pallet stacked with blood-smeared durasheet texts, data cards, and

other storage contrivances, waiting to be slagged by holy fire. "Thus the need

for such an endless array of decryption and translation devices. Even so, our

assault on the library world was justified. Ultimately - and once rendered in

villip speech - these documents will yield a wealth of information regarding the

psychological makeup of many of these species, and that knowledge will be

crucial to our maintaining control over conquered territories."

A male attendant, barefoot and sheathed in a long tunic, climbed the rough-hewn

yorik coral steps of the command platform to place plates of food and a carafe

of amber-colored liquid on the low table that separated the priest and the

tactician. His pointed chin was etched in deep purple to suggest a beard, and

the sacs under his closely set eyes were fully tattooed. His forehead sloped

sharply back from a prominent brow and was in the same way covered with signs

and designs.

At the base of the platform a lone figure waited patiently in the shadows.

Harrar bade the attendant prepare libations for himself, the tactician, and the

figure below. He sipped his drink while he considered the tactician's appraisal

of the spoils of battle.

Generations of travel in intergalactic space had taken a toll on many Yuuzhan

Vong vessels - warships and worldships alike. Where their interiors had once

been warmed by sumptuous curtains and carpets, and the monotony of their decks

balanced by rich mosaic inlays, an austere coldness now prevailed. The vaulted

ceilings of communal spaces were still supported by ornamental columns, but

their surfaces were grazed, marred, and cheerless. The bioluminescent growths

that provided oxygen and light didn't thrive as they once had, and often

flickered like guttering candles. Even the grotto-like spaces reserved for the

elite had a forlorn aspect.

"What do the seized documents have to say about the Jedi?" Harrar asked after a

moment.

"Curiously little, Eminence. One senses that data on the Jedi were either

purposely withheld from the library or systematically purged."

Harrar set his drink down. "The distinction is significant. Which interpretation

do you favor?"

"The latter. Since the libraries are replete with philosophical documents of all

variety, why disallow studies on the Jedi?"

"Perhaps it is the Jedi who disallow such documentation," Harrar suggested.

"Perhaps they are more secretive than we realize."

"That would explain the lack of iconography attached to them, along with the

fact that the Force does not appear to be the manifestation of a supreme being."

"And yet you have reason to believe that the records were purged."

"Even if proscribed by law, Eminence, it's likely that a written or oral history

would have been compiled - if not by a Jedi, then by someone outside the order,

even someone who was opposed to it. A chronicle of Jedi deeds, biographies of

prominent Jedi, that sort of thing."

"An order, you say."

Tactician Raff glanced at the unrevealed figure below, then nodded in

affirmation. "The Jedi appear to have begun as an order devoted to the pursuit

of philosophical and theological studies. It's unclear whether they were the

first to discover the energy source they call the Force, or whether they were

simply the first to discover ways of accessing it. In either case they seem to

have evolved gradually from cloistered meditators to public servants, and for

thousands of generations they served as the guardians of justice throughout this

galaxy."

Harrar steepled his six fingers and tapped them against his tattooed lips. "That

would have required an army."

"Precisely, Eminence."

"But no army of Jedi has been dispatched against our warriors. Battle reports

indicate encounters with a mere handful." The priest smiled faintly in

revelation. "Someone not only purged Obroa-skai's libraries but the Jedi order

itself."

"That is my belief."

"But who?"

The tactician shrugged. "Advocates of the so-called dark side? Those whom the

Jedi call Sith?"

Harrar leaned back against the cushions that propped him. "Then we may have

allies in the galaxy."

"If any Sith remain, we may indeed."

Resolute footsteps trespassed on Harrar's reply. Their source was a young female

of severe beauty, whose long, shimmering garment accentuated an already lean

frame. A turban encased most of her raven hair, and iridescent insects shone

from the borders of her robe. Long strides carried her boldly to the foot of the

command platform, where she folded her arms under her breasts and inclined her

head and shoulders in a deferential bow.

"Welcome, Elan," Harrar said pleasantly.

Elan lifted her head, which was neither as sloped as the priest's nor as

asymmetrical as the tactician's. Wide across the cheekbones, her face tapered to

a cleft chin.

Ice-blue, her eyes swam in a sea of lavender and maroon swirls, and her nose was

wide and almost without a bridge.

"Your pleasure, Eminence?"

"For the moment, only that you join us." In invitation, and absent even a hint

of condescension, Harrar patted the cushion adjacent to his own. "You've arrived

in time to witness the sacrifice."

Elan glanced over her shoulder.

Accompanying her was a diminutive creature of motley countenance and a peculiar

manner. Made piebald by an arrangement of short feathers, the trim torso

supported two thin arms, each of which ended in graceful four-fingered hands.

Willowy ears and twin antennae corkscrewed from an elongated, modestly

disproportionate head, whose rear attenuated to a finely feathered ridge. The

slightly concave face was slant-eyed, wide-mouthed, and delicately whiskered. A

pair of reverse-articulated legs and splayed feet propelled the creature in

agile leaps.

Harrar took note of Elan's hesitation. "Your familiar is also welcome to join

us."

Elan glanced at the stranger standing nearby, then reached for her companion's

right hand. "Come, Vergere." She climbed the stairs and sat, making room for

Vergere, who settled in like a nesting avian. Then she looked at the priest.

"Why have I been summoned, Eminence?"

Harrar feigned disappointment and motioned to the nearest attendant. "Let us

observe the sacrifice."

The attendant bowed and voiced a command to a pair of artfully concealed

receiving villips, which instantly fashioned an optical field. A sweeping view

of local space resolved in midair, filling the entire forward portion of the

compartment and eclipsing bulkheads and furnishings alike. It was as if that

portion of the faceted ship had been rendered clear as transparisteel and the

cosmos ushered aboard.

Obroa-skai's primary was a roiling cauldron at the center of the villip-choir

field. Hurtling toward the star was a battered Gallofree transport that had been

captured during the battle, its ablative shields just beginning to blush with

heat. Inside the pod-shaped vessel, some two thousand captives and droids,

cleansed by sound, purified by incense, and stacked like split firewood, lived

out the remainder of their lives.

Harrar, his guests, and attendants fell silent and remained so as the rosiness

the star had imparted to the nose of the transport began to spread aft,

reddening alloy and liquefying superstructures. Parabolic dishes, sensor arrays,

and shield generators melted like wax. The outer husk wrinkled and began to peel

back from the frame. The hull blistered, buckled, and finally caved. The ship

became a torch, a hyphen of flame, then vanished.

Harrar raised his hands to shoulder height and held them palms outward. "In

praise of the Creator, Yun-Yuuzhan, and in humble gratitude for his actions in

our behalf, accept these lives unworthy of life. May we find continued support

for the challenge you have set before us, of bringing your light to this dark

realm and of ridding it of ignorance and evil. We open ourselves to you ..."

"May you find sustenance in our offerings," the others in the hold murmured.

"We lift up our hearts ..."

"That you might prosper."

"We give ourselves freely ..."

"Through you will we conquer."

Caught in the embrace of nuclear fire, the signal villip that had been tailing

the transport was incinerated. As the visual field destabilized and faded,

Harrar's attendants gradually resumed their duties.

"I will arrange for the images to be analyzed for portents," the tactician

promised.

Harrar nodded. "See that the results are sent to Commander Tla, He may not place

much stock in such things, but where omens are ignored and failure ensues, we

have the makings of a convert."

The tactician bowed. "So be it."

Abruptly Harrar's cushion rose from the command platform and carried him out

over the steps. "We will now speak to the matter at hand," he announced.

Elan made her eyes alert with interest and squeezed Vergere's hand.

"Thus far our campaign has been blessed with easy victories," the priest began.

"Worlds crumble and populations fall at our feet. But while I've no doubt that

we will someday rule these species, I fear we'll encounter great difficulties in

altering the way they think. Something other than superior weaponry will be

required to accomplish that."

He gazed at Elan. "Our chief impediment is a group that calls itself the Jedi.

Think of them as a kind of moral police force - small in number but very

influential."

Elan glanced briefly at Vergere and once more squeezed her hand. "What sort of

gods do these Jedi worship?" she asked.

"None to speak of. Rather, they draw spiritual strength from a pervasive

reservoir of energy known as the Force."

"And you have some strategy for subverting or nullifying this Force?"

"At the moment, no. However, there may be something we can do about the Jedi."

Harrar indicated the stranger at the foot of the stairs. "Elan, this is one of

our field agents, Executor Nom Anor. Aside from being instrumental in helping

secure a foothold in the Outer Rim, Nom Anor has managed to recruit agents from

among the native populations and carry out many acts of sabotage and subversion.

He is taking time out from his usual duties to oversee a project he and I have

planned."

Elan leveled an appraising gaze at Nom Anor as he climbed the stairs to stand

before her. Slender and of medium height, he was ordinary-looking, even with the

facial markings and broken facial bones that attested to more than the usual

sacrifices. Somewhere along the way, he had either lost or purposely surrendered

an eye. Though the socket was a black aperture just now, Elan could discern that

the bones had been reconfigured to house a plaeryin bol - the venom-spitting

organ that resembled an eyeball.

"Dressed in an ooglith masquer, this one could easily pass for a human," she

whispered to Vergere.

"He's an ambitious one, Mistress," Vergere whispered back. "Take care."

Nom Anor bowed to Harrar, though not as deeply as he might have.

"Before the invasion commenced, and as a means of testing what we were up

against," Nom Anor said, "I seeded several worlds with a variety of

illness-producing spores of my own design. One class of spores- a coomb variant

- met with success, causing some one hundred individuals to fall ill and die,

save for one - a human female Jedi Knight. Neither self-propagating nor

contagious, the malady has not spread to the other Jedi."

Nom Anor scrutinized Elan. "By all accounts the human remains gravely ill, but

she has thus far managed to survive, I assume by drawing on the Force. Her

resistance, however, is a blessing in disguise, for I feel certain that we can

make use of it to get close to the Jedi."

"Infiltrate them, you mean?" Elan said.

"Assassinate them," Harrar answered from his cushion. "Or at least, as many as

possible."

Nom Anor nodded. "Such an event would prove demoralizing to countless

populations. If even the Jedi could be brought down, what hope could there be

for the rest? Confidence in the Jedi and the Force would be dealt an

irreversible blow. Worlds would begin to capitulate without a fight. Supreme

Overlord Shimrra could be apprised that our mission has been executed ahead of

schedule, and that we await his coming."

Elan looked from Harrar to Nom Anor and back again. "What part am I to play in

all this?"

The priest moved forward, until he was hovering before her. "One for which a

priestess of the deception sect is uniquely suited."

FOUR

Han stood on the brink, with the tips of his knee-high black boots projecting

over the edge of the natural bridge. The voices of his friends were distant

enough to be indistinct. Fog that had clung to the giant trees all morning was

falling like fat drops of rain. At once rank and perfumed, the breath of

Kashyyyk's perilous and impenetrable underworld made his head swim. Nearby, a

pair of kroyie birds rode updrafts in an oblique ray of sunlight.

With deliberate intent Han let go of a piece of wroshyr bark he had been turning

about in his hands and watched it fall from sight. That section of the bridge

lacked anything in the way of a railing, and nothing stood between him and the

abyss.

"You'll want to watch that first step, flyboy," Leia said from behind him.

Han gave a start but didn't turn around. "Funny thing is, ground zero's always a

lot closer than you think."

Leia's footsteps drew nearer. "Even if that's true, you might want to consider a

sturdy pair of repulsor boots."

He aimed a skewed grin over his shoulder. Kashyyyk's humidity had fashioned a

mane of Leia's long hair, and updrafts tugged at her flowing skirt and

sleeveless blouse.

"No need to worry, sweetheart. I'm already down there."

Leia came alongside him and glanced warily over the edge. "And I thought the

view from our apartment was unnerving ..." She took gentle hold of Han's arm and

eased him back from the edge. "You're making me nervous."

"That's gotta be a first." He forced a smile. "I'm fine."

Leia's brow furrowed. "Are you, Han? I heard about what happened with Malla and

Waroo."

He shook his head in renewed agitation. "I have to put an end to this life-debt

business once and for all."

"Just give it time. They'll understand. Remember when I couldn't even go to the

'fresher without Khabarakh or one of the other Noghri insisting on accompanying

me?"

"Yeah, and you've still got the Noghri bodyguarding you. Not to take anything

away from all they've done for you."

"I know what you're getting at."

Han shook his head. "Uh-uh, you don't know what I'm getting at. See, you could

probably command the Noghri to stay away from you. But Wookiees are different.

If you think that Lowbacca or Waroo are going to let this slide, you'd better

think again."

Leia crossed her arms and grinned. "Okay. So as soon as we get back to Coruscant

I'll have Cal Omas or someone propose legislation that limits the terms of a

Wookiee life debt."

"And risk angering Councilor Triebakk? Forget it. I'll deal with this in my own

way."

Chilled by Han's scowl, Leia straightened her smile. "I didn't mean to sound

flippant, Han. I understand what you're feeling. Today couldn't have been easy

for you."

He averted his gaze. "I wish I understood what I was feeling. I thought the

ceremony would help put things to rest, but it's only made matters worse. Maybe

if I'd been able to retrieve Chewie's body and there'd been some kind of funeral

..." He allowed his words to trail off, then shook his head angrily. "What am I

talking about? It's more than missing out on some ritual."

Leia waited for him to continue.

"I know I can't change what happened at Sernpidal, but I blame myself for

getting us into that fix to begin with."

"You were trying to save lives, Han."

"And a lot of good it did anyone."

"Have you told Anakin that you've made your peace with not being able to save

Chewie?" Leia asked cautiously.

Bitterness contorted Han's face. "That was my biggest mistake - putting him in

the pilot's seat."

"Han -"

"I don't mean that it was Anakin's fault. But I know I wouldn't have made the

same decisions he made." He snorted a bitter laugh. "We'd all be dead - Chewie,

Anakin, me ... And now this craziness about continuing the life debt." Han paced

away, then whirled to face her. "There's no way I'm going to be responsible for

the death of another member of the honor family, Leia."

"You weren't responsible."

"I was," he snapped. "Who knows what kind of life Chewie would have had if I

hadn't dragged him all over the galaxy running spice and chak-root and whatever

else we could smuggle."

Leia frowned. "Meaning what, Han? That you shouldn't have rescued him from

slavery? For all you know, Chewie might have ended up dying in an Imperial labor

camp or in some construction accident. You can't allow yourself to think that

way. Besides, don't try to tell me that Chewie didn't enjoy gallivanting around,

with you - and that had nothing to do with a life debt. You heard what Ralrra

said: Adventure was the reason Chewie left Kashyyyk to begin with. You and he

were two of a kind."

Han firmed his lips. "I guess I know that. Still ..." He shook his head

mournfully.

Leia placed her fingers under Han's chin and turned his head. Positioning

herself in his gaze, she smiled broadly. "You know what I remember most? The

time Chewie strapped me to his chest and carried me across the underside of

Rwookrrorro. Like I was a toddler."

Han snorted. "Consider yourself lucky. One time I had to ride in a quulaar slung

from Tarkazza."

Leia clamped a hand over her mouth but laughed anyway. "Katara's father - the

one with the silver stripe on his back?"

"That's the one." Han laughed with her, but only for a moment. Then he turned

and gazed but over the tree-tops. "It gets easier for a moment, then I'm right

back to remembering. How long does it take, Leia? Till you're past it?"

She sighed. "I don't know how to answer that without sounding trite. Life is all

about change, Han. Look at this place: luma-poles have begun to replace phosflea

lanterns, repulsorlift vehicles are replacing banthas ... Things have a strange

way of reversing direction when you least expect them to. Enemies become

friends, adversaries become confederates. The very Noghri who tried to kill me

became my protectors. Gilad Pellaeon, who once came here to enslave Wookiees,

fought with us at Ithor against the Yuuzhan Vong. Could anyone have predicted

that?" Leia extended her hands to massage his shoulders. "Eventually the

heartache fades."

Han's muscles bunched under her touch. "That's the problem. The heartache

fades."

He sat down, letting his feet dangle over the edge of the bridge. Leia squatted

behind him and wrapped her arms around him. They remained unmoving for a long

moment.

"I'm losing him, Leia," he said despondently. "I know he's dead, but I used to

be able to feel him alongside me, just outside the edge of my vision. It's like

if I turned quickly enough, I'd catch sight of him. I could hear him, too, clear

as day, laughing or complaining about something I'd done. I swear, I've had

conversations with him that were as real as this one. But something's changed. I

have to think long and hard to really see him, or hear him."

"You're getting on with your life, Han," Leia said softly.

He laughed shortly. "Getting on with my life? I don't think so. Not till I've

found some way to make his death count for something."

"He saved Anakin," Leia reminded.

"That's not what I mean. I want the Yuuzhan Vong to pay for what they did at

Sernpidal - and for all that they're continuing to do."

Leia stiffened. "I can understand that coining from Anakin, Han, because he's

young and hasn't figured things out. But please don't make me hear it from you."

He shrugged out of her hold. "What makes you think I know any more about life

than Anakin knows?"

She dropped her hands by her sides and stood up. "That's something I hadn't

considered, Han."

"Well, maybe you should," he rasped, without turning around.

Where moments earlier images of the sacrifice had played, twenty captives now

huddled inside an inhibition field, raised arid sustained by two small bloodred

dovin basals. At the center of the mixed-species group stood the Gotal H'kig

priest, whom Harrar had promised imminent death. The field's hemispherical

outline shimmered like waves of rising heat.

With Harrar, Nom Anor, Raff, Elan, and her pet observing from the command

platform, a youthful Yuuzhan Vong warrior wearing a wine-colored tunic entered

the hold, paid obeisance to his elite audience, and approached the field.

"An assassin," Elan said to Vergere in hushed surprise.

"A mere apprentice," Harrar amended. "Said to show little promise - though the

task he is about to execute will escalate him in the eyes of many."

Ripples played across the immaterial surface of the inhibition field as the

warrior stepped through its one-way perimeter. Nearby guards raised their

amphistaffs in anticipation of a desperate charge, but whether out of fear or

curiosity none of the prisoners made a move against the intruder. Once inside,

neither did the warrior move, except to turn slightly in the direction of the

priest.

"Observe closely," Harrar said to Elan.

A subtle gesture of Harrar's right hand was the assassin's signal to begin.

Swinging about, the youth emptied his lungs with a sibilant and protracted

exhalation.

The effect on the captives was almost immediate. To a being they fell back in

surprise, then in stunned realization, and finally in agony, clutching at their

windpipes as if the inhibition field had been drained of breathable air. Smooth

faces turned a ghastly shade of cyan; others lost color entirely or blackened,

as if scorched by fire. Limbs and appendages spasmed, and tufts of fur wafted

from the hirsute. Sudden blood mottled the flesh, then began to seep and mist

from burst capillaries. Some of the prisoners fell to their knees and vomited

blood; the more resilient staggered about, lurching into one another, until they

fell writhing and gasping to the deck.

Only the assassin remained standing, but not for long. Knowing better than to

draw a breath, he hurried for safety, only to find that the dovin basals

maintaining the field were denying him egress. He spent a desperate moment

moving along the perimeter, as if hoping to discover some gap, some oversight

that would permit him to escape. Then the full awareness of his predicament

dawned on him. Turning to Harrar, he drew himself up to his full height, snapped

his closed fists to the opposite shoulders, and inhaled deeply. Blood began to

stream from his nose and eyes. Torment warped his features into a macabre mask,

but no sounds escaped him. His body trembled from head to foot, then he pitched

forward to the deck.

All at once the inhibition field began to teem with hundreds of spontaneously

generated life-forms no larger than phosfleas. In crazed motion they scuttled

over the prostrate bodies and massed along the edges of the field, as keen on

finding some way out as the warrior had been.

Harrar motioned one of his acolytes forward. "Capture a specimen and bring it

here - quickly!"

The acolyte bowed and rushed to the field. Reaching a gloved hand through the

invisible barrier, he pinched one of the scurrying critters between his thumb

and index finger and ran it to the command platform. Even before he had reached

the steps, the frenetic activity in the field began to abate, as if the swarm

had suddenly expended its energy and was dying.

The acolyte delivered his tiny hostage to Harrar, who pinched the jittery thing

between the three fingers of his right hand and held it up for Elan's

inspection. Faintly opalescent, the creature was a flattened disk, from which

sprouted three tiny pairs of articulated legs.

"Bo'tous," Harrar explained. "Both carrier and byproduct of the toxin.

Precipitated from the assassin's breath. They grow rapidly in the presence of

abundant oxygen, but are extremely short-lived."

"Your weapon against the Jedi," Elan said knowingly.

"A skilled host can manage up to four bo'tous exhalations. But in a sealed

environment, there is no defense - even for the host. Do you understand?"

"I understand that a host runs the risk of dying with his victims."

"The toxic effect of the exhalation is very brief," Nom Anor added. "A host must

be in close proximity to her! target."

"Her target," Elan said.

Harrar held her in his gaze. "We would like to arrange for you to be captured by

New Republic forces. Commander Tla - while not entirely enthusiastic - has even

agreed to afford them a victory in the process. Once in their custody you would

ask for political asylum."

Elan looked skeptical. "Why would they accept me?"

"Because we would convince them that you are a worthy prize," Nom Anor answered.

Harrar confirmed it with a nod. "You would provide them with valuable

information. Information regarding why we have come to their galaxy and what we

have left in our wake. You would also tell them of dissension among our ranks -

of disputes that prompted your flight - as well as information of some strategic

merit."

"Does Commander Tla know of all this?" Raff interjected uncertainly.

"Most of it," Harrar replied.

"Then I must protest, Eminence. I fear this will become too costly an

enterprise."

"I will accept responsibility," Harrar said. "Let us not have genuine

dissension, tactician."

Tactician Raff stood his ground. "Eminence, has not Executor Nom Anor just

informed us that a Jedi Knight survived an earlier attempt at poisoning? Why,

then, should bo'tous prove effective against any one of them, let alone a cadre

of Jedi?" He glanced at Elan. "Notwithstanding the obvious sophistication of

your designated delivery system."

Momentary doubt clouded Harrar's expression. "You do justice to your station,

tactician. Your suggestions?"

Raff considered it. "At the very least, your infiltrator should be provided with

accessory weapons - whatever Executor Nom Anor deems necessary to ensure

success, should the bo'tous prove ineffectual."

Harrar looked at Nom Anor, who motioned in dismissal. "Unnecessary. But easily

accomplished. There is a species of amphistaff that can be modified and

implanted in the body for just such a purpose."

Satisfied, Harrar nodded. "Continue, Executor."

Nom Anor placed himself in Elan's view. "Unfortunately, I know of no accessories

that will guarantee your success with New Republic Intelligence. That would

depend on you. You would begin by claiming to have information regarding the

coomb spores I introduced. You would, however, insist on delivering that

information only to the Jedi. But be warned: the Jedi possess a kind of divining

ability. They would be quick to discover deception - even in one trained since

youth to beguile and mislead. Thus the need for a quick-acting toxin, carried by

a quick-thinking host."

Harrar extended the pinched creature to Elan. "Quickly, Elan, take it in your

palm and clench your hand around it."

Elan stared at him. "Should I do so, I am committed."

Harrar gazed back at her. "I will not command you to accept this charge, Elan.

The choice is yours."

Elan looked to Vergere. "How would you counsel me?"

Vergere's oblique eyes clouded over with sadness. "I would counsel you to

refuse, Mistress. And yet you have long desired to be tested. To be given a

mission worthy of your talents. Sadly, I know of no more unswerving path to

escalation."

Harrar glanced at the priestess's exotic pet. "Take her along if it pleases you,

Elan. She may even prove to be of assistance."

Elan looked at Vergere once more. "You would accompany me?"

"When have I not?"

Elan took the minuscule creature into her hand and closed her long ringers

around it. When she relaxed her hand, the thing had been absorbed.

"It will migrate to your lungs and there mature," Nom Anor said, smiling. "You

will know when the toxin has reached maximum potency. Then you will loose your

four breaths against as many Jedi as you can arrange to be gathered in one

place."

Elan looked at Harrar. "What then, Eminence?"

"What's to become of you, you mean?" Harrar took hold of her fine hand,

examining the palm that had absorbed the carrier. "Nom Anor and I will do all we

can to monitor your whereabouts, but I cannot promise you rescue, only

exaltation. Should you succeed, you will either die with the Jedi or face

execution afterwards."

Elan grinned faintly. "That choice is also mine."

Harrar patted her hand. "Look to the world beyond for recompense, Elan. I envy

you your imminent departure."

Cordoned off by kshyy vines and Wookiee security guards, the Millennium Falcon

sat on landing platform Thiss, alongside the shuttle Luke, Jacen, Anakin, and

Lowbacca had flown to Kashyyyk. What remained of a wroshyr limb horizontally

pruned close to the trunk, the fire-blackened platform at the edge of

Rwookrrorro was large enough to accommodate passenger liners, but the Falcon and

the sleek shuttle had the stage to themselves. Not since Chewbacca had piloted

the Falcon to Kashyyyk during the Yevethan crisis had the city drawn so many

well-wishers, tourists, and curiosity seekers. From Karryntora, Northaykk, the

Wartaki Islands, and the distant Thikkiiana Peninsula they came, most in the

hope of catching a glimpse of Luke, Han, or Leia, but many to have a look at the

Corellian YT-1300 freighter Chewbacca and Han had made famous.

Like a taurill navigating a field of profligate shag ferns, Han edged his way

through a throng of vociferous Wookiees intent on snapping his spine with

backslapping blows or fracturing his ribs with crushing hugs. By the time he

stumbled into the cordoned-off area surrounding the Falcon he looked as if he'd

gone one too many rounds in a g-force simulator. Leia, Luke, the kids, and the

droids were waiting at the foot of the extended boarding ramp.

"Dad, I thought we weren't leaving until tomorrow," Jaina said as Han

approached.

"Change of plans," he muttered. "Did you do a preflight?"

"Yeah, but -"

"Then let's get everyone aboard and raise ship."

"Why the rush, Han?" Luke said, purposely stepping into his path. The cowl of

his Jedi cloak was thrown back, and his lightsaber hung from the belt that

cinched his black robes. "Are we running toward something or away from it?"

Han stopped short. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Leia wince and turn to

one side. "How's that again?" he asked Luke.

Luke's expression was unreadable. "Pressing concerns on Coruscant?"

Han worked his jaw. "Tomorrow, today, what difference does it make? But if you

have to know, yeah, pressing concerns. A little matter called the Yuuzhan Vong

and the fate of the galaxy."

"Han -"

"Don't!" Han interrupted. He bit back whatever he was going to say and began

again in a more controlled voice. "Luke, it's just that I've had my fill of

sympathy. So let's just drop it."

"If that's what you want, Han."

Han started up the ramp, then stopped and whirled. "You know, I don't know

what's worse, everybody's fumbling attempts to make me feel better or your

self-importance. You may think you have me figured out, pal, but you don't. Not

by a long shot. Oh, I know you've lost friends and family, and now, with Mara

being sick and all, but Chewie gave his life for my son, and that makes it

different. You can't know about that, Luke."

"I don't pretend to know about that," Luke said calmly. "But as you say, I do

know something about grief."

Han held up his hands. "Don't talk to me about the Force - not now. I told you a

long time ago I don't believe in one power controlling everything, and maybe I

was right, after all."

"After all we've been through?"

"What we've been through," Han said, pointing his forefinger at Luke's face,

"had a lot more to do with blasterfire than swordplay, and you know it."

"It was the Force that brought down the Empire."

"And just how does that help me?" Han glanced around at Leia, their three

children, Lowbacca, C-3PO, and R2-D2, all of whom looked uncomfortable. "I don't

have the abilities of a Jedi or the delete functions of a droid. I'm just a

normal guy with normal feelings and maybe more than his share of shortcomings. I

don't see Chewie, Luke. Not the way you claim to have seen Obi-Wan, Yoda, and

your father. I don't have the Force at my back."

"But you do, Han. That's all I'm trying to tell you. Let go of your anger and

bitterness and you will see Chewie."

Han opened his mouth and closed it. He spun on his heels and hurried up the ramp

only to stop and reverse directions again. "I'm not ready to walk this plank,"

he grated as he passed Luke.

"Han!" Leia shouted.

He turned, but looked through her at Jaina. "Take the Falcon back to Coruscant."

Jaina's eyes widened. She swallowed hard and stammered, "But what about you?"

"I'll find my own way back," he yelled over his shoulder as he marched off.

In the command center of Harrar's faceted ship, a bioengineered quadruped the

size of an Ewok was meandering about the confines of the inhibition field,

employing its long snout as a vacuum to rid the area of the carcasses of the

carriers birthed by the assassin's toxic exhalation.

The dead captives - along with the body of their assassin - had yet to be

removed.

Harrar and Nom Anor stood at the perimeter of the field, watching the creature

at work. Elan and Vergere had left the compartment.

"Much hinges on the success of this plan," Harrar remarked.

"More than you know," Nom Anor agreed. "Ever since Prefect Da'Gara's failure at

Helska, I am not held in the esteem I once was."

"I have faith in you, Executor."

Nom Anor inclined his head in thanks. "Do you think Elan will elect to die with

the Jedi, or take her chances that the New Republic will spare her life?"

"I suspect she will die with the Jedi."

"And that doesn't trouble you? After all, her domain is very powerful. Her

father has the ear of Supreme Overlord Shimrra, does he not?"

"He is a high priest," Harrar said, then sighed with purpose. "Only Elan can

carry this task to fruition. I will lament her death. But it's often necessary

to sacrifice the bait to ensnare the quarry."

FIVE

The Millennium Falcon put verdant Kashyyyk behind her. Jaina and Leia sat side

by side in the outrigger cockpit, with C-3PO, quieter than usual, behind them in

the navigator's chair. At Streen's unexpected request, Luke was taking everyone

else to Yavin 4. Jaina might have gone along, but Leia had said she didn't want

to pilot the Falcon home alone.

While the navicomputer calculated lightspeed coordinates for the jump to

Coruscant, Jaina glanced at her mother, who looked small and fragile in the

oversize seat Chewie had occupied for so many years. She had scarcely said a

word since lifting off from platform Thiss.

"Not often I get to fly Dad's ship," Jaina said casually, hoping to open a

conversation.

Leia reacted as if she had been yanked from a trance. "What?"

"I said I was surprised Dad asked me to fly the Falcon home."

Leia smiled at her. "Record holder at Lando's Folly ... Rogue Squadron pilot ...

Your father thinks very highly of your skills."

Jaina was quiet for a moment. "I hope he gets home all right."

Leia laughed. "Don't worry, he'll hop a freighter or a trader's ship and

probably beat us back to Coruscant. He doesn't need help in that area."

"Or any other area," Jaina said, frowning.

Leia made her lips a thin line and took her daughter's hand. "Don't confuse

refusing help with not needing it."

"Why is he like that?"

"How much time do we have?" Leia joked. "The short answer is that your father

wasn't raised the way you and I were. He didn't have the support of a family or

the comfort of a stable home." She shook her head. "He's been so many things - a

swoop racer, a pilot, an officer in the Imperial Navy, a smuggler - but all

those occupations have one thing in common: they require extreme self-reliance

and a certain amount of aloofness. He didn't grow up accustomed to getting help,

so he's certainly not about to ask for it."

"But he's been acting like he's the only one who misses Chewie."

"He knows that isn't true, and he's aware of how he's been acting. When he and I

returned to Sernpidal after Chewie died, he told me he suddenly felt that the

world had become unsafe - that he'd always thought of our family and close

friends as almost immune to tragedy, living in a kind of bubble. How all of us

have managed to survive the things we've been through is nothing short of

astonishing. But all the narrow escapes, the flirting with death, only made Han

feel more invulnerable. Chewie's death changed that. Your father even included

Mara's illness as evidence of how insecure and unpredictable everything has

become."

Leia paused, recalling something. "It didn't occur to me until later on that I'd

heard him express the same doubts once before - just after you and Jacen and

Anakin had been kidnapped by Hethrir. Do you remember how protective he became?"

Jaina shook her head. "Not really."

"Well, you were pretty young. But trust me, your dad wouldn't let any of you

kids out of his sight for months." Leia glanced at Jaina. "He'd like to have

everyone believe he's a hardened skeptic, but the fact is, he runs on faith."

"Then why is he keeping such a distance from everyone?"

"Because giving in to his pain would require him to break down and really

grieve, instead of shutting himself off from the world. And he's too slick for

that."

"Is that how he got that nickname?"

Leia shook her head. "That's another story."

Jaina tortured her lower lip with her teeth. "Mom, he will come home, won't he?

I mean, we're all he has right now, right?"

"Of course," Leia started to say, when C-3PO interjected, "I only hope it's

enough."

Mif Kumas, Calibop sergeant at arms of the New Republic Senate for two terms

running, spread his wings as he rose from his commodious seat on the dais of

Coruscant's Grand Convocation Chamber.

"Senators, I would caution you to refrain from disrupting these proceedings with

vocal displays or outbursts, warranted or otherwise." Kumas waited until

everyone had fallen silent, then inclined his maned head toward the speaker's

rostrum that stood opposite the dais on the polished stone floor of the great

hall. "Director bel-dar-Nolek of the Obroan Institute has been recognized, and

he deserves to be heard out."

Nodding curtly to Kumas in appreciation, bel-dar-Nolek resumed his tirade.

"Furthermore, it is the Institute's contention that the New Republic has failed

to honor its obligation to provide defense where needed."

A human of considerable girth, he affected custom-tailored suits and a walking

cane hand-carved from greel wood. His jowls quivered as he spoke, and he

frequently punctuated his remarks by stabbing the air with a chubby forefinger.

"It was clear to the members of this body that Obroa-skai was imperiled, but

nothing was done to safeguard us from attack. The Yuuzhan Vong descended on us

like velkers, picking our cities clean." He paused to clear his throat. "I was

tending to business on Coruscant at the time, but I have seen the holo reports."

Hushed utterings, few of them flattering, spread through the hall, prompting

Kumas to repeat his appeal for some measure of decorum. Gratified by the

commotion his remarks had elicited, bel-dar-Nolek folded his stout arms and

rested them on his ample abdomen.

Tiers of randomly positioned galleries, boxes, and balconies loomed on all

sides, rising clear to the domed ceiling, with page, protocol, and interpreter

droids moving along the ramps, bridges, and stairways that linked them. While

placement was not an indication of rank, many of the senators seated in the

upper levels represented worlds only recently admitted to the New Republic and

were frequently regarded by the lower-tier delegates as audience members rather

than participants. As an appeasement to them, there was talk of equipping some

of the loftiest galleries with detachable hover platforms, such as had been used

in the waning days of the Old Republic, but no one gave the rumors much

credence.

From one of those galleries came the voice of Thuv Shinev, spokesperson for 175

inhabited planets in the outer reaches of the Tion Hegemony. Simultaneously, a

life-size hologram of the human senator resolved from a projector well on the

chamber floor between the speaker's rostrum and the advisory council's dais,

with its tight arc of heterogeneous chairs. Anyone in doubt as to the senator's

identity could access information on small displays built into the armrests of

every chair in the hall.

"I submit to this body that a task force was deployed to protect Obroa-skai,"

Shinev argued, "and that all within reason was done."

Bel-dar-Nolek addressed Shinev's hologram. "A pair of reconditioned Golan

Defense Platforms and a couple of antique warships hardly constitute a task

force, Senator."

"That was all that could be spared, Director," Bothan Chief of State Borsk

Fey'lya growled from his seat on the dais. His violet eyes flashed. "What's

more, I find such recriminations reprehensible, in light of the enemy's erratic

movements and often unpredictable strategies."

Bel-dar-Nolek spread his hands placatingly. "Chief Fey'lya, I'm simply trying to

prevent further errors in judgment. It's one thing to ignore the pleas of Outer

Rim worlds, but to allow a world of Obroa-skai's prominence to fall into enemy

hands -"

"I object to the director's blatant chauvinism!" the senator from Agamar

interrupted. "And by what right does Obroa-skai portray itself as a cynosure?"

Bel-dar-Nolek glowered at the human and flung his words with brutal

carelessness. "Obroa-skai's dedication to the perpetuation of cultural diversity

makes it more important than other worlds. I demand that something be done to

rescue what remains of our historical documents before it's too late."

"Secretary Kumas," a deep and mellifluous female voice rang out, "I ask to be

recognized."

Kumas spread his wings. "The senate recognizes Senator Viqi Shesh of Kuat."

A slender, handsome woman of indeterminate age, Shesh flipped radiant black hair

over her shoulder as she rose from her balcony seat. Relatively new to politics,

she had quickly become known as a clever deal maker, with a knack for keeping

all sides happy. The media had taken an immediate interest in her, to the point

where she had been the subject of countless news stories, and her face was

almost as widely recognized as that of Chief of State Fey'lya.

"On the matter of rescuing data, Director, it is my understanding that shiploads

of important documents were relocated to the Institute's facility on Coruscant

well in advance of the attack on Obroa-skai. Was I misinformed?"

"A fraction of what we had hoped to save," bel-dar-Nolek countered nastily.

Shesh beetled her fine brows and nodded in a way that combined gravity and

conceit. "Forgive my saying so, but the past concerns me far less than the

future. While the loss of Obroa-skai is a terrible blow, the New Republic

military is hardly in a position to spare ships to retake a world when it is

already overextended in defending so many others. The Yuuzhan Vong are widening

their hold of key sectors in the Outer and Mid Rims, and unless their advance is

thwarted, they could reach the Colonies or the Core in a standard year, leaving

even Coruscant itself vulnerable to assault."

Bel-dar-Nolek studied her stonily. "I see through you, Senator. Obroa-skai was

surrendered because it lacks strategic value. When Yuuzhan Vong warships begin

to close on Kuat, Chandrila, or Bothawui, I doubt very much that the New

Republic fleets will be otherwise engaged. The military was in force at Ithor.

Even the Imperial Remnant."

"And Ithor was despoiled in spite of our efforts," Shesh said. "I sympathize,

Director, but I certainly don't see what can be done now."

Bel-dar-Nolek slammed his fist into his open hand. "We can appeal to the Yuuzhan

Vong to allow Obroa-skai to remain accessible to scholars."

Denunciations flew from every quarter. While Kumas was attempting to restore

order, Borsk Fey'lya got to his feet, his cream-colored fur bristling. "It is

not the policy of this body to bargain with aggressors," he pronounced, in a way

that left little room for argument.

But bel-dar-Nolek was unmoved. "Then I'm afraid you leave the Obroan Institute

no choice but to forge a separate peace with the Yuuzhan Vong."

"I strongly advise against that. Director," Shesh said.

"The most recent attempt at appealing to the Yuuzhan Vong's sense of fair play

ended in the grisly murder of one of our own - Senator Elegos A'Kla."

"I hold Luke Skywalker and the Jedi accountable for the death of Senator A'Kla,"

bel-dar-Nolek said in disgust, "and all that has befallen us. Where were they

when Obroa-skai fell? Anyone would think they would have been the first to

protect a center of learning."

"Even the Jedi can't be everywhere at once," Fey'lya said.

"Still, I blame them. I blame the Jedi and the Bothans' own Admiral Traest

Kre'fey, who has become a dangerous rogue!"

"I demand a retraction," Fey'lya fulminated. "Such remarks are blatantly

inflammatory and provocative!"

"What information do we have about the genesis of this war?" the director said,

playing to the audience. "We have only the word of the Jedi that the Yuuzhan

Vong wiped out the ExGal outpost on Belkadan and attacked Dubrillion and

Sernpidal. But who is to say that the Yuuzhan Vong weren't provoked to such

actions by the Jedi themselves? Met with hostility, perhaps they simply

responded in kind. Perhaps this conflict is nothing more than a perpetuation of

that initial misunderstanding, fueled by the subsequent actions of the Jedi at

Dantooine and Ithor, in league with certain elements of the military, including

Admiral Kre'fey and Rogue Squadron, along with other hapless units that have

been dragged into this struggle."

Bel-dar-Nolek paused dramatically and gestured broadly to the hall. "Where are

the Jedi even now? Where is Ambassador Organa Solo? Wasn't it she, senators and

representatives, who first brought the Yuuzhan Vong to your attention?"

Alderaanian councilor Cal Omas spoke up. "Ambassador Organa Solo is attending to

personal business."

"And may I remind Director bel-dar-Nolek and other members of this assembly that

she does not represent the Jedi Knights," Shesh added.

"Then just who does?" bel-dar-Nolek pressed. "Why are they permitted to take

whatever actions they see fit, without having to answer to this body or to the

Defense Force? We are alleged to be members of a New Republic, and yet it seems

to me that we are weaker than the Old Republic, which at least had the Jedi

under rein."

He looked around the hall. "I ask you, too, what are the Jedi waiting for? Do

they fear the Yuuzhan Vong, or is it that they harbor secret designs of their

own? I suggest that you put an end to their reckless conduct, and that you open

negotiations with the Yuuzhan Vong, without using the Jedi - or anyone with ties

to the Jedi, like Elegos A'Kla had - as intermediaries."

Viqi Shesh was the first to speak when the hall had quieted sufficiently for

anyone to be heard. "Senators, if nothing else, I think we can all take some

consolation in the fact that Director bel-dar-Nolek is neither a politician nor

a military strategist." She waited for the laughter and applause to subside. "We

must not allow ourselves to be undermined by divisiveness, nor should we allow

the fall of Ithor and now Obroa-skai to undermine our confidence in the Jedi. I

know that you will agree with me when I say that by weakening the Jedi Knights,

we only weaken ourselves."

SIX

Mara rose from the couch to greet Luke as he came through the doorway of their

suite on Coruscant. He met her halfway with open arms.

"It's about time," she said, shutting her eyes and holding him close.

R2-D2 trailed Luke into the room, toodled a greeting to Mara, and immediately

headed for the suite's recharge station.

"I would've been back sooner if Streen hadn't asked me to go to Yavin 4."

"Trouble?"

"Could be. Now that the Yuuzhan Vong have occupied Obroa-skai, they could

discover the academy. If that happens, we have to think about relocating the

younger Jedi. In the meantime, Streen, Kam, and Tionne are watching over

things."

They had been separated for only a standard week, but Luke was alarmed at how

delicate Mara felt to his touch. He considered trying to feel her through the

Force, but feared she would detect him and resent the intrusion. Instead he

luxuriated in her embrace for a moment longer, then backed away to hold her at

arm's length. "Let me look at you."

"If you must," she said with elaborate sufferance.

Her face was pale and her eyes were underscored by dark circles, but some of the

sheen had returned to her red-gold hair, and her green eyes sparked to life

under his gaze.

"What's the verdict, doctor?"

Luke pretended not to hear the quaver in her voice, but Mara saw through his

pretense. There wasn't much they could hide from each other, though one of the

more devastating aspects of Mara's illness had been its detrimental effect on

the depth and intensity of their bond.

"You tell me."

"It hasn't been my best week." She smiled frailly, then compressed her lips in

annoyance. "But I don't know how I ever let you talk me into coming here - and

don't say you got me at a weak moment."

"I wasn't going to."

Months earlier, Mara had determined that the best way to fight the illness was

to remain active and fully attuned to the Force. But after the brutal murder of

Elegos A'Kla and the devastation visited on Ithor her condition had worsened. If

all of Luke's and Mara's instincts were wrong and the illness wasn't linked to

something the Yuuzhan Vong had introduced to the galaxy, her vitality at least

appeared to wax and wane in accordance with the invasion. Where following the

minor victories at Helska and Dantooine she had emerged strong, Ithor had

constituted a new low, not only for Mara but for everyone.

Luke slipped out of his cloak, and the two of them moved arm in arm into the

suite's modestly furnished sitting room, his black trousers and shirt in stark

contrast to Mara's white sheath. Mara lowered herself into a corner of the

couch, her taut legs tucked beneath her. She gathered her long hair in one hand

and twirled it behind her head, then spent a moment staring out the window at

passing traffic. The apartment wasn't far from the Grand Convocation Center, but

sonic-cancellation glass kept the noise from intruding.

"Did you meet with Dr. Oolos?" Luke asked at last.

She turned to him. "I did."

"And?"

"He told me the same thing Cilghal and Tomla El told me seven months ago. The

illness isn't like anything he's ever seen, and there's nothing he can do. But I

could have told you that - and saved both of us the trouble of coming here.

Oolos wouldn't come right out and say that the Force is the only thing keeping

me alive, but he implied as much."

"There's the one other ... case," Luke started to say.

Mara shook her head. "He died. Just after you left for Kashyyyk."

Luke allowed his disappointment to show. A Ho'Din, Ism Oolos was not only a

noted physician, but also a researcher of some celebrity, as a result of his

investigations into the Death Seed plague that had swept through the Meridian

sector twelve years earlier.

"Did he have anything to say about the beetle?"

"The infamous Belkadan beetle," Mara said jocularly, then shook her head. "Other

than that it's also like nothing he's ever seen. But the tests he ran didn't

show any evidence that my illness is connected to the thing."

Luke grew introspective. Many years earlier, the Mon Calamari Jedi Cilghal had

employed the Force to heal then Chief of State Mon Mothma of an assassin-induced

nano-destroyer virus. So how was it that she and Oolos and the Ithorian healer

Tomla El could all remain powerless against the molecular disorder that had

assailed Mara? It could only have come from the Yuuzhan Vong, Luke told himself.

In the midst of an all-embracing conflict, he and Mara were waging their own

private struggle.

"Was the memorial difficult?" Mara said, clearly eager to talk about something

other than the state of her health.

Luke looked up and took a breath. "Not for Chewbacca's immediate family.

Wookiees are very accepting of death. But I am worried about Han."

Mara frowned sympathetically. "Your sister might be Han's soul mate, but

Chewbacca was his first mate. It's going to take time."

"I didn't help matters any. When I tried to suggest that he open himself up to

the Force, he made a point of reminding me that he isn't a Jedi."

"Which is another reason he and Chewbacca were so close," Mara said. "He's

surrounded on all sides." She grew quiet, then surfaced from her thoughts and

looked at Luke. "I was just remembering a time I saw your father hurl someone

against a bulkhead for showing a lack of respect for the Force."

"I don't think that's the right approach to take with Han," Luke said wryly.

"But it's exactly the approach the Jedi are expected to take with the Yuuzhan

Vong."

"Yes. By the same people who fear us taking over the galaxy or succumbing to the

dark side."

Mara smiled wanly. "Things haven't exactly turned out as planned, have they?

Even after the peace accord, I never doubted that we'd face challenges and go

through the usual ups and downs. But I truly believed we'd be able to send any

enemies of the New Republic running for cover. Now I'm not so sure."

Luke nodded, wondering if Mara was referring obliquely to her own enemy. If so,

her words suggested that she was losing confidence in her ability to prevail.

"Mon Mothma once asked me if I thought my students would eventually set

themselves up as an elite priesthood or as a band of champions. Would the Jedi

choose to insulate themselves or act in the service of those in need? Would we

be a part of the citizenry or outside it?" He narrowed his eyes in recollection.

"She envisioned Jedi who would be willing to get their hands dirty, Jedi in all

walks of life-medicine, law, politics, and the military. She saw it as my duty

to set an example, to become a genuine leader rather than a mere figurehead."

"And she'd be the first to admit that her concerns were unfounded."

"Would she? Obi-Wan and Yoda never talked about what the distant future held for

me. Maybe if I hadn't spent the past few years trying to learn how to overcome

ysalamiri and tune my lightsaber to cleave cortosis ore, I'd know what course

the Jedi should take now. It's the dark side that calls constantly for

aggression and revenge - even against the Yuuzhan Vong. The stronger you become,

the more you're tempted." Luke gazed at his wife. "Maybe Jacen's right about

there being alternatives to fighting."

"He certainly didn't get that from his father."

"His coming to it on his own makes it all the more significant. He thinks I've

paid too much attention to the Force as power, at the expense of understanding a

more unifying Force."

"Jacen is still a young man."

"He's young, but he's a deep thinker. What's more, he's right. I've always been

more concerned with events in the here and now than the future. I don't have the

long view, so I miss the big picture. I've had a harder time fighting myself

than I had fighting my clone."

Luke stood up and moved to the window. "The Jedi have always been peacemakers.

They've never been mercenaries. That's why I've tried to protect our

independence and keep us from swearing allegiance to the New Republic. We aren't

an arm of their military, and we never will be."

Mara waited until she was certain he was finished. "You're starting to sound

like that Fallanassi woman who took you on a wild yunax chase looking for your

mother."

"Akanah Norand Pell," Luke supplied. "I wish I knew where her people went."

Mara snorted. "Even if you found them, I don't think the Yuuzhan Vong are going

to be as susceptible to Fallanassi-created illusions as the Yevetha were."

"Not judging by what we've seen."

An ironic laugh escaped Mara. "Akanah. Akanah, Gaeriel Captison, Callista ...

Luke Skywalker's lost loves. Not to mention that one on Folor ..."

"Fondor," Luke corrected. "And I was never in love with Tanith Shire."

"Just the same, you met each of them during a time of crisis."

"When haven't we been in crisis?"

"That's what I'm getting at. Should I be worried that someone new will cross

your path this time?"

Luke went to her. "Our crisis is the one that concerns me most," he said

earnestly. "We need a victory."

"You want to talk about irony? My father told me a story that happened right

here in the Meridian sector, maybe twelve standard years ago."

Captain Skent Graff - human and proud of it, with broad shoulders and a face

that turned heads - was half perched on the com-scan integrator console of the

Soothfast's cramped bridge, one high-booted leg extended to the floor. His

captive audience, slouched at sundry duty stations, were the half dozen who made

up the light cruiser's bridge crew. The stations chirped and chimed

intermittently, and the ship's Damorian power plant thrummed. The sloping

viewports of the ingot-shaped vessel looked out on cloud-blanketed Exodo II and

its poor excuse for a moon, and some lightyears distant, the luminous dust

clouds of the Spangled Veil Nebula.

"He's stationed aboard the Corbantis, out of Durren Orbital, when the ship's

tasked to investigate reports of a pirate attack on Ampliquen. Actually, nobody

knew for sure whether it was pirates or forces from Budpock violating a truce

accord, but in fact the whole thing turned out to be a ruse engineered by

Loronar Corp, a contingent of Imperials, and a guy named Ashgad, who was trying

to spread a plague through this entire sector."

"The Death Seed plague," the young female Sullustan at the navicomputer said.

"Give the lady a glitterstim spliff," Graff said good-naturedly. "She knows her

history. Anyway, the Corbantis never makes it to Ampliquen. It's quilled by a

flock of Loronar's smart missiles and left for dead in an ice chasm on Damonite

Yors-B - not too far from here as the mynock flies. But then along comes Han

Solo and his Wookiee pal -"

"Who just happened to be in the neighborhood?" the communications officer asked.

"Actually they were searching for Chief of State Leia Organa Solo, who'd gone

missing, but that's beside the point." Graff rested his elbow on a deactivated R

series droid fastened to the bulkhead. "Solo and the Wookiee investigate the

Corbantis and find seventeen severely rad-burned survivors - one of which was my

father - and they take them to the sector medical facility at Bagsho on Nim

Drovis. At the time the place was being run by some well-known Ho'Din physician

- I can't remember his name, Oolups or Ooploss, something like that - and

Ooploss does everything he can for his patients. The problem was that the med

facility was so overcrowded that some of the survivors had to be relocated to

bacta wards in the annex. And what do you think happens?"

"They come down with the Death Seed plague," the navigator ventured.

Graff nodded. "They come down with the Death Seed plague. Which just goes to

show you that even when you figure you've cheated the odds, you're still a

statistic waiting to happen."

"And now here you are, all these years later," the navigator said, "right back

where your father was, making local space safe for Drovis's zwil packers."

"Zwil?" the Twi'lek enlisted-rating at the threat-assessment station said.

"Some sort of narcotic," Graff said.

The navigator's recurved mouth quirked a smile. "For those with membrane-lined

breathing tubes wide enough to -"

"Captain," the comm officer interrupted. "Durren reports that their hyperspace

orbiter has picked up a Cronau radiation event in our sector. Confidence is high

that a large ship has reverted to realspace. Interrogators are awaiting a

telesponder return."

Graff leapt to his feet and hurried to his swivel-mounted chair. "Do we have

visual contact?"

"Not yet, sir. The event is well outside our sensor range."

Graff turned to the comsec officer. "Scramble Gauntlet squadron and go to

general quarters."

Sirens blared throughout the ship, and garnet light began to suffuse the bridge.

The comsec officer looked over his shoulder at Graff. "Sir, forward tech station

reports countermeasures enabled, shields up and fully charged."

"Data on the event coming in," the enlisted-rating said. "Ship is an unknown

quantity. Radar and laser-imaging computers are compiling a portrait."

Graff swung to face the holo-imager, where the ghostly likeness of an enormous,

faceted polyhedron, black as onyx, was already taking shape.

"Yuuzhan Vong?"

"Unknown, sir," the enlisted-rating said. "It doesn't match anything in our data

banks."

"Move us out of stationary orbit."

"Sir, drive profiles of the intruder match those of a vessel in the enemy

flotilla that attacked Obroa-skai."

"Gauntlet squadron is out the door, moving to recon position."

"Any chatter from the Yuuzhan Vong vessel?" Graff asked.

"Negative, sir. No, wait. Scanners now show two ships."

Again, Graff swiveled to face the holo-imager, where a second, smaller

polyhedron was forming alongside the original. "Is that thing a new arrival, or

are we observing some sort of mitosis?"

"It appears to be a component of the larger vessel, sir. Vessel one is changing

course, bearing for Durren Orbital Station. Module is accelerating to intercept

our starfighters. Gauntlet is breaking formation, splitting up into attack

elements."

"Patch me through to Gauntlet leader," Graff ordered the comm officer.

"Gauntlet leader is patched through," the woman said.

"Gauntlet One, can you show us what you're seeing?"

Relayed over the command net annunciator, the squadron leader's voice was thin

sounding and disrupted by bursts of static. "Transmitting. Looks like the

galaxy's biggest decoder ring lost its stone."

"Will you look at that thing," someone on the bridge remarked as a real-time

image replaced the holosimulation. "Sir, bioenergy massing in the smaller ship.

They have us in target lock."

Graff engaged the chair's safety harness. "Brace for impact."

Effulgent golden light filled the Soothfast's forward viewports. The ship shook

as if snatched and shaken by a giant hand.

"Plasma energy," the enlisted-rating reported. "Consistent with Yuuzhan

Vong-ranged weapons. No damage to vital systems. Shields are holding."

"Range?"

"Secondary vessel is moving within striking distance, sir."

Graff gave his command cap a downward tug. "Tell Gauntlet squadron to steer

clear. Starboard main batteries, stand by to return fire."

A retrofitted Proficient-class ship of Corellian design, the Soothfast was 850

meters long, but with only ten heavy turbolasers and twenty ion cannons it was

wanting in firepower. Some of the compartmentalization that had originally

reinforced the cruiser's hull had been removed to create a docking bay for

starfighters, but even with the fighters the sharp-nosed ship remained an

ancillary weapon.

"Gauntlet is clear, sir."

Graff nodded. "Ready proton torpedoes. Set for detonation at the first hint of

gravitic anomalies."

"Sir, torpedoes are armed as dictated by new protocol."

"Ready starboard turbolasers," Graff ordered. "Sir, turbolasers enabled."

Graff looked at the weapons officer. "If that 'stone' operates true to form,

it'll vacuum the torpedoes, but the lasers stand a good chance of scoring."

"Understood, Captain."

Graff pivoted his chair. "Main batteries, commence fire."

Blinding projectiles streaked into space, followed by lances of blue-green

light, converging far in the distance with radiant, strobing flashes.

"Direct hit."

"Fire," Graff repeated.

Again, torpedoes and coherent light streamed from the ship and explosions

wreathed the enemy ship, vying with the stars for brilliance.

"Cease fire." Graff glanced at his executive officer. "Let's hope that softened

things up. Commander, tell Gauntlet to begin their run."

The XO relayed the order over the command net. On the bridge's main display

screen, magnified views showed T-65A3 X-wings and E2 B-wings commencing attack

runs against the lapidary ship. Bursts of scarlet laser-fire spewed from the

snubfighters' wingtip cannons, and proton torpedoes loosed by the B-wings blazed

radiant pink trails through space. But the enemy ship merely consumed the energy

and answered the attack with geysers of molten rock. Resembling shards of

mirrored glass, individual hull facets flared to life, then winked out, becoming

black as the ship's background.

"Soothfast, this thing's going after our shields," Gauntlet One reported a

moment later.

"Gauntlet One, order your fighters to expand the field of the inertia!

compensators and switch over to new scan and targeting protocols. And keep an

eye out for coralskippers."

"Already done, Soothfast. But shields can't be expanded enough to compensate for

the warship's drawing power."

"Shields down," another voice said. "Breaking off."

"Stay with your wingmates," Gauntlet One shouted. "Keep your lasers quadded up

on rapid cycle."

"Compensator is in failure. Aborting attack run."

"Watch your tail, Gauntlet Eight!"

"Captain, energy massing in the Yuuzhan Vong vessel."

Graff swiveled to his XO. "Instruct Gauntlet to abort."

"Enemy vessel is firing."

On the main screen, real-time holo showed three starfighters vanish in fleeting

explosions. A sense of urgency punctuated Gauntlet One's words over the net.

"We're taking casualties - Two, Four, and Five. Still can't get a fix on dovin

basal or weapons emplacements."

"What's he talking about?" Graff asked brusquely.

The Twi'lek enlisted-rating flipped his head-tails over his shoulders and

studied console displays. "Battle analysis computer is working on it, sir. Enemy

weapons and singularity projectors appear to be mobile. Sir, it's like the

entire hull is capable of delivering fire and creating gravitic anomalies."

"Captain, module has drawn another bead on us."

No sooner had the words left the comm officer's mouth than the cruiser was

jarred by a powerful strike. Bridge illumination diminished, then brightened,

and blue electricity danced over one of the consoles. Vibrated free of its

magnetic hold on the bulkhead, the R-series droid tipped forward to the deck.

Fans clicked on, exhausting smoke from the area.

"Damage assessment coming in from forward technical station. Number-two power

generator is down. Deflector shields are marginal."

"Order Gauntlet to regroup and pull back," Graff said quickly. "Alert crash and

recovery crews to make ready. Fire control: stand by to coordinate forward

turbolasers and ion cannons. I want a sustained burst to rake that ship pole to

pole." A glance at the display screen showed him what remained of Gauntlet

squadron fleeing for their lives. "Fire!"

Once more, energy streaked from the ship, but no telltale flashes followed.

Graff studied the display screen. "Did we miss?" he asked in disbelief.

"Negative, sir. Enemy vessel appears to have absorbed the energy."

"All guns," Graff said. "Fire!"

Light painted local space with such intensity that everyone on the bridge had to

turn from the viewports. It was as if the Soothfast had been clipped on the jaw

by a heavy fist and was seeing stars.

"Enemy ship is altering course, taking evasive action."

"All guns, fire!" Graff barked.

"Multiple direct hits. Evidence of debris. Enemy is altering course again, speed

is diminishing."

Graff twisted to the navigator. "Maintain pursuit. Stay on it!"

Then, without warning, an enormous explosion erupted in the distance, saturating

the display screens with white light. When Graff could, he stared out the

viewport, but could see no sign of the Yuuzhan Vong ship.

"Where did it go? Did it jump?"

"Negative, sir," the enlisted-rating told him. "Debris is consistent with an

all-out kill."

A spontaneous cheer rose from the bridge crew.

"Quiet!" Graff shouted. "Did we just get lucky, or did we discover a weak spot?"

"Unknown, sir, but the vessel is completely destroyed. We must have overwhelmed

it. The ship that generated the module is bearing away from Durren Orbital

Station, all speed."

Graff removed his hat and scratched his head. "I don't get it."

"Captain, Gauntlet leader reports that the destroyed vessel jettisoned an escape

pod. The pod should come into visual range any moment."

Graff turned to the display screen. "Full magnification."

The navigator pointed to a fast-moving glimmer of light. "There it is, sir."

Graff saw what looked like a cylindrical asteroid, far from home, a small

portion of its aft surface faceted. "What's its course?"

"Bearing for Exodo II."

"Wouldn't be my first choice," Graff remarked.

"Present heading will bring it just in range of number-two tractor beam."

Graff glanced at his XO.

"Could be a trap, sir. Some kind of sleeper bomb."

Graff nodded grimly. "Engage the tractor beam, but only to hold that thing at

bay. Commander, alert Gauntlet. Tell them to scan for any evidence of weapons,

but to keep their distance. Even if it turns out to be harmless, I don't want it

anywhere near this ship. And patch me through to fleet office."

A new voice crackled from the annunciator.

"Soothfast, this is Gauntlet Three. It's definitely an escape pod, probably

yorik coral. Negative for armaments, but registering life readings. No bigger

than a landspeeder. Rudimentary dovin basal retros and attitude control. Faceted

but transparent canopy. Like a sheet of mica. Request permission to investigate

at close range."

Graff mulled it over for a moment, then said, "Gauntlet Three, you are green to

investigate. But stay sharp."

"Affirmative, Soothfast, staying sharp."

No one spoke for a long moment. Then the speaker crackled back to life.

"Soothfast, I got a peek at the interior. Looks to be two, repeat, two

occupants. One appears to be female. The other ... Well, sir, the other is

anyone's guess."

SEVEN

On Coruscant, Han stepped apprehensively into Eastport's Docking Bay 3733 and

palmed the wall-mounted illuminator bar. A glow ring concentric to the interior

rim of the docking bay's iris dome powered up, washing the Millennium Falcon in

harsh light. Umbilicaled to sundry diagnostic and monitoring devices, the ship

looked as if it were a patient on life support. The glow ring hummed loudly, and

the air smelled faintly of ozone. The floor was a canvas of lubricant spills,

scorch marks, and paint overspray.

Bay 3733 was leased to one Vyyk Drago, but in spite of Han's attempts to keep a

low profile, almost everyone in Coruscant's administrative district knew that

the Falcon was berthed there. In setting the ship down a week earlier, Jaina had

bull's-eyed the permacrete's faded red landing circle. After what had happened

on Kashyyyk, it had taken Han that long to marshal the nerve to visit. Three

days aboard a dilapidated freighter hadn't helped any.

Approaching the Falcon head-on, her boxy mandibles aimed at him, he recalled his

first glimpse of the ship on the Hutt world of Nar Shaddaa almost thirty years

earlier. She had then been the property of Lando, who had won her - so the story

went - in a sabacc game in Bespin's Cloud City. Though he had seen countless

Corellian YT-1300s, it was love at first sight for Han, for there was something

singular about the Falcon, Aside from promising amazing speed and

maneuverability, the ship was built for adventure and proud of its obviously

checkered past. Han had resolved that she would be his, one way or another.

Ironically, the chance came in Cloud City, during a four-day-long

elimination-round sabacc tournament that ultimately found Lando and Han pitted

against each other, with Han holding a pure sabacc hand to Lando's bluff of a

winning idiot's array. Short on credits Lando had offered a marker - good for

any ship on his lot - which Han had eagerly accepted. Dismayed by Han's win,

Lando had tried to maneuver him into selecting a newer-model light stock

YT-2400, but Han had chosen the Falcon.

He still savored memories of his first moments in the pilot's seat, awed by the

power of her sublight engines and the response of her military-grade hyperdrive.

She had speed, all right, but she needed muscle and stealth. So had begun a

process of retrofitting and upgrading that would continue for twenty years. To

Han the Falcon was a work in progress, a work of art, never to be completed.

Throughout those years he had protected her with his life, worrying about her as

only a parent would, missing her as only a spouse could. There was the time

Egome Pass and J'uoch had made off with her on Dellah; the time the Falcon had

clung to the aft command tower of the Star Destroyer Avenger; the time Lando and

Nien Nunb had flown her against the second Death Star ...

Mara's tasking her cherished Jade's Fire to crash into a fortress on Nirauan

some years back was a decision he would never understand.

Circling the ship now, Han could still identify signs of some of the

modifications he and others had made. At Shug Ninx's spacebarn in the Corellian

section of Nar Shaddaa, Han and Chewie had installed a military-grade rectenna,

a ventral quad laser cannon, and concussion missile launchers between the

mandibles. Shug had macrofused to the hull just aft of the starboard docking arm

a small sheet of armor plating from the Star Destroyer Liquidator.

Thanks to a group of outlaw techs who operated in the Corporate Sector, the

Falcon was soon sporting augmented defensive shields, heavy-duty acceleration

compensators, oversize thruster ports, and a late-model sensor suite, as well.

Back then, the ship had had the distinction of violating the Corporate Sector

Authority's performance-profile Waivers List in more ways than any ship of its

class.

While the Falcon was on Kashyyyk during the Yevethan crisis, Jowdrrl had

retrofit a quartet of transparent optical transducer panels to enhance port and

aft visibility. Chewie's cousin had also designed the cockpit's auto-tracking

fire controllers for the gun turrets.

More recently, as hostilities with remnant Imperial factions had begun to wane -

and through no fault of Han's - the Falcon had slowly become a kinder, gentler

ship. Routine maintenance at the hands of a well-meaning but bumbling shipyard

boss on Coruscant had resulted in a near restoration. Cables had been tagged and

bundled, mechanicals shock-mounted, electricals grounded and pulse-shielded. A

Sienar Systems augmenter had been added to the drive matrix, a Mark 7 generator

to the tractor beam array, a Series 401 motivator to the hyperdrive. Sensor

lenses had been replaced, dings hammered out, holds recarpeted ... Han had

nearly gone berserk.

He liked that the ship wore all the bumps and bruises that had shaped her, much

as he might have worn, had it not been for bacta treatments and synthflesh. He

sometimes wondered what he might look like if he'd let all the wounds scar like

the one on his chin, the result of a knife slash received in another lifetime.

The ultimate damage to the Falcon had been done a mere six months ago, however,

with Chewie's death. What she lacked now, and what was likely to keep her

grounded for an indeterminate time, no modification could offset.

Overcome by sudden grief, Han stood motionless below the starboard hexagonal

docking ring, lost in time. The Falcon was so laden with memories, such a

chronicle of his and Chewie's adventures and misadventures, that he could

scarcely bring himself to look at her, much less board her. But after a moment

he entered an authorization code into a handheld remote, and the ship's ramp

lowered toward him, as if daring him to enter.

When he did so, he was like a man relearning to walk.

The ramp led directly to the ship's circular ring corridor. Han stopped at the

intersection and ran his hand over the corridor's now unblemished padding. In

the past five years, the Falcon had become such a spiffy ship. The floor grating

had been replated, the interior lights worked, and there was always food in the

galley and something fragrant in the air. Once utilized to conceal loads of

spice or personnel, the shielded smuggling compartments just forward of the

passageway to the ladder well had of late housed luggage for family outings, or

pieces of folk art Leia had purchased for their home on Coruscant.

Han moved past the outrigger cockpit connector and deeper into the ship. A year

back, thinking vaguely about returning the Falcon to stock, he had made a start

on stripping her of many of the add-ons. The YT-1300 was a classic, after all,

nearly as valuable a collector's item as the J-type 327 Nubian. And for all her

rattles, squeaks, and carbon-scoring, she was in fine shape - not to mention of

considerable historical interest.

One of the first things to go had been the concussion missile launchers in the

jaws, which had always interfered with the operation of the cargo-loading

mandibles. But that, of course, was before the Yuuzhan Vong had appeared out of

nowhere to present the galaxy with a terrible new threat. Who could say how many

besides Chewie would have died in the Outer Rim had he removed the quad lasers.

Han stepped down into the main forward hold and sat dejectedly in the

engineering console's swivel chair. Flashy new carpeting covered both the smooth

metal deck plates and portside grating - another accommodation to family travel.

It was from here that he had watched Luke practice lightsaber technique against

a stinging remote. He swiveled to face the dejarik hologame board, at which

Chewie had spent countless hours, and around which - only a few years earlier -

Leia, Admiral Pellaeon, and the late Elegos A'Kla had sat talking about peace.

Han drew his hand down his face, as if to erase the memories that came to mind

unbidden, then he pushed himself up, crossed the hold, and stepped up into the

circuitry/maintenance bay. Here, he and Leia had shared their first kiss, only

to be rudely interrupted by C-3PO, announcing that he had located the reverse

power flux coupling or some blasted thing.

A million years ago, Han told himself.

Worming his way aft, he emerged from the bay into the portside ring corridor,

opposite the bunk room where Luke had recuperated after losing his hand to his

father's lightsaber.

The corridor passed under the power core ducting and exhaust vents into the main

rear hold, which had seen more alterations than any other portion of the ship.

Reduced in size to accommodate the hyperdrive, the hold had been partitioned in

any number of arrangements. A would-be slaver named Zlarb had come to a grim end

back here.

The location of the escape pods hadn't changed since the Corporate Sector days,

but the original capsule-shaped pods - entered by way of hinged grates - had

been replaced by spherical ones equipped with snazzy iris hatches.

Entering the starboard aft corridor and moving forward, Han passed the bunk room

he'd often used as his personal quarters, and within which he had nearly had a

showdown with Gallandro, then the galaxy's fastest gun.

Dead now, like so many others from the glory days.

Han spread his arms in a hatchway in the interior wall and leaned into the

galley. Laughing to himself, he recalled preparing pudding in cora shells and

spiced aric tongue for Leia, when he'd spirited her off to Dathomir during his

very wrongheaded courtship of her.

A few more steps brought him full circle to the docking arm. But instead of

exiting, Han continued on to the cockpit pod and reluctantly entered. Stepping

between the pair of rear chairs, he leaned stiff-armed on the console and gazed

through the fan-shaped viewport at the spare-parts shelves he and Chewie had

erected on the docking bay wall only the year before.

Ultimately he dropped himself into the outsize copilot's seat and sat for a long

while with his eyes closed and his thoughts shut down.

A month earlier, Chewie had still seemed so alive to him that he could almost

hear the sound of the Wookiee's angry yaups or happy foghorn laughs

reverberating in the docking bay. Sitting in the pilot's-seat, Han would glance

to his right, and there Chewie would be, regarding him sardonically with arms

folded across his chest or paws linked behind his head.

Chewie wasn't the only alien he'd flown with - there'd been the Togorian Muuurgh

in the Ylesia years - but the Wookiee had been his only real partner, and he

couldn't imagine piloting the Falcon with anyone else. So he could either

mothball her, as he had his BlasTech side-arm, or donate her to the Alliance War

Museum on Coruscant, as persistent curators had been urging him to do for

fifteen years.

A museum was probably where he belonged, as well, Han told himself. Like the

Falcon, he was part of the past and of little use to anyone now.

He sighed heavily. Life was like a game of sabacc: the cards could change at

random, and what you were sure was a winning hand could end up losing you the

pot.

Instinctively, he reached under the control console for the metallic flask of

vacuum-distilled jet juice he and Chewie had often kept secreted there, but it

was gone - placed elsewhere by one of the kids or swiped by some disreputable

mechanic.

His minor disappointment quickly turned to bitter anger, and he slammed the edge

of his right fist repeatedly on the console until his hand went numb. Then he

lowered his head to his folded arms and let his tears flow.

"Ah, Chewie," he said out loud.

Han was on his way to Eastport's transport center when a voice behind him

yelled, "Slick!"

Without slowing his pace, he glanced over his shoulder, then came to a dead stop

on the beltway and spun around, grinning ear to ear. "Now that's a name I

haven't heard in a long time," he said to the stocky, gray-haired human who was

hurrying to catch up with him.

The man grasped Han's proffered hand and tugged him into a backslapping embrace.

When they separated, Han was still smiling broadly.

"What's it been, Roa - thirty years?"

"I couldn't tell you exactly when, but I can tell you where. Departure terminal

of Roonadan Spaceport in the Corporate Sector. You and a lovely, dark-haired

young woman were waiting to board the Lady of Mindor to Ammuud, I believe."

"Fiolla of Lorrd," Han said, as if snatching the name from thin air. He gestured

with his chin toward Roa. "You had on a white business suit, with some kind of

rainbow sash ..."

"And you, my young friend, were wearing an especially wary look." Roa's rheumy

blue eyes glinted. "You told me you were out of the business, running a

collection agency. Han Solo Associated, wasn't it? The next thing I hear, you've

won the Battle of Yavin single-handed."

"Not true," Han said, "I had help."

Roa stroked his clean-shaven jaw. "Let's see, then I heard that you'd had

yourself encased in carbonite - for posterity, I assumed at the time."

Han narrowed his eyes. "Actually, I was thinking of marketing molds of myself."

Roa laughed, then showed him a look of mild rebuke. "I warned you about working

with the Hutts."

"You should have warned Jabba about working with me."

Han appraised Roa's Askajian suit, chromasheath ankle boots, and the rings that

sparkled on the pinkies of his plump hands. Roa was already the grand old man of

the smuggling trade when the late Mako Spince had introduced Han to him on Nar

Shaddaa. Honorable, good-natured, and generous to a fault, Roa had launched many

a young outlaw into the business, including Han, whom Roa had brought through

his first Kessel Run. Han had even worked for him for a time, and along with

Chewie, Lando, Salla Zend, and a couple of the other Nar Shaddaa regulars, had

attended Roa's wedding, after which the old man had retired from smuggling, at

his wife's insistence.

"So, you still in import-export?"

"Sold everything - almost ten years ago now."

Han studied him some more. "Roa, you don't look like you've aged a day since

Roonadan."

"Nor do you," Roa said, almost convincingly.

Han smiled lopsidedly and tapped his forefinger against his front teeth.

"Regrown." He touched his nose. "Broken and repaired so many times there's

hardly any original tissue left. Plus, my face is all out of whack. This eye's

higher than the other one."

"And you think I come by my youthful appearance naturally?" Roa asked

theatrically.

"Don't tell me, you're a clone, right?"

Roa laughed. "Next best thing: rejuvenation therapy, coupled with some daily

myostim." He displayed a noble profile. "I instructed the cosmeds to leave just

enough age to keep me looking distinguished."

"And you do, you old scoundrel."

"Besides, the treatments were Leia's idea - mostly."

Han had an image of Roa's rich-voiced, blond-haired, elegant wife. "How is she?"

Roa smiled weakly. "She died a few months back."

Han's lips became a thin line. "I'm sorry to hear that, Roa."

Roa didn't respond immediately. "And I was sorry to hear about Chewbacca, Han. I

actually tried to obtain authorization to visit Kashyyyk for the memorial, but

you know how Wookiees can be about granting permission to humans."

Han nodded. "They've got a long memory for what the Empire did to them,"

"Who doesn't."

Han was quiet for a moment. "So what brings you to Coruscant? I thought you

liked wide open space."

Roa's eyes darted. "To tell you the truth, Han - you. You're the reason I'm

here."

Han felt a shiver pass through him. Because of a series of unexpected encounters

with Roa over the years, in out-of-the-way places like Nar Shaddaa and Roonadan,

the old man had become one of those people who made Han wonder if the galaxy

wasn't a lot smaller than he'd been led to believe, regardless of his own

far-ranging journeys.

"Somehow I expected you to say that," he said at last.

Roa put his hands on Han's shoulders. "What do you say we go someplace where we

can talk?"

Han nodded. "There's a restaurant in the transport center."

They rode the beltway indoors, talking about old friends - Vonzel, Tregga,

Sonniod, the Briil twins - and familiar places, though Han was clearly

preoccupied. All these years later he could still recite Roa's Rules - never

ignore a call for help; take only from those who are richer than yourself; don't

play sabacc unless you're prepared to lose; don't pilot a ship under the

influence; and always be prepared to make a quick getaway - but that didn't mean

he trusted Roa unconditionally.

At the Spacer's Lounge, a courtesy droid showed them to a table on the patio,

where a group of Duros and Gotals were watching a shock-ball match on the

HoloNet. Bland renditions of twenty-year-old jizz classics wafted from unseen

emitters. For old times' sake Han and Roa ordered flagons of ebla beer - a

Bonadan export. Halfway through their first, Han asked to know the purpose of

Roa's seeking him out.

"Fair enough," Roa said, setting the flagon down on the table and patting his

mouth dry. "Do you remember a smuggler from the old days named Reck Desh?"

Han thought for a moment and grinned. "Tall, sinewy guy. Fond of body markings,

piercings, electrum jewelry. Chewbacca and I partnered with him on a small job

for you, running R'alla mineral water into Rampa." His grin broadened. "The

Falcon was being worked on by Doc Vandangante, so you loaned us your ship - the

Wayfarer. Reck claimed she was faster than the Falcon, and after the Rampa

Rapids run, we raced for fifty cases of Gizerale."

"Which you and the Wook won, hands down."

Han nodded. "Reck was a decent navigator, but he never impressed me as a pilot."

Roa took a drink and licked his lips. "Sometimes you only know a soldier when he

becomes an officer."

"Meaning what?"

"Reck's gone over."

"Gone over to who?"

"To the enemy, Han," Roa said, leaning forward. "Or at least to a group of

mercenaries working for the Yuuzhan Vong."

"That can't be right. Reck wasn't the traitor type. Besides, he and Chewie got

along great. No way Reck would have anything to do with the Vong after what they

did to Chewie."

"Maybe he didn't hear about Chewie. Or maybe the credits are too good." Roa

paused briefly. "The group Reck's fallen in with call themselves the Peace

Brigade. Word is they're stirring up anti-Jedi sentiment and scouting out worlds

where the Yuuzhan Vong can repeat what they did at Sernpidal."

Han's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Why are you telling me this, Roa?"

Roa lowered his gaze. "Because Lwyll died on one of the worlds the Peace Brigade

softened up for the kill."

Han's voice deserted him. He stared at his old friend.

"If we had left a day sooner," Roa went on, without looking at Han. "But I had

to take care of some business." He laughed shortly and ruefully, then looked at

Han, his eyes moist. "Always business. Lwyll died in the first Yuuzhan Vong

wave. I was one of a handful who made it out alive."

Han squeezed his eyes shut and struck the table with the edge of his hand. But

when he raised his eyes to Roa, his anger was muted by realization. "So your

coming here - this is as much between you and Reck as it is between you and me."

Roa held Han's polar gaze. "I don't want anyone else to suffer because of what

Reck and his cohorts are doing. The Yuuzhan Vong are masterful enough at causing

tragedies without the Peace Brigade's help. If I could deal with Reck on my own,

I would, but I'm more frail than I look, Han."

"Yeah, and who better to help you than me, huh? A guy who just lost his

partner."

"To put it bluntly: yes."

Han snorted. "Never ignore a call for help, right, Roa?" He got to his feet and

walked to the tall windows that overlooked the spaceport's liftoff zones. There

wasn't a moment when some ship wasn't leaving for somewhere. When he returned to

the table, he spun the chair around and straddled it.

"Where are Reck and his crew now?" he asked in a low voice.

"I don't know, Han. But I know where we could go to find out. First stop would

be -"

Han threw up his hands. "Don't say anything. If I don't know where we're going,

then I can't tell anyone."

"We'd have to leave while the scent is fresh," Roa said.

Han tugged at his lower lip and thought for a moment. "Your ship's here?"

Roa looked surprised. "Of course. But you want me to pilot you? Now that's a

switch."

"Yes or no, Roa?"

Roa made a placating gesture. "Don't get me wrong, son, I'm more than happy to

oblige. I just naturally figured you'd want to take the Falcon."

Han shook his head. "As an occasionally smart-mouthed droid I know once said,

the Falcon's better configured for running away than engagement. And besides,

she's become a ghost ship."

EIGHT

"Aggressive postures are somewhat problematic when you haven't the slightest

notion of your enemy's battle plan," Colonel Ixidro Legorburu told the

commanders of the New Republic Defense Force and a melange of high-ranking

officers. "Only now, with the fall of thirty planetary systems, the destruction

of Helska, Sernpidal, and Ithor, and the more recent loss of Obroa-skai, are we

beginning to have some sense of the path the Yuuzhan Vong are intent on cutting

through the galaxy."

Legorburu's upbringing on agrarian M'haeli belied a shrewd intellect and urbane

wit. A former intelligence officer, he had served as a tactical aide during the

Yevethan crisis and had since been promoted to director of the Home Fleet's

Battle Assessment Division.

"Let me emphasize, though, that the strategy underlying their incursion remains

as much a mystery as their ultimate objective."

Exigency had dictated that the briefing be held on Kuat rather than Coruscant,

though several officers and specialists were participating via real-time

hologram from the New Republic capital and a host of other worlds.

"What have we been able to conclude regarding their origin?" Admiral Sien Sovv

asked. Fulcrum of the Defense Force command staff, the Sullustan sat at a data

console adapted to his smallish hands and capable of filtering background noise,

which might otherwise have proved irritating to his keen hearing.

"As you know, the first world to fall to the Yuuzhan Vong - to be razed by them,

I should say - was Belkadan, where the ExGal Society had a listening post."

Legorburu manipulated a parabolic holoprojector to fashion a 3-D view of the

galaxy's Tingel Arm. "However, despite talk of an extragalactic arrival, our

initial supposition was that they were native to some unknown stellar system,

here, in the central Tingel, midway between the Corporate Sector and Imperial

Remnant space."

"Does that hypothesis remain viable?" Brigadier General Etahn A'baht asked.

Former commander of the Fifth Fleet, A'baht had also been involved in the

Yevethan crisis. A Dornean, A'baht had tough aubergine skin and eyefolds that

swelled and tanned out.

Legorburu looked to the representative from the Institute for Sentient Studies,

headquartered on Baraboo. But before the Ithorian could respond, Sovv rose to

his feet.

"I know I speak for everyone here in expressing my extreme sorrow at what has

befallen your homeworld," the admiral said. "The galaxy is greatly diminished."

Tamaab Moolis acknowledged Sovv's sentiments with a motion of his long, upward

curving head. "I thank the admiral," he said out of both mouths.

Attentiveness replaced the sadness in his widely spaced eyes. "Pursuant to the

supposition that the Yuuzhan Vong originated in the Tingel Arm, we conducted a

thorough search of our databases, but were unable to discover corroborating

evidence. A protocol droid at Dubrillion stated that the Yuuzhan Vong language

is reminiscent of Janguine, but that trail has led nowhere. We are continuing to

investigate the possibility that the Yuuzhan Vong are a long-vanished race

indigenous to our galaxy that has suddenly reappeared."

"Was that area of the Tingel Arm once populated?" Sovv asked.

The Ithorian deferred to the virtual presence of Been L'toth of the Astrographic

Survey Institute. Another Dornean, Been was the son of Kiles L'toth, who had

assumed command of the Fifth Fleet after his friend Etahn A'baht had been

relieved of duty.

"We reject the possibility that a species as powerful as the Yuuzhan Vong could

have originated there," L'toth's hologram began. "Given the extent of their

resources and the size of their war fleet, they would be in control of hundreds

of worlds, if not systems, and would certainly have come to our attention by

now. At the very least, we would have heard about them from the Trianii or some

other species that inhabits that area of the Tingel.

"Granted, however, the Tingel Arm has yet to be thoroughly mapped. The original

explorations were terminated by the outbreak of the Clone Wars. That was one of

the reasons Emperor Palpatine granted the Corporate Sector Authority free reign

in their corner of the Tingel. Our thinking now is that the Yuuzhan Vong are

indeed from outside our galaxy." L'toth paused. "Not merely from a nearby star

cluster, as was the case with the Ssi-ruuk, but from another galaxy entirely."

A'baht huffed. "Any species capable of crossing intergalactic space would have

to be considerably more advanced than any of us - on the order of a hundred

generations more advanced. And yet the Yuuzhan Vong ships have been utilizing

the same hyperspace entry points and egresses used by our own vessels."

"But suppose they have been in transit for hundreds of generations," Legorburu

said. "Imagine if you will, a fleet of vessels plying the void, comparable to

the Ithorian herd ships, only many times their size."

A'baht waved a hand. "I'm interested in facts, not poetry."

Legorburu gained control of himself. "At present we're trying to determine if

Emperor Palpatine had any knowledge of the Yuuzhan Vong, as he did the Ssi-ruuk.

Thanks to the generosity of Moff Ephin Sarreti, we've been given access to

Imperial records relevant to the Outbound Flight Project."

Funded by the senate at the behest of Jedi Master Jorus C'baoth, the Outbound

Flight Project had constituted a failed attempt to peer past the edge of the

galaxy.

Transmitted from Bastion, in the distant Imperial Remnant, Sarreti's life-size

hologram was almost colorless, and disrupted by diagonal lines of interference.

A technician boosted the audio gain.

"... Imperial records do not contain any mention of the Yuuzhan Vong - although

it is now understood that Emperor Palpatine returned Chiss Grand Admiral Thrawn

to the Unknown Regions on learning that the Chiss had been fortifying their

systems against the threat of invasion by an unknown aggressor."

Sovv and his fellow commanders took a moment to confer. "Are you suggesting that

the Yuuzhan Vong might be that aggressor?" Sovv asked at last.

"If we could establish direct contact with the Chiss, we might know for

certain," Sarreti said. "But Jag Fel has no interest in serving as a liaison,

and all attempts at communications with Nirauan have gone unanswered."

"Have you tried dispatching a ship?" A'baht asked.

Sarreti smiled. "Have you, General?" When A'baht grimaced, the moff added, "We

have no desire to intrude on Chiss space and risk having to wage wars on two

fronts."

"Understood, Moff Sarreti," Sovv said, nodding glumly. He looked at Legorburu.

"Continue with your briefing, Colonel."

Legorburu brought a close-up of the Tingel Arm to the light table. "The Yuuzhan

Vong are using the central Tingel as a rendezvous point and staging area.

Reconnaissance forces sent to adjoining sectors - both here, in the Trianii

colonies, and here, at Dathomir - have detected a buildup of significantly

larger ships."

"I want numbers," A'baht said.

Legorburu nodded to the Tammarian Ayddar Nylykerka, chief analyst for asset

tracking during the Yevethan crisis and now director of Fleet Intelligence.

"Based on available data, we are now estimating Yuuzhan Vong naval strength at

one thousand capital ships, deployed in task forces and flotillas, comprising

anywhere from twenty-five to seventy-five vessels."

Sovv and the others exchanged looks of astonishment.

"It may please the general staff to know," Nylykerka added quickly, "that the

senate has ratified the Universal Conscription bill, and that the Kuat,

Bilbringi, Sluis Van, and Fondor shipyards expect to double their production of

heavy cruisers by the end of next year."

"Next year," Sovv repeated. "The Yuuzhan Vong could be in our laps by then."

"Yes, sir, but with our present stock of Mon Calamari Mediator-class battle

cruisers, Bothan Assault Cruisers, and Corellian Viscount-class Star Defenders,

we have sufficient firepower to engage the Yuuzhan Vong in multiple theaters."

Sovv nodded tentatively. "How do the enemy ships compare to our signature

ships?"

Nylykerka glanced at durasheet notes. "Rated by size and armament, the fleet is

comprised of warship analogs, cruisers, destroyers, troop carriers, frigates,

corvettes, and gunboats, along with starfighter analogs known as coralskippers.

Reconnaissance reports indicate that the more recently arrived Yuuzhan Vong

vessels are comparable in size and firepower to Super-class Star Destroyers."

A Yuuzhan Vong warship took shape above the light table. "The command ship at

Obroa-skai," Nylykerka said. "Myriad areas of its yorik coral surface are

capable of unleashing destructive energy on the order of that delivered by our

most powerful turbolaser and ion cannons. The vessel does not so much erect

shields as employ gravitic anomalies to engulf or deflect anything directed

against it. The anomalies are engineered by organic devices called dovin basals,

which also combine the functions of repulsorlift, sublight, and hyperspace

drives."

Nylykerka used a laser pointer to indicate the slender projections that emanated

from the command ship's bow and stern. "The arms are also equipped with plasma

launchers, sealed at the tips by organic, trefoil valves. What's more, each

carries the equivalent of a wing of coralskippers, which are similarly shielded

and capable of firing projectiles or plasma. It was initially believed that the

coralskippers were remotes, like the old Trade Federation droid starfighters or

Loronar Corporation's CCIRs, but in fact they are individually piloted - or at

least to a certain extent. By that I mean that combat tactics seem to be

directed by a creature known as a yammosk, or war coordinator, which serves as a

kind of biotic battle analysis computer."

The laser pointer called attention to irregularities on the command ship's hull.

"We have not been able to determine why some portions of the ship are smooth.

However, certain markings observed on the smooth areas suggest similarities to

the symbols and glyphs often seen on the ovoid vessels of the Aing-Tii monks. We

believe that they might serve as indicators of lineage or status rather than

military rank."

Legorburu broke the stunned silence of the commanders.

"Since entering the Tingel Arm, the Yuuzhan Vong have been moving oblique to the

Core. The attack on Obroa-skai may mark the beginning of a push into the Mid

Rim, but it would be premature to speculate at this point."

"Well, someone had better start speculating," A'baht growled. "We can't remain

on the defensive indefinitely."

Legorburu wedged a finger into the collar of his uniform and continued. "Should

the Yuuzhan Vong adhere to their current heading, without significant deviation

from the ecliptic, they will pass outward of the Hapes Cluster, and perhaps

Kashyyyk. But the Meridian sector, Hutt space, Bothawui, Rodia, and Ryloth lie

almost directly in their path."

A'baht's swelling eyes took in the room. "Does anyone here actually believe that

the Yuuzhan Vong are merely passing through, destroying worlds and sacrificing

populations on a whim?" When no one answered, he added, "What are our options if

they swing toward the Core?"

Nylykerka directed the holoprojector to display a disposition of the main

fleets. "Admiral Pellaeon has returned the ships under his command to the

Imperial Remnant to safeguard it from invasion. Elements of the Third and Fourth

Fleets are spread along the Hydian Way and the Perlemian Trade Route. Most of

the Second Fleet is positioned Coreward of the Hapes Cluster, near Borleias.

Elements of the First and Fifth are deployed at Coruscant, Kuat, Chandrila,

Gommenor, and Fondor."

"Fleet strength and disposition get us only so far," Sovv said after a moment.

"It's more important that we achieve some understanding of the Yuuzhan Vong as a

species. Exactly what sort of beings are we dealing with?"

Legorburu scanned faces in the console displays. "Uh, Dr. Eicroth, perhaps you'd

care to shed some light on the admiral's question."

Joi Eicroth's hologram did justice to her fair-haired allure. Briefly married to

Admiral Drayson, she still worked with him as an operative in Alpha Blue, a

covert branch of New Republic Intelligence. One of the first to have a look at a

Qella recovered on Maltha Obex some years earlier, she was currently a member of

the xenobiology team tasked with compiling a profile on the Yuuzhan Vong.

"Essentially we are dealing with a near-human species," Eicroth said, "both

externally and internally - excepting, for the moment, the semisentient reptoid

proxy troops the Yuuzhan Vong deployed at Dantooine, Garqi, and Ithor. This is

borne out by the fact that Jedi Master Luke Skywalker suffered no ill effects

after donning both a Yuuzhan Vong coralskipper cognition hood and an organic

breathing apparatus. However, the examples we've autopsied present some

intriguing puzzles."

Holographic representations of three Yuuzhan Vong appeared above the light

table, rotating slowly while Eicroth continued.

"The distinctions you see - this one's curiously elongated head, this one's

auxiliary ribs, the deep patterns etched into the torso of this one - may

indicate the existence of separate lineage groups among the Yuuzhan Vong. What

is clear is that they undergo what must be excruciating physical alterations in

service to some religious or warrior ideal. In any case, the uniformity of the

disfigurements and markings suggests a complex social hierarchy.

"This is fully consistent with the nature of Yuuzhan Vong applied science,

which, from what we've been able to determine, is based exclusively on a form of

animated technology. The use of bioreactors, neuroengines, and biological

weapons is indicative of a species that places great importance on organic

rather than artificial innovation. Where we invent machines, they create

life-forms that serve the same function as machines."

"Can they be brought down?" A'baht asked above the murmur of several separate

conversations.

"They are taller and heavier than most humans," Eicroth said. "They are strong

on an individual basis and in some instances enhanced or encased by living

armor. However, they can be killed by conventional weapons and apparently by

Jedi lightsabers. Bafforr tree pollen shows promise as an allergen that affects

the armor, but it will be some time before the pollen can be synthesized in the

amounts needed to serve as an effective deterrent or biological agent. Still,

each encounter has furnished us with additional data as to their weak points -

psychological, anatomical, and social."

Silence prevailed until Commodore Brand, former commander of the Fifth Fleet

cruiser Indomitable and the most curmudgeonly of the cardinal commanders,

drummed his thick fingers loudly on the console.

"All the while I've been sitting here listening to these reports I've been

asking myself one question: What is it they ultimately want from us? Is this war

about territory, resources, religion, some injustice committed by one of us so

far in the past we don't even have a record of it? Do the Yuuzhan Vong consider

us vermin like the Yeverhan Duskhan League did, or do they want our life

energies as the Ssi-ruuk did?"

Anyone who might have been formulating a reply was interrupted by the

communications technician. "Sirs," he said, addressing Sovv and his peers, "I

have Director Scaur with an urgent message he says should be heard by all of

you."

Sovv muttered a curse. "All right. Activate isolation and patch him through."

A half-size hologram of the director of New Republic Intelligence resolved

within the sonic containment field that sequestered the commanders.

"Admiral, I just received word of an incident that occurred in the Meridian

sector early yesterday, standard time," the cadaverous Scaur began. "The good

news is that the light cruiser Soothfast engaged and destroyed an enemy vessel

near Exodo II. The better news is that two Yuuzhan Vong who jettisoned in an

escape pod were captured alive. But the intriguing news is that the captives

have requested political asylum."

His round black eyes even glassier than normal, Sovv reclined in his seat and

glanced in astonishment at A'baht and Brand. "Well, gentlemen, it seems we may

be about to learn what the Yuuzhan Vong want after all."

NINE

"I always knew you had a soft spot for the high life," Roa remarked as he and

Han climbed from the repulsor cab that had delivered them to the skyway balcony

of the Solo residence, in one of the administrative district's most exclusive

neighborhoods.

"Don't kid yourself," Han said. "It's smaller inside than it looks."

Roa went to the balcony railing and glanced down, then up. Though the elegant

apartment was well located, there was almost as much building above as below it.

"Why, you're scarcely three hundred meters from the top. Practically the

penthouse." He smiled roguishly at Han. "You should be proud of your

accomplishments. I can't think of another pupil of mine who's done nearly as

well."

"Thank my wife," Han muttered in embarrassment. "Her job comes with a lot of

fringe benefits."

"Always nice to know what my taxes are paying for."

The door recognized Han and opened. Arms not quite akimbo on his webbed midriff

and head tilted to one side, C-3PO was standing in the tile-floored atrium.

"Why, it's Master Solo - and a guest. Welcome home, sir." To Roa, he added, "I

am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations."

Taking in the domed entryway, Roa whistled softly. "How long before I hear the

echo?"

"Cut it out, will you," Han said out of the corner of his mouth. "Besides, we

used to have a smaller place in the Orowood Tower, but once the kids started

spreading out ..."

Roa stopped him. "You need never rationalize luxury for my sake. I wouldn't live

on Coruscant for all the credits in the New Republic Bank, but if you've got to

be here, the high life is the way to go."

Han frowned and turned to C-3PO. "Where's Leia?"

"In the master suite, sir. I was just engaged in helping her pack when she sent

me downstairs to fetch this." C-3PO held out a shimmersilk scarf Han had

purchased for her on their most recent trip to Bimmisaari.

"Pack? Where's she going?"

"Actually, sir, I have yet to. be informed of the destination."

"Must make it difficult to select a wardrobe," Roa commented.

C-3PO turned to him. Had he the necessary parts, his brightly illuminated

photoreceptors might have blinked. "Sir?"

Roa merely smiled.

Han glanced at Roa. "You'd better wait down here while I handle this."

Roa nodded. "I agree wholeheartedly."

"Master Solo, sir, it seems that I am to accompany Mistress Leia."

"What of it?" Han asked as he headed for the winding staircase.

"Well, sir, knowing as you do my attitude toward space travel, I thought you

might be able to put in a word for me."

Han laughed shortly. "I really feel for you, Threepio."

C-3PO tilted his head in a gesture of pleasant surprise, Han's sarcasm entirely,

lost on him. "Why, thank you, sir. Compassion may not rescue me from my

responsibilities, but it is refreshing to note that at least one person cares

enough to say so. It has long been my contention that you are the most human of

humans. In fact, only last week I was saying ..."

The droid's extemporaneous chatter pursued Han all the way to the master suite,

where he found Leia laying out items of clothing on the bed. Barefoot, she wore

a delft shimmersilk robe. Her hair was clipped behind her head, but loose

strands dangled at her cheeks.

"Seems like every time I come up here lately, you're getting ready to leave.

Maybe you should just keep a bag packed."

She froze on seeing him. "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you all

morning."

Han rubbed his nose. "Memory Lane. Anyway, I had my comlink switched off." He

gestured to the open suitcase. "Threepio tells me you two are going somewhere."

Leia sat down on the edge of the large bed and curled a strand of hair behind

her ear. "Ord Mantell, of all places. The refugee problem has become

overwhelming, Han. Food shortages, disease, families separated ... On top of

everything else, there's widespread suspicion of the New Republic's motives in

helping out. The advisory council asked me to meet with the heads of state of

several Mid and Inner Rim worlds to discuss possible solutions."

"Suspicion about what?"

"A lot of people feel that the New Republic will be ill a position to annex

hundreds of worlds and systems once we've dealt with the Yuuzhan Vong."

"Not if things keep going like they're going."

"I know," Leia said in a troubled voice.

Han cut his eyes to the suitcase once more. "Don't you ever get tired of mercy

missions?"

"Mercy begins at home," C-3PO interrupted, then amended, "No, wait. I do believe

the phrase is 'altruism begins at home.' Why, I must have picked up a flutter.

The anxiety of packing for a space voyage -"

"Threepio!" Han said, thrusting a cautionary index finger at him.

Human body language being among the millions of others with which he was

conversant, C-3PO immediately silenced himself.

Leia looked from the droid to Han. "'Mercy missions' are what I do. I'm trying

to help any way I can."

Han nodded nonchalantly. "Actually, the timing couldn't be better, because I'll

be away for a while myself."

Leia stared at him. "Away where?"

"I'm not sure."

Leia raised her eyebrows. "You're not sure?"

"It's a fact," Han said, glancing down into the foyer, where Roa was appraising

a crystal statue Leia had picked up on Vortex.

Leia followed his gaze. "Who's that?"

"An old friend."

"Does he have a name?"

"Roa."

"Well, that's a start," Leia said facetiously. "I don't know where you're going,

but at least I know who you'll be with - just in case I need to reach you." She

paused. "Are you taking the Falcon?"

Han shook his head. "Feel free to take her out for a spin whenever you want."

Leia studied him. "Han, what's all this about?"

"We're just going to check up on a mutual friend."

"And you have to leave immediately?"

Han shot her a look. "Now or never, Leia. It's that simple." He grabbed a travel

pack from the closet and began to stuff clothes into it.

Leia watched him for a long moment. "Can you at least stay until Anakin gets

home? You've been avoiding him all week."

Han kept his back to her. "You can tell him good-bye for me."

Leia moved deliberately into his view. "You two have more to say to each other

than good-bye. He's confused, Han. You tell him he shouldn't feel responsible

for what happened on Sernpidal, but your silence and anger send the opposite

message. You have to help him through this."

Han looked at her. "What's he need me for? He's got the Force." His eyes

narrowed. "What was it Luke said to me? Something like, because the kids are

Jedi, I won't be able to keep up with them much longer. Well, that's exactly

what's happened. They've grown beyond me."

"Luke didn't mean that the way you're taking it." Leia approached him. "Han,

listen to me. Anakin's need to avenge Chewie has as much to do with pleasing you

as absolving himself. He needs your understanding and your support. He needs

your love, Han. Even the Force can't grant him that."

Han blew out his breath. "If you're trying to make me feel guilty, award

yourself a medal."

"I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I'm only trying to -" She stopped

herself and let her shoulders sink. "Forget it, Han. You know what? Maybe it'll

be good for you to get away for a while."

Without comment, Han went to the wall unit and began to rummage through one of

the drawers. In a moment he had hold of his thirty-year-old BlasTech DL-44. He

ran his thumb over the nub of the front sight blade, then he slipped the weapon

into its holster, purposely cut to expose the blaster's trigger guard.

Leia watched him place the handgun in his pack. "Promise me that's for a

quick-draw contest," she said worriedly.

At first glance the attache case dangling from the hand of the fair-complected

human in the inexpensive trousers looked to be an ordinary valise, something the

snatch-and-run thieves who worked the Bagsho terminal on Nim Drovis wouldn't

have been interested in. The firmness of the man's grip might have persuaded

some that the case was more valuable than it seemed, but the man himself was

enough to give even the most desperate thief pause. His walk was entirely too

confident and his loose-fitting jacket didn't fully disguise the width of his

shoulders. More important, he was trying a bit too hard to appear nondescript.

He cleared immigration without incident and followed a routing line for the

pubtrans flitter that would take him to the Sector Medical Facility.

Nim Drovis had changed since the days Ism Oolos had run the facility. In amends

for what the Death Seed plague had wrought during Seti Ashgad's reign on nearby

Nam Chorios, the New Republic had financed a weather station to regulate the

teeming rain that had been a quotidian event, and the Jedi Knights had

negotiated an accord between the Drovians and the Gopsoto tribes. The

opportunistic molds and fungi that had reproduced so exuberantly had been

brought under control, and even the canals of Old Town weren't the fetid swamps

they once were. Slug ranching had become big business.

Arriving at the renovated medical center, the man with the attache case took

secret delight in the number of armed Drovian guards roaming the grounds,

blaster rifles cradled in tentacles or clenched in pincers. Submitting to a

routine scan at the entrance, he was admitted to a spacious reception area

staffed by Drovians and humans, some of whom may well have been descendants of

Nim Drovis's original Alderaanian colonists.

The man proceeded to the Drovian female receptionist at the front desk. "I have

an appointment with Dr. Saychel."

"Your name?" she asked, around the quid of zwil lodged in her cheek.

"Cof Yoly."

She motioned him to a seat. Moments later, she motioned him back to the desk,

where a human voice addressed him through an intercom.

"This is Dr. Saychel. You asked for me?"

"Yes. I believe I contracted a case of trichinitis on Ampliquen."

"Why didn't you have it treated there?"

"The med center refused to honor my insurance." Saychel fell silent for a

moment. "Take the door to the left of the desk and follow the routing lines to

the lab."

The routing lines took him past examination rooms and primitive operating

theaters, in and out of wooden buildings, and finally through a maze of dimly

lighted corridors that ended at the isolation ward, where victims of the Death

Seed plague had been quarantined twelve years earlier. Saychel, the station

chief of Nim Drovis, was wearing a partially sealed anticontamination suit and

macrolens goggles.

"Welcome to Bagsho, Major Showolter," Saychel said warmly. "I didn't figure

someone of your stature would come all this way."

"Actually, I won the coin toss," Showolter said. "I guess I can understand

everyone's interest." Showolter and Saychel knew each other from Coruscant,

where they had worked together in an Intelligence safe house in the bowels of

the governmental district, and had occasionally hobnobbed with the likes of Luke

Skywalker, Han Solo, and Lando Calrissian. Saychel's thick blond hair had since

become a yellow-white helmet, and his cheeks were reddened by patches of burst

capillaries.

"I'm certain it's you," Saychel said, "but I'd prefer to double-check."

Showolter nodded and spread his arms for the scanner Saychel produced from one

of the biohazard suit's pouch pockets. "That's what we pay you for, Professor."

The scanner quickly located the implant Showolter wore in his right biceps and

verified his identity.

"So where are our two prizes?" Showolter asked.

Saychel led him through a retinal-print-secured door to a large, one-way

transparisteel window in the rear wall of the lab. Dressed in hospital robes,

the two alleged defectors were seated on separate cots in the room behind the

window, quietly conversing in what Showolter assumed was their own language. The

room also contained a table, chairs, and a portable refresher unit.

Falling on the Yuuzhan Vong female, Showolter's brown eyes widened with

interest. "I didn't think the enemy was capable of producing anything so

attractive."

"Yes," Saychel agreed, peering through the transparisteel, "she is a handsome

specimen."

"And the other is, what - pet or partner?"

"A little of both, I think. They're inseparable, in any case. And the 'pet', for

lack of a better word, seems every bit as intelligent as her mistress."

"Her?"

"Indisputably. Perhaps of a species indigenous to the Yuuzhan Vong's home galaxy

or vat grown - genetically engineered."

"Any problems with the transfer?"

Saychel shook his head. "Don't ask me where they got it, but the team from the

Soothfast brought them down the well in an energy cage. We moved them in here

after we completed our initial scans and tests."

"I read the reports. Any surprises?"

"None to speak of."

"What about with the escape pod?"

"Similar to the Yuuzhan Vong fighters, though lacking weaponry. Composed of a

type of black coral and propelled by a dovin basal - which unfortunately was

dead on arrival." Saychel indicated a nearby counter-top, where a meter-wide,

blue-spiked, heart-shaped mass floated in a large flask of preservative.

"More interesting than your standard repulsor engine."

"Quite," Saychel said humorlessly.

Showolter switched his gaze to a second, smaller flask, which held a brownish

pod, about the size of a human head and crowned by a nubby ridge. "What's that

thing?"

Saychel moved to the flask. "It fits the description of a villip - an organic

communicator."

"Is it alive?"

"It seems to be."

"Has it ... said anything?"

"No. But then I didn't think to pose it any questions."

Showolter frowned, unconsciously massaging his right biceps, then turned to

regard the captives. "Have they been fed?"

"Routinely. In fact, the little one has quite an appetite for our foodstuffs."

"Maybe that's the way we win this war: with food."

"I've heard crazier suggestions,"

"Have you been able to talk to them?"

"The Yuuzhan Vong female - her name is Elan, by the way - speaks Basic. She says

she learned it as part of her training."

"As what?"

Saychel grinned. "Are you ready for this? A priestess."

Showolter's thick brows beetled. "You're kidding." He glanced at Elan. "I wonder

if they're celibate."

"I didn't think to ask," Saychel said. "But she sounds sincere about wanting

political asylum. I ran a voice-stress analysis just for fun, and the test

results back me up."

"Have they asked for anything else?"

"To meet with the Jedi. Elan claims to have information about a spore-borne

illness the Yuuzhan Vong let loose before they launched their invasion."

Showolter scratched his head. "The pet likes our food; the priestess speaks

Basic, knows about the Jedi, and wants sanctuary ... Next thing you'll tell me

they have a bet down on the smashball finals." He sighed with purpose. "Director

Scaur wants them transported to Wayland for a preliminary debriefing.

Discreetly, of course. Our Noghri agents there have already been apprised."

"You'll be handling the relocation?"

Showolter nodded.

"It's obviously a trap," Saychel said. "These two, I mean."

"Of course it is. But this could be our only chance to interrogate one of them,

and we're in no position to pass that up. Even if we do have to arrange a

meeting with the Jedi."

"Welcome aboard," Roa said as he and Han reached the top of the SoroSuub 3000's

carpeted passenger ramp.

A quick look around, and it was Han's turn to whistle. Even stock models of the

sleek, arrowhead-shaped craft were considered luxury yachts, but the Happy

Dagger raised the ante. From walkways to bulkheads, what wasn't furniture-grade

wood was made to appear so, and in every nook and niche stood a valuable work of

art or costly hologram. A nearby acceleration couch was upholstered in

crosh-hide and shimmersilk.

"Is this Fijisi?" Han asked in disbelief, squatting to run his fingers over a

section of parquet.

"Actually it's uwa," Roa said. "Got it out of a salvaged Alderaanian pleasure

craft. Pirates had stripped the thing of practically everything else."

Han roamed about, inspecting details and shaking his head. "You know who used to

fly one of these? Lando Calrissian. But even his didn't measure up to this."

"Unless Lando's changed since I knew him, he probably spent more on tracking

devices and weapons than it cost me to outfit the entire ship."

"Maybe, maybe." Han grinned at Roa, grateful for the opportunity to get back at

him for the ribbing he'd taken at home. "So, what do you do, rent out cabin

space to traveling jizz orchestras?"

Roa laughed shortly. "I make no secret of the fact that the tax-and-tariff

agents I employed on Bonadan made me a wealthy man. But now this ship is all I

have."

He clapped Han on the shoulder and steered him toward the main forward hold,

where a burnished silver protocol droid stepped from a forward compartment to

intercept them. "Pardon me, Master Roa, but a stranger is approaching the ship."

"Han, meet Void," Roa said. "He escaped destruction at the hands of some

antidroid zealots on Rhommamool, but the incident was so traumatizing he had to

undergo a memory wipe. I picked him up for a song, but it cost me five hundred

Coruscant credits to get him up to speed."

Roa instructed Void to show him the stranger the security scanners had zeroed in

on in the docking bay. A console screen instantly displayed video of a slight,

brown-haired, blue-eyed teenager wearing an off-white, rough-weave tunic over

brown leggings.

"You recognize him?" Roa asked.

Han's eyes narrowed. "My younger son."

Anakin was already at the foot of the Happy Dagger's ramp by the time Han

appeared. The scanners had captured the boy's agitation. Now the disquiet turned

to wariness. "Hey, Dad," he said carefully.

Han stormed down the ramp and planted his hands on his hips, thumbs backward.

"How'd you track me down?"

Anakin took a step back. "Mom said you were traveling with someone named Roa,

and that you weren't taking the Falcon. Wasn't all that hard to locate the right

docking bay."

Han's expression hardened. "I hope she didn't send you here to find out where

I'm going, because it's like I told her, I don't know yet."

Anakin frowned. "She didn't send me. I came on my own."

"Oh," Han said softly and awkwardly. "So ..."

"I - I have something for you." Anakin unclipped a small leather case from the

belt that cinched his tunic. "Consider it a going-away present."

The lightweight cylinder Han prized from the case was shorter than his hand and

no more than four fingers wide. Scored along its length, it appeared to be made

of some sort of shape-memory alloy.

"I give up," he said at last. "What is it?"

"A survival tool." Brightening slightly, Anakin took back the device and ran

through procedures for accessing a score of miniature utensils, including knife

blades, spanners, a luma, and the like. The tool even featured a macrofuser and

a miniature transpirator.

For a moment, Han didn't know what to say. "Look, kid, it's a clever piece of

hardware, but I don't have any hiking trips planned for the near future."

"Chewie made it for me," Anakin said evenly.

Han's face fell. "All the more reason I can't take it, if he made it for you."

Anakin placed it in Han's hand nevertheless. "I want you to have it, Dad." His

eyes darted nervously.

Han started to protest but thought better of it. The tool was a peace offering,

and refusing to accept it would only widen the rift that had separated them

since Sernpidal.

"First, Chewie's bowcaster and shoulder bag, now a survival tool. I usually

don't do this well at birthdays." He forced a smile and turned the tool about in

his hands. "Who knows, maybe it'll come in handy."

"I hope it does," Anakin muttered.

Han lifted an eyebrow. "Why's that sound like some cryptic remark your uncle

would make?"

"I only meant that Chewie would get a kick out of your using something he made."

"Yeah, he probably would at that," Han said, averting his gaze. "Thanks, kid."

Anakin was about to speak when Roa called down to Han from the top of the ramp.

"We're cleared for liftoff."

Han turned to Anakin. "Time to go."

"Sure, Dad. Take care."

They embraced, stiffly and briefly. Han started for the Happy Dagger but stopped

halfway up the ramp and swung back to Anakin. "It's going to be all right, you

know."

Anakin stared at him, blinking back tears. "What is - the war, my feeling

terrible about Chewie, or your taking off without letting anyone know where

you're going?"

TEN

Imposing in size, coloration, and carriage, Commander Tla paced back and forth

at the foot of the rough-hewn command platform at the heart of Harrar's ship.

Dangling from the points of his broad shoulders, the commander's long campaign

cloak swished as he swung to face the priest and Nom Anor.

"Destroying the spawn ship was a profligate act," Tla bellowed. "You should have

found some other way to place Elan in their hands."

"Other stratagems might have proved even more costly in the long run," Harrar

countered. "As it was, the crew of the spawn ship went willingly to their

deaths, content to be ennobled by the importance of the sacrifice."

Tla cast an angry glance at his tactician. Promoted in the wake of Shedao Shai's

death on Ithor, Tla wore his rank like a scowl.

"All respects, Eminence Harrar," Raff said, "but this isn't some game that can

be decided by cleverness. We're waging a holy war."

"Ah, but any war is always a game of sorts. We needed to make certain that

Elan's flight from us appeared credible."

Tla scoffed. "You're newly arrived in this arena, priest. You don't give the

infidels enough credit. They will lay your artifice bare before long."

"Indeed? Would it surprise you to learn that Elan has already been taken into

protective custody?"

Tactician Raff showed Harrar a dubious look. "I would advise you not read too

much into that, Eminence. Elan is the first of us they have managed to capture

alive."

"Of course. But the point is that I know where she is, and I know where she is

to be taken next."

Tla turned skeptically to Nom Anor. "Is this the doing of your dupes and agents,

Executor?"

Nom Anor smiled faintly, but shook his head. "Unfortunately, no, Commander."

"Then how do you know?" Tla demanded.

Harrar motioned to one of his acolytes, who carried forward, as one might a

newborn, a light-brown and slightly oblate villip. Carefully, Harrar took the

villip into his hands, then cradled it in his left arm.

"Elan's captors were beguiled enough to bring this little one's twin along with

Elan. It has been most dutiful in reporting back to us." Harrar stroked the

villip's ridge with his three-fingered right hand. "Come, little one, repeat

what you told me earlier."

Commander Tla and the tactician moved closer in interest.

The puckered tissue at the center of the nubby ridge expanded, and the villip

began to turn inside out. Fully everted, the creature did its best to mimic

Elan's comely features.

"Way-land," the creature said. "Way-llland."

*   *   *

Slowed by braking thrusters, the civilian shuttle Segue coursed above the craggy

northeastern uplands of Wayland's principal continent. Dense, canopied forest

cloaked the southern slopes of now truncated Mount Tantiss, but to the east lay

vast areas denuded by the seismic explosion that had destroyed Emperor

Palpatine's storehouse more than fifteen years earlier.

One of three passengers in the shuttle, Belindi Kalenda, NRI's deputy director

of operations, pressed her face to the window to soak in as much of the view as

possible. As the shuttle continued to descend, a small city came into view at

the base of the mountain.

"I'm shocked," Kalenda remarked to her seatmate. "I was picturing New Nystao as

little more than a hamlet." Slim and dark-complected, with widely spaced eyes

and a husky voice, she had been with NRI for only twelve years, but her success

in foiling a dangerous conspiracy in the Corellian system had resulted in rapid

advancement.

Xenobiologist Joi Eicroth leaned toward the window to have a look. "It started

out that way. Now there are close to ten thousand living in the immediate area.

Myneyrshi, Psadans, and humans, in addition to the five hundred or so Noghri

that founded the place."

"And everyone gets along?"

"So far."

Kalenda laughed, mostly to herself. "The Noghri despise anything related to

Palpatine, but they're fine living on a world he named."

"It has never been documented that Wayland was Palpatine's code name for the

planet," Dr. Yintal said from the seat behind the two women. "I submit that

human colonists conceived the appellation long before the Emperor decided to use

Mount Tantiss as a treasure vault."

An analyst for Fleet Intelligence, Yintal was a small pensive man, and the

suddenness of his outburst prompted Kalenda and Eicroth to exchange secret

smiles of amusement.

"And where else would the Noghri get to pile dirt on anything that belonged to

Palpatine, right, Doc?" Eicroth asked over her shoulder.

"That's certainly a contributing factor to their contentment with the

arrangements," he observed coolly.

The shuttle circled, then settled down on a landing pad in the center of New

Nystao. The three passengers gathered their belongings and waited at the

hatchway. Wayland greeted them with resplendent light and crisp, sweet-smelling

air.

A hodgepodge of wattle huts, wooden buildings, and stone mansions, the

burgeoning city reflected its mix of cultures. Perplexing, however, was the

profusion of hotels and ethnic restaurants that surrounded the landing pad.

Kalenda was about to quiz Eicroth when Major Showolter arrived on the scene

perched atop an old SoroSuub Corvair landspeeder. Out of passenger compartments

missing their folding access panels climbed two Noghri.

Showolter was sporting tinted driver's goggles and a locally purchased poncho.

He saluted Kalenda and shook hands with Eicroth and Yintal. Then he introduced

everyone to Mobvekhar and Khakraim of clan Hakh'khar, who were attached to NRI's

safe house. The pleasant sunshine did little to soften the savage brawn and

vampiric hideousness of the gnomish gray beings.

Kalenda peered dubiously into the passenger compartment of the battered

landspeeder. "Is there room for all of us in this thing?"

"I thought we'd walk," Showolter said, making it sound like a question. "It's

not far."

Kalenda made an ushering motion with her hand. "Lead on, Major."

The Noghri insisted on carrying the bags. The narrow pressbonded lanes were

crowded with spindly Myneyrshi, armored Psadans, humans, and Noghri, but

interspersed among them were small groups of Bimms, Falleen, Bothans, and other

species, lingering in front of hotels or sipping drinks at streetside cafe

tables.

Baffled, Kalenda finally asked about it.

"A serendipitous result of the Debbie Agreement," Showolter said while they

walked. "The agreement stipulates that any works of art - formerly the property

of Palpatine - found in or around Mount Tantiss can be reclaimed by the cultures

that produced them. Ever since it was put into effect, curators and acquisition

types from hundreds of worlds have been coming here to retrieve artifacts that

survived the explosion and have since been discovered in the course of New

Nystao's expansion. Off-worlders need to be housed and fed, of course, so hotels

and restaurants started springing up, which in turn has led to the growth of the

town."

"And to the discovery of yet more cultural artifacts," Yintal added.

Showolter nodded. "Treasure hunters have become as common as vine snakes."

As the NRI team neared the Noghri section of the settlement, the primitive

dwellings of the Myneyrshi and the rock fortresses of the Psadans gave way to

basic but well-constructed huts of lumber and stone. The village had been

transplanted from Honoghr after the official razing of Mount Tantiss had

commenced.

A short but steep uphill walk brought them to an inconspicuous Noghri-style

dwelling nestled against the mountainside and shaded by flowering trees.

Mobvekhar and Khakraim stationed themselves outside, while Showolter escorted

everyone else into a sparsely furnished, windowless front room.

"The back door opens onto one of the tunnels that honeycomb Tantiss," the major

explained. "About as hardened a site as you'll find between Wayland and

Borleias." He gestured to a side room. "Our would-be defector's in here. We've

got the other one - the pet - stashed downstairs."

"Is that her term or yours?" Eicroth asked. Showolter turned to her. "What she

actually said was 'familiar.'"

The four operatives entered the side room, where the Yuuzhan Vong female was

sitting in a meditative posture on a pillow she'd borrowed from the cot. In

place of the exotic garb she was wearing in the 2-D opticals Kalenda had seen,

Elan was now attired in drawstring trousers and a hooded overshirt. Though

outlandishly tattooed, she was even more striking and statuesque in person than

she looked in the photos.

Her oblique eyes - a vivid blue - snapped open and darted from face to face.

"Elan, these are some of my associates," Showolter said smoothly.

She glared at him. "Where is Vergere?"

"Downstairs - eating, when I last saw her."

"You've deliberately separated us."

"Just for the time being."

"What is Vergere to you, Elan?" Eicroth said, moving to the cot and sitting

down.

"She is my familiar."

Kalenda and Eicroth traded brief glances. "We understand the term, but perhaps

in a different context. Do you mean that Vergere is something more than a

companion?" Kalenda asked.

"She is that, as well."

"So, an aide and a comrade."

"She is not a comrade. She is a familiar." Elan rearranged herself on the

pillow. "You've come to test me further?"

Kalenda sat down alongside Eicroth. "Just a few questions."

"Questions your despicable scanners and analyzers failed to answer?" Elan smiled

maliciously. "How can machines be expected to communicate with a living being?"

Kalenda forced a smile. "Suppose we consider this a means of getting

acquainted."

"We Yuuzhan Vong have no such protocols. We know who others are. We wear who we

are." She ran her fingertips across her patterned cheeks. "What you see reflects

what is inside. You are fools to suspect that I am other than what my face and

body declare me to be. Why do you refuse to grant me political asylum?"

"The Yuuzhan Vong would accept one of us without question?" Yintal countered.

Elan looked hard at him. "Where doubt or suspicion exist, we have the breaking."

"What is the breaking?" Yintal asked, clearly intrigued.

"An expedient way of arriving at the truth."

Eicroth waited for Elan to go on, but instead Elan fell silent. "You say that

you wear who you ace. Are you referring to your body markings?"

"Markings?" Elan repeated with unconcealed revulsion. "I am a priestess of

Yun-Harla." She touched her broad forehead, then her cleft chin. "This is

Yun-Harla's forehead; this is her chin. These are not markings. I am elite."

"Why would an elite desert her people?" Yintal asked bluntly.

Elan narrowed her eyes in apparent deliberation. "There is dissension. Not all

Yuuzhan Vong believe that we should have journeyed across the void to come here.

As many believe that this war is not one the gods wish. Because I am a priestess

of the high arts, I would have you see the light in other ways."

"You don't condone the mass murder and sacrifices that have characterized your

campaign so far?" Kalenda said.

Elan turned to her. "Sacrifice is essential to existence. We Yuuzhan Vong

sacrifice ourselves as often as we do infidels. Whether or not your galaxy is

the chosen land, it must be purified to be made habitable." She paused briefly.

"Death is not what we wish for you, however. Only that you accept the truth."

"The truth as revealed by your gods," Eicroth said leadingly.

"The gods," Elan corrected her.

Yintal made a sound of disdain. "You're not a priestess. You're an espionage

agent - a pretender. The ship you jettisoned from was destroyed much too

easily."

Elan's eyes flashed. "Vergere and I had already concealed ourselves in the

escape pod when the battle began. We didn't know the ship would be destroyed.

Our launch was ... fortuitous."

"Even if that's true, why would your military leaders deploy such a small

warship against our own, when a much larger ship was in the vicinity?"

Elan sneered at him. "Should I judge you by size, little man? The smaller ship

was the more well armed of the two. Why else would the larger have fled with the

destruction of its spawn?"

Yintal looked at Kalenda and Eicroth. "She's lying."

Elan sighed wearily. "You are a suspicious species. I've come to do good."

"In what way, Elan?" Kalenda asked.

"You must take me to the Jedi. I can supply information about the malady."

Yintal stepped closer to Elan and appraised her openly. "What does a priestess

know about disease?"

She shook her head. "It is not a disease. It is a reaction to the coomb spores.

The Jedi will know."

"Why can't you simply tell us?" Kalenda said. "Why is it so important that you

meet with the Jedi?"

Elan sharpened her gaze. "Tell them what I have told you and they will

understand."

Yintal paced away from her, then whirled. "We need proof that you've come as a

benefactor and not as a spy."

Elan spread her arms wide. "You see me. What more proof can I offer?"

Yintal tightened his lips and squatted before her. "Military data."

Elan's face clouded over with perplexity. "Is that what you wish?"

"Give us something we can take to our superiors," Kalenda urged. "If what you

give us can be corroborated, we might be able to do as you request and arrange a

meeting with the Jedi."

Elan considered it for a moment. "My order works closely with the warriors to

assure that the auguries are advantageous. We forecast which tactics to employ

..."

"Then tell us where your fleet will strike next," Yintal demanded. "Name the

world."

Elan had her mouth open to respond when a crashing sound issued from the front

room, followed by muffled shouting, in Basic and Honoghran.

While Kalenda and Eicroth were rising from the cot, a tall, powerfully built man

slammed into the doorjamb and fell to the floor, but quickly regained his

footing. Dressed in spacer's garb, he stood swaying in the doorway for a moment,

taking in the room. Blood seeped through rips in his jumpsuit and ran from

slashes that crisscrossed his face. Eyes fixed on Elan, he wedged the forefinger

of his right hand into the crease aside his right nostril and launched a

blood-curdling, Yuuzhan Vong scream to the ceiling.

"Do-ro'ik vong pratte!"

Then several things happened at once.

As if possessed of a will of its own, the man's skin peeled back from his face,

revealing a macabre, misshapen mask of whorls and undulating lines. Undercurrent

to his scream, ripping and popping sounds emanated from beneath his clothing;

then two torrents of gelatinous muck poured from his pants legs, consolidated

into one mass, and streaked away like an animated oil slick.

Elan leapt to her feet and reared back against the wall, hissing and snarling at

the intruder and curving her long fingers into claws.

"Assassin!" she shrieked through bared teeth. "They've found me!"

Yintal swung around and stepped in front of the assassin, only to take a

backhand to the face that snapped his neck like a twig. The small man flew clear

across the room, colliding with Showolter and dropping him to the floor.

The assassin was preparing to throw himself at Elan when he was suddenly

attacked from behind by Mobvekhar and Khakraim, their sinewy limbs and lumpy

craniums displaying scarlet bruises and wounds. The two Noghri drove the Yuuzhan

Vong forward into the side wall of the hut, narrowly missing Elan, who ducked at

the last moment and rolled herself under the cot.

The Yuuzhan Vong met the wall facefirst with bone-shattering force, and for a

moment it seemed that he would succumb to the Noghri's slashing assault. All at

once, however, he straightened, propelling the two commandos off him with such

power that they sailed to the far sides of the room, crashing into opposite

walls and collapsing to the floor.

The Yuuzhan Vong whipped around, flinging blood in all directions, his closely

set eyes searching the room. Barreling between Kalenda and Eicroth, whom he

toppled like rag dolls, he overturned the cot with one hand and grabbed hold of

Elan with the other. His fingers vised around the priestess's long neck, and he

lifted her off her feet and pressed her to the wall.

At the same instant, Mobvekhar regained consciousness. Powerful legs launching

him off the floor, he caught the assassin around the waist and sank his teeth

into the enemy's back.

The Yuuzhan Vong howled. Swinging a flailing Elan to one side, he used his free

fist to rain hammer blows on the Noghri fastened to him. Mobvekhar grunted and

moaned as the air was driven from his lungs, but he clung tenaciously to his

prey.

Dazed, Kalenda struggled to her feet, gave her head a clearing shake, then leapt

onto the assassin's pumping arm, which she rode up and down for a moment, until

the Yuuzhan Vong hurled her aside like some minor inconvenience. Her head struck

something solid, and she blacked out. Bright shapes punctuated the momentary

darkness; then, contorted in a corner of the room, she had an upside-down view

of Showolter, his poncho twisted around his neck, crawling out from under Yintal

and drawing a small blaster from a shoulder holster.

From a prone position - and careful to miss Mobvekhar, who had been driven to

the floor - the major fired, catching the Yuuzhan Vong between the shoulder

blades. Smells of ozone and burned flesh mingled in the air, but the assassin

barely reacted. Showolter fired again, catching the Yuuzhan Vong in the back of

the neck and setting his hair on fire.

Showolter fired a final time.

The assassin stiffened and crumpled to the floor in a scorched heap, his left

hand still clasped to Elan's throat. Bleeding from her nose and eyes, the

priestess pried open his thick fingers and slid down the wall, gasping for air.

Gracelessly, Kalenda somersaulted, and was bellying forward to help Elan when

the hut was rocked by a powerful explosion. Showolter's comlink chimed, and he

fumbled it out of his pocket.

"Yuuzhan Vong coralskippers," someone reported over the link. "Maybe half a

dozen, executing strafing runs over New Nystao. Soothfast has been alerted.

Starfighters are on their way."

Showolter clamped his hand around Kalenda's forearm. "Move her into the hardened

area," he rasped, coughing up blood. "Now!"

At the cold edge of the star system in which Wayland orbited, a solitary Yuuzhan

Vong gunboat lurked. On the bridge, Nom Anor stood before a visual field

fashioned by distant signal villips, observing coralskippers and New Republic

Starfighters exchanging fire in the skies over New Nystao.

"Don't try too hard," he said aloud to the pilots who manned the coralskippers.

"Just enough to convince them."

ELEVEN

Through the Happy Dagger's wraparound slit of cockpit viewport, Han gazed

queasily at the mottled indifference of hyperspace. Alongside him Roa dozed in

the pilot's seat, snoring softly, and behind him one of the ship's droids was

monitoring the navicomputer.

If only time were as easily outraced as light, Han thought. Then he might jump

forward to a point where Sernpidal was a distant memory, or perhaps backward to

a point before that harrowing day on the planet, so that he might restructure

the events and put things right.

As it was, he was trapped in a tragic moment, compelled to relive it over and

again ...

The Falcon, taking on evacuees, hovering just above the bucking surface of

Sernpidal. The small moon called Dobido caught in the grip of a Yuuzhan Vong

monstrosity and descending.

Chewie on the ground with a kid under each massive arm, the wind tearing at his

coat. Then Chewie and Anakin using blaster bolts and the Force to free a downed

shuttle of rubble that held it fast.

The Falcon holding its own in a deafening wind, as Chewie rescued another child,

thrusting him up into Han's arms as he dangled from the extended ramp.

Sernpidal heaving and breaking apart.

Chewie lifting Anakin in his arms. His resigned expression as he tossed Anakin

to Han. The frightful wail of the Falcon's repulsorlift engines; the ship

drifting up and to one side as Han, a group of evacuees holding him by the legs,

reached desperately for Chewie.

The pitching surface carrying Chewie away.

Anakin hurrying to the bridge, weaving the upended Falcon through quickly

narrowing alleys and around collapsing buildings. A fleeting view of Chewie, his

back to the Falcon and his long arms upraised to Dobido, a plummeting streak of

fire.

The arrival of Tosi-karu.

A searing wind that burned Han's face and hands and sent Chewie flying and

buildings toppling. The Falcon's shields groaning in protest.

Chewie once more, his blood-matted coat ... regaining his footing ... standing

high on a pile of rubble, roaring defiantly at the seized moon, as if to hurl it

back where it belonged.

The Falcon, still in Anakin's hands, clawing for space, abandoning Chewie to

fate.

Han's first utterance to his son: "You left him."

The memory of those words as heartrending, as piercing, as Chewie's death. A

condemnation uttered in grief, and impossible all these months later to rescind.

Hollowed by anguish, Han squeezed his eyes shut and balled his hands. How long

might he remain thus: still dangling from the Falcon's ramp, arms extended to

Chewie -

Beside him, Roa stirred, yawned loudly, and stretched his arms over his head. He

blinked and swiveled to the droid at the navicomputer.

"Are we nearly there?"

"The ship will shortly revert to realspace, Master Roa."

Roa grinned at Han. "Like old times, isn't it, you and me on a run?"

Han forced himself from harsh reflection, his blood rushing like acid through

his veins. "I remember that first Kessel Run like it was yesterday."

Roa's smile became enigmatic. "Speaking of Kessel, I've been meaning to ask you

something. Now, granted, stories can change quite a bit in traveling from

Tatooine to Bonadan. But the way I heard it, you claimed to have made the Kessel

Run in less than twelve parsecs."

Han said nothing in a blank-faced definite way.

"Well?" Roa pressed.

"Ancient history, Roa. And that was always my worst subject."

"Think hard. I'll grade you on a curve."

Han showed the palms of his hands. "Look, Jabba was breathing down my neck for

dumping a load of spice. Chewie and I needed the work, and sometimes you do or

say whatever you have to."

"But it's true - you actually made it under twelve?"

Han brought his fingertips to his chest. "Would I make up something like that?

When brag, I mean every word of it."

Roa regarded him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Ah, Han, whatever

became of those days? Whatever became of chasing fortune and glory?"

"There's no future in it." Han gave his head a quick shake. "Still, the idea

that decent guys like Reck would willingly throw in with the enemy ... The

Yuuzhan Vong make the Hutts seem like schoolyard bullies. They make Palpatine

seem like an enlightened despot."

"Perhaps. But the winning side is paying better," Roa said soberly. "Besides,

credits don't have to come from clean hands to be appreciated by Reck and his

ilk."

Han smiled. "You've become quite the philosopher in your old age."

Roa's shoulders heaved in a shrug. "When your partner dies, you suddenly have a

lot of time to think." He looked at Han. "You've probably found that out."

Han said nothing.

The navicomputer chimed.

"Master Roa, we are emerging from hyperspace," the droid announced.

Roa and Han swiveled to the control console to prepare the Happy Dagger for

sublight.

"Sublight engaged," Roa said shortly.

Han flipped a final switch. "Shields are enabled."

Elongated, blue-shifted light tunneled them into realspace. Abruptly, the lines

collapsed to pinpoints, rotating slightly before coalescing into a star field,

each distant sun like a piercing to an alternate reality. Save for a brief

shudder, the ship executed the transition smoothly.

"Entering the Anobis system," the droid reported.

"Anobis?" Han said in surprise. "This place is the back end of nowhere. I can't

see even Reck wanting to hide out here."

Roa was shaking his head when Han looked at him. "Anobis is only a side-door

entry to our final destination. A direct jump might have landed us in the midst

of an enemy flotilla or an Imperial Remnant patrol." He aimed a thick finger out

the starboard viewport. "Take a look at that."

Han swiveled to the right. Almost close enough to touch floated the holed and

battle-scorched remains of a Star Destroyer. Listed to, port and nimbused by

debris, the great ship's command, tower and pointed bow had been blown away. Her

once-gleaming aft plating was pockmarked by immense blackened craters. Power

cables and ducting trailed from her ruptured innards. Han thought back to the

attack on Yuuzhan Vong-held Helska 4 and the Star Destroyer Rejuvenator that had

gone down with nearly all hands aboard.

"Do we have a fighting chance against these thugs?" Roa asked.

"The Yuuzhan Vong wouldn't have it any other way." Han swung from the view. "So

just where are we going, Roa?"

Roa tapped his forefinger on a star chart he called up on a display screen. "Ord

Mantell."

Han's mouth fell open a bit, then he threw his head back and launched an

explosive laugh at the ceiling.

Roa regarded him quizzically. "Worried about running into someone from your

past?"

"Someone from the here and now," Han muttered. "My wife."

Ord Mantell was still the same undistinguished sphere Han remembered from

previous visits, which had been many over the years, some intentional, more by

misadventure. But something new had been added since Han's stint as grand

marshal of the Blockade Runners Derby: a small space station of outmoded ring

design, pieced together from salvaged and Hutt-supplied parts by a consortium of

Mid Rim engineering companies. Parts of the station - two of its spokes and

perhaps ten degrees of the outer ring - were still incomplete, and were likely

to remain that way for some time to come, since construction crews had abandoned

the project after the destruction of Ithor.

The Jubilee Wheel, Roa called it.

"Except for the gravitation debt, the station doesn't have much to do with Ord

Mantell," he told Han from the pilot's seat of the Happy Dagger. "It was a free

port. A highly successful one, until the Yuuzhan Vong invasion put a damper on

trade. Now it's a transit point, filled with some of the most desperate types

you're ever likely to meet."

"Long as our business doesn't take us down the well, I'm ready for anything,"

Han said. "It's Ord Mantell that's been bad luck for me."

Roa nodded, "Then we'll have to do our best to keep our feet from touching the

ground."

Awaiting docking assignments, ships of all types were queued up around the

station. Some were empty freighters and barges with nowhere to go - their home

ports occupied by the Yuuzhan Vong or their holding companies bankrupted by the

war - filled with half-starved spacers caught in a political no-man's-land.

Others were fifty-year-old crimson-red diplomatic cruisers, and warships

recently recommissioned from mothballed fleets. Then there were the passenger

transports - including several shallow bowl-shaped Ithorian herd ships - crammed

with displaced beings from conquered or immolated worlds, also in search of some

planet to call home, even temporarily. And catering to the needs of those

refugees with credits to spend were aged scows and tenders, crewed by pirates

selling dreams of a new life to the blindly optimistic.

Waiting for clearance, Roa and Han passed the time running checks on the

SoroSuub 3000's security systems and generally battening down the hatch^ The

crowded and filthy docking bay the ship was finally allocated had been salvaged

from an MC80 cruiser and, in fact, still bore some of the original Mon Calamari

markings.

First down the ramp, while Roa saw to lockdown procedures, Han was confronted by

a group of five aliens of a species he had never encountered.

"You need perhaps someone to watch over your ship?" their spokesman asked above

the din, in whistling, heavily accented Basic.

Han eyed the alien up and down. "I need perhaps someone to watch over you."

The alien - clearly a male - took a moment to catch on, then laughed loudly, a

hearty, basso laugh that almost made Han smile.

A head shorter than Han, he was a biped with muscular legs and a slender yet

useful-looking tail. Those parts of him left unconcealed by a colorful vest and

strategically slit culottes were covered with short, smoke-colored fuzz, save

for the backs of his forearms and tail, where the hair was darker in hue, stiff

as slender rods, and possibly capable of inflicting damage.

Like the two other males in the group, the one who approached Han had a soft

snow-white mustache that drooped past his pointed chin, and a fright wig of

matching white hair. His front-facing eyes were large and bright; his nose was a

chitinous beak that curved down over a thin-lipped mouth and was perforated like

a musical instrument.

Slightly smaller than the males', the two women of the group were about the same

size, with shapely curves to their compact bodies and splashes of vibrant color

highlighting velvety, taupe coats. They lacked the drooping mustachios, and in

place of crests had lustrous slicked-back hair that fell to the shoulders. The

tips of their smooth tails looked as if they had been dipped in sky-blue paint.

Jewelry of a sort hung in loops from their long necks, accented their small ears

and five-fingered hands, and studded their nostrils.

"All right, all right," their mouthpiece was saying, "you perhaps prefer to have

someone clean and detail the ship?"

Han put his hands on his hips and laughed. He was still sniggering when Roa came

down the ramp followed by two of the Happy Dagger's crew - Void and an EV

supervisor droid, whose head resembled the curving bill of a large, fruit-eating

avian.

"Roa, you want to hire this bunch to sonic the carpets and clean the 'freshers?"

Roa regarded the aliens with keen interest. "That's what the droids are for," he

told the spokesman.

"Then we watch over the ship. Lots of thieves about."

"I do appreciate the offer," Roa said congenially, "but no thanks. Some other

time, perhaps."

The aliens exchanged words in their melodic native language, nodded to Han and

Roa, and moved off toward the neighboring ship in the bay, an old Sienar

Marauder-class corvette.

"It's like somebody tossed a manka cat and a woolamander into a blender," Han

said, watching the aliens.

"Ryn," Roa said, identifying the species. "I used to run into them occasionally

on out-of-the-way worlds in the CorpSec - Ession, Ninn, Matra VI. They're nomads

- that is, when they're not being hunted or enslaved, chased from one place to

another, or made the scapegoat for someone else's crimes or misdemeanors.

They've a reputation for thievery and confidence games. but I've never had a

problem with them. They work hard, at just about any trade, from ship salvaging

to jewelry making. And I'll tell you, Han, they perform the most exhilarating

music I've ever heard - music you can't help but dance to."

"I'm sure I could stop myself," Han said.

"No, riot even you could. I'm not talking about jizz or any of the new music. I

mean fiery, passionate music."

Han gave them another look. "Where's their home-world?"

Roa shook his head. "No one's ever been able to tell me."

Han laughed through his nose. "Just when you think you've seen it all."

Leaving the droids in charge, they headed for immigration and customs, where

long lines of mixed species were undergoing document checks and security scans.

Han showed his documents, which identified him as Roaky Laamu, a freelance

laser-welder. He had considered wearing a disguise - synthskin, prosthetics, a

beard - but in the end had opted for simply changing his hairstyle and leaving

his face undepilated. He had often used the same approach when traveling with

Leia and the kids, and it had usually served him well. After all, most

circulated images of him depicted a youthful Alliance leader, with bright eyes,

sideburns, and a mop of shiny brown hair.

Things didn't go awry until he reached the scanners.

"Open your pack," the young agent ordered in response to a prompt from the droid

he was partnered with.

Han unsealed the pack, and the agent quickly located the blaster, its large

scope and conically shaped flash suppressor stowed in a separate case.

"Is this a DL-44?" he asked incredulously.

"More or less," Han said. "I've made some special modifications -"

The agent laughed and got the attention of a human coworker. "Boz, does this

classify as a weapon or an antique?"

"Antique," Boz answered around a broad smile.

"Laugh it up, fellas," Han said, refraining from boasting about the blaster's

capabilities.

The agent glanced at Han's identity documents. "Either way, Laamu, I've got to

drain the power pack."

Han put his tongue in his cheek, then shrugged. "Long as you've done that with

the other weapons that have come through."

"All the ones we've discovered," the agent said.

"That's comforting."

"We're looking for the Bet's Off?" Roa asked while the agent was fitting a

depletor to the power pack.

"Assuming you two have normal-spectrum vision, Red route to the Yellow tram to

White Two, then all the way down the Shaft. You can't miss it."

"What do you tell the color-blind?" Han said nastily.

The agent placed the depleted blaster in the travel pack and resealed it. "I

tell them to take a cab."

Roa insisted on taking a cab. Their Sullustan driver was a former ambassador to

Ithor, marooned on the Jubilee Wheel waiting for transit documents to arrive

from his homeworld.

"It's the same story over and over," Roa told Han when the cab had dropped them

off in White Two. "Some trying to get home, some fleeing their homes, some

without homes - and rarely the required documentation to get them off station,

let alone transport to their desired destinations. So you find diplomats working

as drivers, university professors tending bar, important types from you-name-it

waiting tables or risking their savings on sabacc games - most of which are

rigged."

In the Shaft, they made their way through a mixed-species crowd of hopeless

folks - Ithorians, Saheelindeeli, Brigians, Ruurians, Bimms, Dellaltians -

refugees from up and down the Hydian Way, clutching meager possessions to their

torsos or holding tight to their children, shuffling aimlessly, in search of the

miracle that was going to get them off the Wheel, as many referred to the

station. People huddled in the shadows, hungry, trapped, and wary. Elsewhere

prowled the ones the war had elevated: uniformed soldiers, reclamation and

salvage experts, document forgers, scavengers, scammers, relief flyers, and the

rest.

Han recalled what Leia had said about the refugee situation, about the lack of

food and shelter, the diseases, the separation of families, and it began to dawn

on him that he wasn't the only one in a bad way.

He was still mulling it over a short time later, while he and Roa sipped Gizers

in the Bet's Off, a crowded and somewhat elegant tapcaf, with a back room

devoted to sabacc and other games of chance.

"Time I started making some inquiries," Roa announced when he'd finished his

drink. He stood up and squared his shoulders. "I won't be long."

Han watched him move off in the direction of the circular bar, then returned his

attention to the pale-blue ale. Movement caught his eye, however, and when he

glanced up, two Ryn males were standing at the table, darker and better dressed

than the ones he had met in the docking bay.

"You'll pardon the intrusion," the taller one said in a trilling voice, "but

you're off the recently arrived SoroSuub 3000?"

Han extended his arms over the backs of the chairs adjacent to his. "Word gets

around fast. What of it?"

"Well, kind sir," the other took over, "we were wondering - that is, Cisgat and

myself - if your onward travels might be taking you in the vicinity of Rhinnal,

or perhaps if you could be induced, for an equitable sum, to carry some

passengers there."

"Sorry, boys, but we're not Core bound."

The two exchanged concerned glances.

"Perhaps if we explained," Cisgat said. "You see, this is a matter of some

urgency. We were to rendezvous here with other members of our extended family,

but there seems to have been a problem, and they have not arrived."

"Our contingency plan called for us to meet on Rhinnal," the other added, "but,

as is the case with so many on the Wheel, we find ourselves marooned here, with

dwindling resources and little hope of securing onward transportation."

"We fear our clanmates may move on from Rhinnal without being able to get word

to us."

Han folded his arms over his chest. "I'm sorry to hear that your family's

scattered, but it's like I told you -"

"We can pay you well."

"We won't cause you any problems."

"Hold it," Han said loudly. "I said I'm sorry. But I'm out of the rescue

business, you understand?"

The pair fell silent for a long moment. "We, too, are sorry to hear that," the

tall one remarked.

Han angrily drained his drink as the Ryn walked off. No sooner did he set the

glass down than Roa returned.

"What did they want?"

"A ride to Rhinnal."

Roa frowned and sat down. "As I said, everyone's desperate."

"D'you learn anything?"

Roa nodded his chin toward a rangy, red-haired spacer who was approaching from

the bar with a drink in hand. "Roaky Laamu, meet Fasgo," he said as the man took

a chair and extended his hand to Han. "Just make sure to count your fingers when

you're done shaking."

Fasgo grinned broadly, showing stained teeth, and took a long swallow from the

ale Roa had obviously paid for.

"Fasgo was one of my best tax-and-tariff boys," Roa continued. "Just ask him and

he'll tell you. Since he left my employ, he's had occasion to work with Reck

Desh."

Han watched Fasgo's smile collapse.

"Any idea where Reck can be found?" Roa asked pleasantly.

Fasgo swallowed hard. "Look, Roa, I appreciate your buying me a drink, but -"

"Roaky and I know all about Reck's new employers," Roa cut him off, "so there's

no need to feed us a tale."

Fasgo licked his lips and forced a short laugh. "You know Reck, Roa, he follows

the credits."

Han put his elbows on the table. "If the pay's all that good, how come you're

not still with him?"

"Not my style," Fasgo said, shaking his head. "I'm no traitor."

Han and Roa glanced at each other. "So what about Reck?" Roa said.

Fasgo shook his head once more. "I don't know where he is now." Gauging the look

in Han's eyes, he added, "I'm being straight with you guys, I don't know." He

glanced around and leaned forward conspiratorially. "There is someone on station

who can probably tell you. He runs things around here - the underground things.

They call him Boss B."

"And just where do we find this Boss B?" Roa said.

Fasgo made his voice a whisper. "Ask around for him and he'll find you."

As the spacer was about to rise, Han laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Who's running Reck's enterprise? Who's his control?"

The color drained from Fasgo's face. "You don't want to meet them, Roaky.

They're nasty as they come, and then some."

"Give me a name?"

"I never learned any names - honest." Fasgo swallowed whatever else he was about

to say and riveted his gaze on something over Han's shoulder.

Han twisted around to se? three Trandoshans moving toward the table, armed with

Merr-Sonn and BlasTech blasters and wearing knee-length, climate-control

coveralls. While two came to a halt on either side of his chair, the largest of

the saurian trio - older, by the look of his graying skin - circled the table

twice, never taking his black-pupiled, red eyes from Han. Eventually, he took up

a position directly across from him.

"Now, you look very familiar," he rasped. His long tongue emerged from a lipless

mouth and wriggled in the air for a moment. "And you taste even more familiar."

Han forced himself to relax. While the Trandoshan had clearly recognized him,

Han wasn't sure if he and the alien had ever crossed paths. Native to a world in

the same star system as Kashyyyk, the brackish-smelling Trandoshans had been

instrumental in persuading the Empire to enslave the Wookiees and had often

worked as slavers themselves.

"Last time I saw a tongue like that it was hanging in a meat market collecting

stink-flies," Han said.

The Trandoshan's death trap of a mouth approximated a baleful smile, and he

planted his triple-clawed hands on the table. "Now, the human you resemble has

since become a very important person, but when I knew him he was just a

second-rate smuggler, running spice for Jabba the Hutt and anyone else witless

enough to employ him."

Bossk? Han wondered. Could it possibly be ... "Ah, you must have been the cutest

little egg at the time," he goaded.

Conversation at surrounding tables was quieting, as patrons tried to determine

if they should stay seated for the rest of the show or seek cover as quickly as

possible.

"Among other dishonorable acts, this piece of human filth once interfered with a

legitimate slaver operation on Gandolo IV."

Roa shifted in his seat and spoke up. "What's past is past, big guy. Or is it

that you're so short on hunter's points you've got to disturb a couple of old

friends sharing drinks?"

The Trandoshan glowered at Roa, then Han. "I don't know this fat one, but I do

know you - Han Solo."

"Solo?" Fasgo said in astonishment.

Han held the Trandoshan's gaze. It had to be Bossk. He could only hope that the

E-1VA1 the alien wore on his hip had been drained at customs.

"Tell me, Solo, are you still sticking your twisted beak in the business of

others?"

Han smiled lopsidedly. "Only when there's the chance of wrecking someone's

starship and humiliating her captain while I'm at it."

The Trandoshan straightened to his full and considerable height. "I heard you

lost the Wookiee, Solo. Rumor has it you let a moon come crashing down on him.

Which is just what I'd do if I had a Wookiee following me around."

Much to the alien's delight, Han had nearly come out of his seat when Roa threw

an arm across his chest. "What's the use, Han? They'll only regenerate anything

we break off them."

The Trandoshan grinned malevolently. "But what's one flea-bitten Wookiee or

another," he continued with elaborate casualness. "Why not just go out and get

yourself another one?"

Han threw the punch that started it all.

TWELVE

"I spent time in a bacta tank during the jump to Coruscant," Belindi Kalenda

told the six members of the Security and Intelligence Council, by way of

explaining why she looked better than she felt.

"Your efforts are beyond the call of duty, Colonel," Diamalan Senator Porolo

Miatamia said from the far end of the long wooden table, his leathery face

radiating genuine concern. "You should have remained on Wayland. We could have

arranged for a holoconference."

Kalenda smiled faintly. "Wayland hardly has the technology for a holoconference,

Senator."

"Then let's come to the point, shall we?" Senator Krall Praget said from the

chair closest to Kalenda. Never one to mince words, Praget, representing Edatha,

had sought to remove Leia Solo from office during the Yevethan crisis.

Between Praget and Miatamia sat senators Gron Martab of Mon Calamari, Tolik Yar

of Oolidi, Ab'el Bogen of Ralltiir, and Viqi Shesh of Kuat. Also present was

Luke Skywalker, curiously silent and all but shrouded by his Jedi robe, and his

saturnine teenage nephew, Anakin Solo.

Kalenda addressed them. "Thank you for coming, Master Skywalker and Jedi Solo."

Skywalker offered a nod of acknowledgment and nothing more.

"To begin with," Kalenda said, rising with obvious effort from her chair, "the

enemy raid on Wayland justifies the precautions we took in moving the defectors

there. The air strike inflicted significant damage to New Nystao, but fatalities

were minimal - which wouldn't have been the case had we relocated them to

Bilbringi or some other more populous world."

She took a pained breath. "One of the fatalities was Dr. Yintal of Fleet

Intelligence, though he died as a result of injuries sustained in the direct

attack on Elan - the Yuuzhan Vong priestess. Dr. Joi Eicroth of Alpha Blue also

sustained injuries, but she is well on her way to a full recovery, as is Major

Showolter, who suffered several broken ribs and a punctured lung. Our two Noghri

agents were already back on their feet when I left Wayland."

"Where are the defectors now?" Senator Shesh asked.

"They've been relocated to Myrkr for safekeeping until we decide just what to do

with them."

"Colonel," Praget interjected, "it is my understanding that one of the defectors

is not thought to be Yuuzhan Vong, that some question remains as to what she

actually is."

"That's true. We have yet to determine if Vergere is of a species native to the

Yuuzhan Vong home galaxy or if she's a product of their genetic engineering."

"Were you able to gain any further insight into what compelled the enemy to

invade the Outer Rim to begin with?" Miatamia asked.

Kalenda shook her head. "The assassin's attack occurred shortly into the

interview. Up to that point, Elan reiterated much of what we already know about

the motives of the Yuuzhan Vong. At the behest of their gods, they are

determined to cleanse our galaxy and/or convert us to their religion. Elan

contends that they would much rather convert than exterminate us. Recordings of

the debriefing - such as it was - are available for your review."

She took a breath. "What I've come to tell you, however, is that, following the

attack, Elan provided us with intelligence of a highly sensitive and potentially

invaluable nature. Should it bear out, Director Scaur and I will be seeking

authorization to relocate the defectors here, to Coruscant."

Senator Shesh's honeyed voice cut through the resultant murmur. "Is that wise,

considering what happened on Wayland? As it is, New Nystao is demanding

reparations."

"In part, we chose Coruscant precisely because it is not easily targeted. I'll

be the first to admit that appropriate precautions weren't exercised in moving

the defectors from Nim Drovis to Wayland, but that won't happen again. The plan

we've worked out takes advantage of the current chaos in the Mid Rim, by

effectively losing Elan and Vergere among the crowds of displaced peoples and

jumping them to Coruscant via a circuitous route. At the same time, multiple

decoy teams will be dispatched to confuse anyone with designs on sabotaging the

operation."

Kalenda stopped to pass out durasheet documents, color-coded for most-secret

data. "The route will take Elan and Vergere through Bilbringi, Jagga-Two, and

Chandrila - assuming, of course, that nothing untoward occurs - and precluding

the advent of any intelligence suggesting that such a move poses a threat to New

Republic security."

"I fail to see the purpose of bringing - them here," Bogen said, shaking his

head almost hard enough to muss his meticulously styled blond hair. "Your point

that the Yuuzhan Vong attack attests to the status of the defectors is well

taken. But that attack might have been a ploy aimed at nothing more than

convincing us of Elan's usefulness."

With utmost care, Kalenda resumed her seat at the table. "Again, Senator, the

plan is contingent on corroboration of the intelligence Elan furnished." She

paused briefly. "I'm as suspicious as anyone here - we all are - but I am also

convinced that Elan could prove crucial to our efforts, even if she is part of a

ruse. Not only does she claim to know the whereabouts of Yuuzhan Vong operatives

who have infiltrated New Republic worlds, but also the identity of many of the

agents they have recruited from among cells of smugglers, mercenaries, pirates,

and the like.

"In fact, we have reason to believe that one such cell, which calls itself the

Peace Brigade, may have been responsible for apprising the Yuuzhan Vong that

Elan and Vergere were relocated to Wayland." Kalenda passed out additional

durasheets, bearing the mercenary cell's insignia of two clasped hands: one that

could have been human; the other, fully tattooed. "These contain dossiers on the

members of the Peace Brigade, along with a brief summary of their suspected acts

of subversion." She glanced at Luke Skywalker. "Stirring anti-Jedi sentiment is

apparently one of their specialties."

Skywalker nodded.

"I hope Intelligence is keeping a watchful eye on this group," Shesh said,

lifting her eyes from the durasheet.

"Read on," Kalenda said pleasantly.

Bogen cleared his throat loudly. "About the importance of this Elan ..."

Kalenda turned to him. "Aside from being able to identify agents, Elan knows how

the Yuuzhan Vong tacticians think - No, it goes beyond that. She knows the

auguries and omens they look for in plotting their attacks. She may even be able

to lead us to worlds where war coordinators have been entrenched."

"Just a moment," Tolik Yar broke in, one hand entering a flurry of commands into

a datapad. "One report - I can't locate it just now - suggests that these war

coordinators have telepathic abilities." Yar stopped doing input to glance at

Kalenda. "Suppose this putative defector is telepathically linked to the

creatures and is busy sending them intelligence about us?"

"The report you refer to was filed by an ExGal scientist who spent a brief time

in Yuuzhan Vong captivity," Kalenda supplied. "In any case, the possibility of a

link between the defectors and the Yuuzhan Vong - whether telepathic or

otherwise - is the reason we've been keeping them essentially blind. They've

been kept isolated from anything that could be of strategic value to the enemy.

Even if the Yuuzhan Vong somehow manage to reclaim them, they'll have nothing

vital to present."

"Why are these two so eager to defect?" Senator Shesh asked.

"Elan hinted at dissension among the Yuuzhan Vong ranks. Some disagreement as to

the legitimacy of the invasion. Seemingly, she wants to help us."

"In return for what - wealth, a new identity, a hiding place? I'm not convinced

that she doesn't have some ulterior motive. Even a vornskr that loses its teeth

doesn't necessarily lose its nature."

Kalenda's eyes narrowed. "Elan does have one request." She looked pointedly at

Skywalker. "She wishes to meet with the Jedi Knights."

Skywalker gave the disclosure his full attention. Even Anakin perked up. "Did

she say why?" Skywalker asked. "She said it has to do with some sort of illness

the Yuuzhan Vong introduced in advance of the arrival of their worldships. She

refused to elaborate. She said the Jedi would understand."

Skywalker and his nephew traded astonished glances. "Nothing more?" the elder

Jedi said, clearly intrigued.

Kalenda shook her head. "As I told Senator Miatamia, feel free to review the

recordings of the debriefing. In fact, I'd welcome your comments. Maybe you can

pick up on something we missed."

"Master Skywalker," Gron Marrab interrupted, one bulging eye fixed on the Jedi

while the other continued to regard Kalenda. "This probably doesn't need to be

stated, but I want it made clear that you should feel under no obligation in

this matter."

"Of course not," Senator Praget added, with a twisted grin. "After all, it's not

as if the Jedi were in service to the New Republic."

"That was uncalled for, Senator," Shesh said in rebuke.

But Skywalker appeared indifferent to Praget's remark. "We will discuss it," he

said at last. "Personally, though, I can say that I'm eager to meet with the

priestess."

Everyone fell silent for a moment, then Shesh spoke up once more. "Colonel

Kalenda, what is the nature of the intelligence Elan furnished?"

"The Yuuzhan Vong's next target - Ord Mantell."

With her back to the gentle sea that washed Worlport's sand-fringed southern

coast, Leia took a moment to gaze at the buttes that soared from the

smog-blanketed northern wastes, out past the expansive junkyards, all the way to

Ten Mile Plateau. Her view from the transparisteel crown of Ord Mantell's

Government House - site of the Conclave on the Plight of the Refugees -

encompassed much of the vertiginous capital city as well, with its once grand

examples of Corellian classic-revival architecture. However, most of the ornate

spires, great sweeping colonnades, and huge rotundas, with their tall

round-topped arches, monolithic lintels, and carved entablatures, were now

engulfed by a sprawl of ersatz rococo domes and obelisks, which catered to the

banal tastes of the gamblers and hedonists who frequented the planet in droves,

and the whole of it was fissured by a labyrinth of narrow stairways, curving

ramps, sheltered bridges, and dank tunnels.

Easy to lose your way in that maze, Leia told herself, as indeed she had lost

her way some twenty-five years earlier at the end of her tenure as princess and

diplomat but before Hoth and Endor, and long before marriage and children.

Mentally, she tried to trace a route from Government House down to the brown

plains far below, a game to occupy the moment, to keep her from wondering about

the kids, or where Han might be -

"Ambassador Organa Solo," the representative from Balmorra intruded, "is

something wrong?"

Leia surfaced from her ruminations and steered a contrite smile across the

table. "Excuse me. You were saying ..."

"I was saying that you haven't answered my question," the slender, starched

human said in a miffed tone. "How does the New Republic justify such a request,

when countless habitable worlds exist where refugees might be sheltered, without

the danger of their jeopardizing the economic well-being of native populations?"

Leia fought to maintain diplomatic aplomb. "Of course we have the means to

transport tens of millions of refugees to any number of planets in outlying

sectors. But our aim is not simply to rid ourselves of an inconvenience. We're

talking about peoples who contribute significantly to the stability and

prosperity of the New Republic, and who have lost everything - homes,

livelihood, in many cases family members or entire kin groups."

"What good are such groups without worlds," someone at the table scoffed.

"Precisely the point," Leia said. "What the Senate Select Committee for Refugees

requires are worlds with intact infrastructures - not only with habitable land,

but also planetary defenses, spaceports, surface transportation networks, arid

dependable communication with Coruscant and the Core Worlds."

Alsakan's ringlet-haired representative sniffed. "A very laudable ideal,

Ambassador, but who's going to feed and clothe these displaced billions? Who's

going to construct the shelters and install the irradiators to ensure that the

native populations are protected against whatever diseases the refugees might be

harboring?"

"The senate has already allocated funds to address those very concerns."

"But for how long?" the twin-horned envoy from Devaron asked. "Should the New

Republic renege on its promises - or be forced to by circumstance - economic

responsibilities will fall to the host worlds, which by then will hardly be in a

position to banish the groups they accepted in all good faith. The result could

be economic catastrophe."

Leia allowed some of her frustration to show. "Need I remind you that we are in

the midst of a war that threatens the very existence of that economy - not to

mention the freedoms all of us have enjoyed since the defeat of the Empire?"

When she was certain she had their attention, she went on. "We have the capacity

to move populations from the Outer Rim to worlds closer to the Core. Where

necessary - and where they can be spared - we will make use of bulk transports

and freighters to relocate tens of thousands at a time. But before that can

happen, some of you are going to have to volunteer to accept these peoples, as

Mon Calamari did with the displaced Ithorians, and as Bimmisaari has recently

done with those who fled Obroa-skai.

"Our goal is to create self-sufficient enclaves, to be managed by appropriate

individuals selected from within the refugee populations - administrators,

physicians, teachers, technicians. However, these enclaves will serve as

temporary facilities only. Little by little, we will relocate specific groups or

species to suitable worlds, or perhaps introduce populations to currently

uninhabited worlds."

"Individual enclaves for each species?" Jagga-Two's delegate asked.

"Where possible," Leia said. "Otherwise, we plan to place compatible groups

together."

"And see to the diverse needs of those groups?"

"Of course."

"And what happens when antagonistic groups are required to share the same

enclave?" the representative from a repopulated world in the Koornacht Cluster

asked.

"We'll deal with those problems as they arise."

"How - by providing security forces?"

"Some forces will be necessary, yes."

The Balmorran loosed an incredulous laugh. "You use the word enclaves, but what

you mean to say is containment camps."

The Devaronian glared at Leia. "What if additional worlds should fall to the

Yuuzhan Vong? How many refugees will we be asked to accept? Is there a limit, or

does the New Republic plan to squeeze the populations of thousands of worlds

onto hundreds?"

"We will limit the number," Leia replied. She turned to Ord Mantell's

representative. "Ord Mantell could inaugurate the plan by allowing people

stranded on the Jubilee Wheel to settle in temporary camps north of the city."

The planet's button-nosed female representative looked aghast. "I'm afraid

that's impossible, Ambassador. Why, for one thing, the area around Ten Mile

Plateau is one of our most important tourist attractions."

"Tourist attractions?" Leia said in disbelief. "Ord Mantell lies practically on

the edge of contested space. How many tourists do you expect to receive in the

coming months?"

The woman made her face long. "Ord Mantell appears to have been spared the

horrors. We anticipate an upswing in tourism very soon."

Leia took a calming breath. "Farther to the west, then," she suggested.

The woman ridiculed the proposal with a condescending laugh. "I'm very sorry,

but those lands have been set aside as reserves for the Mantellian savrip.

Hunters come from great distances for the honor of stalking the beasts."

Leia exhaled in exasperation. "Is there no one here who will step forward?"

The representative of Gyndine and the Circarpous system spoke up. "Gyndine will

accept some of those stranded on the Jubilee Wheel."

"Thank you," Leia said.

"As will Ruan," delegate Borert Harbright of Salliche Ag announced proudly.

"House Harbright will do whatever it can for the cause."

Leia smiled appreciatively, but she had to force it. A powerful and wealthy

corporation, Salliche Ag controlled a string of worlds on the fringe of the Deep

Core, with Ruan and a host of similar worlds ideally suited to relocation

centers. But there was something about the supercilious Count Harbright that put

her instantly on guard. Duplicity seemed to shine from his coal-black eyes and

lurk behind his obliging smile.

But Leia thanked him anyway. "On behalf of the thousands whose lives your

generosity will save, the Advisory Council applauds you." Her gaze swept the

table. "Now, perhaps some of the rest of you can be persuaded to follow the

count's lead."

When the meeting adjourned for lunch, Leia hurried to exit the circular room

before anyone had a chance to get her ear. Olmahk, one of her Noghri bodyguards,

was waiting in the hallway, along with C-3PO.

"I do hope the meeting went well, Mistress Leia," C-3PO said, hurrying to match

her pace.

"As well as could be expected," Leia muttered. They made their way to a

turbolift and descended to Government House's spacious and ostentatious lobby,

where every droid in sight appeared to be moving with uncommon haste toward the

building's several exits. "What's all this about?" Leia stopped to ask. "I can

scarcely imagine," C-3PO answered. "But I'll do my best to find out."

C-3PO angled across the lobby, placing himself directly in the path of an

administrative droid, whose head was shaped like an inverted test tube. The

3D-4X was forced to come to a skittering halt on the polished floor. In an

impossibly rapid exchange, the pair traded information like two insects meeting

on a forage trail.

A moment later, C-3PO whirled and headed back toward Leia, stiff-backed and arms

pumping in a way she had come to associate with trouble.

"Mistress Leia, I have just received the most distressing news," C-3PO

sputtered. "It seems that Ord Mantell has been targeted for attack by the

Yuuzhan Vong!"

THIRTEEN

"The brute might have killed you, mistress," Vergere remarked in the secret

tongue of the deception sect, while she ministered to the injuries Elan had

received at the hands of the assassin.

The priestess moved Vergere aside so she could regard her image in the mirror

Showolter had provided. "I never feared for my life. I feared only for the

development of the bo'tous. The fool's blows might have damaged the carriers or

retarded their growth."

Vergere sat back on her reverse-articulated legs, and her long ears pricked up.

"Do you think they survived?"

Elan ran her hand over her lower chest and smiled maliciously. "I can feel them

ripening, Vergere. They whisper to me. They await the four breaths that will

liberate them. I can feel their eagerness."

"Theirs or yours?"

Elan turned from the mirror to regard her familiar. "For loosing their deadly

toxin, my reward will be great. Word may well reach the ear of Supreme Overlord

Shimrra."

"Without question," Vergere assured. "Although it will be the members of your

domain who profit."

Elan continued to regard her. "You have so little faith that Harrar will be able

to retrieve us after I have dispensed with the Jedi?"

Misgiving narrowed Vergere's slanted eyes and ruffled the short feathers at the

back of her neck. "I trust that Harrar will do all in his power to find you. But

our movements won't be easily monitored from this point on. Not after the

assassin's attack. Showolter will jump us about until we're so deeply entrenched

in New Republic space that even Nom Anor won't be able to reach us."

His injuries notwithstanding, the ever attentive Major Showolter had been

careful not to identify the world to which they had been moved, though by all

appearances it was even more remote and primitive than the last. On arriving,

Elan had had the briefest view of impenetrable forests of peculiar trees. From

snatches of overheard conversation it was clear that the planet boasted at least

one small city, but also clear that Elan, Vergere, and the Intelligence

operatives were far removed from it.

Elan stroked Vergere's downy back. "If my duties demand that I die, then so be

it, my pet. My domain will prosper. My father will be escalated to the rank of

most-high priest."

"And the determined Harrar will prosper."

"That is not our concern."

Vergere folded her arms and bowed her elongated head. "I will remain by your

side, mistress."

Gingerly, Elan examined the raw bruises the assassin's powerful fingers had left

on her neck. "I know the one Harrar sent," she said after a moment. "He

apprenticed under the Shai."

Vergere pressed her hands to her eyes and applied some of her tears to Elan's

abraded flesh. "The same sect that spawned Commander Shedao Domain Shai."

"The very same. Those of Domain Shai delight in inflicting pain for pain's own

sake - to themselves or to others unfortunate enough to stray into their reach.

To the Shai, there is no higher calling than torment, the 'embrace of pain.'

Pain is the beginning and the end." Elan sighed relievedly. "Your tears refresh,

my pet."

Vergere continued to minister to her. "Harrar's aim was to convince our captors

of your importance, and in that he chose wisely. Better the New Republic thinks

the Yuuzhan Vong intractable than reasonable."

Elan nodded, without comment.

Though Vergere might have been born of the Yuuzhan Vong's masterful talent for

genetic manipulation, the exotic creature had in fact been transported to the

main fleet two generations earlier by one of the first reams to reconnoiter the

galaxy that had produced the Jedi. The scouting party had returned dozens of

specimens to the worldships, including humans, Verpine, Talz, and others. After

extensive experiments, some had expired and others had been sacrificed, but a

few had been awarded as pets to children of select elite, such as Elan, youngest

daughter of an adviser to Supreme Overlord Shimrra. Vergere's uniqueness was

thought by some to be sacred. Through the long years of negotiating the

intergalactic void, through the long years of Elan's rigorous training in the

deception sect, Vergere had been her constant companion, confidante, friend,

even tutor.

"Does it cheer you to be back among your own kind?" Elan asked carefully.

"Hardly my own kind, mistress."

"Among your home species, then?"

Vergere's large eyes smiled. "We Fosh were never at home among them. We were too

few in number. Humankind had filled all the evolutionary gaps, bringing about

the extinction of species like mine, which were merely holding a place, a niche

in the continuum."

"But you are delighted with the food."

"Ah, the food," Vergere said, laughing. "That is another matter."

Elan grew serious. "You could reveal the truth to Showolter and escape back into

your own realm."

Vergere reached for Elan's patterned hand and caressed it. "I am your familiar.

Were it not for you, I would have been sacrificed or disposed of. We are linked

until one of us dies."

Elan exhaled with intent. "Despite what you say or what you choose to reveal,

you know these species better than anyone else - even Nom Anor."

Vergere shook her head. "The executor has made it his mission to study them - to

know them better than they know themselves. We Fosh were more devoted to

concealing ourselves."

"From what little you know, then, are Showolter and the women who visited us

taken in?"

"Were I privy to the debriefing I might be able to answer with certainty.

Undoubtedly the assassin's dedication to duty has helped to allay some of

Showolter's initial misgivings."

Elan's expression changed. "He is most accommodating, that one."

"Because you have charmed him - as you do all."

"Or course you would say that. Then you believe they will provide me with an

opportunity to meet with the Jedi?"

"It is too soon to tell, mistress. Should Commander Tla deem it wise to furnish

the New Republic with a victory to support the data you provided, you may yet

meet with them."

Elan considered it in silence. "Did you know of them in your time here?"

"As I say, the Fosh moved discreetly, but of course we knew of the Jedi. They

were manifold. I was surprised to learn that they are now few." She paused

briefly. "I thank you for revealing nothing of my past to Harrar, mistress."

Elan merely smiled. "Did you ever witness the Jedi employ the Force?"

"The Jedi consider the Force to be all around us, permeating all living things.

So in that regard, I'm certain I witnessed the Force at work."

"Perhaps it would benefit the Yuuzhan Vong to learn how to use it."

Vergere took a moment to respond. "The Force is a sword with two edges,

mistress. Cut one way and vanquish. But be careless on the backswing, or allow

your mind to wander, and you risk undoing all you've accomplished." She gazed at

Elan. "Indeed, it might befit the Yuuzhan Vong to become aware of the Force, but

it is not for all to employ. Such power should be reserved for those with the

strength to heft the sword and the wisdom to know when to wield it."

*   *   *

Squadrons of T-65A3 X-wings, E-wings, and TIE interceptors dropped from the

forward launch bay of the Erinnic, an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer parked

between Ord Mantell's like-sized and close-quartered moons.

"Fighter groups are away," an enlisted-rating reported from one of the crew pits

below the overbridge's command walkway. "Dispersing to assigned coordinates."

"May the Force be with you," Vice Admiral Ark Poinard sent over the command net.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a wry smile take shape on the deeply lined

face of General Yald Sutel, onetime adversary turned ally in the war against the

Yuuzhan Vong. "Problem, General?" Poinard asked, raising one bushy white eyebrow

as he turned to Sutel.

Sutel shook his blockish head but kept smiling. "It's just that I'm still not

used to hearing you say it."

Poinard snorted. "Believe it or not, I used to say it to myself even when this

ship carried only TIE fighters."

"I don't believe that for a moment," Sutel said. "Despite appearances, I always

held the Force in high esteem." Hands clasped behind their backs, the two

elderly veterans continued to advance on the bridge's semicircular expanse of

triangular windows. As an accommodation to both the New Republic and the

Imperial Remnant, Poinard had retained his honorific as captain of the flagship,

while Sutel had been designated task force commander.

Of the sixteen vessels that comprised the group, some flew escort to the

Erinnic, but most - including a Mediator-class Mon Calamari battle cruiser, two

Quasar Fire-class cruiser-carriers, three escort frigates, and five Ranger-class

gunships - had taken up positions above the bright side of the star system's

fifth planet. Since any ships jumping from Yuuzhan Vong-held space would have to

enter the Bright Jewel Cluster Rimward of the planet, it was hoped that

concealment would further enhance the element of surprise.

Poinard paused above the most forward of the crew pits. "Any signs of activity?"

he asked a technician standing at one of the consoles.

"Negative, sir." The woman glanced at a readout, then up at the two commanders.

"Forward elements report all quiet."

"Looks like Admiral Sovv's tacticians have us misdirecting our efforts," Poinard

told Sutel in confidence.

"This came down from Intelligence," Sutel said.

"Even worse. Ord Mantell has little strategic value."

Sutel cut his eyes from the starfield to Poinard. "Did Ithor? Did Obroa-skai?

The Yuuzhan Vong are waging a psychological war. You of all people should

understand. Didn't your brother once command an AT-AT division?"

"Walkers had their place."

"As prodigal terror weapons," Sutel said. "The Yuuzhan Vong obviously mean to

terrorize us in the same way - to break us by demoralizing us."

"But Ord Mantell," Poinard said dubiously. "Gamblers and tourists are the only

ones they'll demoralize."

"Admiral Poinard," the woman in the crew pit interrupted. "Forward elements

report enemy vessels emerging from hyperspace and shedding velocity. Performance

and drive profiles confirm Yuuzhan Vong warships."

Poinard swung to the crew in the pit on the opposite side of the walkway, as

banks of threat assessors began to talk to one another in machine code.

"Go to full alert status. All nonessentials are confined to quarters. Engage

sublight drives and pull us tight to number-two moon." He turned back to the

female tech in the first pit. "How many vessels?"

"Sir, two corvette analogs, five frigate analogs, three light cruiser analogs,

one warship analog."

Someone behind Poinard and Sutel spoke up. "Sirs, wing commander reports from

target approach point that fighter deployment is complete. Awaiting

authorization to engage. Tactical bridge reports the call board as clear and all

systems enabled."

A holoprojection of the theater resolved above a light table in the forward pit.

Poinard and Sutel studied it in silence.

"Looks like we're evenly matched for once," the general commented after a

moment.

"Save for one advantage," Poinard pointed out. "They don't know we're here."

FOURTEEN

Han leaned his right shoulder against the pitted bars of the cramped jail cell

and gently massaged the swollen knuckle of his left ring finger. "Good fight,"

he said. "I really enjoyed it."

Fasgo and Roa were seated on the squalid floor, backs against an equally fouled

wall, the former with a comically swollen right ear, the latter looking

remarkably unscathed.

"Some mess," Roa said around a grin.

Fasgo gently fingered the tip of his nose. "Feels broken," he muttered.

Roa clapped his former tax-and-tariff agent on the shoulder. "Next time remember

that keeping out of range is often the best defense."

"I'm only sorry the big one didn't die," Fasgo said.

"Give him time," Han said loudly, gazing deliberately at the three Trandoshans

in the cell directly across from theirs.

Fasgo held his thumb and forefinger close together. "The chair missed him by

that much."

"Tough break for that poor Bith at the next table," Han said.

"We're lucky he thought one of the Trandoshans threw it," Roa interjected.

Fasgo nodded. "Having that group of balloon heads on our side definitely

helped."

"Keep your voice down," Roa advised quietly. "They're only two cells down the

corridor."

Fasgo waved a hand. "Half the crowd in the Bet's Off is in here." He glanced at

Han and laughed. "We really started something."

"Yeah, and security finished it." Han chuckled. "No wonder the Wheel doesn't

allow armed blasters."

A gate in desperate need of lubricant slid open down the corridor, and in short

order a burly security guard in a gray uniform strode into view.

"All right, old-timers," the guard announced churlishly, "you're free to go."

Han, Roa, and Fasgo exchanged mystified glances. "I thought we couldn't post

bail until the arraignment?" Roa said.

"You're not being arraigned," the guard said. "You must have some friends in

high places."

Roa looked at Han. "I think you've been made, 'Roaky Laamu.' The Trandoshan

certainly had no trouble recognizing you."

Han saw the sense of it. The word was out, and someone had contacted Leia.

The cell door slid aside, and the three of them filed out. Han stopped at the

Trandoshans' cell, careful to remain just out of their clawed reach. "We'll have

to do this again real soon," he said, smiling.

"Count on it, Solo," Bossk rasped.

The guard led them out of the confinement zone, turned their belongings, and

pointed them to the exit. "Turn up here again and, friends or no, you'll be

sorry," the man warned.

"Charming fellow," Roa muttered.

Han agreed. "Probably works for Vessel Registration on his days off."

No sooner had they stepped into the passageway than a surprisingly well-mannered

Aqualish approached them. "Roa, Fasgo, Roaky Laamu," the alien began in somewhat

garbled Basic, courtesy of his inward-turning tusks. "My employer requests the

pleasure of your company."

"Boss B," Roa reminded Han quietly. "The information broker."

Fasgo gulped.

"Did we ask around?" Han asked theatrically. "I don't recall us asking around."

The Aqualish - a Quara - showed the palms of fingered hands. "Come now,

gentlemen. Surely you can spare a few moments for the person who arranged for

your release."

The sprung trio traded surprised glances. "Well, in that case," Han said, "lead

on."

A repulsor limousine conveyed them ninety degrees around the Wheel, at times

maneuvering through knots of stranded and despondent refugees. The swank

hatchway to Boss B's lair was flanked by pug-nosed and prognathous Gamorrean

sentinels, and the plush anteroom was filled with an assortment of toadies,

sycophants, and camp followers. Stroking their long head-tails, two Twi'lek

women in mesh bodysuits sprawled seductively in conform loungers. Elsewhere, a

Rodian, a Kubaz, a Whiphid, and two Weequays were engaged in a desultory game of

laro, while a bored Bith ran musical scales on a slender horn.

The Aqualish showed Han and the others to overstuffed armchairs in the main room

and offered them drinks. Han remained standing.

"Save the Gizers for the Bet's Off," a disembodied baritone voice suggested.

"Have a tumbler of Whyren's Reserve instead."

"Now, that I won't turn down," Fasgo said, beaming.

"Make it two," Roa told the Aqualish.

"Three," Han said hesitantly, trying to discern the source of the resonant

voice. One entire wall of the room was devoted to flatscreen displays, showing

frequently shifting views of different sectors of the Wheel. On one monitor, Han

recognized the immigration station where his blaster had been drained.

"Sit, please," the voice rumbled.

Han consented to the request when the amber-colored Corellian whiskey arrived.

"Cheers," he said, setting his travel pack on the floor and lifting his glass in

the air to their unrevealed host.

"More of the same," Roa said, joining Han in the toast.

"Your reputation precedes you, gentlemen," the voice said.

Fasgo ran the back of his hand over his mouth. "If you mean the damage to the

Bet's Off, the Trandoshans were responsible for most of it -"

"You can blame me for that," Boss B interrupted. "I put them up to it."

"You? Why?" Han demanded.

"How else could I have ensured that you would accept my hospitality, except by

arranging for you to be released from incarceration?"

"I don't get it," Han said.

Boss B laughed. "I am personally informed when individuals of honorable or

disreputable distinction arrive on the Jubilee Wheel. Such was the case with

you, Roa. But imagine my surprise when, after a bit of machine-assisted

scrutiny, I discovered your traveling partner to be none other than Han Solo."

On hearing the name, the Bith ceased his noodling and the Twi'lek women and the

cardplayers turned in unison. Han drained the glass in one gulp and set it down

roughly.

Boss B laughed boomingly. "I have to say, Solo, I expected a younger man."

"Yeah, well, I used to be one."

"As did I," Boss B conceded. "In any event, after I learned that you were bound

for the Bet's Off - where I already knew Bossk and his comrades to be - I simply

relayed word to the Trandoshan that an old rival of his had turned up. It wasn't

difficult to predict where things would go from there."

"That's your idea of hospitality, huh?" Han said.

"Come, Solo, you said yourself that you enjoyed the fight."

Han snorted. "You planning to show yourself or are we going to have to play

'name that voice'?"

Not three meters in front of Han, a shroud field dissipated, revealing what

might have been the outcome of a Hutt and human mating. Though the lavender-hued

humanoid managed to get around on two tree-trunk-thick legs - possibly with the

assistance of repulsorcoil implants - he had the girth of a young Hutt and a

head too large to fit through an ordinary hatchway. His round face was

symmetrical and possessed the usual human features, but each was so outsized

that they vied with one another for prominence. Shiny and slightly protruding,

his eyes were the size of small saucers, his nose was a large flattened disk,

and a thick, bristly gray mustache covered almost all of his labrose mouth.

Disheveled, slate-colored hair crowned his head like an abandoned avian's nest,

and enormous pink ears flapped against his skull like wings. In the

reddish-stained fingers of one huge hand he held a fat, chak-root cigarra.

Han nearly fell out of his chair. "Big Bunji?"

The giant humanoid guffawed in merriment, laughing his mouth empty of aromatic

smoke. "Boss Bunji, Han."

Roa smiled broadly. "It's amazing that you and I never met, considering all the

mutual friends we had on Etti IV and other haunts in the Corporate Sector. A

pleasure after all these years." He gestured to Fasgo and introduced him.

Bunji regarded the red-haired spacer. "Yes, Fasgo's petty scams aboard the Wheel

have not escaped our notice."

Fasgo swallowed hard, but said nothing.

Han was still shaking his head in incredulity. "I figure I must be dying,

because I keep seeing my life flashing before my eyes." He grinned at Bunji. "If

Ploovo Two-For-One shows up right about now, I'm folding my hand."

"Were Ploovo to show up, Han, I can assure you he would be less than courteous.

Even after extensive reconstruction surgery, he never quite got over the damage

done to his proboscis by the dinko you so cleverly sicced on him in the Free

Flight Dance Dome. For a time, in fact, he paid well for anyone who brought him

a dinko - dead or alive. Taxidermied specimens of the vicious things were

everywhere on display in his homes, his offices, aboard his ships. He even took

to wearing a charm bracelet composed entirely of dinko fangs and the serrated

spurs of their hind legs. I do believe he brought the species to the edge of

extinction."

Han frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that, but I never cared much for people who

tried to cheat me out of what was mine."

Bunji guffawed once more, all but rattling the bulkheads with his laugh. "As I

myself learned."

"You're not still sore about my strafing your pressure dome on that asteroid -"

"Not at all," Bunji said. "I deserved it for trying to get the better of you on

those chak-root runs to Gaurick."

"You took the words right out of my mouth." Han laughed. "You fix up the Falcon

for what happened to her on Gaurick, then you go and deduct the costs from what

you owe me. That's what sent me to Ploovo for a loan to begin with."

Bunji's sigh was a warm wind. "We live and learn, Han, we live and learn. But

surely you knew I'd forgiven you. The fact is, I owe you a huge debt of

gratitude for what you accomplished on Tatooine." He gestured broadly. "You

could say that much of this station owes to your efforts."

Han jabbed himself in the chest. "What I did on Tatooine?"

Bunji puffed on his cigarra and grinned. "To be more precise, what your wife

did. You see, Han, I had attempted to relocate my business enterprise to

Tatooine, only to be run off by Jabba. Not content to have done that, the Hutt

all but crippled my cash flow for the next few years. His death, however,

presented me with an opportunity to rebuild my power base, though I had to

contend with the likes of Lady Valarian and a few others. Nevertheless, a few

shrewd deals made during the Thrawn years and I was back on my feet. Then, just

a year ago, I had the Wheel assembled in a nearby system and towed here, to Ord

Mantell."

"This is yours?" Han said.

"Most of it. Borga the Hutt has a small stake in it. Now, if the New Republic

would only do something about the Yuuzhan Vong."

Han's smile straightened. "Some of us are trying to do just that, Bunji."

"Is that what has brought you here - under a false identity, no less?"

"Han and I are trying to hunt down a former associate," Roa answered.

Bunji inclined his head in interest. "Hunt down?"

"Or just locate," Han said. "That all depends on what he says when we find him."

"Which former associate?"

"His name's Reck Desh."

Bunji fell silent for a long moment. He inhaled on the cigarra and launched a

jumbo smoke ring toward the ceiling. "What do you want with him?"

"It's a long story," Han said, "even longer than yours."

Bunji nodded. "If I were you, Han, I wouldn't be so quick to catch up with Reck

Desh."

Han leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Why's that?"

"Things have changed since the old days. Folks are engaged in activities now

that wouldn't have been tolerated then - even by riffraff like Bossk."

"What sort of activities?"

"Such as providing information about planetary defenses, or pirating shiploads

of refugees and delivering them into Yuuzhan Vong hands for sacrifices."

The muscles in Han's jaw bunched. Bunji continued. "Reck and the gang he runs

with - they call themselves the Peace Brigade - have been colluding with Yuuzhan

Vong operatives by helping to spread anti-Jedi sentiment and destabilize

planetary systems in advance of invasion. In some cases, they've persuaded

worlds to capitulate to the Yuuzhan Vong beforehand."

"You wouldn't happen to know where Reck is currently?" Roa asked judiciously.

"At last report, the Peace Brigade was operating in Hutt space," Bunji said,

"much to Borga's dismay. If you'd like, I could make a few inquiries."

Han showed him a skeptical look. "Why would you be willing to do that for us?"

Bunji shrugged. "As I say, I owe you. If that isn't reason enough, then I'm

doing it for the Wook. It near broke my hearts to hear that he had died. I'd

have given anything to have had a partner like Chewbacca."

Before Han could respond, sirens began to blare and the illumination in Bunji's

well-appointed enclave flickered. Without warning, the Jubilee Wheel shuddered

as if it had been poked by the finger of a colossal hand. One of Bunji's

henchmen rushed to a nearby terminal and called up data on a display screen.

"Yuuzhan Vong attack!" he blurted.

Humans and others leapt to their feet, running every which way for exits,

shelter, and the antique sideboard that held the Whyren's Reserve and similarly

exceptional libations. Directly in the path of a panicked Whiphid, Han and Fasgo

were knocked to the floor.

Roa wedged his hands under Han's arms and yanked him upright. Bunji and the more

important members of his coterie were already disappearing through a gaping

hatchway in the cabin's rear wall. Han threw his pack over his shoulder and

stumbled forward, only to hear the hatch lock solidly as he reached it.

"To the Happy Dagger," Roa said from the anteroom. "I've no intention of being

on this wheel when the Yuuzhan Vong decide to roll it downhill!"

FIFTEEN

Ord Mantell's yellow star at its back, the New Republic task force emerged from

behind the system's fifth planet with weapons blazing. Simultaneously from

around the jagged edges of the planet's large moon, fighter squadrons raced

forward to engage the invaders, the radiance of their ion drives dwindling in

the night.

Batteries on the Mon Calamari battle cruiser and the escort frigates ranged

toward distant targets and fired. Laser beams slashed outward, visible in vacuum

as wrathful hyphens of energy. Strikes registered in the remote blackness.

Overlapping spheres of brilliance flared in darkness, blossoming thicker than a

meadow of wildflowers.

The Yuuzhan Vong vessels - pitted yorik coral and facet-hulled - withstood the

initial barrage. Fashioned by dovin basals, defensive singularities formed

around the enemy ships, guzzling countless ergs of energy. Answering bursts from

fearsomely powerful arrays streaked toward the task force as spiraling golden

projectiles, grotesquely beautiful against the starfield.

Diverting energy to their shields, the New Republic ships held their own, then

returned fire. Laser light and nova-bright missiles gridded the night as the two

flotillas continued to trade volleys.

X-wings, B-wings, E-wings, and TIE interceptors arrived from the defenders'

precinct and began to distract, harass, and sting the vanguard Yuuzhan Vong

vessels with narrow-beam fire. Dazed by the battle cruiser's initial volley, a

corvette-size pyramid of yorik coral dropped its guard momentarily. Slipping

through vulnerable spots in the ship's defenses, carefully placed proton

torpedoes from a quartet of B-wings detonated against the carbon-black hull.

Chunks of scabrous flesh large as starfighters blazed fiery trails through local

space.

Centerpiece of the task force, the battle cruiser altered course, intent on

steering the battle away from Ord Mantell and the many civilian vessels anchored

there and in close proximity to the Jubilee Wheel. Turbolaser batteries and ion

cannons swiveled and traversed. Light tore from already superheated alloy

barrels, and blinding flashes strobed in the distance.

A second Yuuzhan Vong corvette tried unsuccessfully to evade the barrage. Sieved

by laser spears, it disappeared in an effulgent globe of fire.

Asteroid-like coralskippers, varying in size, shape, and color, advanced in an

unstoppable cloud, forging through the intense hail and swarming into the midst

of the starfighter groups. Well-maintained formations broke apart as crafts

peeled away to all sides, barrel- and snap-rolling into furious engagements with

their quarries. In a bloodbath of swirling combat, coralskipper preyed on

starfighter and starfighter on coralskipper.

Wingmates fought to remain together, but were more often separated by furious

blasts and forced into one-on-one contests. Dovin basals pillaged the New

Republic fighters of their shields and assailed them with streams of molten rock

gushed from cone-shaped weapons emplacements. Rendered defenseless, X-wings and

E-wings were slaughtered by the dozen. Locked into fierce, pitched battles,

opponents jinked and looped through evasive maneuvers.

Counterfire from the Yuuzhan Vong's largest ship silenced the battle cruiser

temporarily. Retreating behind its shields, the Mon Calamari vessel endured

storm after storm of projectile and plasma barrage, as frenzied electricity

danced and coruscated at the boundaries of the great ship's invisible barriers.

Biding its time, the cruiser waited until the Yuuzhan Vong warship paused to

repower, then it opened fire with all guns. Still stronger laser beams sliced

through the night, some to be swallowed by gravitic anomalies, while others

chipped away at the enemy ship's yorik coral hull. Two Ranger-class gunships

moved in, determined to outflank the warship. Pounding discharges from their

main batteries vaporized dozens of coralskippers and escort craft at a burst.

Desperate ploys saved some of the Yuuzhan Vong fighters, but most were

outwitted, disintegrated, or transformed into short-lived comets.

The flotillas began to close ranks, saturating space with flaming missiles and

harnessed light. Caught up in friendly fire, a trio of TIEs vanished without a

trace.

Laser beams from a New Republic escort frigate skewered another Yuuzhan Vong

corvette through its long axis, coral, weapons, and the rest disappearing in a

cloud of fire. As if in riposte, a pack of coralskippers isolated and surrounded

a lone gunship, leaching it of its shields, then battering it with projectiles,

kindling a deadly inferno that quickly engulfed the ship.

Elsewhere, juking through whirling hunks of debris, a squadron of E-wings

converged on a maimed Yuuzhan Vong ship and began to nip at it mercilessly.

Proton torpedoes punched through its imperiled defenses and slammed into the

bow. Stratified layers began to peel away from the ship, rubble exploding

outward, rocketing from sight. A second, smaller craft, similarly lanced by

laser fire, also blew to pieces, showering nearby space with briefly glowing

motes.

Close to Ord Mantell's outermost moon, a chaotic melee raged as coralskippers,

X-wings, and TIEs mixed it up, ferociously and with grim resolve. The

starfighters came out of smooth rolls, inverted dives, and predatory banks to go

to guns with their prey, riding them until they were annihilated. Other ships

revectored, racing through fragment clouds to escape the carnage or form up for

reengagement, sometimes slewing wildly out of control.

In midsystem the battle cruiser and warship advanced on each other, now trading

fusillades and broadsides. Localized storms of blue lightning enveloped both

ships as their extended energy defenses made contact. The Yuuzhan Vong vessel

poured its most lethal fire into the larger ship, and the cruiser replied with

volley after volley of directed light. Caught between the two, an escort took a

direct hit, sending scorched and misshapen pieces of wreckage spinning off into

space.

As if angered by the loss, the cruiser upped the ante with escalating fire.

Boulder-size blocks of mirror-finish coral flew from the warship, but it was not

about to be humbled. Plasma streamed from the tips of the enemy ship's forward

arms, raising blistering explosions along the cruiser's port armor plate.

Weapons blazed and flared. Fire fountaining from the cruiser's aft hull, the

ship began to founder, tipping to one side with main guns still discharging and

sensor arrays in flames. Projectiles continued to penetrate her armor until the

hull surrendered integrity and precious atmosphere began to stream outward. With

artificial gravity disabled, hatches and seals, turrets, and sensor pods blew.

Then vacuum played its hole card, tugging crew and contents into the polar

night.

X-wings and E-wings rushed dauntlessly to the cruiser's support. Proton

torpedoes found soft spots in the warship's tattered defenses, bursting against

the superstructural arms and command ridge, and loosing geysers of spindrift

coral.

But the starfighters' efforts came too late.

A hellish explosion pushed outward from a rift in the hull of the Mon Calamari

vessel, splitting it in half. Escape pods launched, vectoring toward Ord Mantell

like drops of radioactive rain, while the battle cruiser became a ballooning

sphere of roiling incandescence, then exploded brilliantly.

The Star Destroyer emerged from between Ord Mantell's moons with main and

auxiliary thrust nozzles flaring. Throwing itself headlong into the fray, it

fired repeatedly as its pointed bow swung in the direction of the warship.

Thread-fine against its enormous bulk, blue lines of energy from aft turbolasers

and ion cannons stabbed unrelentingly at the black ship.

The Erinnic braced for return fire, but the plasma and projectiles never

arrived.

Abruptly the warship changed course, accelerated, and began to unleash its fury

on Ord Mantell, cutting loose with all forward guns. Blinding missiles streaked

toward the planet's surface, burning seething tunnels through the atmosphere.

Detonations on the ground lighted the undersides of ragged clouds.

Then, from a dark orifice in the bow, the warship extruded an enormous hose that

was more living monstrosity than machine. The blunt nose of the stipple-skinned

gargantuan caught the scent of the nearby Jubilee Wheel and, elongating, began

to close on the small orbital station, weaving its way through the Wheel's flock

of freighters, barges, and passenger ships.

A trailing wedge of X-wings and TIEs launched from the cruiser-carrier Thurse

attacked the herpetoid terror weapon like ravenous birds of prey, but to no

avail. Still attached to the warship and shielded by dovin basals, the outsize

creature struck at the Wheel like a venomous serpent. As if intent on yanking it

from orbit, the creature recoiled and struck again, this time sinking its

maw-like mouth into the rim, clamping down on the Wheel as if it were a piece of

ring pastry, and shaking it back and forth.

In the florid haze of emergency illumination, and with blaring warning sirens

making it almost impossible to hear one another, Han, Roa, and Fasgo raced down

a curving stretch of corridor, hoping to reach the Happy Dagger before whatever

had the Wheel in its grip decided to shake it apart.

Concussions from the battle raging outside the space station heaved them to and

fro as they ran, sometimes into sections of padded bulkhead, but too often into

unyielding objects wrenched loose by the intense paroxysms.

Most of the panicked tide was going against them, but Roa maintained that he was

following the shortest route to the docking bay. Each violent tremor sent crowds

of people slipping, sliding, or hurtling through the passageways, many to be

slammed into bulkheads or crushed under the weight of bodies massed in alcoves

and junctions. Folk in repulsor cabs fared no better, as vehicles careened into

walls or one another, frequently overturning and spilling riders across the

deck.

With Han and Fasgo on his heels, Roa jinked left into one of the Wheel's spokes,

hurrying down a frozen stairway into a narrow, twisting corridor whose walls

were in places caved in or crumpled. Sparks rained down from ruptured power

ducts and exploded energy mains.

They weren't ten meters into the corridor when the station suffered another

powerful jolt that temporarily disabled the artificial gravity generators. One

moment Han and the others were snaking through the damage and the next they were

airborne, drifting toward the partially collapsed ceiling like divers swimming

for the surface of the sea. Then, just as suddenly, the gravity system

reenabled, and they were jerked facefirst to the hard deck.

"Not much future in this," Roa shouted as he picked himself up and began to

stagger forward once more.

"The future's what you make it," Han hollered back, somehow managing to hold on

to his pack and keep his balance through a violent quake that brought down what

remained of overhead tiles and ducting.

Ahead of them a heavy metal curtain dropped, sealing off the way and forcing

them to detour back to the station's outer rim. Reaching a central passageway,

they were immediately swept up in a mixed-species mob that was fighting its way

toward the launch bays.

All at once the station sustained a strike of unprecedented force. Earsplitting,

nerve-grating sounds of rending alloy filled the corridor as a huge arc of

exterior bulkhead was simply ripped away.

And toward that dark breach the crowd was inexorably pulled.

Screams overwhelmed the metallic stridency. Waging a losing battle, people

clawed at walls, deck plating, and one another in an effort to keep from being

sucked into the maw.

Pressed to the inner wall of the curve, Han, Fasgo, and Roa managed to grab hold

of the twisted remains of a hand railing. But even as they struggled to secure

themselves - bodies lifted parallel to the deck by the vacuuming force - the

railing tore away from the bulkhead.

The three of them were sucked forward several meters before the railing snagged

on a section of floor grating wedged into a stairwell, but the force of the

sudden stop dislodged them. Flags snapping in an incessant wind, they latched on

to whatever handholds they could find, as people and droids flew past them into

the breach and atmosphere roared out like an angry river.

An airborne, shoebox-size MSE-6 droid caught Fasgo square in the head and

carried him shrieking into the current. Han watched him sail toward the breach,

arms outstretched and flailing, as if plummeting from a great height.

Han tore his gaze away before Fasgo vanished.

"Looks like we took a wrong turn," he shouted to Roa, who was just out of reach

to Han's left, plump fingertips curled around the slightest of ledges in the

wrinkled section of bulkhead.

Roa twisted his head around. "Too bad the rejuvenation techs didn't equip me

with the strength of a young man in addition to the good looks."

"Hang on, Roa!"

"How I wish I could. But I think I hear Lwyll calling me."

"Don't say that! Just hang on till I get there!"

Roa grunted in effort. "Bad luck creeps in through the hatch you leave open,

Han. Fortune smiles, then betrays."

Han spit a curse. "All right, keep talking if you have to. But just hang on."

"I can't, Han. I'm sorry. I just don't have it in me." Roa's face betrayed the

struggle. "Take care, old friend. Finish our business with Reck." Smiling

resignedly, he submitted to the flow.

"Roa, no!" Han screamed, daring to extend one arm and nearly allowing himself to

be carried away.

Han shut his eyes, hung his head for a moment, then screamed in anger until his

throat hurt.

When his breath returned, he secured the travel pack to his back and began to

pick his way toward a rib left exposed by flayed bulkhead sheets. He had no

sooner wrapped his arms around the structural member when someone hurtled past

his face a hair's breadth away and latched desperately onto his outstretched

legs.

Han's backbone stretched like a rubber band and groaned in protest. When the

shock abated, he peered down the length of himself and saw that his unsolicited

hanger-on was a male Ryn, arms clutched around Han's knees and legs thrashing.

This one was sporting a soft, brimless cap of bright red and blue squares, worn

at a rakish angle.

"Mind if I rest here a moment?" the alien asked in melodic Basic. "If I'm too

heavy, I'll toss the cap."

Han scowled at him. "Long as your head's in it."

"So you'd rather I let go."

"If you make sure to close the door on your way out."

"That isn't vacuum out there," the Ryn said, nodding toward the breach. "There's

a mouth on the other side of that hole."

"A mouth?"

"The mouth of a Yuuzhan Vong dread weapon. For taking captives."

Han instantly saw the logic of it. The people, droids, and objects zipping past

him weren't victims of compromised gravity; they were effectively being inhaled

by whatever it was that had taken a giant-size bite out of the Wheel's rim.

"So how do we gag that thing?" Han said.

The Ryn shook his head, long mustachios whipping about. "I don't think we can.

But there might be a way to stifle it."

Han followed the Ryn's gaze to a seam in the corridor ceiling, between them and

the maw.

"A blast shield!"

The problem was that the mushroom-shaped button that could lower the shield was

located on the corridor wall, some five meters closer to the breach.

"There's a support strut just beyond me," the Ryn said. "If I release my grip on

you, I may be able to grab hold of it. But I still won't be able to reach the

shield activation button."

"Finish your thought," Han said, trying to ignore a sinking feeling.

"Then you'll have to let go and catch hold of me. That should put you close

enough to tap the button with your foot."

"Assuming I manage to catch hold of you!"

The Ryn snickered. "Assuming also that I manage to catch hold of the strut. If I

miss, well, I suppose it's a matter of how long you think you can hold on.

Otherwise ..."

"Otherwise what?"

The Ryn grinned. "Otherwise, I'll see you in hell."

Han regarded him quizzically for a moment, then nodded grimly. "You've got

yourself a deal. Good luck."

The velvet-coated Ryn eased himself down Han's legs until he was dangling from

Han's ankles, then disengaged. Han heard rather than saw him make harsh contact

with the strut.

"You all right?" he called.

"Your turn," the Ryn yelled shortly.

Han took a steadying breath. Carefully unwrapping himself from the alloy rib, he

let fly. The current was even stronger than he expected. In a split second he

was rushing past the Ryn, but when he reached out wildly to arrest his motion he

hugged only air.

He was already imagining himself inside the Yuuzhan Vong dread weapon when

something wrapped itself around his chest under his arms, yanking him to a halt.

It took Han a moment to grasp that the Ryn had snagged him with his tail.

"Kick the button, kick the button!" the alien squealed in a pained voice. "Or

plan on taking part of me with you into that creature!"

Han looked to his right and spied the mushroom-button, almost within reach of

his right foot. "Swing me to the right!" he yelled.

The Ryn's muscular tail spasmed just enough to set Han swaying and bring him

within reach of the corridor wall. He extended his foot and caught the button

with the toe of his boot.

The blast shield dropped rapidly, hitting the grooved deck with a loud and

reassuring thud. At once, Han, the Ryn, and everyone left in the corridor

followed suit, falling to the floor like stones.

While Han was righting to regain his wind, the Ryn sprang to his feet and tugged

his cap down on his forehead. Han took in the rest of the alien's brightly

colored outfit of vest, culottes, and ankle boots.

"What time do they switch you on?" he asked between breaths.

The Ryn laughed. "Round about your bedtime. Now what?"

Han stood up, clapping grit from his hands. "We get off this station before that

thing decides it's still hungry."

"The launch bays are this way," the two of them said at the same time, although

rushing off in opposite directions.

"Trust me," the Ryn said before Han could speak.

Han stared at him stonily, then waved him on and fell in behind.

Powerful spasms continued to rock the Wheel, throwing them from side to side.

Han stopped to collect a pair of crying Bimm children who had become separated

from their families. Other children and adults began to attach themselves to Han

and the Ryn, if for no other reason than the two at least appeared to know where

they were going.

"You'd better be right," Han warned as he ran. "Don't worry," the Ryn called

over his shoulder. "I'm too young to die."

"Yeah, and I'm too well-known." Ahead, the corridor swept broadly to the right,

and Han began to recognize where he was. The docking bays were only a short

distance away.

"Can you pilot a ship?" the Ryn asked breathlessly. Han grinned smugly. "Don't

worry -"

"You know a few maneuvers."

Han's nostrils flared. "You're some conversationalist, pal."

"Try to stay awake, anyway."

The Ryn skidded to a halt at the first docking bay door and tapped the entry

switch repeatedly. "Security lock," he announced.

Han shoved him aside to study the lock's control touchpad.

"Hurry!" someone in their crowd of distressed followers said. "We've got to get

out of here!"

Han spun angrily from the mechanism and had his mouth open to respond when the

Ryn said, "He's working on it, he's working on it."

Han thrust a silencing forefinger at the Ryn, then whirled and entered an

override code on the touchpad.

The hatch remained closed. He tried another code, then a third. "What I'd give

for a loaded blaster right about now," he mused.

"Would an R-series droid do?" the Ryn asked.

"If we had one." Han shot him a sarcastic glance. "Unless, of course, you've got

a droid summoner tucked away in that suit of lights."

He had returned his attention to the touchpad, figuring to give it one final

try, when from the edge of the crowd he heard the characteristic chirps,

toodles, twitters, and warbles of an R2 unit. Swinging around in elated

surprise, though, he saw that the sounds were coming from the Ryn, who was

fingering the perforations in his chitinous beak as if it were a flute.

Han regarded the alien open-mouthed, then shook his head in a flustered way. "Do

you sing and dance, too?"

"Only for credits." The Ryn smiled in elaborate self-satisfaction. "Sometimes I

amaze even myself."

Han took a menacing step toward the alien. "Now, listen you -"

A mellifluous cascade of genuine hoots and whistles interrupted him as a

red-domed R2 unit wheeled onto the scene.

"It wants to know how it can be of assistance," the Ryn translated.

Han gazed from the alien to the droid in disbelief, then silently indicated the

hatch's security lock.

The droid extended a manipulator arm from a compartment high up on its

cylindrical body, inserted it into an access port above the lock, and quickly

sliced the code. The hatch raised and the crowd surged forward, almost

flattening Han in the process.

"I'm certain they'll all thank you later on," the Ryn said as he brushed past.

Waiting on one of the docking bay launch pads was a bullet-shaped civilian

shuttle, just spacious enough to accommodate everyone. Han hurried for the

cockpit while the Ryn supervised the boarding; then the Ryn joined Han at the

cockpit controls, slipping comfortably into the copilot's seat and buckling into

the safety harness, despite his long tail.

Han flicked the switch that enabled the repulsorlift generators and raised the

ship. Rotating it through a 180-degree turn, he maneuvered the shuttle through

the docking bay door and out into the launch bay.

Local space was thick with fighters and lighted by flashes of explosive light. A

band of coralskippers raced past the bay's magnetic containment window, pursued

by twice their number of X-wings and TIE interceptors, lasers firing steadily.

"We're not out of this yet," Han said, gritting his teeth as he aimed the

shuttle for the aperture.

SIXTEEN

The shuttle veered left and right, as Han wove a jagged course among the

hundreds of ships moored in the Wheel's shadow. Most of the barges and

freighters remained at anchor, but some were every bit as bent on escape as Han

was, and were moving out at all speed, in whatever direction seemed best.

Han twisted the shuttle to port, hugging the curve of the station's outer rim,

ascending or descending as necessary to avoid debris yanked from the interior by

the Yuuzhan Vong dread weapon that had struck it. A quarter of the way around

the Wheel an enormous enemy warship came into view, black as night and made more

hideous by pairs of branching yorik coral arms. Retracting into an orifice in

the bow was the colossal serpentine creature obviously responsible for the trio

of erose breaches along the outer face of that part of the station's rim.

"That's gotta be the thing that swallowed Roa and Fasgo," Han growled to the

Ryn. "You and I might have been inside it right now." Firewalling the shuttle's

throttle, he accelerated straight for the creature, oblivious to his copilot's

wide-eyed distress.

"What are you doing?" the Ryn screamed.

Han gestured with his stubbled chin out the viewport. "My friends are imprisoned

in that thing."

The Ryn's voice abandoned him momentarily, then he exclaimed, "You can't just

break them out!"

"You just watch me," Han said out of the corner of his mouth.

"You're demented!"

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Okay, how about, we're unarmed!"

Han suddenly grasped that he wasn't aboard the Falcon, and he cursed to himself.

If he was alone, or even if it was just him and the Ryn, he might have risked

attacking the dread weapon anyway. But the shuttle's passenger compartment was

filled with scores of innocents who were already on the run from the war, and

who definitely didn't deserve to be taken into battle by a madman at the

controls of a weaponless and unshielded craft.

It also dawned on Han that he was in the same position Anakin had found himself

in on Sernpidal, forced to choose between the lives of a shipload of strangers

and the life of one friend. The realization pierced Han's heart like a

vibroblade, and he swore to himself that if he made it home in one piece, he

would put things right with his estranged son.

Still, Han couldn't resist harassing the creature with a flyby. When the nose of

the thing loomed all but close enough to touch - and the Ryn was half out of his

seat in naked alarm - Han slewed the shuttle hard to port, hoping the slithering

aberration would get a good taste of the ship's ion exhaust.

The fact that the creature suddenly shot from the warship, nearly snagging the

shuttle with its vacuuming mouth, suggested that Han's wish had been realized.

"Nice going!" the Ryn fairly shrieked. "You certainly managed to get its

attention!"

A bit wide-eyed himself, Han took the shuttle through a power climb, then a

series of evasive loops and rolls while the creature continued to snap at it.

"Blasted thing's as temperamental as a space slug!"

"Yeah, and we're the mynock who riled it!" the Ryn said.

Han tightened his grip on the controls. Firing the braking thrusters, he shoved

the etheric rudder hard to the right at the same time, then executed a nosedive

that took the shuttle corkscrewing around the neck of the enraged creature and

ultimately under the bow of the enemy warship.

"Who's going to clean up the passenger cabin?" the Ryn asked when he'd swallowed

his gorge.

"We'll worry about that later."

For the sake of the passengers, Han dialed up the gain on the inertial

compensator and trimmed back their speed. The shuttle was just emerging on the

far side of the bow when the instrument panel began to scream.

Han's mouth fell open.

"What?" the Ryn asked nervously. "What?" He glanced at the indicators. "Why are

you slowing down?"

Han fought with the controls. "A dovin basal has us! The ship's drawing us

back!"

The Ryn sat up in his seat and reached for the auxiliary controls. While Han

struggled with the stick, the Ryn opened up the engines, rocketing the shuttle

through a steep hull-hugging climb that carried them over the top of the warship

and down along the opposite side into an inverted dive.

"Good thinking," Han remarked as the shuttle shot for what looked to be clear

space. "Glad to be away from that thing -"

Another outburst from the Ryn erased Han's words. Four coralskippers had

launched from the underside of the ship and were already opening fire with

projectile launchers.

Han broke right, angling away from the skips and soaring through a series of

evasive maneuvers.

"You had to go and scare their pet!" the Ryn hollered while fiery missiles

streaked past the shuttle to both sides.

Dead ahead a veritable swarm of coralskippers were making for the warship, with

New Republic starfighters in hot pursuit. Han throttled down and banked, only to

see the pointed bow of a Star Destroyer edge into view from behind the closest

of Ord Mantell's moons. Angry blue hyphens of energy lanced from the fortresses'

forward gun turrets, assailing the fleeing skips and very nearly impaling the

shuttle. Then the Yuuzhan Vong warship responded with plasma, as blinding and

wrathful as stellar prominences.

All caution forgotten, Han engaged the thrusters and veered from the thick of

the firefight. But the four skips they had encountered earlier were still glued

to the shuttle's tail.

"No doubt about it," Han muttered, "my past is definitely catching up with me."

The Ryn glanced at him. "Then you're not running fast enough!"

Han tightened his lips. "We'll see about that. Plot a course for the Wheel."

"We're going back?"

"You heard me."

"Would it help any to deny it?"

"Stop your squawking," Han barked. "Give me everything the thrusters have."

The Ryn set himself to the task, grumbling all the while. "I don't know why your

past has to catch up with me."

"I think it has something to do with your hat," Han said. "Besides, who asked

you to latch on to me?"

"You're right. Next time I'll pick someone else to hang with."

Han took the shuttle straight for the outer rim of the Wheel, but at the last

moment he climbed over the top, then dived sharply and shot between two of the

station's tubular spokes. The four skips followed, but only three succeeded in

matching the precarious maneuvers. The pilot in the trailing craft failed to

swerve at the right moment and flew head-on into one of the spokes, pulverizing

himself.

Out from the Wheel, Han leveled the shuttle out, then made a dash for empty

space.

"Projectiles coming in fast!" the Ryn warned.

Engaging the braking thrusters, Han slammed the control stick hard to one side,

then punched the throttle and dived, spinning the ship 180 degrees and vectoring

back toward the Wheel. The trio of coralskippers didn't bother attempting to

mimic the maneuver, and by the time they were coming out of their wide turns,

the shuttle was closing once more on the orbital station's outer rim.

Han jerked the control stick back, then forward, whipping the ship over the top

of the rim. But this time, just short of the hub, he juked hard to starboard and

dived, racing under one of the radiating spokes, then curved around to port,

lifting the shuttle's nose to climb over the top of the next one. While the skip

pilots tried to follow - losing another of their teammates in the process - Han

threw the shuttle into an inverted dive and, reversing his course, made a figure

eight of the maneuver.

Emerging out from under the rim, however, Han and his copilot found themselves

back where they had started, twining their way through clusters of closely

anchored ships.

"Any sign of those skips?" Han asked when he could.

The Ryn studied the display screens. "Only two left. But they're sticking with

us."

Han coaxed the shuttle through a tight turn while the Ryn kept the

retrothrusters from stalling. They were aimed back toward the ring when a

lavender-and-red TaggeCo luxury yacht suddenly blasted from one of the launch

bays, not only making straight for the shuttle but opening fire to boot, intent

on clearing a path.

Han howled and twisted the ship up on end, narrowly avoiding laser beams and

what would have been a sure collision. Lifting his eyes as the yacht tore past

them, he caught a quick glimpse of the occupants of the cockpit and slammed his

fist on the console.

"I'll bet anything that was Big Bunji's ship!"

"What are friends for," the Ryn remarked.

But just then, one of the pursuing coralskippers took a laser bolt from the

yacht and exploded. "Well, there you go," Han said, shaking his head in

wonderment.

"That still leaves one," the Ryn reminded.

"Wanna bet?"

The shuttle leapt toward the Wheel, but Han didn't trust that he could outfly

the surviving Yuuzhan Vong pilot with more over-and-under maneuvers. Instead he

angled for the uncompleted portion of the outer rim, where construction

gantries, hover platforms, and a scattering of inert drone ships created a kind

of obstacle course.

Clasping both hands around the control stick, he threw the shuttle into a

vertical swoop to dodge a platform, then rolled out to port to bring the shuttle

beneath the longest of the open-framework gantries. Halfway along, however, a

plasma discharge from the coralskipper slagged the gantry, forcing Han to veer

sharply for the hub. Along the way, he came close to losing a wing to a rectenna

projecting from the underside of one of the spokes, but the real problem was the

enemy pilot himself, who was as accurate with his weapons as he was skillful

with his craft.

With console indicators screaming arid flashing, Han powered the shuttle through

a circle concentric to the hub, cheating the turn tighter and tighter yet, then

vectored outward, accelerating back toward the skeletal arc of the outer rim.

Tugging himself upright, the Ryn leaned toward the viewport in obvious

misgiving. "You can't be serious!" he stammered.

Han studied the skinless rim, and the exposed ribs and structural members

through which he planned to steer the shuttle. "There's ho skin on the far side,

either," he said in the most reassuring tone he could muster. "I checked."

"You checked? When?"

"Earlier," Han said nonchalantly. "Trust me, there's clear space on the other

side. Just hang on."

The shuttle's instruments went into a panic, screeching and blinking warnings of

impending doom, but Han did his best to ignore them. With the coralskipper

pasted to the shuttle's tail, he increased speed. Then, just short of the rim,

he feinted a climb by goosing the forward attitude adjustment jets. The skip

pilot took the bait and soared upward. Realizing his error, the Yuuzhan Vong

tried to increase the angle of his ascent and execute a backward loop, but he

was too close to the rim. The skip clipped girder after girder, losing pieces of

itself with each impact, then careened off to one side and smashed into a curve

of unyielding hull where spoke and rim met.

Five degrees to port, committed to his original plan, Han took the shuttle

straight into the rim, slaloming through a forest of reinforcing ribs, beams,

stanchions, and struts. But just as he had surmised, the outer face of the rim

had yet to be walled in, and clear space was only a heartbeat away.

"See, that wasn't so bad," he started to say, when something slammed deafeningly

into the transparisteel viewport.

Han's and the Ryn's arms flew to their faces. Han was certain the ship had

sustained major damage, but when he looked he found only a protocol droid,

spread-eagled on the viewport and hanging on for dear life.

"Hitchhiker," the Ryn said.

Several options presented themselves for dislodging the droid, but Han didn't

act on any of them. "Where's the harm," he said.

He held the shuttle to an unswerving course until they were some distance from

the Wheel, then banked through a long, descending curve. The area was free of

coralskippers, and the Yuuzhan Vong warship was beginning to move off, its dovin

basals devouring most of what the Star Destroyer and a pack of starfighters were

hurling at it.

"Plot us a course to Ord Mantell," Han said at last. Out of the corner of his

eye, he saw the Ryn nodding approvingly.

Han grinned. "I -", he started to say and stopped himself.

The Ryn stared at him questioningly.

"- have my moments," Han completed quietly, but by rote and absent any emotion.

In fact, it wasn't at all like old times. Roa and Fasgo were either captive or

dead, and the hand Han had clamped about the shuttle's control stick was

trembling uncontrollably.

From the overbridge of the Erinnic, Vice Admiral Poinard and General Sutel

watched a projectile-shaped shuttle wend through debris surrounding the Jubilee

Wheel and make haste for Ord Mantell. Out beyond the planet's moons, what

remained of the Yuuzhan Vong flotilla was in full retreat.

"Sirs, technical command reports that shields have been badly damaged," an

enlisted-rating said from the starboard crew pit, "and does not, repeat not,

advise pursuit."

"Affirmative," Poinard said. "Tell technical command that we will stand pat.

Secure from general quarters."

"Maybe it's for the best," Sutel remarked. "Seeing their forces limping home

might give the Yuuzhan Vong pause."

Eyes riveted on the withdrawing ships, Poinard didn't respond.

"Sirs, after-action reports coming in," the same crewmember said. "In addition

to the cruiser, we lost one escort frigate and three gunboats." She paused

briefly. "Battle assessment estimates enemy losses as significantly high. The

Jubilee Wheel is rattled but holding together. Ord Mantell describes extensive

damage to some inland population centers, but adds that shields protected the

coastal cities from the worst of it and that fires are under control."

Sutel turned to his comrade in arms. "That has to cheer you some, Admiral."

Poinard grunted noncommittally, then swung away from the observation bay.

"Advise headquarters that their intelligence was not unfounded," he instructed

his adjutant. "I'm not certain how, but we managed to chase them off."

SEVENTEEN

Moving with cocky assurance, Reck Desh, black-haired, streamlined, and newly

tattooed, stepped into the Nebula Orchid and took in the room at a glance.

Patrons in the popular Kuat City eatery included the usual boisterous mix of

human and nonhuman technicians, engineers, and shipfitters, many on surface

leave from Kuat Drive Yards' orbital starship construction facilities, along

with a dozen or so civilians. Among the latter were three veiled telbuns in

heavy purple-and-red robes and tall cylindrical hats-mates-in-training for the

spoiled daughters of the Kuati elite. Flesh-and-blood and droid waiters dashed

about, taking orders and delivering overpriced platters of artistically styled

meals.

"Where are you supposed to wait?" the larger of Reck's two cohorts asked.

Reck nodded his lantern jaw toward the booths that lined the back of the room.

"Number six."

The big man counted the booths out loud, head bobbing as he moved left to right

from tall windows that overlooked the street. "Six is empty."

"Then we're off to a good start," Reck remarked.

"You and Ven grab seats where you can keep an eye on me. But stay put. Don't do

anything unless I give a sign."

"Got it," Wotson said as he and his partner headed for an unoccupied table in

the center of the room.

Reck hitched up baggy trousers, crossed the room, and folded himself into booth

six. Booth five was also empty, but in seven sat a lone telbun whose facial veil

covered all but his eyes. Reck settled back against the padded seat to wait for

his mystery contact to turn up. He was about to hail a waiter when the telbun

sitting back-to-back with him spoke up.

"Don't turn around, Reck," the Kuati ordered in the neutered tone typical of a

high-priced voice scrambler.

Reck barely managed to sit still. In his mind's eye he replayed his brief look

at the telbun, and he reassessed the conclusions he'd naturally drawn. The rich

robes and tall hat could conceal a being of any of a wide variety of species,

and the voice scrambler made it impossible to know if the speaker was male or

female.

"You the genuine article, or are you just on your way to a masquerade?" he asked

after a moment.

The stranger ignored the sarcasm. "Signal your associates that everything is in

order, Reck."

Reck leaned his head back, almost touching the telbun's, "What's to stop me from

calling them over here and ripping that veil off your face?"

"Not a thing. But you'd be a fool to think I'd come here without backup."

Reck's hazel eyes leapt about, searching for likely candidates. Bluff or no

bluff, there was little harm in hearing the telbun out. He turned partway in the

booth and waved an okay to Ven and Wotson.

"Nicely done," the telbun said. "As I mentioned when we spoke by comlink, I have

some information for you."

"Good for you," Reck said. "But first I want to know how you knew where to reach

me."

"The simple explanation is that the activities and current whereabouts of the

Peace Brigade are known to more people than you might imagine."

Reck blew his breath out sharply and gave his head a mournful shake. "That

either means we're working for the same people or you have access to sensitive

data. And since I doubt we're on the same team, you're either military security

or New Republic Intelligence."

"You don't need to know that just now."

"Maybe yes, maybe no, but I came all the way from Nar Shaddaa for this meeting."

"And I'm sure you're already homesick for the Hutts."

"All I'm saying is that you'd better have something worthwhile."

The telbun took a moment to respond. "You run with the Peace Brigade, but you

answer to Yuuzhan Vong operatives."

Reck took a moment, as well. "You already know that or you wouldn't have asked

me to come here."

"Correct response. I'm something of a stickler for honesty."

"Get to the point," Reck hissed. "What information do you have?"

"I know a way to put you in good stead with your bosses."

"Yeah, so you said when you made contact. But what makes you think I'm not in

good standing?"

"You showed up here. I wasn't sure where you stood when I comlinked you, but I

know now. You're ambitious and you're intrigued."

Reck snorted again. "I'll let you know when I hear the rest of what you have to

say."

"The New Republic has a Yuuzhan Vong defector in custody. She's an elite - a

priestess of some sort. She jettisoned from an enemy ship destroyed in the

Meridian sector. The Yuuzhan Vong have already made an attempt at retrieving

het, and after what just happened at Ord Mantell I suspect they'll double their

efforts."

Reck's brows knitted. "What happened at Ord Mantell?"

"Based on intelligence provided by the defector, a New Republic task force

thwarted a Yuuzhan Vong attack."

Reck loosed a surprised whistle. "So this priestess is now a hot property."

"She's traveling with a mascot. The two are being transferred from the Mid Rim

to Coruscant for safekeeping. I know the route they're taking."

Reck checked an impulse to turn around. "I'm not sure I follow you."

"Think about it. Whoever returns the defector to the fold will be doing the

Yuuzhan Vong a tremendous favor."

"Now I get it. I make everyone happy, and maybe earn myself a reward. But what's

your payoff in this? You want a piece of the action, right?"

"Wrong. In exchange, you keep me apprised of the Peace Brigade's future dealings

with the Yuuzhan Vong."

"And if I refuse to keep my side of the bargain?"

"I'll bring everyone down on you - military and New Republic Intelligence. After

the stunts you've pulled, you'll be lucky to get a life sentence on Fodurant."

"Cards on the table, huh? So why do you want to see this defector returned?"

The telbun laughed shortly. "Did you throw in with the enemy only for the

credits, Reck?"

"Credits scammed are twice as sweet as credits earned."

"That's cute, but I don't accept it. Doubtless, credits figured into your

decision, but you know as well as I that there are larger issues at stake."

"What larger issues?"

"The New Republic is going to lose this war, and there's nothing to be gained by

being on the losing side. Play this right, Reck, and both of us will come out

winners."

"I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a tempting offer," Reck said tentatively. "But

since you had no trouble getting to me, that must mean that NRI already has the

Peace Brigade under surveillance."

"You leave that to me."

"To you ... And when do I get to know who you are?"

"When the time's right - and I make that decision."

Reck took a slow breath. "All right," he said at last. "I'm willing to give this

a shot."

"You won't be sorry." The telbun paused briefly. "The defector and her companion

are being relocated to Bilbringi aboard an old starliner called Queen of Empire.

I'll furnish you with their travel plans and keep you updated on additional

details as I learn them. But I suggest you grab them before they reach

Bilbringi."

"You leave that to me," Reck said, glad for the chance to even the score.

"One more thing: you keep quiet about where you received this information - even

with your Yuuzhan Vong controllers. For the time being, this is strictly between

you and me, and your two cronies."

"I can do that - on a trial basis anyway."

"I know you won't disappoint me, Reck." A hand touched Reck's shoulder. Then,

with a rustling of fabric, the telbun stood.

"I'll be in touch. Don't attempt to follow me." Reck stayed put but his eyes

swept the room for signs of the telbun's accomplices. When no one rose to follow

the robed figure out the restaurant's back entrance, he swung to Ven and Wotson.

"Quick - after him!"

Reck was one step beyond the pair as they plowed through the rear doors, only to

confront a sunken courtyard filled wall to wall with identically attired

telbuns.

Warbling sirens signaled an all-clear as C-3PO hurried past the open-air launch

pads of Ord Mantell's primary spaceport. Defense shields had protected the city

from aerial bombardment, but to the north - in the direction of the planet's

renowned junkyards - thick columns of oily black smoke climbed into a smudged

sky.

"Thank the maker," C-3PO muttered as he walked. "Thank the maker."

Secreted with her vigilant Noghri bodyguard, Mistress Leia had tasked C-3PO with

assuring that their spacecraft hadn't suffered damage during the Yuuzhan Vong

attack, and indeed that had proved to be the case. But several ships had been

caught unawares, and the sight of their scorched and punctured hulls had given

C-3PO an unshakable flutter.

He shuddered to think what might have been his fate had the New Republic task

force failed to foil the enemy attack. Why, he might well have ended up in a

scrap heap or, worse yet, at the bottom of a pit filled with incinerated droids,

such as he had witnessed on Rhommamool, after a brief but disquieting encounter

with the late Nom Anor.

"Your existence offends me," the political troublemaker had told him, with a

minatory look that was permanently burned into C-3PO's memory core.

It was one thing to be shunned by Gotals, whose impressionable sensory organs

tended to become overloaded by the energy output of droids, but it was quite

another to be singled out for deactivation or annihilation. Of course, there had

been cases where a droid was actually responsible for instigating antidroid

sentiment, such as when a MerenData EV supervisor droid serving under Lando

Calrissian on Bespin had destroyed one-quarter of Cloud City's droid population.

But EV-9D9's ignominious acts were hardly typical of droid behavior.

More to the point, what could droids, or a single droid, have possibly done to

fill Nom Anor with such hatred? In searching for precedent's, C-3PO could recall

instances of droid enmity coming from humans forced to wear artificial parts.

But many humans were perfectly comfortable with harboring nonliving parts. C-3PO

couldn't recall a single instance of Master Luke railing against his replacement

hand.

It was all so baffling!

C-3PO had had more than his share of personal brushes with annihilation. An arm

torn off by Tusken Raiders, traumatic dismemberment by Imperials on Cloud City

and rioters on Bothawui, an eye yanked out by Jabba the Hutt's Kowakian

monkey-lizard ... But only to be reassembled after each calamity, defragged and

degaussed, bathed in oil - a droid's bacta tank - and polished back to his auric

splendor.

Those periodic resurrections made actual deactivation inconceivable, or at the

very least, challenging to contemplate. In effect, ceasing-to-be was shutting

down permanently - eternally. But how could that be? And how torturous it must

be to suffer forced deactivation at the hands of adversaries!

"We're all doomed," C-3PO muttered aloud. "It's the lot of all sentient beings,

metal and otherwise, to suffer."

But exactly why was deactivation such a frightening prospect to ponder?

Did the fear owe to a desperate desire to remain activated, to sustain awareness

indefinitely and at all costs? Or did it owe to an unnatural attachment to

existence? An attachment that, if surrendered, would take with it all fears of

ceasing-to-be -

The revelation discombobulated him momentarily, and he came to so sudden a halt

on the permacrete landing field that a protocol droid not entirely unlike

himself rear-ended him.

"E chu ta to you!" C-3PO said, throwing the droid's rude expletive right back at

him.

The nerve, he told himself as he resumed his pace. To disrespect one who had

seen so much in his time, who had traveled so widely, who had amassed so much

knowledge since his first job of programming binary loadlifters -

Quite unexpectedly his photoreceptors zeroed in on Master Solo. Conversing with

a ... why, a Ryn, of all species.

As C-3PO hastened toward them he couldn't help but note that Master Han and the

Ryn looked somewhat the worse for wear, as did the shuttle they had obviously

exited, accompanied by a mixed lot of woebegone beings and a red-capped R2 unit.

And, in fact, Master Solo and the Ryn weren't so much conversing as arguing.

"See you around," the Ryn was concluding as C-3PO neared.

"Not if I can help it, partner," Han said, in a manner that held little

sympathy.

"Master Solo!" C-3PO called, waving an arm over his head. "Master Solo!"

Han turned and saw him, then snorted a laugh - not at all as surprised as C-3PO

might have expected him to be. But then, he had been made aware of Mistress Leia

and C-3PO's impending visit to Ord Mantell. So perhaps he had come looking for

them.

"Master Solo, you're injured," C-3PO exclaimed, on seeing dried blood on his

hands and face.

"Could've been a lot worse," Han replied with his usual penchant for

understatement. "Where's Leia, Threepio?"

"Why, she's at the Hotel Grand as we Speak, sir."

Han thought for a minute, eyes narrowing as he glanced at C-3PO. "I don't

suppose there's any chance of your not mentioning you ran into me?"

C-3PO inclined his head in perplexity.

"No, I suppose not," Han said, answering for himself. He blew out his breath.

"In that case, I guess you'd better lead me to her."

EIGHTEEN

"I still can't believe you're here," Leia said as she applied a transdermal

bacta patch to a nasty abrasion above Han's right eyebrow. Han was seated at the

vanity in Leia's elegant hotel room, with Leia leaning over him and C-3PO

standing silently in the background. Olmahk and Basbakhan had posted themselves

at the door. "Where's your friend Roa?"

Han spoke through gritted teeth. "That's an excellent question, Leia. He got

sucked into some sort of Yuuzhan Vong snakeship that latched on to the Jubilee

Wheel."

Leia placed her hands on his shoulders. "Oh, Han, no."

"Maybe he's only been captured," Han vented. "But that's even worse." He

clenched his jaw and shook his head back and forth.

"Did you two accomplish what you set out to do?"

Leia asked guardedly.

Han's eyes found hers in the vanity mirror. "The enemy interrupted us,"

"I'm sorry to hear that." Leia averted her gaze and returned to smoothing the

bacta patch. "What will you do now?"

Abruptly Han stood up and paced away from the vanity, combing his hair back from

his face with his fingers. "I don't know. Look for him, I guess."

Leia regarded him with disbelief. "Look for him? How do you intend to do that?"

Han shook his head. "I don't know yet." He glanced at Leia and scowled. "What do

you expect me to do - pretend it never happened?"

"Of course not. I only meant -" Han waved his hand at her. "Ah, how could I

expect you to understand?"

Leia folded her arms and squinted. "You think I don't know what it's like to

lose a friend?"

Han held up a hand. "I don't need you reminding me about Alderaan or Elegos

A'Kla -"

Leia's eyes flashed. "Have you completely lost your mind? How dare you say

that?"

Han met her gaze. "Careful, Leia," he advised, "I'm not in the best mood."

Leia clutched her neck in elaborate concern. "And I certainly wouldn't want my

name added to the list of people who have crossed the infamous Han Solo."

Han pivoted slightly to throw C-3PO a wry glance. "Great little fighter for her

weight, don't you think, Threepio?"

C-3PO stared at him. "Pardon me for asking, sir, but -"

"Are you coming back to Coruscant with us?" Leia asked, planting her fists on

her hips.

Han shook his head. "It's like I told you, Roa and I were interrupted."

"And you've no intention of telling me what this is about."

Han shrugged.

"What happened to the man who preferred a straight fight to sneaking around?"

Han's brow furrowed and his jaw dropped a bit. "Who's sneaking around?"

She frowned in disappointment. "You've changed, Han."

"What are you talking about?" he protested. "I'm the same as ever. Timeproof,

weatherproof, rust resistant."

"You think so?" Leia took him by the shoulders and swung him around to face the

mirror. "Take a good look."

Han fell silent for a moment. "That's not the years, it's the parsecs."

Leia exhaled wearily. "You can be so exasperating."

He snorted. "Yeah, I guess you wish you'd married some pro zoneball player

instead of a smuggler, huh?"

Leia firmed her lips in anger. "That's not it at all." She gestured to the

window. "It's reckless of you to be roaming about out there. For all you know,

the Yuuzhan Vong have some kind of dossier on you. There might even be a price

on your head."

"I'm not exactly 'roaming about,' Leia."

"Then tell me what you're doing."

Han started to say something but stopped himself and began again. "I knew it

would be a mistake to come here," he mumbled.

Leia stepped back in genuine dismay. Now she stopped Han when he started to

speak. "You know what I think, Han? I think that you should plot a course around

Coruscant until you've worked this out. I mean it."

Han nodded, tight-lipped. "Maybe you're right, Leia. Maybe that's for the best."

She made no attempt to restrain him as he snatched his travel pack from the

floor and let himself out. But no sooner did the door seal than she sank to the

bed, as if stunned.

"Well, that certainly wasn't in the plans," she said flatly to C-3PO.

"The plans, Mistress?"

She looked at him askance. "It's an expression, Threepio. I didn't really have

any plans."

C-3PO appeared to slouch. Leia smiled in spite of herself. "Human thinking isn't

all it's prized to be, Threepio. In fact, sometimes it's better not to know

what's on someone else's mind."

Han placed his hand over the top of the squarish glass to prevent the four-armed

bartender from refilling it.

"Alcohol isn't the answer," he said.

The Codru-Ji studied him from behind the counter. "What's the question?"

"How do you change the past?"

"Simple. By changing the way you remember it."

"Yeah, I suppose I could get my memory wiped."

The bartender nodded in understanding. "Another whiskey and you'd be well on

your way."

Han ran his hand over his stubbled jaw, then shook his head. "To nowhere."

The bartender shrugged. "Suit yourself, pal."

The bar at the Lady Fate Casino was almost empty, but the gaming tables were

crowded with people celebrating their good fortune in escaping immolation -

perhaps the longest shot any oddsmaker had ever posted. Han figured he, too,

would have been in a mood to revel, if not for what had happened to Roa and

Fasgo.

But what sense was there in dragging Leia down with him? She wasn't to blame for

their disappearance any more than Anakin was responsible for Chewie's death -

perhaps any more than Reck Desh was. So maybe it was time to forget about

searching for Roa or the so-called Peace Brigade and return to Coruscant, where

he might even be able to engage in something constructive.

He paid for the drink, tipped the Codru-Ji generously, and was headed for the

exit when Big Bunji's Aqualish lieutenant intercepted him.

"I see you made it off the Wheel in one piece," Han said with elaborate

disappointment.

"Good to see you, too, Solo. Boss B thought you might be found here."

"Tell Bunji I want to thank him for leaving us behind."

"He sends his apologies. In the haste of the moment, he completely forgot that

he had guests."

Han's upper lip twitched. "I'll be sure to tell that to Roa and Fasgo - assuming

they survive whatever the Yuuzhan Vong have planned for them."

The Aqualish nodded inscrutably. "Perhaps this will help, Solo. The boss has

learned that the human you were asking about - the one called Reck Desh - has an

operation planned for Bilbringi."

Han's expression went from anger to wary interest. "What sort of operation?"

"Unknown. Only that it involves the entire Peace Brigade."

"When?"

"Imminently."

"Bilbringi, you say."

"That much is known."

Han pushed his hair from his forehead and loosed a slow exhale. "Okay, tell

Bunji thanks."

The Aqualish gestured farewell and moved off, and Han returned to the bar to

think. Presumably, the Happy Dagger was still docked on the Wheel, but there

would be no way of knowing whether it had survived the attack without returning

upside. The alternative was to find public transport to Bilbringi and nose

around for clues as to what Reck was up to. Leia could probably pull the

necessary strings to get him aboard a ship, but he couldn't ask her without

coming clean, and he wasn't ready to risk that. Not yet, anyway.

But C-3PO ... C-3PO could arrange for his passage on a Bilbringi-bound vessel.

As per Han's discreetly relayed request, C-3PO rendezvoused with him at the

entrance to the Ord Mantell spaceport.

"Nothing better than a prompt droid," Han said smiling.

"I must confess, Master Solo," C-3PO responded anxiously, "that I feel less than

right about this - especially about mimicking Leia's voice to arrange for your

passage."

"Come on, Threepio. You've done it before. You did it to fool Grand Admiral

Thrawn's forces."

"That's not very reassuring, sir. What's more, that was a matter of protecting

the princess from assassins. This is a matter of protecting you from ... I'm not

quite sure what, Master Solo."

"I'm not asking you to lie, Threepio," Han said, dragging the final word out.

"I'm only asking you to overlook. If Leia doesn't ask you about me, then there's

no need for you to say where I've gone."

"But surely she will ask about you, sir."

"Okay, but she might not ask directly if you have any idea where I went, or

where I am."

"But, sir, what if she does?"

Han considered it. "If she does, you tell her." He regarded the droid for a

moment. "You'd have to, wouldn't you?"

C-3PO grew jittery. "It's beyond logic."

"Exactly," Han said. "It's beyond logic. You know, sometimes people are better

off not knowing certain things."

"Sir?"

"Sometimes it's more painful to know the truth than not to know it."

C-3PO paid close attention. "Put that way, it doesn't sound so bad," he started

to say, then made a flustered gesture. "But this matter of stretching the truth

is as confusing as ceasing-to-be!"

Han raised an eyebrow. "Ceasing-to-be? What's a droid doing thinking about

death? You can't die."

"Perhaps not the way a human can, sir. But I can be deactivated. And what will

become of my memories, then - the memories of all I've accomplished and all I've

been through?"

Han stared at him. "Did somebody loosen your motivator or something? If that's

all you're worried about, we can download your memory to a data storage

facility." He narrowed his gaze with clear intent. "In fact, I just might be

willing to arrange for that, Threepio - especially if you'll agree not to say

anything to Leia about Bilbringi."

C-3PO tipped his head to one side.

"Immortality, Threepio," Han said enticingly.

"But, sir -"

"It'll be like having a clone on ice. Your mind winds up in a different body,

but you don't even know you were gone."

"Oh, I'm confident I could adjust to a new body, sir. After all, I am a mind

more than I am a body."

"That's the spirit, kid."

"That's the spirit," C-3PO repeated excitedly, then came back to himself. "But,

Master Solo, sir, about this ship on which you have passage. There's something

you should know -"

"It's bound for Bilbringi?"

"Yes, sir, but -"

"Then that's all that matters. Where's it leave from?"

"Tenders and boarding shuttles are scheduled to depart from Launch Bay 4061 at

thirteen hundred hours, local time. But, sir, if you'd just give me a moment to

explain -"

"No time, Threepio," Han said, glancing at a nearby time display. "And thanks -

for everything. You won't regret this."

C-3PO raised both hands above his head in agitation. "But, sir," he called out

as Han was hurrying off, "it's the Queen of Empire - a jinxed vessel if ever

there was one!"

NINETEEN

Showolter grimaced as he watched the ooglith masquer captured on Wayland envelop

and attach itself to Elan, extruding microscopic hooks and tentacles that

inserted themselves into pores, sweat ducts, wrinkles, and folds. Naked, Elan

had her back turned to him, but he could tell by her contortions and the

involuntary flexing of her shipshape muscles that the process of donning the

living mantle was excruciating - exquisitely so, according to Elan.

Alert to his curiosity, she had asked him to watch, in a manner that had managed

to mix indifference with a hint of flirtation. He could endure only so much of

her agonized moaning, however, and turned away to gaze out the safe house's sole

window at a stand of trees, whose high metal content made that part of Myrkr a

challenge for transceivers and other communication arrays.

"All finished," Elan announced stoically, and Showolter turned again to find her

clothed not only in the Yuuzhan Vong second-skin but also in the robe he had

originally handed her. She looked more human than ever.

Elan massaged her cheeks, forehead, and chin, as one might smooth away creases.

"You see, Showolter? No trace of my markings, no evidence of who and what I

truly am."

Showolter realized he'd been holding his breath, and he let it out. "One size

cloaker fits all, huh?"

"Why, are you interested in trying it on?"

"No," he replied quickly. "Just wondering whether there are male and female

versions."

"Why should there be?"

He scratched his head. "Well, not every Yuuzhan Vong could have your shape."

Elan glanced at Vergere, squatting nearby, and the two traded cryptic smiles.

Vergere's disguise amounted to no more than a loose-fitting garment that

concealed her feathered torso and reverse-articulated legs. There wasn't much

that could be done about her exotic face, but with so many folks displaced from

the Outer Rim, immigration and customs officials were getting used to seeing new

species every day.

"Is there something wrong with my shape, Showolter?" Elan asked at last.

"Quite the opposite." He laughed awkwardly.

"But surely you object to my facial and torso markings."

"Frosting," he said, trying to make it sound like a joke.

She tipped her head and regarded him frankly. "Perhaps you have the makings of a

Yuuzhan Vong - despite your reluctance to assume the ooglith masquer."

"I doubt it. Though I might go as far as getting myself tattooed."

Her smile straightened. "If you think that the Yuuzhan Vong process is less

painful, you're dead wrong."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Sacrifices have to be made."

"Oh, indeed they do, Showolter." She let the remark hang in the air for a

moment, then added, "But I'm afraid my breath might offend you. It's somewhat

contaminated -"

"From the food," Vergere interrupted. "We're not accustomed to eating so much

processed nourishment."

Showolter glanced at her. "Sorry, but there's nothing I can do about that." He

appraised the concealing abilities of the ooglith masquer and gave his head a

bemused shake. "A nerf in taopari's clothing," he muttered.

Elan's fine brows beetled.

"A play on a saying," he explained. "A taopari in nerf's clothing - a beast

disguised as a grazer to infiltrate the herd."

Elan's eyes brightened in revelation. "So I'm a grazer in beast's clothing."

"I was thinking of the assassin your people sent."

"Of course you were."

Showolter cleared his throat and handed her undergarments, a simple dress, a

jacket, and shoes. "Anyway, here's your outfit."

Elan examined the items one by one. "Who am I supposed to be, Showolter?"

"My wife. We're refugees, displaced from a planet called Sernpidal, traveling

with our servant."

"That would be me," Vergere said, "as ever."

Elan looked from Vergere to Showolter. "I've no training in wifely duties."

"No one expects you to live the part. Just play it. We'll go over the details

before we leave."

"It will be just the three of us?" Elan asked.

"We'll be met by backup on the ship."

"Are we going to a more populated world?"

He nodded.

"You will show me the sights?"

"That might take some doing. But, yes, eventually."

"How delightful."

Showolter left her to dress and went into the adjoining room to check on the two

three-member decoy teams. The two female agents, faces painted in swirls and

whorls and already attired in outfits identical to the one he'd given Elan, bore

enough of a superficial resemblance to the Yuuzhan Vong priestess to pass for

her. But Showolter was less confident about the Mrlssi and the Bimm operatives

chosen to pass for Vergere.

"Maybe we'd have been better off employing a couple of Drall," he commented as

he appraised the two costumed aliens.

"What about me, Showolter?" one of the women asked playfully. "Do I fit the bill

as Miss Defector?" She struck a theatrically alluring pose and batted her

eyelashes at him. "'You will show me the sights?'" she said, aping Elan's voice.

Everyone but Showolter laughed. Instead, he began distributing weapons and

last-minute instructions written on self-destruct durasheet.

"Let yourselves be seen in Hyllyard City," he told the members of the first

team, "but don't overplay things. If there are Yuuzhan Vong operatives about,

they're not going to be easily fooled." He handed them travel vouchers. "You'll

be departing Myrkr for Gyndine, then traveling on to Thyferra."

Another set of vouchers went to the male member of the second team. "Myrkr to

Bimmisaari to Kessel."

He slipped a blaster into his shoulder holster. "Everyone stays in touch with HQ

through channels. Once our informants have reached Coruscant, you'll be notified

to drop the charade and report in."

"What's your bet, Major?" team one's leader asked. Showolter pulled down the

corners of his mouth and shook his head. "After the recent setback at Ord

Mantell, the Yuuzhan Vong might just avoid that sector. Besides," he added,

buttoning his jacket over the holster, "what would they want with a bunch of

refugees traveling on a decrepit starliner?"

As the packed-to-the-bulkheads tender pulled into docking position alongside the

once magnificent luxury liner, Han suddenly realized what C-3PO had been trying

to tell him back on Ord Mantell.

Of all ships, he said to himself as the vessel's faded and battle-scarred legend

came into view. The Queen of Empire.

Originally owned and operated by Haj Shipping Lines, a company whose loyalty to

the Empire and the Alliance had varied in response to which side had the most to

offer, the Queen had been the vessel of choice for passengers traveling between

Corellia and Gyndine - with numerous ports of call en route - and occasionally

Rimward as far as Nar Hekka, in Hutt space.

Slightly larger than an Imperial Star Destroyer, the ship was capable of

carrying tens of thousands, but instead had restricted its passenger list to a

mere five thousand, so as to provide unparalleled comfort, exceptional service,

and more diversions than anyone had a right to savor. Species-specific pools,

spas, restaurants, shopping malls, climate zones, and exercise rooms, tonsorial

parlors for the hirsute and buffing stations for the smooth-skinned, jizz

lounges and null-g ballrooms, casinos, observation blisters, and amusement areas

... all on more decks than could possibly be explored on a single cruise. The

plushest of her many nightclubs had been the Star Winds lounge, where

fifteen-limbed Rughjas had played the finest in swing-bob, and affluent

passengers had danced the margengai-glide till all hours.

In her heyday, the Queen had rivaled the older Quamar Messenger and the Mon

Calamari starliner Kuari Princess and had been the template for newer vessels,

such as the Tinta Palette and Jewel of Churba. But frequently the target of

pirates, a magnet for meteors, and once stranded hi hyperspace for five days,

the Queen had fallen on hard times.

Han had never been aboard, but he had heard all about the ship from Lando, who

had met Han's first love, Bria Tharen, aboard the Queen. Bria was by then a

high-ranking member of the Corellian resistance, and Lando, his usual dapper

self.

Han was still deep in recollection when he transferred to the liner, and it

wasn't until he was aboard that he grasped just how far the Queen had fallen.

While he and a handful of others actually held tickets, the ship was overwhelmed

with keelrunners, casualties of war, and refugees previously stranded on Ord

Mantell and the Wheel and now on their way to various Colony and Core worlds,

thanks in large part to Leia's efforts.

A babel of languages and a dizzying amalgam of smells, the Queen's once grand

ballrooms and lounges had become temporary camps, where folks of a hundred

different species huddled inside makeshift tents and shelters, carefully

safeguarding children, pets, or what little foodstuffs and belongings they

possessed. Among them roamed guards and soldiers, settling disputes over deck

space or alleged theft, or breaking up vicious fights born of plain and simple

discrimination. Also circulating were droids, vendors, and hawkers - many

protected by bodyguards - charging exorbitant prices for quick-prep meals, derma

supplements, dubious Pharmaceuticals, and tickets to the portable refreshers

that lined some of the passageways.

Picking his way among everyone, Han followed deck routing lines to the

sour-smelling, cramped compartment to which his ticket entitled him. Perching

himself on the edge of the tiny, swaybacked bed, he considered his situation.

The cabin space didn't bother him; Bilbringi was only two jumps distant, and the

Queen was scheduled to arrive within three ship days. Once there - where Han had

contacts and acquaintances - he would snoop around for Reck or other members of

the Peace Brigade, and perhaps even get a lead on what had happened to victims

of the Yuuzhan Vong attack on the Jubilee Wheel.

He dozed for a few moments and awoke ravenous - no surprise, in that he hadn't

eaten anything since bar snacks in the Lady Fate Casino.

Ticketed passengers were supposed to be afforded exclusive privileges to both an

upper-deck cafeteria and the only restaurant that hadn't been converted into

living spaces for the refugees. But crowding had overtaxed whatever controls had

once been in place, and the cafeteria had been set upon by near-starved

passengers. By the time Han arrived, only limited quantities of food remained

and there wasn't a utensil to be found. It had come down to using hands, claws,

pincers, or whatever foraging appendages nature had bestowed.

Han was assessing whether any of the grime on his hands might be toxic when he

remembered the survival tool Anakin had given him - the one Chewie had made -

which, remarkably, after all that Han had been through on the Wheel, was still

clipped to his belt. And sure enough, the tool contained a fork attachment.

Han prized the three-lined utensil from its clever recess and edged into the

crowd surrounding the buffet table. Closing on the warming trays, he saw that

only one piece of nerf steak remained - an overdone, gristly piece at that - but

he wasn't about to pass it up. As he reached forward and speared it, however, a

talon-like nail attached to a somewhat velvety, five-fingered hand lanced the

steak at the same instant.

Han whirled and found himself face-to-face with the male Ryn in whose company he

had escaped the Wheel. The prehensile-tailed alien was sporting the same

vibrantly colored culottes, vest, and jaunty beret.

"Ha!" the Ryn yapped in amused surprise. "I told you I'd see you around!"

Han grimaced. "Around five years from how would have been more to my liking."

"Ah, but you can't fight fate, my friend."

"I can try," Han snapped. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Why, the same as you: traveling forward." He cut his large eyes to the thin

slab of meat. "So who claims the prize?"

"I guess we share it," Han said in a rankled tone. "Providing you eat the half

you stuck your fingernail into."

The Ryn laughed. "And folks say there are no honest beings about."

Han transferred the steak to an inexpertly washed plate, and the two of them

found opposing seats at a nearby table, among a mixed group of Sullustans and

Bimms.

"Droma," the Ryn said, extending a hand as he was sitting down.

"Roaky Laamu," Han told him, reluctantly shaking hands.

"I have to say, Roaky, you look a lot better than when I saw you last."

Han scratched at the rectangle of synthflesh Leia had applied to his forehead.

"The marvel of bacta. Wish I could -"

"- say the same for you," Droma completed.

Han slapped the tabletop and leaned forward angrily. "You and I need to come to

an arrangement. I don't know the trick to how you do it, but from now on you're

going to keep my thoughts to yourself, understand?"

"Quite a challenge," Droma mused.

"That's your problem." Han stared at him for a moment. "Just how do you do it?"

"Why, haven't you heard that all Ryn are mind readers and fortune-tellers?"

Droma asked facetiously.

"Yeah, and I'm a Jedi Knight."

Droma laughed. "Now, that would be a stretch."

Han frowned and used the survival tool's knife blade to saw the steak in half -

its blackened underside bearing the stamp of the provider, Nebula Consumables.

With obvious hesitation, Han forked a small portion into his mouth. Droma

watched Han's face as he chewed - or tried to.

"Not what you expected?"

"I expected edible," Han mumbled around the piece.

"That bad?"

Droma borrowed the survival tool to saw a bite-size portion from his half.

Han pushed an empty saucer toward him. "You can spit your teeth in here."

Droma chewed for several moments before politely taking the piece into his

cupped hand and dropping it under the table.

Han forced a breath. "Look, what do you say we try the restaurant - my treat."

Droma grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

They left the cafeteria and walked a short distance along the promenade deck to

a crowded dining room that had managed to retain some of the grandeur long

surrendered by the rest of the Queen. As they were about to be seated, however,

a Klaatooinian maitre d' intervened.

"I'm sorry, sir," he told Han, "but we can't serve the ... Ryn."

Han showed the heavy-lidded, long-jawed humanoid an incredulous look. "What, do

you think you're working on the Tinta Rainbow? This is a refugee ship!"

The maitre d' sniffed. "We still have our policies."

Han's nostrils flared and he cocked his arm back, only to have Droma restrain

him.

"A fight won't change anything," Droma advised, all but hanging from Han's

biceps.

"Except my mood," Han growled.

"But not our appetites."

Han lowered his arm and snatched a menu from a passing waiter. Scanning it, he

jabbed his finger at a chef's specialty and thrust the menu into the maitre d's

long-fingered hands.

"Two of these - to go."

The Klaatooinian looked down his nose at Han, then hurried off, returning

shortly with the requested items.

Han and Droma took the packaged meals to tattered deck chairs in the observation

bay and ate without conversation as the Queen maneuvered out of Ord Mantell

space, accruing velocity for the jump to lightspeed. Starlight shone on the

badly damaged outer ring of the Jubilee Wheel. Han was determined to keep

thoughts of Roa and Fasgo from his mind - at least until Bilbringi.

Sated, he leaned back in the chair and locked his hands behind his head. "Where

are the Ryn from?" he asked while Droma was licking his fingers clean.

"Originally, I mean."

Droma smoothed the ends of his white mustache. "A world in the Core, but even we

Ryn don't know which one."

"Were you forced to leave?"

"There are two schools of thought. The first has us descended from a tribe of

ten thousand musicians donated to a nearby world that was bereft of artists. The

second has us descended from warriors deployed against an Inner Rim threat. Our

language contains many military terms, such as Our word for non-Ryn, which has

linguistic ties to the word civilian."

"How'd so many of you wind up in the Corporate Sector?"

"We were essentially chased there by circumstance. After leaving the Core, the

Ryn learned farming, metal-working, and other skills, but suspicion followed us

everywhere. With forged documents of safe passage, we were allowed to settle on

remote worlds in Corporate Sector space. It helped that our healing techniques,

borrowed from many disparate groups, saved the life of an important Authority

executive.

"Still, our nomadic ways, our fondness for secrecy, our lack of written records

- all for the sake of self-preservation - persuaded others to believe us black

mages or stealthy thieves. We were said to feast on living flesh, and in some

sectors laws were enacted that made it legal to hunt, brand, or kill us. We were

blamed for the crimes of others. Our native language was outlawed, and many of

us were sold into slavery or made breeders for slave children."

Soberly, Han recalled the Ryn on the Wheel who had approached the Happy Dagger,

and the pair that had approached him personally in the Bet's Off, regarding

onward passage to the Core.

"How did you end up on the Jubilee Wheel?" he asked.

"I was among a caravan of Ryn ships that had left the Corporate Sector for the

Lesser Plooriod Cluster when the Yuuzhan Vong pushed into the Onega system and

destroyed Ithor."

"You're a professional pilot?"

"A fair one," Droma said, "as well as a scout and all-around spacer."

"So what happened after Ithor?"

"Our ships were scattered, as were our families. I've been searching for my

clanmates ever since, including a sister and several cousins."

"Tough," Han said.

Droma nodded. "But what about you, Roaky? You handle a ship as masterfully as a

starfighter pilot - or a successful smuggler. What brings you out here?"

Han took a moment to collect his thoughts. "I'm more a mechanic than I am a

pilot. Taking time off from normal life to figure some things out."

"So you, also, are trying to return to your family?" Droma said.

Han looked at him. "Maybe I am."

From the restaurant came the strains of "Smoky Dreams," a song that had been

perfectly matched to Bria Tharen's whiskey contralto, and one she would often

sing.

"The song reminds you of something," Droma said, observing Han cannily.

Han smiled without showing his teeth. "Good old days."

"How old?"

"Old enough to be good," Han told him.

TWENTY

His back to the room, Luke was standing at the wraparound transparisteel window

when Kyp Durron, Wurth Skidder, Cilghal, and the other jedi he had asked to come

to Coruscant filed in. The chamber occupied the top floor of the Ministry of

Justice building, which while far from the tallest tower in the vicinity,

nevertheless enjoyed majestic, panoramic views of the cityscape in all

directions. Against the light of the sinking sun, the windows were darkly

tinted, but not so impenetrable that the chamber wasn't bathed in the same reds

and oranges that painted the sky.

Luke was seemingly absorbed in watching Coruscant's ceaseless traffic flow. By

the time he turned from the window, all twenty Jedi Knights had entered and were

taking seats at the round table or simply standing about, hoods lowered, waiting

for Luke to explain why he'd asked them to come nearly halfway across the

galaxy.

"The New Republic has two enemy defectors in custody," he announced without

preamble. "One is a priestess, the other is apparently her mascot or companion.

As a result of their supplying military intelligence that was at least in part

responsible for the recent victory at Ord Mantell, the defectors are being

brought to Coruscant for further debriefing."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Kyp Durron said above outpourings of surprise and

excitement. "I knew there had to be some disaffected among the Yuuzhan Vong." He

showed Luke an eager, thin-lipped smile. "When do we get a shot at debriefing

them?"

"But it has to be subterfuge, doesn't it?" Cilghal said before Luke could

respond. "Notwithstanding the alleged military intelligence." Her webbed hands

were concealed in the opposite sleeves of her Jedi robe, and her bulbous eyes

took in Luke and Kyp simultaneously.

Luke nodded as he moved to the table. "The New Republic is being cautious. If

the defectors continue to supply intelligence that holds up, they'll be given

more credence."

"They've agreed to provide more?" Wurth Skidder asked. He was the only one who

wasn't wearing Jedi robes, though from the tousled look of his blond hair he

might have passed the entire journey from Yavin 4 with the hood of his cloak

raised.

"Conditionally."

Many of the Jedi traded glances, but no one spoke. Luke perched himself on the

edge of the table, with one booted foot extended to the floor.

"They've requested a meeting with us."

The gray-haired and bearded Streen uttered a short laugh. "Exactly the sort of

thing I expected." He regarded Luke. "Did they happen to say why they want to

meet with us?"

Luke stood up and took a few steps toward the former Bespin miner. "They claim

to have information about an illness Yuuzhan Vong agents introduced, long before

the first worldships landed on Helska 4."

A shocked silence fell over the room.

"I won't try to fool any of you," Luke said after a moment. "With all my heart I

want to believe it's the illness Mara has been suffering, but that remains to be

seen."

"If it is the same," Cilghal said, still a bit stunned by the revelation, "dare

we surmise that the Yuuzhan Vong know that Mara is ill?"

Luke tightened his lips and shook his head. "I don't think we should leap to

that conclusion."

"Of course they know," Wurth said firmly. "What's more, I say they're using Mara

to get to us the same way they got to her."

"You don't know that," Anakin said sharply. "The defectors have been scanned for

just that sort of thing, and they'll be scanned again before we meet with them."

Nonplussed, Wurth sat back in his chair and stared at Luke. "Then you've already

made up your mind to meet with them?"

Luke nodded once. "As an accommodation to the New Republic as much as anything

else - a way of demonstrating to them that we can work together."

Several meaningful glances were exchanged.

"We can all appreciate that, Master," Ganner Rhysode said, "but if we're going

to do this, let's do it for Mara and not for the New Republic. Personally, I

couldn't care less about accommodating the military or the senate after all

that's happened."

Murmurs of agreement filled the room. Luke waited for everyone to settle down,

then said, "I'm going to propose that the defectors meet with Mara and me

alone."

Jacen shot to his feet. "You do think it's a trap!"

Luke turned to him. "I don't know that it is or it isn't."

"Then let them meet with me or Streen or Kam Solusar," Jacen said. "Any one of

us would be willing to risk our lives to help Mara."

Cilghal looked at Jacen and Luke, her broad slash of mouth slightly ajar. "Your

nephew is correct, Master. If there is some risk, you and Mara are the last ones

who should assume it."

Luke glanced around the room. "What are you suggesting, that all of us meet with

them?"

"You can count me in," Kyp said. "I'd like nothing better than a few moments

alone with a Yuuzhan Vong."

"Kyp speaks for me, as well," Wurth said.

Lowbacca brayed forcefully. Em Teedee, the miniaturized translator droid

hovering near Lowie's shoulder on his own repulsorlift jets, supplied, "We're

all for one. Together, we are stronger than the sum of our individual powers."

Built by Chewbacca and programmed by C-3PO, Em Teedee spoke in the voice of the

protocol droid, but absent his sometimes prissy inflection.

"I stand with Lowbacca," Streen said. "Whatever insights are to be gained about

the Yuuzhan Vong will be shared by all of us."

"I, too," Tenel Ka added.

Luke clasped his hands behind his back and paced to the windows. The camaraderie

heartened him. He thought back to the early years of the academy, and how his

students had rallied to defeat the spirit of a dark Jedi who had sought to

possess Yavin 4. Some of those in the room now had been there - Cilghal, Streen,

even the kids. And some who had joined the fight were dead, as were Cray Mingla,

Nichos Marr, Miko Reglia, Daeshara'cor ...

Luke exhaled slowly, turned, and nodded. "I'll inform New Republic Intelligence

of our decision. We'll meet with the defectors as soon as they arrive on

Coruscant."

"One for the human," the dealer said, pressing a sabacc chip-card from the shoe.

An Ithorian card-bearer fitted with a paddle appendage where an arm should have

been slid his wafer-thin device beneath the microcircuitry-embedded card and

deposited it faceup in front of Han.

"Six of sabers," the dealer announced to the table.

Han calculated the total of the three cards he held and made a subtle waving

motion with the forefinger and middle finger of his right hand, signaling the

dealer that he would stand.

The dealer, a Bith whose opposable thumb and little fingers made for adroit card

handling, looked to the Sullustan seated to Han's left for instructions. The

heavy-jowled, jut-eared being rapped his fist once on the long table's nonskid

surface and failed to repress a grin when a card flipped by the bearer's paddle

turned out to be the face card Endurance.

The Bothan in the next seat folded, as did the diminutive Chadra-Fan alongside

him. That left Han playing against the Sullustan, and to Han's right, an

Ithorian and a Rodian - both of whom were unscrupulous vendors - the latter

holding tightly to the two cards originally dealt to him, and with none on the

table.

Han leaned back to show Droma his concealed cards: the Ace of coins, worth

fifteen, and the one of staves - recently altered by the sabacc randomizer from

the Queen of Air and Darkness. With the six of sabers showing, the hand had a

total value of twenty-two, a mere point away from a pure sabacc. He felt certain

that the Sullustan wasn't holding more than twenty, despite the Endurance face

card. The Ithorian's two table cards alone valued twelve, and from the way the

alien had bet, Han doubted he held more than eighteen or nineteen. As for the

Rodian, his two cards certainly totaled more than twenty but probably not more

than twenty-two. A pure sabacc dealt to him earlier in the game had all but

propelled him from his chair, and while he had greeted the present hand with

excitement, there was nothing in his glassy, bulging eyes to suggest another

instant win.

No one had fixed the value of any chip-cards by placing them in the interference

field at the table's center.

Additional cards were refused all around, and final bets were placed. Unless the

randomizer struck again, Han knew he had the pot.

The Sullustan called, and everyone showed their hands. Han's instincts were

right on the money, and he won his third straight pot. Under the wary and

watchful gaze of a human pit boss with enhanced vision for spotting skifters -

rigged chip-cards sneaked into the game - or players attempting to glimpse color

reflections from ionization of the interference field, the bearer's paddle

gathered the cards, and the banker assembled Han's winnings into neat stacks and

slid them across the table.

The game was being conducted in the Queen's sole extant gaming parlor, where a

couple of uvide and jubilee wheels spun noisily in the background and a

half-dozen Twi'lek women with tattooed head-tails moved about with trays of free

drinks, transdermal drugs, and a host of smokable substances.

Curiously, Droma had ridiculed Han's decision to buy into the game - at the cost

of almost all his credits - even when Han had justified it as a means of

delaying the inevitable return to his filthy cabin, where Han had reluctantly

passed the previous night and most of the day, and even the current win failed

to disabuse the Ryn of disdain.

"An enterprise entirely lacking in depth," Droma commented as Han, with arrogant

delight, made even neater stacks of his winnings. "And humans, owing perhaps to

their evolutionary good fortune, seem more inclined to be taken in than any

other species."

Han's retort was a smug snort, but he couldn't help recalling a similar

sentiment he'd heard expressed more than twenty years earlier.

"Of all the races who gamble their well-being on uncertain returns - and there

aren't many, statistically - the trait's most noticeable in humans, one of the

most successful life-forms."

The speaker had been a Ruurian academic named Skynx, who had accompanied Han on

the search for Xim the Despot's treasure.

"Laugh all you want," Han told Droma, "but I've been playing since I was

fourteen, and sabacc once won me a ship, not to mention a planet."

"It's a fool's enterprise, nonetheless," Droma said.

Han smiled cavalierly. "I'll take a handful of luck to a cargo hold of wisdom

any day."

The Bith loaded a new deck into the shoe and showed the palms of his hands -

ritual assurance that he had nothing up his sleeves, as well as the signal for

the start of a new round.

Traditional sabacc games pitted player against player in a contest to come

closest to negative or positive twenty-three, without bombing out by breaking

twenty-three or holding cards equal to zero. And while the Queen's casino

employed the standard four-suit, seventy-six-chip-card deck, randomizer, and

interference Geld, the house not only demanded a buy-in price but withheld 20

percent of all pots - the entire pot if all players folded - half of which went

into a special bank for rounds played against the house. The Queen also had

special rules governing pure sabacc hands. A positive twenty-three beat out

negative twenty-three, but a two-card twenty-three beat out a three-card

twenty-three, and no player was permitted to request more than three cards in

addition to the two received on the deal.

The next round found Han with an initial value of fourteen, a twenty after one

randomizer hit, but a thirteen after an unexpected second randomizer hit. Even

so, he drew the five of coins and, through skillful bluffing, managed to keep

three of his opponents betting until the call, when he raked in another pot.

The following round went much the same, though he wound up edging out the

Sullustari by a mere point and winning with a fifteen. With his original buy-in

stake, plus his winnings, Han had close to eight thousand credits stacked on the

table.

"When they fold every time you bet a good hand, you play to their eyes," he

bragged to Droma, just loudly enough to be heard.

He was about to ante up for another round when Droma called, "Bank!"

While Han's jaw was dropping, the pit boss hurried over to confer with the

cashier, who shortly announced that Han needed 7800 credits to play the hand

against the house.

Murder in his eyes, Han whirled on Droma. "Is that fright wig of yours growing

down into your brain? If I lose, I'm cleaned out!"

Droma merely shrugged. "The randomizer is the only worthy opponent in this game.

The randomizer is fate. Play against that if you want to impress me."

"Impress you?" Han echoed irascibly. "Impress you? Why you -"

"You called 'bank,'" the strapping pit boss reminded in a threatening tone. "Are

you playing or not?"

Everyone at the table looked at Han, and a crowd of passengers began to gather

round. To decline would not only be gutless but an insult to the players he had

nearly cleaned out. He shoved the credits toward the center of the table.

"Bank," he grated.

As the Bith prized cards from the shoe, the passengers pressed closer to watch.

Outside of tournaments, it was rare to see so many credits wagered on a single

hand.

Han carefully lifted his two cards and forced them apart: twenty-one.

Almost immediately the randomizer struck, reducing the value to thirteen.

He threw the Commander of flasks, worth twelve, into the interference field -

just short of another strike, which value converted the one of coins into the

Idiot, with a of zero.

He asked for a card and drew the Evil One, valued at negative fifteen, leaving

him with a total value of negative three. Whispered disappointment spread

through the crowd.

Tension mounted as Han studied the shoe, glanced at the randomizer, then studied

the shoe some more. When he announced that he would stand, the audience gasped

in unison. A twelve in the interference field and a negative fifteen on the

table; he was either an inspired player or a born loser.

The Bith turned over the house's two cards, the one of staves and the Commander

of coins, for a total of thirteen. House rules required the dealer to draw a

third card on a twelve or thirteen.

The Bith's hand went to the shoe and the crowd held its breath. A ranked card

would put the house on the wrong side of twenty-three, and a face card could

very well drop the house into the negative. Han appeared to have a fighting

chance. A rivulet of sweat coursed down the side of his face and dripped from

his jaw.

But when the bearer's paddle lifted the card, Han caught a glimpse of its

reflection in the interference field.

The nine of sabers.

A twenty-two for the dealer.

Han's heart sunk. In the same instant the randomizer struck for an unprecedented

third time. Han's Evil One became the Mistress of staves, increasing his total

to twenty-five! But then the Idiot transformed, as well - to the Queen of Air

and Darkness, valued at negative two, for a total of twenty-three. Pure sabacc.

Sitting tall in the chair once more, Han showed his hand. Wild applause erupted

behind him. He had won again.

The banker shoved Han's winnings forward and closed the table. As the

disheartened players left and the crowd dispersed - save for a Twi'lek woman

trying desperately to attract Han's attention - Han counted out his initial

buy-in stakes and pushed the hefty remainder to Droma.

"Here," he snarled, "buy yourself a new outfit - something that doesn't shout."

Droma grinned and swept the credits into his two-toned beret. "I know some folks

on the lower decks who can use this."

Han showed him a gimlet stare. "You knew I'd win."

"I may have had a hunch," Droma allowed. "So you're a player."

Droma shook his head. "But I am familiar with the cards. The Ryn invented them.

The ranked and face cards, that is."

Han made a face. "This I gotta hear."

"Each card embodied certain spiritual principles," Droma went on. "In sum they

were a training device for spiritual growth, you might say - but never meant to

be used in a game of chance."

He reached across the table for one of the discarded decks. Fanning the deck in

one hand, Droma rid it of the suit cards numbered one through eleven. The rest

he spread in a semicircle on the tabletop.

"The ranked cards - Commander, Mistress, Master, and Ace - represented

individuals of specific inclination, with the staves corresponding to spiritual

enterprise, the flasks to emotional states, the sabers to mental pursuits, and

the coins to material well-being. But regard the eight pairs of face cards and

ask yourself why a game would include such titles as Balance, Endurance,

Moderation, Demise."

Droma plucked the Master of staves from the semicircle and placed it in front of

Han. "You," he said. "A dark-haired man of formidable strength and intuition,

but often brash and self-absorbed. Despite his years, he charges boldly into

every situation, regardless of the odds, sometimes banging his head on things.

And yet he is at heart a seeker of knowledge."

"Hokey religions," Han said under his breath, but deliberately loud enough for

Droma to hear.

Grinning, Droma leaned away from him, twirling the left tip of his mustache.

"Think so? Let's see what we can see."

Leaving the Master of staves undisturbed, he gathered the rest of the ranked and

face cards, shuffled them deftly, performed a one-handed cut, and set the

abridged deck on the table. Peeling a card from the top of the pack, he placed

it faceup below the Master of staves.

"The Master of flasks," Droma said. "A father figure, protector, or close

friend. Loving, dedicated, loyal to a fault." He fingered another card from the

pack, placed it on top of and perpendicular to the Master of flasks, and

frowned. "Crossed by the Evil One. A harmful addiction in some cases, but more

often a powerful enemy."

Han swallowed, but said nothing.

The third card - Demise - crossed Han's card in the same way. Han felt Droma's

gaze on him.

"You lost a friend - a protector?" Droma asked.

Han put on his best sabacc face. "Go ahead, finish with your little divination."

Droma placed a card to the left of the Master of staves. "The Idiot. The start

of a journey or quest, usually down an unknown path. A sometimes unsettling

plunge into the unknown." The next card crowned the Master. "Moderation - but

inverted. A craving for retribution or vengeance."

Han nodded and snorted. "You're good, you're really good. You watch and you pay

close attention to what people say. That way you get a sense of who someone is

or what someone's going through. Then you put it all in a nicely wrapped

package" - he indicated the spread of cards - "and feed it right back. Just like

your second-guessing what someone's about to say."

Droma made his face long in feigned astonishment. "I'm simply laying out cards."

Han gestured in dismissal. "You arranged the cards when you shuffled. Or maybe

you're dealing seconds."

Droma lifted his hands to his shoulders and nodded to the deck. "Draw four cards

in rapid succession and line them up alongside the Master of staves."

Han hesitated, then did so. But before Droma could speak, he jabbed his finger

at the first of the quartet. "Don't tell me what it means, just tell me what the

location stands for."

"Someone who might be affected by your actions."

Disquiet tugged at the corners of Han's mouth as he scrutinized the card. "The

Commander of sabers," he said quietly. "Maybe a younger version of the Master.

Headstrong, clever ..."

"And brave," Droma added. "An able fighter."

Anakin? Han asked himself. He moved his finger to the next card.

"It occupies the place of unforeseen consequence or hidden danger," Droma

supplied.

"The Queen of Air and Darkness," Han mused, examining her depiction for clues.

"Could be a person hiding something. Or a delusion, maybe."

Droma nodded. "Something unrevealed." He indicated the next card in the line.

"How best to proceed."

"Balance," Han said. "Being able to stay on your feet when the going gets rough

and the ground around you's shaking."

"Adjustment to what life dishes out," Droma elaborated. "Persistence in the face

of adversity. And spiritual power."

Han's finger fell on the final card. "The future?"

Droma rocked his head back and forth. "A likely outcome. In this case, what the

Idiot may find."

Han scowled and regarded the card. "The Star. But upside down - inverted." He

glanced at Droma. "Not all it could be. Less than a complete success."

Droma smiled with his eyes and nodded. "Congratulations, Roaky. Fortune has

granted you a glimpse of its innermost designs."

TWENTY-ONE

Above a gibbous Obroa-skai, Harrar's faceted ship hung in the shadow of the most

recently arrived of the Yuuzhan Vong's yorik coral battleships, under the

command of Malik Carr. Where the one dazzled the eye, the other looked to have

been cast fully formed from the churning bowels of some impossibly gargantuan

volcano.

In the command center of the smaller vessel, Malik Carr, Nom Anor, Harrar,

Commander Tla, and his chief tactician studied a holographic swirl of star

systems given life by data fed to the war coordinator lodged in Obroa-skai's

mutilated surface, and relayed to the faceted ship by signal villip. In dimly

lighted recesses, attendants and acolytes stood still as statues.

"The auguries are encouraging," Commander Tla was telling his peer. "Our

campaign proceeds apace. In addition, a group of captives fresh from Ord

Mantell's orbital station is being assigned to a special project that may

provide us with new insights into the species that dominate this galaxy."

Commander Malik Carr nodded in approval. "Warmaster Tsavong Lah will be pleased

to learn." A tall male whose incised face and bare upper torso touted an

illustrious military career, he wore a vibrant turban, which conformed closely

to his elongated skull. His shoulders and hips bulged with newly acquired bone

and cartilage, from which hung a resplendent command cloak. "Where do the

auguries direct us next?"

Tactician Raff answered. "The environment is rich with targets, Commander Malik

Carr." He instructed the signal villip to enlarge and enhance specific sectors

within an area of space referred to by the New Republic as the Colonies. "In

anticipation of our striking at the Core, the enemy has deployed its fleets at

hyperspace egresses throughout this region. The worlds that lie along our side

of the frontier - Borleias, Ralltiir, Kuat, and Commenor - all make for

excellent staging areas for an eventual assault on Coruscant, the capital

world."

"The auguries suggest caution, however," Harrar interjected.

The tactician concurred. "At this moment in the perpetuation, careful thought

must be given to the battle plan. Advance too slowly and we provide the New

Republic with an opportunity to initiate counterattacks along our flanks.

Advance too quickly and we run the risk of encountering more resistance than we

are prepared to overcome."

Malik Carr grunted. "Additional warships are forthcoming from Sernpidal. With

those we will be able to engage and occupy the enemy on numerous fronts. At the

same time, we may be able to discover a more subtle approach to Coruscant." He

looked at Nom Anor. "What of these Hutt creatures I've been hearing about,

Executor? Do they pose a threat?"

Nom Anor advanced a step. "I have had several meetings with Borga the Hutt - in

my guise as intercessor, of course - and am delighted to report that the Hutts

are more interested in reaching an accord than in going to war, even in defense

of their territory. Their sector of space is extensive, and includes numerous

worlds that can easily be remade to provide us with yorik coral and other

resources, one of which they have already placed at our disposal. Thus, a brief

detour into Hutt space would not be unwarranted. I have also tasked some of my

agents to sow disinformation in advance of your arrival."

"Duly noted," the battleship commander said. "And what of the Jedi?"

Harrar vouchsafed a thin smile. "Their days may be numbered, as well. We have

taken steps to provide the Jedi with a crisis, by infiltrating one of our own

among them - Priestess Elan."

"We have even gone so far as to provide the New Republic with minor victories in

the Meridian sector and at Ord Mantell to substantiate the peerless value of our

operative," Commander Tla added.

Harrar intruded eagerly. "It is our belief that Elan is en route to a meeting

with the Jedi even now."

The priest stopped himself when he saw a herald appear at the entry to the

command center, bearing a villip in his folded arms. Approaching Nom Anor, the

herald stroked the villip's ridge, inducing it to evert. Nom Anor gestured for

one of his own dedicated villips to be brought forth, and watched as the

transforming villip took on the aspect of one of his Yuuzhan Vong underlings.

"Executor," the subaltern's facsimile began, "a group of your agents - those

enlisted in the Peace Brigade - have apparently taken it upon themselves to

return something seemingly lost to us."

Nom Anor's eyes grew wide. "Not Elan," he said in false hope.

"She, Executor."

"What?" Harrar said in alarm. "What's this?"

"How is this possible?" Nom Anor asked. "The Peace Brigade was never made aware

of Elan's feigned defection. What's more, you yourself informed me that the

Peace Brigade was occupied in Hutt space."

"As they were, Executor - at least until they learned of Elan's defection and

capture."

Nom Anor's face contorted in mortification. "From whom?"

"I have not been able to ascertain."

"This is ludicrous," Harrar shouted. "How do they plan to retrieve her?"

"Apparently they have been apprised of the means by which she is to be relocated

to Coruscant."

Nom Anor's villip mirrored his rancorous expression. "Impossible. Even I had

difficulty sorting through the New Republic's subterfuges. Even within the

Intelligence division the route is a closely guarded secret."

"I know only that the Peace Brigade is planning to move against a passenger ship

bound for Bilbringi," the subaltern said. "They have persuaded at least one of

their immediate controllers to assist them. And they have a dovin basal in their

possession."

"We must see to it that they are prevented from interfering." Harrar became

angrier as he spoke. "At any cost."

Nom Anor induced his own villip to return to normal and dismissed the herald.

Commanders Tla and Malik Carr were watching him and the priest closely.

"Is anything wrong, Executor?" Malik Carr asked at last, raising a faint

eyebrow.

Nom Anor traded quick glances with Harrar. "A possible setback involving our

operative," he conceded. Regaining control of his indignation, he gestured

negatively and fixed his gaze on Malik Carr. "Nothing we can't handle. Though I

may have need of your swiftest frigate, Commander."

"We're husband and wife," Showolter told the Askajian officer stationed at the

most forward of the Queen of Empire's starboard boarding gates. The starliner

was in stationary orbit above the planet Vortex. "Recently displaced from

Sernpidal."

"Where the moon came down?" the officer asked.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"What was it you folks called that moon? I remember hearing on the newsnet ..."

"Tosi-karu."

"That was it." The stout near-human regarded Vergere. "Is ... he with you?"

"She," Showolter amended. "Our servant."

The boarding officer nodded uncertainly, then returned the identity documents

and tickets Showolter had provided. "Your stateroom is located on deck

twenty-four, berthing space twelve. Welcome aboard, and safe journey."

Showolter took Elan's hand and led her and Vergere to the nearest bank of

interdeck transfer tubes - broad cylinders that functioned like turbolifts, but

without cars. Buoyed by repulsorlift fields, riders could ascend or descend as

necessary, in lift tubes or drop shafts respectively.

The Queen was just waking from relative night, and clamorous throngs of refugees

were lined up at the species-specific refreshers or searching for food. Droids

rushed about performing tasks that were assumed to be beneath the dignity of

living beings.

Despite the ease of the trip from Myrkr to Vortex and the smooth boarding,

Showolter remained alert for signs that they were being watched or followed - by

in-place NRI operatives or by unknowns. Vergere drew a few curious looks, but

most folks were loo preoccupied guarding their claims to deck space to take much

interest in her. Still, Showolter knew that he wouldn't relax until his backup

agents made contact.

The stateroom was more spacious than he had expected, with a sitting area of

couch, table, and chairs, and four pull-down beds. Ushering the two defectors

inside, Showolter checked the passageway before securing the door.

"Home sweet home," he said. "Until tomorrow, at least."

"What happens then?" Elan asked as she sat down on one of the platform beds.

"I'll tell you when the time comes."

She shook her head at him. "You still don't trust me, do you?"

"Nothing personal," he said. "Just following procedure."

"I'll bet you say that to all your defectors," Vergere offered from one of the

other beds, atop which she roosted like an outsize avian.

Showolter set their luggage in a corner and made certain that the door to the

adjoining suite was locked. He was about to make himself comfortable when

someone knocked at the entry door.

Drawing his blaster from his shoulder holster, he positioned himself alongside

the lock jamb. "What is it?"

"Cabin service," a resonant voice said in Corellian-accented Basic.

"We didn't request anything."

"Compliments of Captain Scaur," the man in the passageway replied. "He also

invites you to be his guests at his table this evening."

"That can be arranged."

"I'll tell him you said so."

Showolter lowered his weapon and hit the hatch release. A tall, dark-haired, and

dangerous-looking human entered, followed by a Rodian.

"I'm Darda," the man announced. "This is Capo." Green, coarse-complected, and a

bit hard on the human nose, Capo had a lithe grace and an easygoing air.

Catching sight of Elan and Vergere, he drew his partner's attention to them.

"Where'd you come aboard?" Showolter asked. Darda pivoted away from Elan to face

him. "Right here at Vortex. We were ahead of you in the boarding line."

Showolter grinned. "Yeah, I noticed you. Is it just you two?"

"Three more are already on board," Darda supplied. "Mingling with the refugees

in steerage. They'll probably show themselves at dinner."

Showolter nodded. "Where's your cabin?"

Darda nodded his square chin at the passage door to the adjoining suite. "Right

next to you."

"Convenient," Showolter remarked. "Someone at HQ actually did their homework."

He glanced at Capo. "Where do you work out of, Capo?"

"Bilbringi," the Rodian said, pressing suction-cupped fingertips together.

Showolter's eyes returned to Darda. "You?"

"Lately out of Gamorr, but they're pulling me back to Coruscant after this op."

Showolter looked surprised. "Is that right? Who's your new boss?"

Darda had his mouth open to respond when another knock sounded at the door.

Showolter gestured for silence and raised his blaster once more. "What is it?"

"Cabin service," a human voice replied.

The three NRI operatives exchanged disconcerted glances. Showolter gestured

Darda and Capo into the adjoining suite and motioned for Elan and Vergere to

remain still. When the passage door closed behind Capo, Showolter moved to the

entrance.

"We didn't request anything."

"Compliments of Captain Scaur. He also invites you to be his guests at his table

this evening."

"That can be arranged."

"I'll tell him you said so."

With an economy of movement, Showolter slid his blaster under a pillow on the

couch, arranged two chairs so that their backs were turned to the passage door,

and opened the entry door. A muscular human male and a handsome Bothan female

entered, introducing themselves as Jode Tee and Saiga Bre'lya.

Shrewdly, Showolter maneuvered them into the chairs and asked where they'd come

aboard.

"We've been aboard since Ord Mantell," the Bothan said after she'd had a pure

eyeful of Elan and Vergere.

"Is it just the two of you?"

"Two others were supposed to have come aboard at Anobis, but they haven't made

contact yet."

"Where's your cabin?" Showolter asked Jode Tee.

"Ten doors down the passageway, starboard side."

"Convenient." Showolter sat on the couch, facing them, his hand closing slowly

on the concealed blaster. "Where are you based?"

"Bilbringi," Jode Tee said.

"What about you, Saiga?"

"Ord Mantell."

The passage door began to open, revealing Darda with a blaster raised to his

chin in a two-handed grip. Showolter made brief eye contact and laughed to cover

any sounds the door might make in opening wide.

"So was that serious about dinner at the captain's table?" he asked.

"I wish," Saiga said, smiling.

Showolter brought the blaster out with cool efficiency and fired. The bolt

flashed between Jode Tee and the Bothan, hitting Darda squarely in the chest.

Darda flew back from the doorway as if kicked by a gundark, but managed to

squeeze off one blast that caught Jode Tee in the back, propelling him onto the

couch.

Showolter and Saiga hit the deck. At the same time, Vergere leapt from her bed

to protect Elan, forcing her into a corner of the cabin and planting herself

between the priestess and harm.

Capo slithered through the doorway on his belly, weapon extended in front of him

and firing repeatedly. Blaster beams ricocheted sibilantly around the stateroom.

Showolter rolled across the floor until he hit the corridor bulkhead. With

nowhere to go, he risked a shot at the doorway, but by then Capo had moved.

Showolter rolled back the way he came and managed to get to one knee, but Capo

had him in his sights and fired. The blast found his left shoulder, just under

the collarbone, and spun him completely around. The smell of burned cloth and

seared flesh filled his nostrils. But even as he was falling, shots from the

floor told him that Saiga had joined the fight.

A bloodcurdling scream rang out, followed by an agonizing moan. Showolter

blinked his eyes open in time to see a wounded Capo dragging himself toward the

front door of the adjacent suite, and Saiga - propelling herself backward on her

rear-pressing a hand to the gaping hole a blaster bolt had opened in the center

of her chest.

Showolter came to his feet and staggered into the adjoining cabin space, gun

raised in one shaking hand. Capo was already halfway into the corridor, and all

Showolter's shot did was provide him with an impetus to hurry. Showolter

stumbled to the door, but only to close and lock it. Wisps of smoke coiling from

his charred shoulder, he wobbled back to his cabin.

His fingers found no pulse in Jode Tee's throat. Throwing Elan and Vergere a

quick look, he crawled over to Saiga, who had propped herself against the entry

door.

"Did you get him, Major?" she asked weakly.

Showolter shook his head.

"Who were they?"

"I don't know, but they had the code."

The Bothan's eyes widened. "Our code?"

"Same one I was given."

"Then how did you know we were on the level?"

"One of them claimed to be working out of Gamorr. I guess whoever supplied the

code didn't know that we phased out that safe house a long while ago."

A pained groan escaped Saiga.

"Saiga," Showolter said sharply. "You said we have two more aboard."

Eyelids fluttering, she managed a nod.

"Who are they? How were you instructed to make contact? Saiga. Saiga!"

Her eyes rolled up into her head. A final breath rattled from her lungs and she

died.

Showolter's eyes glazed over. He turned and sat unmoving on the floor.

"You're hurt," Elan said, close to his ear, in what sounded like genuine

concern.

The Queen trembled innocently. "Lightspeed," Showolter slurred, mostly to

himself. He tried to focus on Elan. "Got to get you out of here. Capo'll be

coming back with reinforcements." He made a futile attempt at standing, then

pointed to the luggage. "In my bag ... painkillers and bandages."

Vergere was suddenly beside him, her slanted eyes brimming with tears. "Let me

help you," she said.

Cupping her delicate hands, she held them to her eyes. Then she rubbed her

moistened palms together and pressed them to Showolter's wound. He locked his

teeth against intense but short-lived pain, then he took a long, shuddering

breath.

"Better?" Vergere asked.

"Yes," he told her, plainly astonished.

"It's a temporary repair. You're going to need medical attention."

He nodded in understanding, pushed himself to his feet, and rearmed his blaster.

Cautiously opening the door, he peered into the passageway.

"We're leaving," he said. "Our only chance is to locate my backup."

"But you don't know who you're looking for," Elan reminded.

Showolter nodded grimly. "I'm hoping they'll recognize me."

Elan offered her shoulder for support, and the three of them headed for the

communal areas belowdecks.

TWENTY-TWO

Han emerged from the portable refresher like a man on his last legs, slamming

the door behind him as if to prevent something horrible from escaping. "I'll bet

anything some Gamorrean's been in there," he growled to Droma. "Can't stick to

their own 'freshers. Have to foul ours."

"Is this your typical morning mood?" Droma asked. Han glared at him. "No, but

it's my mood when I don't get any sleep."

The Ryn made a sound of dismissal. "I didn't ask to share your cabin space. I

was fine being in steerage."

Han stopped short in the passageway. "I don't mind sharing my cabin space. What

I mind's your tail in my face half the night!"

Droma frowned. "We Ryn are compelled to alter our sleep positions frequently. We

never sleep twice in the same spot."

"Next time I'll reserve the ballroom," Han said sarcastically. "Would that give

you enough room?"

"We're a superstitious folk," Droma explained as they resumed walking. "We never

eat three times from the same bowl, and we have many rituals regarding bodily

fluids -"

Han's hands flew up. "I don't want to know about them." He glanced at Droma.

"Why are you still on board, anyway? You told me you were getting off at

Vortex."

Droma shrugged. "I decided I'd have better luck finding a ride to Ralltiir from

Bilbringi."

"Yeah," Han said slowly. "But I thought you only had fare to Vortex."

Droma adopted a docile look. "The truth is, I kept just enough of what you won

at the sabacc table to secure onward passage."

"A fine thing," Han snorted.

The Ryn's former pugnacity resurfaced. "You'd begrudge me a modest remuneration,

even after I didn't charge you for the card reading?"

Han stopped again. "Charge me? You're the one who laid out the cards."

"I don't recall you telling me to desist."

"I was being polite."

"Impossible," Droma said. "You're incapable."

"Hey, if you knew the company I keep ..."

Droma looked bemused. "Rich and famous customers in the ship repair business?"

"I ... Ah, this is hopeless," Han said.

Shouldering the travel pack, he accelerated, figuring that the Ryn's short legs

wouldn't allow him to keep up. Leaving Droma behind after twenty long strides,

he quickly rounded a corner in the passageway, then another. Then, out of

nowhere, powerful arms grabbed him from behind, holding him fast and whirling

him around.

"Han!" his interdictor said, latching on to him for dear life. "I won't even try

to imagine how Scaur talked you into this duty, but I'm sure glad to see you."

"Scaur?" Han said, then recognition dawned. "Showolter? What the -"

"They hit us in the cabin, Han. Agents working for the Yuuzhan Vong. Killed two

of my people. I got one of them, but the other got away - a slippery-looking

Rodian named Capo. He's probably got reinforcements aboard, and they're probably

searching for us now. You've got to find a secure place to hide them."

Han followed Showolter's hand to Elan and Vergere. "What's so important -"

"They're Yuuzhan Vong," Showolter rasped. "Defectors."

Mouth falling open, Han gave them a closer look, then returned his attention to

Showolter. "How'd you -"

"Is this your partner?" the NRI operative asked.

Han spun, found Droma standing behind him, and frowned. "He's -"

"Just until Bilbringi, Han," Showolter said with sudden frailty.

"Han?" Droma asked in mild surprise.

Showolter collapsed back against the corridor wall and slid to his rear, with

Han following him down. "Backup personnel will meet you in Bilbringi. They'll

handle the transfer from there." The NRI officer groaned in pain.

Han realized he had blood on his hands and cut his eyes to Showolter's shoulder.

"You're hurt -"

Showolter shook his head. "Can't afford the time. Send a med, I'll be all

right."

Han rose and grabbed hold of a passing Duros steward. "This man needs to be

moved to sick bay," he said. "Immediately - got it?"

The steward's round head bobbed nervously. "Yes, sir, immediately."

Han sent him flying with a shove and bent down to support Showolter. "You have a

weapon?"

Showolter looked up at him and nodded. "You need it?"

Han restrained Showolter's hand from going to his shoulder holster. "No, you do

- in case they find you."

Showolter screwed his eyes shut against a wave of pain. "Get going, Han."

Han turned to the defectors. "You two are coming with me. Any trouble and I'll

stick you in a locker for the rest of the voyage, understand?"

The woman bristled, but the little alien nodded. "We're in your hands."

Han raised his index finger. "Remember that."

They hadn't gone ten meters when he heard Droma ask, "Han?"

"My code name," Han said over his shoulder.

"You're an intelligence agent?"

Han came to a halt and whirled around. "Stay out of this, Droma. We're not

playing cards now."

Droma tilted his head. "Where are you planning to hide them - in your cabin? I

know this ship better than you do. The only safe place is down below, where you

can lose them in the crowd."

Han mulled it over, then nodded curtly. "All right. Let's go."

They set out for the nearest turbolift and were just shy of them when the Queen

sustained an unexpected jolt, powerful enough to send Elan off her feet. While

Droma helped her up, Han hastened to a nearby observation blister. In place of

the purplish-white chaos of lightspeed, local space was fracturing into

elongating lines of light. Han watched the lines compress to pinpoints, only to

disappear and elongate once more. Finally, the pinpoints spun and arranged

themselves into a starfield. In the middle distance a large, heavily pitted

planetoid was revealed by a distant red-orange sun.

"We've been decanted," he said, not without puzzlement.

Droma glanced at a time display on the corridor wall. "It's too soon for

Bilbringi -"

Howling sirens silenced him, and the PA annunciators came alive.

"Attention, all passengers," someone began in standard Basic. "This is the

captain speaking. We have been forcibly reverted to realspace by unknown

raiders. Onboard confederates of the raiders are already assaulting the bridge."

"Raiders," Han sniggered. "They're not raiders, they're after someone in

particular."

"Are you sure?" Droma asked warily.

Han thought back to another time he'd been separated from Chewie and the Falcon,

booking commercial passage aboard the luxury liner Lady of Mindor with Fiolla, a

companion far more enjoyable than the Ryn beside him. That ship, too, had

suffered a phony pirate attack - led by Fiolla's traitorous right-hand man,

Magg.

"Pretty sure," Han deadpanned.

"It's my people!" Elan said, stricken with fear. "They've brought a dovin basal

to bear on the ship." She dug short nails into Han's biceps. "Please don't let

them find us - please!"

"Our shields have been rendered useless," the captain continued, "and our

pursuers are coming alongside to board. Distress calls have been dispatched. I'm

certain that someone will come to our aid. But in the meantime I request that

everyone remain calm. I repeat, I urge everyone to remain calm."

"The nerve of him," Leia said, venting to Luke and Mara as she paced the tile

floor of their apartment on Coruscant. "Telling me I'm incapable of

understanding his grief, then running off to who knows where."

"You can take the boy out of Corellia, but you can't take Corellia out of the

boy," Mara remarked from the couch.

Luke smiled faintly. "Leia, this isn't the first time Han's done something like

this. Remember when he and I went to Crseih Research Station?"

"That was different," Leia said, shaking her head. "All right, he might have

been yearning for the good old days, but that trip was more about his

resignation from the military." She took a seat opposite her brother and his

wife. "What he's doing now has nothing to do with nostalgia or his feeling

hemmed in by an honorific. It's all about Chewie."

"But that's natural," Mara offered carefully.

"The grief and confusion, yes," Leia said. "But I think he's bent on vengeance."

She sighed with purpose. "An old friend came to see him - a man named Roa. And

off they went to Ord Mantell. Why would they venture so close to enemy-held

space unless Roa had information of some sort?"

"But of what sort?" Luke asked. "The Yuuzhan Vong directly responsible for what

happened on Sernpidal are dead. Han helped see to that himself at Helska 4."

"Luke, if that was any consolation, he wouldn't be out there," Leia said.

Luke saw the truth of it. "Even so, Han's beyond doing anything rash."

Leia pinched her lower lip between her teeth.

"When Han and I first met, he had me convinced that he was as reckless as he

pretends to be," Luke continued. "But Obi-Wan said something I'll never forget.

He said that there was more to Han than met the eye, and that he had real

substance beneath his callous front." He smiled in recollection and looked at

Leia. "Obi-Wan also said that only a special person would have a Wookiee for a

companion - and that not just any Wookiee would be found roving the galaxy in

the company of someone like Han."

Leia smiled sadly. "You don't have to remind me that Han's special. But that's

just the problem. He needs that kind of companionship. Chewie and Han, I don't

know, they seemed to steady each other. Chewie kept Han in check." Forcing

herself to brighten, she turned to Mara. "I'm sorry to unleash on you two. I

haven't even asked how you are."

"I'm feeling a lot stronger," Mara said, and let it go at that.

Leia smiled to herself, thinking about how deeply she cared for Mara. She asked

herself how she could ever have distrusted her. "I thought you would have

returned to Yavin 4 by now," she said after a moment.

Luke and Mara traded secretive looks. "Have you been informed that a Yuuzhan

Vong has defected?"

Leia gaped at him. "What? When?"

"Shortly before you left for Ord Mantell. She's being brought to Coruscant for

further debriefing."

"That's great news." Leia's eyes lit up briefly, then she trained them on Luke.

"Does the defector have something to do with your still being here?"

"She's asked to meet with some of us."

"'Us' as in Jedi?" Leia straightened in her chair. "Don't tell me you've agreed

to it."

"She claims to have information about an illness the Yuuzhan Vong brought to our

galaxy," Mara answered.

Leia brought one hand to her mouth. "But, Mara -"

A familiar shriek emanated from the adjoining room, and C-3PO hurried into view,

jerky movements reflecting his inner agitation. Behind him rolled R2-D2, razzing

and squeaking in what was clearly derision.

"Oh, please don't deactivate me!" C-3PO whined. "It wasn't my fault! I was only

trying to help!"

R2-D2 zithered something scornful.

"Oh, switch off, you little ... drink caddy."

"Threepio, calm down," Leia said. "What's this all about?"

He swung to her. "It was just on the newsnet, Mistress Leia. The Queen of Empire

has been set upon by raiders, Rimward of the Bilbringi system! A distress call

was dispatched, but the ship is probably being boarded at this very moment!"

Luke showed Leia a quizzical look.

"A vessel transporting refugees from Ord Mantell to the Core," she explained.

"Threepio, access the newsnet and see if you can learn anything more. It may be

pirates rather than Yuuzhan Vong."

"But Master Solo!" C-3PO said.

Leia stared. "What about him?"

C-3PO threw his hands in the air. "He's aboard the ship!"

Leia shook her head as if she hadn't heard him correctly. "Threepio, I don't

understand -"

"Oh, I shouldn't have listened to him. But when he repeated the very same words

you had used earlier, I was certain that my decision was justified."

"What words?"

"That sometimes it's better not to know what others are thinking. That sometimes

it's less painful not to know the truth. You yourself said so, mistress."

R2-D2 whistled in sarcasm.

"Be still!" C-3PO said, hopelessly flustered.

"But what does all that have to do with Han being aboard the Queen of Empire?"

Leia asked.

"Master Han asked me to arrange for his passage, and I did so by impersonating

you, Mistress Leia - your vocal patterns, at any rate. And as to why I never

made mention of Master Han's whereabouts, that was because you never once asked

me directly if I had knowledge to that effect. Master Solo promised to arrange

for my memories to be stored, in the event of my deactivation. That way I might

be able to practice detachment -"

"Threepio!" Leia cut him off. "I'm certain you're not fully to blame - not when

it concerns Han. But be honest with me now, why was he going to Bilbringi?"

"I know nothing of his reasons, Mistress."

R2-D2 rotated his domed head in a full circle, chirping and chittering, in a mix

of rebuke and concern.

Leia narrowed her eyes at her brother. "So Han wouldn't do anything rash, huh?"

"Threepio," Luke said, "you said that the ship issued a distress call?"

"According to the newsnet reports, yes, Master Luke."

Luke looked at Leia. "Help is probably on the way."

Leia shook her head in anger. "Who's going to care enough about the lives of a

few thousand refugees - especially if they've fallen into Yuuzhan Vong hands?"

"We could go," Luke said.

Mara threw him a dubious glance. "Even if we used the Namadii Corridor, we'd

never make it in time."

Leia shot to her feet. "You're forgetting one thing. We'll be flying the fastest

hunk of junk in the galaxy!"

TWENTY-THREE

"You mustn't let them find us!" Elan wailed into Han's ear as they threaded and

shouldered their way through a mixed-species mob jamming the passageway.

Han angled his head just enough to throw her a warning look. "Either you pipe

down or I turn you over to them myself!"

Elan's eyes became hooded.

Han snorted in response. "That the best you can do?"

"You'd do well to fear me," she told him.

"Save the threats for someone who cares, sweetheart. I'm only doing this because

Showolter took a blaster beam for you, which means he thinks you're pretty

important."

"More important than you know."

"We'll see about that. But right now you're my charge and you'll do as I say,

got it?"

She allowed a defiant nod.

The captain's request for calm notwithstanding, disorder reigned. Reports of

raiders were seldom greeted with enthusiasm, but the fact that most of the

Queen's passengers had experienced the Yuuzhan Vong firsthand had only made

matters worse. Most were searching out places of concealment in utility lockers,

ventilation shafts, cargo containers, and the narrow closets of lower deck

cabins. As a consequence, crowds of passengers and crewmembers swarmed the

corridors and clogged the interdeck transfer chutes. Many had made frantic

dashes for escape-pod bays only to find them locked down; others had stormed the

upper decks only to be repelled by armed contingents of ship's officers and

vendors. Clearly intent on ignoring the time-proven dictum that surrender was

the best survival strategy against pirates, the Queen's refugees had turned the

starliner into a seething catacomb.

In spite of everything, Han and company had succeeded in making their way to the

docking bay deck, where if nothing else, the crowd was more dispersed and

acquiescent. The worst that could happen, Han had told himself, is that he would

end up in the same fix as Roa and Fasgo.

From a portside blister it was possible to observe the approach of the raiders'

ship, from relatively below and slightly aft of the starliner. Running lights

suggested a long, cylindrically shaped vessel, equivalent in size to an old

Blockade Runner.

As it maneuvered within range of the Queen's, outboard illumination arrays, Han

saw - much to his initial bafflement - that the ship was in fact an old

Corellian corvette, though heavily modified and anodized a non-reflective black.

In addition to the standard aft and ventral turbolaser batteries, the vessel's

barrel-shaped bow boasted side-mounted Taim & Bak H9 cannons, and the dome that

usually supported the communications array had been elongated to house either a

formidable interdiction field generator - or the Yuuzhan Vong dovin basal that

had tugged the Queen from hyperspace.

A trio of twenty-year-old Martial-class shuttles dropped from a retrofitted

launch bay in the corvette's belly and made for the Queen's own ventral docking

bay deck. As the corvette's steering thrusters fired to bring her into alignment

with the liner's portside airlock, Han got a good look at the starboard side,

where just aft of the cockpit module the matte hull was emblazoned with the

clasped-hands insignia of the Peace Brigade.

The words of Big Bunji's Aqualish lieutenant rushed to mind. They have an

operation planned for Bilbringi.

Reck! Han said to himself in astonishment.

The Peace Brigade was after the defectors. Reck might already be aboard the

Queen, he thought. With luck the mercenary would turn out to be the one

Showolter claimed to have killed.

"Why are we standing here?" Elan asked anxiously. "The agent who escaped will be

searching for us."

"That isn't a Yuuzhan Vong ship," Han told her.

"But that is," Droma said, pointing.

Han followed the Ryn's thin, velvety finger. High up in the blister, starlight

glinting off a curve of scabrous surface, a flattened oval of yorik coral was

paralleling the corvette, as if waiting in the wings. Fear laddered up Han's

back as he recalled going to guns with similar Yuuzhan Vong at Dubrillion and

Helska months earlier.

He turned to Elan. "I take back what I said. You must be pretty important for

them to send a warship."

"As important to my people as I am to yours," she answered in a rush, without a

trace of arrogance. "I have vital information for your Jedi Knights."

Han's brows knitted in interest. "Concerning what?"

"An illness my people introduced."

Before he could stop himself, Han had taken her roughly by the shoulders.

"You're serious about this?"

She nodded, seemingly unruffled by the pressure of his hands. "I am against the

use of bacterial weapons. Such a tactic demeans the Yuuzhan Vong."

Han tightened his grip and held her gaze. "Don't toy with me, sister. I was at

Sernpidal and Dubrillion. I know exactly what you people are capable of, and a

little thing like disease wouldn't rattle the Yuuzhan Vong conscience for a

moment."

She raised her head haughtily. "It prompted me to secrete myself in an escape

pod and allow myself to be captured by your forces."

Han looked over at the woman's wondrous companion. "And you?"

Vergere regarded him calmly. "I am with her."

Han let go of Elan and jerked a thumb toward Droma. "Yeah, well, he's with me

and that doesn't say a whole lot."

"I couldn't have put it more delicately," Droma muttered.

Vergere looked at Droma, then Han. "I'm Elan's familiar. Where she goes, I

follow."

Han ran his hand down his face. Out of nowhere another choice had been forced on

him. By remaining on the Queen he might be able to finish the business with

Reck, as Roa had put it. But if Elan was who she claimed to be, her safe conduct

to Coruscant could mean a cure for Mara's illness.

He blew out his breath. Reck would have to wait.

"Maybe you are worth the effort after all," he said at last. "Which means we

should be thinking about getting you some different clothes." He glanced at

Droma. "Think you could rustle up new outfits for these two?"

Droma rocked his head from side to side. "Provided that they're not particular

about size or fashion."

"They can't afford to be." Han paused to study Elan in earnest. "Is that the

real you or are you wearing one of those living body sheaths?"

"I am adorned with an ooglith masquer."

Han nodded. "Well, a Yuuzhan Vong in a masquer fooled the members of the ExGal

team on Belkadan. Let's see if it works as well with the Peace Brigade."

The Queen shuddered concussively as the corvette fastened herself alongside.

"The raiders will hook up with the survivors of the team that hit Showolter and

begin a deck-by-deck search," Han said, his nose all but pressed to the

transparisteel bubble. "They might sweep with sensors or dose the ship with obah

or some other disabling gas." He whirled from the view. "We need to move fast."

"Where to?" Droma asked.

"The docking bay. Our only hope is to make off with one of their own ships."

A hatchet-faced Peace Brigade member met Reck Desh and his heavily armed escort

as they emerged from the docking bay. Reck was outfitted with only a hand

blaster, but his riot-helmeted cadre carried stun batons, stun nets, flechette

launchers, and other antipersonnel weapons. By Reck's side marched the Yuuzhan

Vong overseer he'd persuaded to join them in the retrieval operation, cloaked to

conceal the telltale markings of his kind.

"Bridge is secured?" Reck asked as he brought everyone to a halt.

His confederate nodded. "But we've got problems. Which do you want to hear about

first?"

Reck glanced around. "Where's Darda? Has he got them?"

"Darda's dead. The Rodian took a beam, too, but he'll live. Capo being the only

one who's seen the defectors, we had him patched up. He's waiting for you in

sickbay."

Sudden blood mottled Reck's face. "The two of them tried to take on the

Intelligence team?"

"There were only three agents. Capo swears that two of them are dead, and the

third is badly wounded. Besides, Darda insisted on it."

"And Capo listened to him," Reck grated. "I'll deal with him later."

"This was supposed to be in and out," the hulking human to Reck's left said.

"There isn't time to search the entire ship. I say we abort."

Two of the other men grumbled agreement.

"Stow it!" Reck told them. "What else?" he asked the bearer of bad news.

"A Yuuzhan Vong ship has shown up."

"What?" Reck stared in disbelief, then swung to the Yuuzhan Vong among them.

The enemy operative nodded. "I was compelled to reveal the nature of this

operation to my superiors. It's likely that the ship has been sent to support

us."

Reck gestured broadly and furiously. "That ship's going to draw New Republic

forces into this! They've got too much to worry about to bother with chasing

pirates. But with the Yuuzhan Vong involved-"

"Maybe the ship can buy us the time we need to flush out the defectors," the

sharp-featured messenger said. "Even if New Republic forces do show. So long as

we're the ones to return the defectors, nothing's changed, right?"

Reck tugged at his jewel-studded lower lip for a moment, then nodded. "Time the

passengers knew the score."

The messenger pointed to a comlink on the bulkhead. "We can tie into the public

address system."

Reck took the comlink in hand while one of his men fiddled with the channel

selector. The man nodded when he found the proper channel, and Reck switched on

the handheld device.

"Attention, all passengers," he began in Basic. "Just to set all of you at ease,

we have no designs on hijacking, piracy, or turning you over to the Yuuzhan

Vong. We're looking for two passengers in particular - a human-looking female

and a nonhuman female, probably in the company of a wounded human male. If they

want to come forward and save everyone a lot of grief, they should report to the

bridge. If anyone has information on their whereabouts and is interested in

collecting a substantial reward, they should also come to the bridge.

"If no one comes forward and we're forced to conduct a deck-by-deck search,

we're going to go hard on everyone, and you just might end up in enemy hands

after all." Reck paused briefly. "Oh, and a note to the two we're searching for:

we have ways of identifying you. If you think you can hide or lose yourself in

the crowd, think again."

An ovoid of yorik coral, nubbed with cone-shaped projectile launchers and

propelled by a dovin basal of the highest caliber, Commander Malik Carr's

personal ship was the swiftest vessel in his flotilla. From the bridge, Nom Anor

addressed villips consciousness-joined to the commander and Harrar. His view

through the crystalline viewport took in not only the Peace Brigade's gunship

and the Queen, but also several cratered planetoids and the distant sun beyond

them, all in near syzygy.

"I have my agents under surveillance," Nom Anor updated. "The capabilities of

the dovin basal aboard the gunship have been neutralized, and I have commanded

our own dovin basal to prevent the gunship from separating from the starliner.

Should the Peace Brigade succeed in locating Elan, any attempt at embarkation

will fail."

"That corvette may carry fighters that will be able to launch," Harrar's villip

relayed with a grimace.

"Three vessels have already done so and have docked aboard the liner. I will

utilize our dovin basal to thwart their return to the gunship."

"House a dovin basal in a remote to accomplish both tasks and prepare to

withdraw," Commander Malik Carr's villip relayed. "By the time your agents

discover what has happened, New Republic ships will have come to the liner's

rescue."

Harrar's villip spoke. "No doubt your misguided operatives are aware of our

presence. When they realize that they are unable to launch, they will wonder why

you aren't coming to their assistance and they may attempt contact."

"Let them wonder," Nora Anor snapped. "I'm only interested in persuading the New

Republic to conclude that the actions of the Peace Brigade are simply another

attempt on our part to retrieve Elan."

He was interrupted by his second on the bridge, fists snapped to opposite

shoulders in apology for the intrusion.

"A ship emerging from hyperspace, Executor." The subaltern pointed out the

viewport in the direction of the nearby primary. "Our signal villip identifies

it as a New Republic cruiser-carrier."

Nom Anor addressed the villips. "The arrival of that vessel should simplify

matters. As suggested, I will position the dovin basal in a remote. The Peace

Brigade will attempt to flee and be apprehended, and Elan will remain in

custody."

He swung to the bridge officer. "Make ready to engage the enemy's starfighters,

as well. You may disapprove of this, Subaltern, but you're going to have to make

it appear as if you were chased off. You have my word that your losses will not

be held against you."

TWENTY-FOUR

Still recovering from the bruising it had taken at the battle of Ord Mantell,

the cruiser-carrier Thurse winked into realspace at the Rimward edge of the

Bilbringi system, X-wings tumbling from her launch bays like bedevilers from an

agitated nest. Between the cruiser and the distant blip that authenticators had

recognized as a Yuuzhan Vong warship floated the Queen of Empire, with what

appeared to be a seasoned corvette nursing at one of the starliner's airlocks.

Apex of the fighter formation that gradually assumed shape, Wing Commander Kol

Eyttyn chinned the helmet switch that opened the command net.

"Thurse, we have visual on the Yuuzhan Vong ship. Low-profile coral oval. Looks

to be frigate class or thereabouts. Reminds me of the stones I'd skim across

water in the carefree days of my youth."

"Let's see that it doesn't come skimming this way, Commander," the voice of the

cruiser-carrier's captain said in his left ear. "That's affirmative."

Screen chatter from the R2 unit socketed behind the cockpit canopy told him that

short-range scans had picked up a flock of Yuuzhan Vong fighters - skips. Eyttyn

chinned open the tactical net.

"Blips are enemy vessels, coralskipper designation," he told the pilots of the

gathered squadrons. "Enable countermeasures and deflector shields. Inertial

compensators to maximum boost. Keep in mind we're sacrificing laser yield for

increased bursts. That means mixing it up at close quarters, so listen to your

group leaders and stick to your wingmates."

Eyttyn called on the life-maintenance system controls to expand the

starfighter's inertial compensator field. While the volume of protection

afforded by the enhanced field had been determined to be sufficient for tricking

the compensator into treating Yuuzhan Vong-created gravitic anomalies like any

others, the field could be overwhelmed by large dovin basals or a confluence of

singularities, such as might easily be fashioned by three or more skips.

The same held true for the sensor database package developed in the wake of

engagements in the Outer Rim. While the retrofitted tracking adjunct augmented a

pilot's ability to target coralskippers, substantial variations in the size and

shape of the fighters limited the effectiveness of the array. As ever, an X-wing

was only as good as its pilot and droid.

Eyttyn increased the gain on the sensors and, with his thumb, flicked weapons

control to lasers, quadding them up so all four would fire with a single squeeze

of the stick's trigger.

"Red and Green Squadrons will lay back to deal with assaults directed at the

Thurse. Blue will form up behind me to take the fight to the command ship. All

other squadrons will break on my command."

Eyttyn tightened his seat harness and waited for the droid to affirm that the

coralskipper swarm was within range; then he flipped a switch that locked the

X-wing's S-foils in attack position and gave the word to engage.

Almost immediately the coralskippers opened fire with their volcano-like guns,

loosing a storm of fiery projectiles. The opposing sides met in a dizzying

contest of feints, rolls, and loops, punctuated by torrents of laser-fire and

streams of deadly plasma. The tactical net grew cacophonous with warnings,

exuberant outbursts, and shrill cries for help.

"Blue Four, skip locking onto your six."

"Thanks for the heads up, Three. I think I can shake him."

"I've got your flank, Four."

"Blue Eight, can you give me a fix on Blue Ten?"

"Negative, Ten. Things are fast and furious just now."

"Watch your starboard, Five. Three skips angling in!"

"Scissor right, Five, they're on you!"

"I can't shake them! Shields down to 30 percent!"

"Hold tight, Five. I'm on my way!"

Though loud in his right ear, Eyttyn ignored what cries he could. For Blue

Squadron it was going to be a matter of avoiding hits and conserving firepower.

While individually piloted, the yorik coral fighters were thought to answer at

least in part to organic elements aboard the command vessels - what the enemy

called yammosks, or war coordinators - like the droid ships of old. Eyttyn knew

better than to expect that Blue Squadron could take out the ship, even with

proton torpedoes, but as New Republic forces had proved time and again,

distraction was often enough to sow turmoil among the coralskipper pilots and

slow the responses of their craft.

Yuuzhan Vong fliers relied less on evasive tactics than on the capabilities of

their shield-nullifying dovin basals, in any case. As he maneuvered through the

swarm, Eyttyn could feel the influence of that macabre, biogenetically hatched

technology tugging at the X-wing's shields with invisible fingers. The R2 unit

could feel the tug, as well, and signaled its dismay with flurries of translated

code that scrolled across the cockpit display screen.

Another thing to ignore, Eyttyn told himself.

With two skips closing on him, he rolled the X-wing up on its stabilizers and

veered away to starboard. In the same instant, his wingmate peeled away in an

abrupt bank, then dived to rejoin Eyttyn on the original approach vector.

Another pair of coralskippers swooped beneath him, but only one came about in

pursuit and was easily evaded.

Eyttyn glanced at his range finder. Already the frigate was growing larger in

his canopy, but it had yet to open fire, and probably wouldn't until Blue

Squadron began their runs against it.

Off to Eyttyn's left, Blue Four began to wobble under the influence of two skips

that had fastened themselves to the X-wing's tail. Eyttyn's wingmate dropped

back to loose a burst at one of the craft, but it refused to take the bait.

Hoping that Blue Four's lead pursuer might cut across his own path, Eyttyn

decreased velocity, but the coralskipper pilot divined Eyttyn's tactic and was

in and out of his sights in a flash.

In a dazzling display of evasive maneuvers, Blue Three broke from the pack to

speed to his wingmate's aid. Halfway there, however, destructive projectiles

sought and found him, blowing the X-wing to pieces.

The two coralskippers chasing Blue Four accelerated, settled into kill position,

and opened fire. Caught by an ellipsis of blazing missiles, Blue Four vanished

in a roiling of crimson fire and white-hot gas.

Eyttyn summoned his remaining ships into a weaving, mutually protective circle.

Laser bolts from Blues Eight and Nine sheared off chunks of an encroaching skip;

crippled, the ship spiraled off to port and exploded.

Not a moment later, Blue Six made a kill, but soon found himself trapped at the

center of intense return fire. Shields pilfered, the X-wing sustained hit after

hit, splitting into four pieces before disappearing from sight.

Eyttyn glanced at his primary monitor. Bright red damage icons peppered the

screen. "Stay with your wingmates," he warned over the net. "Conserve fire until

we're in the pocket."

He snap-rolled to bring one Yuuzhan Vong killer under his weapons. With a

belly-up slew to starboard, he seized the coralskipper in his sights and

tightened his middle finger on the stick's auxiliary trigger button. With the

X-wing's lasers cycling more rapidly than they would have in single-fire mode,

each bolt burned with a scarlet intensity that belied its reduced strength.

Dazzled by the task of distinguishing the heavier, more lethal bolts from the

hail of essentially harmless bolts loosed by the quadded lasers, the skip's

dovin basal failed, and a packet of Eyttyn's energy darts found their mark.

The coralskipper cracked apart like pumice and disappeared.

Blue Six avenged, Eyttyn raced through the Yuuzhan Vong's debris cloud of

glowing motes to close on another coralskipper. A sustained, convergent burst of

flickers from the X-wing's wingtips caught the enemy unprepared, destroying him,

as well.

With Blue Squadron down to nine fighters, Eyttyn formed everyone up into a

trailing wedge. But no sooner had they closed on the frigate than they instantly

became targets of its crater-like gun ports. Another X-wing was annihilated,

then another, although by then Eyttyn was in position to make a strafing run.

Jinking to port, he paid out a pair of proton torpedoes, only to watch in utter

stupefaction as the scintillating spheres soared away into empty space.

He had grown accustomed to seeing laser beams and torpedoes swallowed by

gravitic anomalies, but this was something different. It was as if the enemy

ship itself had disappeared.

He glanced frantically around the canopy, thinking that he had somehow become

disoriented and that the frigate was actually above him. Star-swept darkness met

his gaze in all directions. Data scrolls from the R2 were telling him that the

Yuuzhan Vong ship had moved, but the droid was obviously mistaken. No vessel

could move that quickly - even when making microjumps.

"Where'd the blasted thing go?" he asked over the net.

"Don't know, Commander," Blue Two responded. "I was right on your Six when it

disappeared - in a blink."

"Cloaking device?" Blue Eleven suggested.

"Well, it vanished like it was cloaked," Eyttyn said, "but I figure we'd still

pick up residual gravitic traces from a ship that massive."

"Hyperspace," Blue Ten interjected.

"Not without taking me with it," Eyttyn told him. "It's -"

"Commander," Blue Two cut him off. "I've located it."

Eyttyn aimed the X-wing's scopes at the coordinates Blue Two supplied, and sure

enough, the frigate was there - two thousand kilometers away.

Blue Eleven offered a stunned whistle. "That ship jumped two thousand clicks in

a split second."

Eyttyn forced a breath and tightened his grip on the controls. "Adjust course,"

he ordered. "If it's a game of tag they want, it's a game of tag they'll get."

The Millennium Falcon burst into realspace on the far side of Bilbringi's

profusion of orbital habitats and heavily mined planetoids. Leia and Luke had

the forward seats, with Mara behind Luke in the chair normally assigned to a

communications officer and C-3PO in the navigator's chair. R2-D2 had planted

himself at the rear of the cockpit, with his grasping arm clamped to a slender

conduit.

In the fan-shaped viewport, the Queen of Empire was well off to starboard.

Rimward, local space was a pyrotechnic welter of laser beams, radiant

projectiles, fusial thrusters, and blossoming explosions.

"Unidentified Corellian freighter," an incensed voice barked over the comm,

"this is Captain Jorlen of the New Republic cruiser-carrier Thurse. You've

jumped into a combat zone. I suggest you hold fast or return to wherever you

came from."

"Captain Jorlen," Leia said, "this is Ambassador Organa Solo."

"Ambassador, what in blazes are you doing here?" The captain sounded surprised,

though hardly cheered. "And when is that husband of yours going to get around to

installing an authorized transponder?"

"I'll ask him when I see him, Captain. He's aboard the Queen of Empire. We've

come to lend a hand, if you'll have our help."

"Negative, Ambassador. I request you hold your position. We've got a Yuuzhan

Vong frigate jumping all over the arena. For all we know, it'll be in your lap

next."

"Acknowledged, Captain, we'll stay put. For now," Leia added under her breath.

"Have the raiders issued demands of any sort?"

"We've had no contact with them," Jorlen said impatiently. "We assume they've

come for the passengers themselves - to supply the Yuuzhan Vong with

sacrifices."

"Then why the Yuuzhan Vong warship, Captain?"

"Why, indeed," Jorlen mused.

"Something's out there," Luke said, pointing away from both the starliner and

the ongoing firefight.

At first Leia wasn't sure whether he'd sensed something through the Force or

merely observed it, but when she followed his finger she saw what he was

referring to and called up an enhanced view on the console display. The screen

showed a blunt-nosed object reminiscent of a yorik coral fighter but clearly

reinforced by some sort of burnished black armor. "Disabled ship?" Mara

suggested. "Could be," Luke said, staring not at the screen but out the

viewport. "But I'm sensing something else ..."

"A space mine?"

Luke shook his head. "A void."

Leia and Mara reached out with the Force, verifying the emptiness that had drawn

Luke's attention. Luke was about to speak when the comm board came alive once

more.

"Ambassador Solo," Jorlen updated, "we've just been hailed by the Queen of

Empire. The raiders have issued an ultimatum. Unless all New Republic forces

move off, they're going to begin expelling passengers out the airlocks."

"Oh, my!" C-3PO said in trepidation.

R2-D2 twittered, then whimpered.

Leia's eyes clouded over with alarm. "What was your response, Captain?"

Jorlen took a moment to answer. "It's contrary to New Republic policy to bargain

with pirates, Ambassador. I'm sorry that your husband is aboard, but the fight

goes on. More to the point, if the raiders have in fact come for captives, their

threat is an empty one, since the Queen's passengers are already marked for

death."

"That's hardly a relief, Captain."

"My apologies, Ambassador. But there'll be no negotiations while that Yuuzhan

Vong ship is present."

"Then we'll have to do something about that."

No sooner did Leia sign off when Luke said, "Whatever that object is, it's

abetting the coralskippers in some way."

"A war coordinator?" Leia ventured.

He tore his eyes from the viewport to regard his sister. "A dovin basal."

Leia adopted a determined expression and centered herself over the controls.

"Living. But not for long."

*   *   *

With concussive explosions rocking the Queen, Han peeked around the corner of a

corridor at a hatch that opened on the docking bay. Guarding the way were two

men armed with blasters and stun nets. Han considered bringing out his blaster,

which was still secreted in his travel pack, but then recalled that the power

pack had yet to be replenished.

"No good," he told Droma and the recostumed Yuuzhan Vong, "they've sealed off

every approach." Withdrawing, he pressed his back to the bulkhead and glanced

left and right. "We need a hole to hide in. With all that's going on outside, it

won't be long before the Peace Brigade surrenders or attempts an escape."

He led them to a bank of drop shafts and cautiously peered over the edge of one

of them. Far below was the floor of a cargo hold.

"In case you haven't noticed," Droma said, "the shafts have been deactivated."

"So we find some shock cord," Han said. "It's only, what, fifty meters or so to

the bottom?"

Droma looked skeptical. "Might as well be from here to Coruscant."

The sound of approaching footsteps put a quick end to the dilemma. Slinking away

from the drop shafts, the four of them entered an intersecting passageway, where

they were greeted by the sound of yet more footsteps, along with a chorus of

piqued voices. They hurried around another corner, searching high and low for a

place to hide.

Determined footsteps to their left grew louder, and not a moment later the

owners of the piqued voices strode into view. Han's eyes roamed over the

raiders. Even after all the years, Reck Desh was recognizable by his cocky gait

and full sleeve of tattoos. With him walked five examples of well-armed Peace

Brigade thuggery and a spindly miscreant who would have made a perfect Yuuzhan

Vong, if in fact he wasn't one, disguised by an oversize cloak.

Reck stationed one of his men at the intersection of the corridors and moved on.

Han felt his blood rush and heard his heart pounding in his ears. He thought

about Chewie, and about Lwyll, Roa, and Fasgo. The travel pack slid from his

hand onto the floor, and he immediately squatted down and pulled out his empty

blaster.

Droma watched him with mounting concern. "I thought the idea was to steal a

shuttle and get off ship."

"That can wait," Han grumbled. "This is personal."

"Personal?" Droma whispered harshly. "I feel compelled to mention that your

weapon -"

"Save it for someone who cares," Han interrupted.

He regarded the blaster, compressing his lips in anger, then forced a breath and

stood up.

"What is he doing?" Elan asked Droma worriedly.

Droma shrugged resignedly. "He has this need for confrontation, even when

unnecessary."

Han swung to them. "Find yourselves someplace to hide. I'll be back for you."

Cautiously and with the useless blaster raised, Han moved toward the

intersection Reck and company had passed through. The man Reck had left behind

remained oblivious to Han's presence until he felt the business end of the

blaster touch the side of his neck.

"Not a sound," Han warned.

The man tensed and swallowed audibly.

Han's right hand closed on the raider's blaster. "I'm relieving you of your

weapon, soldier."

The man nodded. "It's your party, pal."

Han grinned. "You catch on fast."

"What now?"

Han pressed the muzzle of the loaded blaster against the man's back and took

hold of his own weapon by the barrel, raising it over his head. "This might hurt

a bit," he said.

The man turned ever so slightly. "What might -"

Han brought the grip of the blaster down hard on the back of the raider's neck,

crumpling him to the deck. Then he set out in the direction Reck had taken.

Approaching another intersection, he could hear voices ahead. Pressed to the

wall, he lowered himself somewhat, and peered around the corner. Reck and the

possible Yuuzhan Vong were only ten meters away. With no plan in mind, other

than to finish things with Reck, Han started around the corner. At the same

time, however, he heard something behind him and swung to the sound. A thickset

human in spacer garb had a Tenloss disrupter rifle trained on him.

Han dived to the right, getting off one shot as he did. The raider fired back

but also missed. Han caught a glimpse of Reck turning toward him as he

disappeared into another corridor and straight into the blaster sights of two

more Peace Brigaders. He jinked to the left, firing blindly, then launched

himself feetfirst at the larger of the pair. The raider grunted in pain and

tumbled backward, losing his weapon. But Han hit the floor harder than he had

planned to and lost most of his wind. By the time he had scrambled to a crouch,

the smaller raider was all over him, along with the one with the Tenloss.

Han swung wildly, struggling for all it was worth, but it didn't take long for

them to pin him, flat on his face with the right foot of the largest raider

planted on the back of his neck.

With a skewed view of the corridor, Han watched Reck and the rangy miscreant

hurry onto the scene.

"All right, hero," the big raider said, "get up."

The pressure on his neck eased, and Han expelled his breath. He tasted blood in

his mouth and was suddenly aware of a throbbing pain in his right hand. As he

was pushing himself to his feet another raider showed up, escorting Droma, Elan,

and Vergere at blasterpoint.

"I found these three running scared," he reported to Reck.

"We were just searching for a 'fresher," Han heard Droma say in a good-natured

way. "They're never around when you need them."

Reck advanced a couple of steps and swept his eyes over everyone. Much to Han's

surprise, Reck didn't appear to recognize him, but perhaps only because he was

too busy scrutinizing Droma.

"You're a ... Ryn?" Reck ventured.

Droma bowed slightly. "The impossible-to-find item on every scavenger hunt

list."

Reck ignored the remark, squinted at Vergere, and shook his head. "I haven't a

clue."

Vergere adopted a bashful expression. "I get that a lot."

Reck moved down the line and gazed curiously at Elan. Shortly, a knowing smile

began to pull at the corners of his mouth. He turned and waved a signal to his

rail-thin confederate.

From a sturdy carry case the lanky man set at his feet, he extracted - by the

scruff of its bristly neck - a nasty-tempered, sharp-toothed creature that

looked like the offspring of a ng'ok and a quillarat. Han heard Elan's sharp

intake of breath and saw her eyes widen as the creature's handler let the thing

get a whiff of her. All at once a layer of skin seemed to peel back from Elan's

nose, cheeks, and neck and withdraw into the collar of the blouse Droma had

found for her. Bulging as it rushed down her body, the layer of skin flowed out

the hem of her skirt and down her bare legs to mass on the floor and slither off

for safety, revealing Elan in all her tattooed splendor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Han saw Droma's jaw drop in unabashed wonder.

"Got'cha," Reck said, beaming.

Two men stepped in to take charge of Elan. At the same time, the creature who

had sniffed out the ooglith masquer leapt snarling from its handler's arms and

went after the living sheath with a vengeance, snatching it with its razor-sharp

teeth and shaking it around as if it were a slab of meat. The Yuuzhan Vong

followed, grabbed hold of the creature, and shoved it and the shredded

flesh-garment back into the carry case. Reck couldn't have been more pleased.

"That's the thing about ooglith masquers," he said to newly decorticated Elan,

"they're as easy to intimidate as ..."

Reck's words trailed off as his gaze settled on Han. Then he, too, went a bit

wide-eyed, in a manner that mixed pleasant surprise with sudden disquiet.

"Han?" he said. "Han, it is you, right? Grayer, heavier, but, son of a gun, same

off-kilter mouth and lady-killer looks."

"Hello, Reck."

Reck grinned broadly and gestured to Han's chin. "I don't remember that scar."

"I could have had it fixed, Reck, but it reminds me that my past was real."

Reck looked confused for a moment, then laughed as if he meant it. "Han Solo."

Shaking his head back and forth, he swung to his comrades. "Can you believe

this? Han Solo." By the time he came full circle, however, the smile had been

replaced by a look of vexation. "Figures they'd put you in charge of these two."

"That isn't exactly the way it happened, Reck."

"I'm sure." He gestured to the Yuuzhan Vong's carry case. "What do you think of

the unmasker?"

"I'll say this much, you don't make many mistakes." Reck snorted. "Hey, they

don't let me."

"Have you taken a look outside, Reck? How far do you think you're going to get?"

"I only need to get as far as that Yuuzhan Vong ship."

"If I were you, I'd start rethinking my loyalties."

"Loyalties?" Reck said in exaggerated dismay. "What's loyalty worth on the open

market?" He laughed again, mordantly this time. "Guys like you break me up, Han.

Profiteers without the guts to change sides suddenly calling themselves

patriots. I know who's coming out on top in this one, and I'll do whatever I

have to, to live happily ever after."

"You're talking treason, Reck."

"I speak it fluently, friend."

Han fought down an urge to throw his stiffened fingers into Reck's windpipe.

"Remember Chewbacca?"

"The Wookiee? Sure I do. Best of the best."

Han swallowed. "Your new employers killed him. Pulled a moon down on him."

Reck's eyebrows arched. "The Wook was at Sernpidal?" He puffed out his breath

and shook his head back and forth. "I'm sorry to hear that, Han - honest. But I

had nothing to do with that op."

"What about the op on Atzerri, Reck? That's where Roa's wife, Lwyll, died

because of what the Peace Brigade set in motion."

"Roa's wife?" Reck blinked, then began to shake his head in protest. "That op

wasn't supposed to end like it did."

Han's eyes bored into him. "Does that make it easier to swallow?"

Reck frowned. "A man has to work,"

Han lunged for him, barely managing to wrap his hands around Reck's neck before

someone knocked him to the deck.

"I don't mind a turncoat, Reck," Han said, gazing up as he got to his feet, "but

I draw the line at second-rate ones. You're going to give mercenaries a bad

name."

Reck's rejoinder was a sneer. He pulled out his personal comlink and thumbed it

on. "We've got them," he said into the pickup. "We'll be heading back to the

ship momentarily."

"Won't do you much good," a brittle voice replied from the unit. "We can't

detach from the airlock. All systems, even sublight and repulsors, are down. No

response at all from the dovin basal. It's like the thing's gone into stasis."

Reck swung to the unmasker's handler, who looked mystified.

"Have you attempted to contact the Yuuzhan Vong ship?" Reck said into the

comlink. "No response."

Reck cursed. "All right," he said after a moment. "I'll take her to them in my

shuttle."

The man at the other end of the link laughed. "It's doomsday out here, Reck.

You'll be lucky to clear the launch bay without getting yourself wasted."

"Are the weapons operating?"

"Affirmative."

"Then you just clear a path for me. The New Republic's not going to interfere

while we're holding several thousand hostages. Once I make the Yuuzhan Vong

ship, I'll see to it that the rest of you are brought over."

Reck switched off the comlink. He had his mouth open to say something to Han

when another Peace Brigade contingent arrived on the scene, making haste for the

docking bay. Supported by two of them was a wounded Rodian who had to be Capo.

"You people are supposed to be on the bridge," Reck bellowed.

"This is your operation, Reck," the largest among them answered. "You want to

stay and feed refugees to the vacuum, that's your business. But we're out of

here."

The man who had discovered Han and Droma started to raise his disrupter rifle,

but Reck restrained him.

"Knock it off. Fighting among ourselves isn't going to do any good. We'll pack

the shuttles and convoy for the Yuuzhan Vong ship."

Han smirked. "Proverbial droch in the ointment, huh, Reck?"

Reck gestured two of the men to take charge of Vergere, then he turned to Han.

"You know, I'm less worried about interference from those starfighters than I am

about interference from you."

He drew his blaster and ordered Han to move to the nearest drop shaft. Droma

followed silently. At the blaster's insistence, Han backed himself to the edge

of the tube, then he held his hand over it.

"Not much of a breeze," he thought to point out.

Reck grinned. "You always were a funny guy, Han."

Han shrugged. "You know what they say about a punch line being the best

revenge."

Reck considered it. "If we'd met somewhere else, we could be sharing ice-cold

Gizers right now. But I can't have you trying to follow us or talking to your

New Republic friends. You've got way too much good fortune on your side. You

always did."

"Seem's my luck's run out," Han and Droma said at the same time.

Reck looked from one to the other, then laughed shortly. "You two make quite a

pair. Too bad I've got to split you up." He lifted the blaster's barrel. "Down

you go, Han. Next stop, the cargo hold."

Han gulped. "Come on, Reck, you don't need to do this. For old times' sake."

"Oh, but I do, old friend." Again, he motioned with the blaster. "Be a good

sport. Don't make me shoot you."

Han tightened the straps of his travel pack, thinking that it might somehow

cushion his fall. Then he squared his shoulders and blew out his breath.

Narrowing his eyes at Reck, he took a backward step into the abyss.

Droma let out an anguished shriek and went rigid with shock.

TWENTY-FIVE

Relayed to Obroa-skai by signal villip, the fierce fighting at the Rimward edge

of the Bilbringi system unfolded in real time for commanders Malik Carr and Tla,

tactician Raff, and Harrar, aboard the priest's faceted starship.

"The Peace Brigade gunship has made several attempts at communication," a villip

of Nom Anor reported, "but we have refused all appeals to render aid."

Behind him in the signal villip's visual field, outside the frigate's

observation bay, light streaked and flashed in the black of space. Every so

often a snub-nosed fighter would pass close to the bay, discharging blinding

globes of encapsulated energy. Most were immediately gobbled up by

singularities, but some detonated against the ship with trembling force, crazing

the villip feed with undulating lines of interference or suspending it

altogether.

"With due respect, Commander Malik Carr," Tla said, "I find it irksome to have

to abandon allies - even though they wrongly took it on themselves to redeem

Executor Nom Anor's infiltrators. More, I dislike having our forces leap about

to avoid engaging the enemy directly."

Harrar placed himself in full view of the issuing villip.

"Are you concerned that some may judge your actions cowardly?" he asked Nom

Anor.

"Knowing that my actions are for a greater cause, no, I am not concerned."

Tla glowered. "Your opinions matter not, Executor."

Commander Malik Carr watched Tla for a moment, then turned to face the

transmitting villip. "Would you surrender your command to assuage Commander

Tla's concerns, Executor?"

Nom Anor ridiculed the idea. "Even I know better than to exchange a lesser

indignity for a greater one."

From somewhere outside the confines of the visual field, the subaltern in

command of the frigate bridge spoke. "Executor, an enemy ship has targeted the

dovin basal we housed in a keeper. Thus far the dovin basal has been

unsuccessful at repelling the attack. It reacts as if dazed."

"Show us that ship," Nom Anor ordered.

The receiving villip on Harrar's vessel relayed an image of a gray-white

saucer-shaped vessel with protruding mandibles and armaments of extraordinary

firepower.

Nom Anor's villip looked to the tactician. "You've studied the villip images of

our previous battles with New Republic forces. Do you recognize this ship?"

Raff's enhanced brain went to work on it. Finally, he nodded. "The ship was

present at Helska," he announced to those in the command center as well as to

those aboard the frigate. "It was remembered by the villip beacons left in place

by Prefect Da'gara."

"At Helska," Malik Carr said in surprise. "Jedi?" he asked Nom Anor. "Could they

have grasped your intent?"

Nom Anor shook his head firmly. "Unlikely. And if in fact they are Jedi pilots,

they're too focused on confusing the dovin basal and prevailing in this

insignificant contest to realize what they're doing.

"Subaltern," he continued, "do nothing to protect the remote dovin basal. Should

that ship succeed in destroying it, you will instruct our coralskipper pilots to

behave as if thrown into sudden disarray."

Tactician Raff spoke up. "I would point out that the destruction of the dovin

basal will allow the smaller ships that boarded the starliner to launch -"

"The dovin basal has been destroyed," the subaltern updated.

The villip field showed those aboard Harrar's ship the saucer-shaped ship up on

its side, streaking away from the annihilated remote.

"Three shuttles have left the starliner," the subaltern reported to Nom Anor.

"Two are disappearing behind the passenger vessel, bearing toward the planet.

One is vectoring for our current position."

"It would appear that the Peace Brigade has reclaimed Elan," Commander Malik

Carr said flatly, breaking the silence that fell over the command center. "I

suspect they're attempting to bring her home."

"Their gunship is still held fast to the liner," Nom Anor countered. "They could

be hoping for sanctuary, and nothing more."

Commander Tla was unsuccessful at concealing his self-satisfaction.

"Exercise discretion," Harrar said at last, "but hold the shuttle at bay."

"And if Priestess Elan is indeed aboard?" Malik Carr asked.

Harrar glanced at Nom Anor's villip, who answered for the priest. "Elan will

know what to do."

Droma was still wailing when Han finally hauled himself hand over hand up the

Ryn's tail and swung panting to the deck, a safe distance from the edge of the

deactivated drop shaft.

Droma immediately fell to all fours and began crawling around, weeping in pain.

Han caught his breath and went to his side. "Must be something I can do to

help."

"Yes," Droma said, scowling at him through tears, "learn to fall more

gracefully. Learn to fall brilliantly."

Han dropped into a sitting position, with his hands resting on his raised knees.

"Easy for someone with a tail to say." He let a moment pass, then he grinned.

"You saved my neck, Droma. I won't forget this."

Droma snorted. "I couldn't very well let you fall. As you said, you're too

well-known to die."

"You'd better believe it." Clapping him on the back, Han helped him to his feet.

"Come on, we might still be able to catch them."

Droma exhaled in exasperation. "You never give up, do you?"

Han threw a smile over his shoulder. "Thanks to you I've got my second wind."

"I'll know better next time," Droma muttered. With the Ryn hobbling after, Han

raced down the passageway for the hatch to the docking bay. But even from a

distance it was clear that the hatch-release mechanism had been rendered

inoperative by a well-aimed blaster bolt.

Han palmed the release pad anyway, then turned to Droma, frowning. "Reck doesn't

miss a trick."

They raced back down the passageway and through a series of right-angle turns

that brought them to another hatch - also fused by blasterfire. It was the same

at every hatch that accessed the docking bay from that part of the Queen. But by

the time they had circled back to the first hatch, the passageway was thick with

the astringent smell of molten plasteel, and a neat half circle had been burned

through the hatch.

"Hull cutter," Han said excitedly. He and Droma fell back as the cutter

completed its work. Moments later a massive disk of alloy dropped from the hatch

with a resounding boom and rolled a few meters down the passageway, gyrating

like a coin before it ultimately settled to the floor. Through wisps of white

smoke agitated by the pressure differential surged a dozen New Republic elite

forces in black helmets and A/KT combat jumpsuits, carrying BlasTech E-15A

rifles and grenade launchers.

Han and Droma ducked into a recess as the soldiers stormed down the passageway,

seemingly unaware that most of the Peace Brigade had already abandoned ship. Han

motioned Droma through the circular breach in the hatch. In the spacious

pressurized bay beyond sat the sleek assault craft that had brought the troopers

aboard, along with two X-wings.

One of the starfighter pilots was just climbing from the cockpit when Han ran up

to him to ask if he'd seen any ships leaving the bay.

The pilot took off his helmet and shook his long hair out of his face. "Word is

that three shuttles launched, but I didn't see any of them." The pilot gave Han

and Droma a distrustful look. "Who are you two?"

Han was considering just whose name he should drop to facilitate commandeering a

fighter when another ship nosed through the docking bay's transparent force

field and surrendered itself to the grasp of the starliner's artificial gravity.

It took Han a moment to accept that it really was the Falcon.

Droma guffawed in derision. "Will you look what the Queen dragged in."

Han whirled on him, brows beetled and mouth an elongated O. "Hey, that's my ship

you're talking about."

Droma looked from Han to the Falcon and back again. "Your ship?"

Without bothering to explain, Han hastened for the landing zone while the Falcon

was settling down on her broad disks of landing gear. He was waiting at the foot

of the starboard ramp when Luke, Mara, and Leia appeared. Behind them came R2-D2

and C-3PO, who on seeing Han, raised his arms and nearly took a tumble in his

haste to reach him.

"Thank the maker you're alive!" the droid exclaimed. "I don't know what I might

have done had my actions contributed to your demise!" He turned to his

counterpart. "You see, Artoo, no matter how great the odds, there is always a

chance of beating them."

Leia's face lit up. She tried to run to Han's arms, but he deftly avoided

contact.

"Did you spot any departing shuttles when you were coming in?" he asked.

She shook her head. "We -"

"Leia, meet Droma," he said in a rush, dragging the Ryn between them. "Droma: my

wife, Leia." Leia blinked. "Droma? Who -"

"The corvette," Han said to Luke. "Is it away?"

"No, Han -"

"Reck must be headed for the Yuuzhan Vong ship," Han said, shooting Droma a

look. "Reck?" Leia asked. "Peace Brigade," Han said, as if one word. "They

reclaimed the defectors."

Luke regarded him with intense interest. "Defectors?" Han turned to him and a

fragile-looking Mara, clenching his fists in recall of what Elan had said about

a Yuuzhan Vong-introduced illness.

"No time to explain." He raced up the ramp. Droma glanced at Leia. "Nice to meet

you," he said, then dashed up the ramp, stiff tail shaking behind him.

Luke looked at Leia in puzzlement. "Han, wait," he started to say, when Leia

laid a restraining hand on his arm.

"No, Luke, let him go." She gazed up the ramp as Han and his accomplice were

vanishing from view. "I've a feeling he needs this."

Han let momentum carry him into the outrigger cockpit and clear into the pilot's

seat. He was flipping switches and toggles when Droma entered.

"You familiar with YT-1300s?" Han asked over his shoulder, both hands in

ceaseless motion.

"Our caravan from the Corporate Sector included several 1300s - though that

wasn't something we bragged about."

Han scowled and gestured to the copilot's seat. "Strap in, scratch coat. This

one's something to brag about."

Droma edged uncertainly between the rear chairs and settled into the outsize

chair to Han's right. "You'd have to be a person of considerable dimensions to

fill this seat," he said.

Han stopped what he was doing to look at Droma. And for a brief moment he had a

vision of Chewbacca. Sitting tall in the seat, the Wookiee had a grin on his

face and his big paws clasped behind his shaggy head. His black-tipped, cinnamon

fur shone as if freshly shampooed and his teeth gleamed. He turned toward Han

and boomed his delight in an earsplitting yowl, then woofed with laughter that

reverberated throughout the ship.

Han's chest filled with a tight warmth and his eyes brimmed with tears. He had

to swallow to find his voice.

"You can say that again," he muttered, swinging toward the viewport.

Droma assessed the cockpit as the Falcon powered up and repulsors moved her

toward the hold's magnetic transparency and the starfield beyond. "I thought you

said you ran with a wealthy crowd."

Han snorted a laugh and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "That guy in the

robe back there - that was Luke Skywalker."

Droma looked impressed. "The Jedi Skywalker?"

"One and the same. My wife is Leia Organa."

Droma scratched his head. "So your real name is Han Organa?"

"Solo," Han growled in annoyance. "Han Solo." When Droma just stared at him, he

added, "You're saying you haven't heard of me?"

"I may have," Droma allowed. "But we Ryn meet so many people."

Han loosed a long exhale and concentrated on the business at hand. Local space

was still frenetic with war craft and fire, but the real fighting had moved far

afield of the starliner, out toward where an ovoid Yuuzhan Vong ship was

defending itself against an onslaught of laser beams and proton torpedoes.

In the time it had taken Leia to dock the Falcon, the Peace Brigade's corvette

had managed to disengage from the Queen and just now was trading shots with a

quartet of X-wings in a race for the far side of the largest of the nearby

planetoids. Closer to the planetoid, over which a New Republic cruiser-carrier

hung like a lightsaber, starfighters and coralskippers were matched in a

tumultuous battle.

"Set the friend-or-foe authenticator to scan for Sienar Fleet Systems

Martial-class shuttles," Han directed Droma while he increased power to the

Falcon's drive.

Droma located the authenticator and initiated a scan. "Found one," he reported

almost immediately. "Making for the Yuuzhan Vong ship."

Han compressed his lips. In the heat of battle the New Republic pilots hadn't

recognized the shuttle as an enemy. "That would be Reck," he said. "We'll never

catch him."

Han threw him a sidelong glance. "Don't be fooled by age, partner."

Despite the high setting of the inertial compensator, the Falcon's sudden

increase in velocity nearly pinned Droma to the seatback. His rakish cap flew

from his head and his eyes opened wide in astonishment. He loosed a raucous cry.

"Yee-ha, what a ship! What a beauty!"

Han merely grinned. "When you catch your breath, tell me about that shuttle."

"Still closing on the enemy vessel," Droma said through his thrill.

"Come on, come on," Han urged his ship.

Unexpectedly, the comm board crackled to life. "Millennium Falcon, this is the

Thurse. Ambassador, I thought I asked you to keep out of this."

"Ambassador Organa Solo is presently aboard the Queen," Han said toward the

console's audio pickup.

"Is that you, Han? It's Mak Jorlen."

"Mak!"

"What are doing out there, Han?"

"Chasing down a shuttle that has something the New Republic needs. Mak, once I

grab it, I might need support on the way back in."

"Affirmative, Millennium Falcon. And, Han, welcome back to the cause. Now I know

we've got a fighting chance."

Han felt Droma's eyes on him.

"This gets more and more curious," Droma said.

Han enabled the autotracking fire controller for the Falcon's aft warship-rated

quad laser. Bracketing the fleeing shuttle in the display's targeting reticle,

he moved his right hand to the trigger joystick.

He was about to fire when, without warning, the Falcon seemed to plunge through

a gravitic anomaly. Han barely had time to hit the reverse thrusters to keep the

ship from pouncing on its quarry in the worst of ways.

In fact, though, the shuttle had slowed drastically and was all but drifting in

space. "It's like it hit a repulsor field," Han said as he made rapid

adjustments to the controls.

Droma nodded. "She looks dead." When the distance between the Falcon and the

shuttle had decreased to a few kilometers, Han unfastened his seat harness and

stood up.

"Take over," he told Droma. "Maneuver us alongside. Use the tractor beam if you

need to. I'll ready the portside grapple and cofferdam."

"You're planning to board?" Droma blurted, gawking at him. "The Yuuzhan Vong

must know what it's carrying. What if that ship draws a bead on us?"

Han glanced out the viewport. Still some distance away and illuminated by

brilliant spherical explosions, the frigate sat at the center of a swirling

firefight.

"Guess I'll have to work fast," Han said, and rushed from the cockpit.

On the bridge of the Yuuzhan Vong frigate, Nom Anor studied the villip's

enhanced view of the droop-winged shuttle the onboard dovin basal had repulsed

and evidently traumatized. The same saucer-shaped ship that had destroyed the

remote dovin basal had linked itself to the drifting shuttle, and those aboard -

whether or not Jedi - were surely in the process of reclaiming the priestess the

Peace Brigade had reclaimed earlier.

With the decimation the coralskippers were undergoing and the pounding Commander

Malik Carr's personal ship was taking, Nom Anor found it challenging to fix his

attention on a single aspect of the battle. But as Harrar had made abundantly

clear, there was no more significant aspect than the recapture of Elan.

To the subaltern, he said, "Allow the New Republic ship a few moments with the

shuttle before giving chase. We must convince them without overtaking them. By

then, our coralskippers will have been all but annihilated and our final jump

from this farce will at least appear credible."

He glanced out the viewport at the maelstrom. "All glory to you warriors," he

sent quietly to the coralskipper pilots.

Suited up for EVA and armed with a blaster rifle, Han floated through the

extensible vapor-tight tube that magnetically linked the Falcon's portside

docking arm to the shuttle's starboard airlock. Making use of the cofferdam's

rigid-ring handholds, Han propelled himself along.

He stopped at the shuttle's hatch to communicate with Droma over the helmet

comlink a final time. "Any reply?"

"Nothing," Droma told him once more. "The shuttle must have taken a hit without

our noticing. Keep your suit tight."

"Yeah, thanks," Han said.

He switched off the rifle's safety, brought a gloved hand to the external hatch

release, and moved into the shuttle's airlock. Once the hatch had resealed and

the airlock had cycled, he raised the rifle to his midsection and hit the

internal hatch release.

No one met him at the door.

"I'm inside," he relayed to Droma. "Pressure, gravity, and atmosphere are all

operative. I'm going into the passenger compartment first."

Opening the hatch, he stepped inside. A grainy black substance, which crunched

underfoot, covered the deck plates and nearly every horizontal surface. Han

stooped to take a pinch between his gloved fingers and bring it to the helmet's

faceplate. "Some kind of black stuff all over the place," he said into the

comlink. "Like tiny nut husks or something."

"Any sign of Reck?"

Han moved down the aisle and gave a start as he came to the forward row of

seats. Slumped there were three of Reck's comrades, their faces hideously

contorted and their shirts soaked with blood that had cascaded from eyes, ears,

and noses.

"What is it?" Droma asked in anxious response to Han's brief outcry.

"Three dead - from I don't even know what. Massive blood vessel ruptures, it

looks like."

"You're certain the shuttle didn't depressurize?"

"Even if it did, this is like nothing I've ever seen." Han glanced at the open

forward hatch. "I'm moving into the cockpit."

Inside he found the same black grit, as well as Reck, Capo, and the one Han

thought to be a Yuuzhan Vong - all dead and similarly drenched in blood. Open

and overturned on the floor was the case the enemy agent had carried. Close by

lay the body of the vicious creature that had sent Elan's ooglith masquer into a

panic.

"Reck's dead," Han said into the comlink. "They're all dead."

"The females, too?"

"No sign of them. Unless they're in cargo."

Han took one last look at Reck. "Down you go," he said, mostly to himself.

He walked back through the passenger compartment to the rear hold and hit the

hatch release. "Found them," he told Droma, even before the hatch had pocketed

itself.

On a large square of deck grating lay Elan and Vergere, unconscious but

otherwise unharmed. The hold was free of black husks. Han put his arm under

Elan's narrow shoulders and gently lifted her. Her intense blue eyes blinked

open, then went wide in fright. She flailed in his arms, her sudden movements

causing Vergere to stir, as well.

"It's me - Han!" he said through the EVA suit's external speaker.

Elan began to relax. "They drugged us," she said groggily, then glanced around

in confused apprehension. "Where are they? What happened? Why are you wearing a

space suit?"

He helped her to her feet and slowly led her into the passenger compartment. Her

foot had scarcely touched the black grit when she gasped and stood petrified.

"Bo'tous!" she said, in what Han assumed was Yuuzhan Vong. "A bioweapon - an

airborne blood agent!"

"This black stuff is bo-whatever?"

Elan shook her head. "What you see is the aftermath of bo'tous - a harmless

residue." She gestured to the forward seats. "What they inhaled killed them."

Vergere stepped from the cargo hold and stifled a scream.

"Everyone but you two are dead," Han said.

Elan stared at him in bewilderment. "But who did this?"

"That's what I'd like to know. Could the Peace Brigade have been carrying some

of that ... stuff?"

"Yes, possibly. They had a dovin basal and an unmasker. They might have had

bo'tous, as well." She looked at Han. "Perhaps they planned to use it on

passengers aboard the starliner."

"Why didn't it affect you?"

"On launch from the Queen of Empire, they sealed us into the compartment where

you found us." She held his gaze. "We Yuuzhan Vong are immune, in any case."

Han nodded noncommittally and activated the comlink. "Droma, meet me in the

docking arm. I'm bringing them aboard."

"You'd better be quick about it," Droma replied rapidly. "That warship's headed

right for us!"

TWENTY-SIX

With missiles from the Yuuzhan Vong frigate slamming against her shields and

detonating to all sides, the Millennium Falcon raced back toward the

still-immobile starliner. Beams from the Thurse's main batteries lashed blue

light at the frigate, but to no apparent effect.

"You're telling me it jumped that far in a second?"

Han yelled at Droma while he fought to stabilize his ship.

"That's exactly what I'm telling you! One second it was there, the next it was

practically right on top of us!"

Han's hands flew across the cockpit console. "Angle the rear deflectors! If we

can't outrun them, we can at least try to stay in one piece!" He looked over his

shoulder at Elan and Vergere. "Get to the acceleration couch in the forward

hold!"

Droma waited until they had disappeared to say, "Vergere's not an extragalactic,

Han. I don't know the species, but I have seen her type before."

Han glanced at him. "What are you telling me? That she's an impostor?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe only that those two don't add up."

"You don't trust them?"

"Do you?"

Han considered his answer, then shook his head. "Something's been nagging at me.

Why would the Yuuzhan Vong send a warship to back up the Peace Brigade? If they

knew Elan was aboard the Queen, they would have done the job themselves. And

another thing: even if some Yuuzhan Vong bioweapon escaped aboard the shuttle,

that doesn't explain the shuttle's decelerating the way it did."

"Unless the Yuuzhan Vong deliberately slowed it down."

Han made his lips a thin line. "Exactly what I was thinking. You remember Reck's

man reporting that the corvette was glitched - that they couldn't disengage from

the Queen?"

Droma nodded. "The corvette pulled the Queen from hyperspace, but suddenly was

unable to break away from her."

"Which could happen if the Yuuzhan Vong tasked the dovin basal aboard the

corvette to hold fast to the Queen."

The Falcon shook as a projectile caught up with her. Han and Droma flinched, but

dozens more missiles streaked past the ship to port and starboard.

"I'm tempted to see what happens if we stop taking evasive action."

"Not too tempted, I hope," Droma said worriedly. Han growled. "I've gone up

against the Yuuzhan Vong ships before. They just don't miss this often. It's

like they're doing everything they can to convince us they want their property

back -"

"When they actually want Elan and Vergere to remain where they are."

Han rubbed his jaw. "But why the ruse?"

"Something unrevealed," Droma said leadingly. "The Queen of Air and Darkness."

Han scowled. "I don't put any stock in card games."

Droma shrugged. "Watching you play sabacc, I would have thought otherwise."

Han fell silent for a moment, then reached for his pack and located his

bolstered blaster. Getting to his feet, he buckled the holster around his hips

and fastened the thigh grip.

"Take over," he told Droma.

He hurried to the forward hold, where Elan and Vergere were seated side by side

on the acceleration couch.

"Can you outspeed the warship?" Elan asked in a way that was meant to sound

guileless.

"Probably not," he told her. "But I think your people will make us think we

did."

She looked at him questioningly.

"I mean that I'm beginning to think they don't want you back. That this whole

thing - your defection, maybe even this battle - is part of some elaborate

scheme your superiors cooked up."

"You don't care that I have important information for the Jedi?" she said in a

scurrilous but composed voice.

Wrestling with uncertainty, Han paced the hold. "I don't know what to think." He

came to a halt and regarded the two of them. "I suppose I could take you back to

the Queen and let Jedi Master Skywalker decide."

"Yes," Elan said hurriedly, "you must at least do that."

Han heard her. But what struck him was the look of shocked recognition that

played briefly over Vergere's exotic features.

"You're right," he said at last. "I guess I'm just being overly suspicious."

He turned, as if to head to the cockpit, then stopped and said, "That creature

that shredded your ooglith masquer aboard the Queen - does it respond only to a

Yuuzhan Vong handler or will it adapt to anyone?"

"Only a Yuuzhan Vong," Elan said.

Han saw her stiffen, if ever so slightly. "You said the Yuuzhan Vong are immune

to that bioweapon that got loose aboard the shuttle."

Face tightened with hatred, she nodded.

And Han grinned.

"You just remembered that I found the handler dead in the cockpit - a Yuuzhan

Vong handler. You loosed that bioweapon from the safety of the cargo hold. When

the toxin had dispersed enough, you came out and tipped over the handler's carry

case, knowing it would draw my attention. You were never drugged. That was all

part of the act."

Han's smile straightened and he cocked his head toward the Falcon's starboard

ring corridor. "Droma! Take us about. Steer a course for the Yuuzhan Vong ship!"

Though muted by distance, Droma's "What?" teemed with disbelief.

"You heard me. Unless I'm seriously mistaken, they won't fire on us." Drawing

his blaster, he ordered Elan and Vergere to rise from the couch. "I'm not taking

any chances with you two."

"You're making a big mistake," Elan said.

"It wouldn't be the first time, sister. Stand up and get moving."

He gestured them into the portside ring corridor and marched them aft to the

Falcon's noisy rear compartment. Scrunched between the deck and the exhaust

conduits of the bellowing power core, and to either side of an access shaft that

had once contained a freight elevator, were the ship's escape pods.

Roomy, state-of-the-art spheroids in keeping with the Falcon's status as a

family vehicle, the pods were launched through ventral hatches by explosive

separator charges, and featured such amenities as padded g-couches; a

sophisticated sensor, communications, and flight-control suite; an automatically

activated distress beacon; maneuvering jets; soft-landing coils; and enough

rations and survival gear to keep two or three people equipped for a good while.

Han considered confining the bogus defectors in one of the pods, but quickly

changed his mind. For all he knew, they had some way of poisoning the Falcon the

way they had Reck's shuttle.

He approached one of the portside pods and slammed his hand on the hatch release

stud. When the broad, circular hatch had irised open, Han motioned to it.

"You're going back where you belong, ladies, marked 'returned to sender.'"

He waved the blaster, and Elan climbed nimbly into the pod. Vergere was about to

follow when Elan suddenly brushed her aside, grabbed hold of Han, and tugged him

headfirst into the sphere. Slamming him into the curved hull, she backed toward

the still-open hatch, her mouth an intentional rictus of retaliation.

Han shook his head in an attempt to uncross his eyes. He raised the blaster and

squeezed the trigger, only to realize that it was depleted. Staring at the

useless thing, he felt his jaw drop.

"Careless," Elan said as she continued to sidle toward the hatch. "But don't

worry, I'll gladly put you out of your misery."

"Huh?" he asked dizzily.

She grinned malevolently. "One breath for you, one left for the Jedi. Breathe

deeply, Han."

Crouched to spring through the hatch, she forced an interminable exhale. Then,

whirling about, she leapt for the hatch. But the Falcon, dodging fire, slewed

acutely to starboard and the hatch irised shut. Dumped onto his back, Han again

got the wind knocked out of him. At the same time, Elan hit the closing hatch

and rebounded.

Bug-eyed with fear, she scrambled to her feet and tried desperately to force the

hatch open. She balled her hands and pounded on the porthole with all her might.

Expertly, she side-kicked it, then threw her weight against the hatch

repeatedly, but it refused to budge.

Dumbfounded and still unable to catch his breath, Han heard a voice say,

Poisoned air - though he couldn't be sure just whose voice he was hearing, or

indeed if it was actually a voice or a thought that had come to him in response

to what he'd observed on the shuttle.

As if on its own, his hand seized the survival tool clipped to his belt.

Fumbling frantically with the compressed oxygen feature, he finally managed to

shove the twin-tanked device to his lips and bite down on the spatulate

mouthpiece to start the oxygen flowing. Through the pod porthole, he caught a

brief glimpse of Vergere, but he couldn't tell if she was attempting to open the

hatch or secure it further.

Elan swung away from the hatch in dread, her lips pressed tightly together and

her face a blotchy red. Staring at Han, she made a grab for him, but he

sidestepped and tripped her in the process. Collapsing to her hands and knees,

she threw a baleful look over her shoulder, cursing Han with every cell in her

body, then inhaled hoarsely.

Her body went rigid. A sudden cough sent blood fountaining from her mouth. From

eyes, ears, and nose it poured as she lifted her head and howled in anguish.

Mouth twisted around the lifesaving inhaler, Han backed away, pressing himself

to the curved wall and averting his gaze. Spots formed before his eyes, and he

thought he might pass out. Then the spots began to precipitate and scurry madly

around the pod.

The black residue of Elan's toxic exhalation crawling all over him, he staggered

for the hatch and hammered the release stud with the heel of his hand. Wild-eyed

he hastened to the pod's comlink, only to find it dead, owing perhaps to a

Yuuzhan Vong projectile that had penetrated the Falcon's weakened shields. He

brushed frantically at the tiny life-forms and crushed dozens at a time with

stomps of his feet.

A warning tone sounded from the survival tool. He was fast running out of air.

Eyes bulging from his head, he slammed his fists against the padded hatch and

porthole. He was down to recycling his last breath when the hatch suddenly

irised open, and he pitched headfirst to the floor of the rear hold.

Gulping air, he looked up to see Droma standing over him.

"What made you come back here?" Han asked between breaths.

"A feeling," Droma told him.

Han gestured weakly to the pod. "The bugs ..."

Droma caught sight of Elan's bloodied corpse and momentarily froze. Then he

quickly resealed the hatch and began killing escapees with his hands and feet.

Shortly, some of the few remaining critters began to expire on their own,

transforming into featherweight husks.

Han propped himself against the bulkhead and wiped sweat from his forehead.

"That's two I owe you."

"I'll add it to your tab," Droma said, panting.

A ship-rattling explosion brought Han fully alert. "Where's Vergere?"

Droma glanced down the ring corridor and shook his head.

"Get back to the cockpit," Han said. "I'll find her."

Another powerful strike sent the Falcon on edge, and out of the starboard ring

corridor flew Elan's familiar, crashing into Han just as he was getting to his

feet. The collision sent him careening against the sealed escape pod and the

hatch release stud. The hatch irised open once more and a few last critters

leapt through the door and found purchase on the front of Han's shirt.

Stuttering a phobic cry, he whisked them away, then turned his attention to

Vergere, who had planted herself in the center of the hold, arms at her sides

and her reverse-articulated legs tensed for action.

"Don't make this hard on yourself," Han warned.

Another projectile found the ship, rocking it to its ribs. Droma's voice wailed

from an intercom annunciator in the bulkhead. "Han, you sure the Yuuzhan Vong

don't want them back? They're being awfully convincing!"

Han kept his gaze on Vergere and adopted a combat stance. "They're gonna have to

settle for half," he mumbled.

Vergere brought out her right hand to show Han a drinking bulb she had obviously

grabbed from the galley. Squeezing the bulb, she suddenly brought it to her

right eye as if to suction brimming tears.

Han hurled himself at her, but Vergere executed an agile leap that carried her

out of reach, then another that front-flipped her straight into the escape pod.

Han made a lunge for the pod, but an evasive maneuver by Droma set the ship on

edge once more, and Han went sailing past the pod and a quarter of the way down

the portside ring corridor. By the time he regained his balance and had stumbled

back to the rear hold, Vergere was already arming the pod's separator charges.

Han reached through the hatch for her, only to have his hands deflected.

"Thank you, Han Solo, for giving me the chance to return to my own kind," she

told him. Without warning, she tossed the filled bulb at him. "See that this

reaches the jedi."

Reflexively, Han caught the bulb, then tossed it aside. He threw himself at the

closing hatch, but not in time. The pod's launch warning system came to life

with flashing light and metered sound.

Han beat a fast retreat into the rear hold and flattened himself to the deck

grating as the pod launched with a concussive thump that made his ears pop.

"Blast!" he screamed, yanking himself upright.

Rushing to the cockpit, he found Droma still steering a slalom course directly

for the Yuuzhan Vong frigate.

"The other way, the other way!" Han screamed, heaving himself into the pilot's

seat.

"Make up your mind!" Droma yelled back.

Han took the controls and threw the Falcon into an ascending loop, hoping to

catch sight of the launched escape pod on the downward curve. For a moment he

had the sphere in the ship's tracking reticle, but he lost it just as quickly as

a Yuuzhan Vong missile streaked across the Falcon's bow.

The flaming projectile appeared to lock on to the pod like a predator hot on a

blood scent. A blinding explosion forced Han to glance away, and when he looked

back the pod was gone. A second later, however, he thought he glimpsed it out of

the corner of his eye, plunging toward the night side of a heavily cratered

planetoid. Then again, it was possible that the frigate's dovin basal had

already captured the pod and brought it on board.

An agitated voice issued from the communications console. "Han, what the blazes

are you doing? I thought you wanted cover fire."

"We do, we do!" Han told Mak Jorlen. "Punch it, Droma!"

The Falcon banked sharply, barrel-rolled to evade a slew of projectiles, and

sped toward the Thurse. With the field clear, the cruiser-carrier opened up with

all batteries, stunning the Yuuzhan Vong ship with ion cannon and turbolaser

fire. A few remaining battleworthy coralskippers attempted to launch suicide

runs at the Thurse, but were instantly pulverized. Defenseless, the frigate

abandoned pursuit of the Falcon. Then, streaking away, it made an abrupt jump to

lightspeed.

Han leveled out the ship and Droma cut her speed. He and the Ryn collapsed in

their seats, as if someone had just let the air out of them.

"Is it over?" Droma asked after a moment.

Han nodded. "For the time being."

Droma glanced at Han and uttered a short laugh. "You know, I could almost

believe you've been doing this sort of thing all your life."

Han pushed himself upright in the chair and favored him with a roguish grin.

"What makes you think I haven't?"

TWENTY-SEVEN

Removed from the frenzied tempo of lofty Coruscant, deep in a vertical slice of

the city-world known colloquially as the Abyss, a mixed-species dozen sat

nervously at a long table in a windowless and otherwise secure chamber. The

chamber resided at the heart of the entombed headquarters of the New Republic's

Intelligence division and was accessible to upper-echelon officers only. In a

sterile realm of artificial illumination and sunlight purloined by shafts and

mirrors, the big-leafed shrub lodged in a corner of the chamber stood out like a

chance oasis, and so had been given the name Mirage.

Separate conversations came to art abrupt halt when an entry-granted tone

sounded from the door and Director Dif Scaur stamped into the room, a sheaf of

durasheet documents and optical prints under one arm and a gunmetal-gray

modified protocol droid trailing in his wake. Everyone was standing by the time

he reached the head of the table, but the obvious attempt at deference only

deepened his scowl and he motioned brusquely for everyone to be seated. A former

admiral with the Fourth Fleet, Scaur was tall and gaunt, with watery blue eyes

and a pronounced widow's peak.

"I've been in meetings with Defense Force command staff all morning," he began

on a sullen note, "and the advisory council is expecting a full report later

this afternoon. So the sooner we get this done the better."

Scaur glanced angrily at his deputy director of operations. "Colonel Kalenda,

since you've been attached to this fiasco from the beginning, I'd like you to

start by telling me which parts of Han Solo's report can be considered fact and

which parts can be dismissed as owing to an obvious case of space giddiness.

Frankly, I'm not even clear on how the defectors wound up in his hands to begin

with."

Belindi Kalenda stirred in her chair. "Sir, after Major Showolter and his

support team were ambushed by members of the Peace Brigade, Showolter and the

defectors went in search of backup elements known to be aboard the Queen of

Empire. When the major spotted Solo, he assumed that Solo was part of the

operation -"

"When has Han Solo ever worked with this agency?"

Kalenda cleared her throat. "Well, sir, I did recruit his help during the

Centerpoint Station crisis."

Scaur's nostrils flared. "That was seven years ago, Colonel."

Kalenda returned the look. "Major Showolter was in bad shape, sir."

The director's expression softened. "How is he doing?"

"He took a nasty burn to the upper chest, but he's coming along."

Scaur nodded and glanced around the table. "My condolences to any of you who

worked with officers Jode Tee and Saiga Bre'lya, or with Dr. Yintal of Fleet

Intel. Their deaths and the deaths of Showolter's backup agents, who were

apparently tortured into revealing the countersign, add tragedy to this

calamity." He turned to Kalenda once more. "So the defectors became the property

of Solo, who then proceeded to surrender them to the Peace Brigade."

"The Peace Brigade had a means of identifying the one called Elan. They took her

and her companion, Vergere, aboard their shuttle and were attempting to reach a

Yuuzhan Vong warship when the entire crew was apparently poisoned by Elan."

"By Elan's exhalations, I take it."

"Yes, sir. Solo retrieved her and Vergere, but was then convinced that both were

part of an intricate plan to assassinate as many Jedi as possible. As you know,

they had requested to meet with the Jedi to furnish details about an illness

released by Yuuzhan Vong agents. We have since ascertained that Elan may have

been referring to a molecular malady that has claimed some one hundred lives

this past year - though just what the Jedi have to do with the malady is

presently unknown.

"In any case, Solo considered the enticement to be part of the plot and was

preparing to eject the defectors from his ship when he himself almost fell

victim to Elan - to Elan's exhalations, that is. Sir."

Scaur stared at her for a long moment before replying. "On what basis did Solo

determine them to be assassins rather than political fugitives?"

"As I say, sir, Solo became convinced that Elan had killed the members of the

Peace Brigade to prevent them from returning her to the Yuuzhan Vong. The

residue we collected from the Peace Brigade's shuttle matches that found aboard

Solo's ship. Autopsies conducted on the men - including a Yuuzhan Vong operative

- revealed that they died of hemorrhagic shock, induced by an inhaled vesicant

toxin - a blood agent - of an unknown type."

Scaur located Solo's report from among the documents he had brought with him,

scanned it, then tapped it with the back of his fingertips. "Solo claims that

what you refer to as residue was actually alive at one point. He describes the

creatures as some son of mites that appeared out of thin air."

Kalenda compressed her lips. "Sir, I won't pretend to understand the nature of

the toxin or the mechanics of its delivery. I know only that Solo was clearly

meant to die."

"And instead, this Elan succumbed to the toxin herself."

"Presumably. Inside an escape pod, which Elan's companion subsequently employed

to make her escape."

"Do we know what became of the pod?"

"Not yet. We conducted a search of the planetoid, but nothing turned up. While

it's possible the pod is there somewhere, lodged in some crevasse or cave, it

could just as easily have been recovered by the enemy frigate or destroyed

during the firefight between the frigate and the cruiser-carrier Thurse."

"I still don't understand why Solo had to take it upon himself to send them

back," Scaur grumbled. "No, belay that. Knowing Solo as I do, those actions are

entirely consistent with his brash character."

"In defense of Solo's actions, sir, he was being pursued by an enemy warship."

"Yes, but the enemy obviously didn't want the defectors returned."

"Solo was convinced that Elan had already killed once and would do so again -

perhaps even kill him to safeguard her secret, which in fact she attempted to

do. Had Solo died and had Elan been brought into our midst, who knows what she

might have done. In addition, sir, this defection has been suspect from the

start. The commander of the cruiser Soothfast will attest to that."

Scaur nodded at Kalenda. "Granted, Colonel. Assuming for the moment that Solo's

actions were justified, the New Republic's success in the Meridian sector must

be reassessed, along with the victory at Ord Mantell." He shook his head

regretfully. "We should have allowed military intelligence to handle this. Do

you realize how this makes us look?"

"Sir?" Kalenda asked.

"The command staff is convinced that we bumbled the job. Despite the fact that

Elan posed a threat, much could have been gained from having her in custody.

What's more, it's apparent that someone with top secret clearance apprised the

Peace Brigade of the plans to relocate Elan to Coruscant."

Scaur extracted another durasheet document from the sheaf and glanced at it.

"Six members of military intelligence, fourteen in-house officers, the

half-dozen senators who make up the Security and Intelligence Council ...

Someone leaked the information - either directly to the Peace Brigade or to a

third party who did so." He looked around the table. "Do any of these

individuals appear a likely source for a leak of this magnitude?"

"All of them had access to the same information," Kalenda supplied. "But whoever

it was not only made contact with the Peace Brigade, but also managed to slice

into our network and discontinue surveillance on the group. Traces of that

slicing are still being analyzed."

"All well and good," Scaur pronounced, "but the real question to ask is whether

we have a traitor in our midst or a mole - an enemy agent?"

"Someone wearing an ooglith masquer?" a Mon Calamari officer asked from the far

end of the table.

"Not necessarily. The Yuuzhan Vong probably bought the services of the Peace

Brigade. The same could hold true for whoever passed the information on to them.

Members of the New Republic government could be in collusion with the enemy."

"But returning Elan to the Yuuzhan Vong ran counter to the entire plan," the

Bothan deputy director of intelligence thought to point out.

Scaur plucked at his lower lip. "It's possible our traitor wasn't aware of the

plan, only of the defection. Our seeming win at Ord Mantell convinced the

traitor that Elan needed to be retrieved before further harm was done."

"Could have been someone testing the waters," Kalenda mused. "Reaching out to

the Peace Brigade, without having any affiliation with the Yuuzhan Vong."

"Perhaps the Peace Brigade had something on the traitor," a human officer

suggested. "The traitor may have been erasing a debt."

Scaur put his elbows on the table. "Did we get anything from the captured Peace

Brigade members?"

"Two of thirteen we have in custody maintain that the only person who had

contact with the traitor was Reck Desh, who died aboard the Peace Brigade

shuttle. They claim that the initial contact was made by comlink, and that the

only meeting between Desh and the source took place on Kuat, where Desh

apparently met with a telbun."

Scaur grimaced. "A telbun?"

"The telbun could have been an intermediary for the one we're actually looking

for," Kalenda said.

Scaur snorted. "So what you're really telling me is that we're without leads."

Kalenda nodded. "Thanks to Elan, Reck Desh took his secret to the grave."

In lofty Coruscant - though not so high up that the skyscraping spires,

obelisks, and towers of the nucleus didn't defy perspective and boggle the mind

- the Mon Calamari Jedi Cilghal, the Ithorian healer Tomla El, and the Ho'Din

physician Ism, Oolos waited expectantly for the MD-1 technician to complete its

analysis of the tears Vergere had allegedly shed into a drink bulb aboard the

Millennium Falcon.

Shortly, the vaguely human-like droid projected the results as animated

holograms of the liquid's chemical composition and its interaction with cells

scraped from the inside of Mara Jade Skywalker's cheek.

"The chemical structure reflects what might be expected from tears," Tomla El

said, leaning forward on his great buttressed feet, "but we've no way of

determining whether they are indeed characteristic of Vergere's species."

"Yes, but look here," Oolos said excitedly, gesturing to the interaction

hologram. "See how the substance is being drawn into the cells, almost as if

being sponged up. And look how the cell reacts! Like an infusion of nutrient!"

Taller than a Wookiee, though rail-thin, Oolos had a broad, lipless mouth and a

serpentine crown of stubby tresses, brilliant with red and violet scales. Like

Tomla El, he wore a long white coat, which set the pair apart from Cilghal,

whose homespun tunic and trousers were the color of fine sand.

"I'm encouraged," Oolos said to the laboratory's other two occupants. "Come, see

for yourselves."

Hand in hand, Luke and Mara stepped closer to the droid's holographic

projections and made a pretense of regarding them with the same scientific

captivation demonstrated by the Ithorian and the Ho'Din. Luke was keenly aware

that one of Cilghal's bulbous eyes was trained on Mara rather than on the

displays.

Tomla El turned his sinuous head toward Luke and said out of both mouths, "I'm

uneasy."

Everyone waited for him to continue.

"The priestess Elan was a weapon, dispatched by the Yuuzhan Vong to assassinate

the Jedi. Why think that Vergere wasn't an accomplice, equally involved? Han

Solo obviously believed that she was, or he wouldn't have sought to return her

to the enemy."

"Han wasn't sure about Vergere," Cilghal said, answering for Luke.

"Why would Elan be harboring a deadly toxin, while her own familiar harbored an

antidote to Mara's illness?"

"Perhaps Vergere was not what she seemed," Luke said, "even to Elan." He paused

briefly, then added, "Han admits that he was tempted to destroy the drink bulb,

until he began to think about what Vergere said to him before she jettisoned in

the escape pod. She thanked him for giving her the chance to return to her own

people."

"Naturally," Tomla El said, in a kind of lilting stereo. "The Yuuzhan Vong."

"But Han said that earlier Vergere had reacted to hearing my name. And Droma

claimed that he once encountered a member of Vergere's species in the Corporate

Sector."

"That means little," Tomla El argued. "Yuuzhan Vong agents infiltrated our

galaxy as far back as fifty standard years. Vergere's species could be an

extragalactic client race of the Yuuzhan Vong."

"Tomla El is correct about one thing," Oolos said, turning from the holograms.

"We can't be sure this ostensible gift isn't part of a plan to instill us with

false confidence and inadvertently do greater harm to Mara."

All eyes fell on her. As wan as she had become over the course of only a few

weeks, she continued to reveal boundless grit and defiance. "I'm finding it

pretty hard to swallow that the Yuuzhan Vong would go to all this trouble to

kill one Jedi - namely, me - when Elan was out to assassinate all of us."

Oolos told the MD droid to deactivate the holograms; then he spent a moment in

deep contemplation. "We should proceed cautiously." He looked at the drinking

bulb. "We don't even know whether the liquid is supposed to be injected,

ingested, or applied."

"We do have a clue," Luke said. "Vergere used her tears to mend a blaster wound

suffered by an intelligence officer aboard the Queen of Empire. She applied them

by hand."

"Topically," Oolos clarified.

Cilghal studied him with one eye. "But Mara's illness isn't topical, it's

systemic."

All at once Luke called the bulb to his hand with the Force. Inverting it, he

brought it to his mouth, prepared to squeeze a drop onto his tongue. But Mara

just as quickly snatched it from him and took a few drops into her own mouth

before Luke could stop her.

"Mara!" Oolos and Tomla El said in unison.

But Mara wasn't in distress. She inhaled sharply, then opened her eyes wide.

"Oh, Luke," she said, as if in awe. "I can't explain exactly how I feel, but

it's like water after days of going without it." She looked at her hands - first

the palms, then the backs - and touched her face. "My fingers and my face are

tingling."

Gently, Luke took the bulb from her and squeezed a drop onto his tongue. "I

don't feel anything," he said after a moment.

Mara took the bulb back and held it close to her heart. "There's no reason you

should feel anything."

Luke looked his wife in the eye. "Mara, there's one more thing you need to hear:

Showolter said that the healing effect was temporary. Vergere told him as much

when she came to his aid. He was already going into shock when he found Han."

"That doesn't mean it will work that way on me," Mara said firmly. "Besides, at

this point, I'll accept temporary." She forced a breath and took Luke's hand in

hers. "You have to let me do this, Luke. I know that you and Cilghal have been

trying to heal me through the Force, and I know that I haven't made it easy for

you by withdrawing into myself. But this illness has been part of me for over a

year now. It's been my challenge, and I've fought it every way I know how. But

it's winning, Luke. It's winning,"

She lifted the bulb to eye level. "If this makes things worse, then I'll just

have to fight even harder. But everything in me tells me that won't happen. Do

you understand?"

"At least let us monitor you," Tomla El advised. "If something begins to go

wrong, there are steps we may be able to take."

"No," Luke said, holding Mara's gaze. "We'll do this Mara's way."

She gave his hand a squeeze, then moved to a nearby countertop and carefully

dribbled some of the tears into her cupped right hand. Before she could bring

the transparent liquid to her lips or face, however, it vanished.

"My hand absorbed it," she said in amazement, showing her palm.

Oolos approached, looking down at her from his towering height. "Mara, at least

tell us what you're feeling."

She took a stuttering breath. "I'm not sure. Lightheaded, flushed. Everything is

suddenly so bright -" She gave a start. "It's triggering something inside me! I

can -"

Mara's arms and legs began to tremble. She put her head back, as if fighting for

breath. She might have fallen if Luke had not hurried to her side.

"Quickly, Luke, convey her to the table," Oolos said.

Luke carried her to the diagnostic table and set her down on her back. Eyes

tightly shut, Mara groaned and hugged her trembling torso.

"We'll have readouts momentarily," Tomla El said from the table's control

console.

Luke's eyes didn't move from Mara. "Mara," Luke whispered, close to her ear.

"Mara ..."

She groaned once more and then gave a start, staring wide-eyed at Luke. "I don't

know," she said, her voice a raspy whisper. "I can't explain what I'm feeling.

Did I make the wrong choice, my love?" Her expression became imploring. "Look at

me, Luke. Look at me ..."

Her voice trailed off and she lapsed into a state of semiconsciousness. Luke

searched for encouragement in the eyes of Cilghal, Tomla El, and Oolos, but

found none. He returned his gaze to Mara and reached for her in the Force.

As he did, the spastic movements of her limbs began to subside and her entire

countenance began to change. Her face relaxed and tears leaked from the outside

corners of her eyes. Luke's face grew warm, and his eyes grew moist with relief

and vigilant joy.

Mara's eyes blinked open and she smiled weakly. "I think it's working," she said

softly, wetting her lips with her tongue. She closed her eyes once more, as if

luxuriating in what she was experiencing. "I can feel it coursing through me.

It's as if every cell in my body were being bathed in light." She groped blindly

for Luke's hand and drew it to her breast. "I think I'm healing, Luke. I'm sure

I'm healing."

"Oh, Mara," Cilghal said tearfully, coming to the table to lay her webbed hand

on Mara's shoulder.

Luke caught sight of the skeptical glances exchanged by Tomla El and Oolos, but

he said nothing. Rather, he looked again at Mara through the Force and found her

luminous.

A smile of unabashed delight split his face. He put his arm under his wife's

shoulders and gently lifted her into his embrace. Her arms encircled his neck,

and she clung to him, crying quietly and joyously.

"We have our victory," Luke whispered.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Leia hurried through the apartment's front entry onto the skyway balcony. But as

eager as she was to give Han and Anakin the good news about Mara, she restrained

herself from intruding on their conversation.

"The thing I still can't figure out," Han was saying, "is what put it in my head

that Elan's breath was deadly. It was like I heard a voice warning me. That's

when I grabbed the multitool."

Gazing out across the city canyon, Han had one foot up on the balcony railing

and the survival tool in his right hand. His travel pack sat at his feet. When a

long moment had elapsed and Anakin still hadn't responded, Han turned to him and

loosed a short laugh.

"Thanks."

Anakin's brooding look changed to one of perplexity. "For what, Dad?"

"For not telling me that I was hearing Chewie through the Force."

Anakin smiled. "Yeah, like I'd even think about saying that to you."

Han raised his index finger. "And don't even think about telling your uncle,

either. All I need is for Luke to hear that I'm hearing voices. This is strictly

between you and me and the stair pillar, got it?" He turned slightly in Leia's

direction. "No offense, sweetheart."

Leia showed him a blatantly counterfeit smile. "Better the stair pillar than the

tread, sweetheart."

Han nodded smugly, stood up, and approached Anakin. "Anyway, I just wanted to

say thanks for showing up at Roa's ship that day." He proffered the survival

tool. "If it wasn't for this ... well, you know all about that."

"Thank Chewie," Anakin said. "He made it."

Han shook his head. "I've already thanked Chewie. This is something between you

and me." He grasped Anakin by the shoulders and tugged him into a tight embrace.

Leia thought her heart might break. Her hand flew to her mouth and she fought

back tears.

Han moved Anakin away, but he kept his hands on his son's shoulders. "I'm sorry

for what I said and the way I've been acting since Chewie died, Anakin. We did

everything we could have done at Sernpidal, and Chewie knew that. We both know

who's responsible for his dying. But I don't want vengeance prompting you to do

anything foolish, you understand? You and Jacen and Jaina are more important to

me than you'll ever know."

Anakin nodded and almost grinned. He and Han embraced once more.

"I've gotta get going," Anakin said after a moment. "Uncle Luke is expecting me

back on Yavin 4."

"One thing before you leave," Leia said, smiling. "Vergere's gift seems to be

working." She cut her eyes to Han. "I just heard from Luke that Mara is stronger

than she's been in months. Whatever the tears contain, they're taking a lot out

of her, but Oolos and Tomla El are hopeful that Mara will be in full remission

in a few weeks."

The three of them fell into a brief, gleeful embrace, which Anakin broke.

"First the Yuuzhan Vong poison Mara, then they send an assassin against us," he

said bitterly. "I'll remember what you said about vengeance, Dad, but they've

made this war personal."

Leia's eyes clouded over with misgiving, and she gave Anakin another hug and a

kiss on the cheek. "Take care of yourself."

"Hey, kid," Han shouted as Anakin was heading for the skyway bridge. "Any chance

that Lowbacca's become so busy with Jedi stuff that he and Waroo have forgotten

about the life debt?"

"Not when I spoke to him last."

"Blast," Han muttered. "I guess I'm going to have to deal with this sooner or

later." He glanced at Leia and smiled. "So Vergere was on the level, after all."

He gave his head an incredulous shake. "It's funny the way things work out. You

go in search of one thing and end up finding something else. If I didn't know

better, I'd think it was the Force at work."

Leia kept quiet.

Han narrowed his eyes and nodded. "Wookiees have an expression, that the real

quarry of every hunt is the unexpected. But I guess you tend to forget that when

you've been out of the game for a long while."

Leia heard something different and troublesome in his tone. She indicated his

travel pack. "That hasn't left your side since you got back," she said, as

casually as she could. "Are you going to unpack or are you planning to have it

stuffed and mounted?"

Han moved for the pack. "No use in unpacking just yet."

Leia folded her arms under her breasts. "I guess I should have seen this coming.

Then you're not really home."

"I've been home too much lately." He grinned at her. "I figured you must be

getting tired of seeing me hanging around."

Leia didn't move. "Don't try to turn this around, Han."

He gestured to himself. "Who's trying to turn anything around? I'm only saying

that I've got a few things that need doing."

"Such as?"

"Such as finding Roa, for starters. And helping Roa locate his clanmates. He

saved my skin, you know - twice."

Leia launched a sardonic laugh to the sky. "Don't tell me you owe Droma a life

debt. This is too much, Han - even for you."

His brow furrowed. "You can't expect me to just forget about Roa or leave Droma

hanging."

She took a step toward him. "Do Wookiees have anything to say about taking

senseless risks? Not a moment ago I stood here listening to you caution Anakin

against doing anything foolish, and now you tell me you're going off after Roa

and Droma's missing clanmates. Make up your mind which way you want it to be,

Han."

"What's wrong with having it both ways?"

Leia snorted. "Relapse complete. Say hello to your former self, Han."

"Relapse, nothing. This is the same me you married, sweetheart. Besides, you're

one to talk. While I was moping around here, you were on Dantooine, in Imperial

Remnant space, all over the place, taking exactly the same kind of risks."

"Are you saying that if I give up helping refugees, you'll give up your fling

with the past?"

"My fling?" he said. "What do you call what you're doing?"

Leis started to say something but changed her mind and began again. "The New

Republic is in a tough spot, Han. I could use your help."

Han held up his hands. "I've heard that before."

"And you've usually listened."

Han paced to the railing and back, avoiding her gaze. "In a way I'm already

helping you out. I mean with Droma's family being refugees and all ..."

Leia fell silent for a moment. As relieved as she was to see him finally

emerging from grief, she couldn't help but sense that he was intent on starting

over, as he had done all his life - from abandoned kid to Imperial officer, and

from smuggler to Rebel leader - always re-creating himself. From what little she

knew of Droma from their few encounters, he seemed cut from the same cloth. For

all Droma's concerns about his scattered clanmates, he was a drifter and a rogue

at heart, addicted to adventure.

Leia watched Han pace the edge of the balcony. "I don't know how you've done it

for so long," she said finally.

He stopped to look at her. "Done what?"

"Raise a family. Walk so far from the edge."

"That was just my 'fling' with stability." He tried out his grin, but it didn't

work. "Look, I'm just leaving, okay? I've got obligations."

"What about your obligations to us?"

"This has nothing to do with us."

"Oh, no?" She advanced on him. "I learned a long time ago that you couldn't be

bound by anyone's preconceived ideas of who you should be. And I'll admit I love

that about you. But keep one thing in mind: I'm not Malla, Han. I won't have you

dropping by here once a year, using our home as a base for your escapades."

Han curled his upper lip. "You're way off the mark."

She smiled faintly. "I suppose we'll just have to see about that."

Han frowned sadly, then put his arms around her. "Trust me."

She leaned away to show him a dubious look. "I've heard that before."

He raised her hand and kissed the palm. "Tuck that in your pocket for later on."

Scooping up his pack, he made for the sky bridge without looking back.

Elsewhere in the Solo apartment, C-3PO and R2-D2 were just concluding data

upgrades that had obliged them to plug into the HoloNet and newsnet feeds. The

3-D images still shone from the HoloNet projectors, but the two droids were

paying more attention to their own internal circuitry than to the displays.

"Events couldn't possibly have worked out better," C-3PO was telling his squat

counterpart. "Mistress Mara is well on her way to recovery, Master Han has

returned home, and the Yuuzhan Vong have suffered a major setback. I couldn't be

more content if I'd just emerged from a refurbishing bath at an exclusive oil

spa."

R2-D2 rotated his hemispherical head and intoned a series of discomfiting

chitters and modulating whistles.

C-3PO gazed at him for a moment. "What do you mean, I need to have my neural

processor overhauled? What do you know of events that I don't?"

R2-D2 fluted a reply.

"Master Han has not returned home?"

The astromech droid mewled and directed C-3PO's attention to a display screen

fed by the front entry security cam. The screen showed Master Han crossing the

sky bridge in the direction of a public transportation balcony, and Mistress

Leia, with the fingertips of one hand to her mouth, watching him leave.

"Oh, dear, you're right. But perhaps he's only going on an errand."

R2-D2 warbled truculently.

"Well, how should I know why he has his travel pack with him or why Mistress

Leia appears dismayed? I'm certain there's a reasonable explanation."

R2-D2 loosed a lengthy and haughty chirrup.

"What's that you say? The New Republic was tricked into thinking it was

victorious at Ord Mantell?" C-3PO adopted an akimbo posture. "I don't know where

you're receiving your information, but I suggest you pay closer attention to

what's going on around you, and stop spending so much time plugged into the

HoloNet."

R2-D2 rotated his head to the newsnet hologram, where real-time images beamed in

from a Mid Rim world showed droids of all variety hurrying to escape a riotous

mob bent on destroying them.

"Oh, my," C-3PO said in distress, then immediately adopted a peeved tone of

voice. "I see that you continue to excel at presenting the worst side of things.

But I have some news for those gloomy sensors of yours: No matter what you may

choose to parade before my photoreceptors, you will never again hear me express

concerns about deactivation."

R2-D2's zither approximated a derisive laugh.

"Well, of course you wouldn't understand what I'm talking about, because you

have no awareness that fears of deactivation are the result of unhealthy

aspirations for uninterrupted activation. With a bit of detachment^ even you

will find that all fears disappear."

R2-D2 razzed.

"You just watch your language, you barrel of bits! And so what if I am beginning

to think like a human being. You say that as if it was something negative."

R2-D2 hooted and toodled in rebuke.

"Oh, so you're going to remind me of all this when we're both being melted down

for spare parts, are you? What makes you think you'll be in any position to

remind anyone of anything? And just you try, in any case. I'll have you know

that Master Han has promised to store all my memories, so that in the event of

the destruction of my metal body, my thoughts and memories could simply be

transferred to another - perhaps even to a newer model of the protocol series

with the SyntheTech AAA-2 verbobrain."

R2-D2 issued a razz, the meaning of which was beyond dispute, and rolled off

toward the doorway.

"Put a restraining bolt where?" C-3PO said in shock. "Why, I've a good mind to

forewarn Master Luke that your circuitry is irreparably glitched. Go ahead, roll

our on me," he said to the astromech's back. "See where it gets you. You'll soon

return, wanting to learn all I know about becoming a real person."

A sudden flutter brought a quick end to C-3PO's tirade, and he tilted his head

in consternation. Folks of all manner had frequently characterized him as

priggish, fretful, and faultfinding, but his newfound insights into the nature

of existence appeared to have boosted those personality traits, as well. If

awareness could be achieved only at the expense of logic and dispassion, it

might not be such a desirable state after all.

"Why, it's no wonder sentients wage war on one another," he said aloud as he

hurried out the door after R2-D2.

TWENTY-NINE

Harrar rued the day he had been sent to Obroa-skai. Still recovering from the

pummeling Yuuzhan Vong warships had inflicted weeks earlier, the planet sat

framed in the command center hull transparency of the priest's black jewel of a

ship, enshrouded by gray clouds, as if too traumatized to so much as rotate.

Harrar was constrained to suffer the view while he sought to offer explanation

for the probable failure of his and Nom Anor's plan.

"At this point, Excellency, we do not know for certain whether Elan and Vergere

are in captivity or missing in action."

"Or dead," Commander Tla said from behind him.

Harrar was left to wonder how accurately his dedicated villip rendered his

pained grimace for those at the receiving end of the communique - namely the

high priest Jakan, father of Elan, chief of their domain, and adviser to Supreme

Overlord Shimrra; Nas Choka, supreme commander of the flagship of the Yuuzhan

Vong fleet; and Prefect Drathul, administrator of the worldship Harla.

Consciousness-linked villips of the three rested in outsize eggcup-like holders

positioned between Harrar and the view he found so abhorrent. It was Jakan who

responded to Tla's utterance.

"Why do you include death in Harrar's list of possible outcomes, Commander?"

While spectacular to behold, the villip scarcely did justice to the high

priest's fully reshaped and transfigured visage, with its nub of nose and deeply

set eyes.

Tla turned to one of the transmitting villips. "Despite our firing on it, the

New Republic ship carrying Elan and Vergere was racing toward our vessel,

clearly intent on returning the priestess. The infidels in command must have

divined that we had restrained the shuttle, and as well that Elan had

exterminated the crew. At the last moment before it altered course and fled, the

ship jettisoned an escape pod, but Nom Anor failed to retrieve it."

Nom Anor worked his jaw but offered no apology.

"Then you did attempt to retrieve it?" Jakan asked.

"I did, Excellency," Nom Anor allowed.

"Even in the knowledge that by doing so you would have doomed Harrar's plan to

failure?"

Nom Anor glanced briefly at the priest, then nodded.

Supreme Commander Choka's villip spoke, summoning Commander Tla and his scrawny

tactician forward. Choka's facial tattoos lent him gravity; his trace of

mustache and merest wisp of beard, a noble demeanor.

"As I understand it, Commander, your part in this was to arrange for New

Republic victories, to ensure that Elan was well appraised." Choka's decurved

eyes - above large bluish sacs - fell on the tactician. "But at what expense to

us?"

"It was a costly enterprise, Supreme Commander,"

Tactician Raff began. "Many coralskippers were sacrificed, and several small

warships were destroyed. Were our resources replete, the losses would be

insignificant. But Belkadan and Sernpidal are overtaxed and resupply has slowed.

To continue to guarantee adequate defense for the fleet, we will need to

cannibalize some of our larger ships to reinforce the coralskipper battle

groups, or divert from the invasion corridor and replenish by preparing new

worlds for yorik coral production."

Raff gestured to Nom Anor. "Executor Nom Anor has assured us that we will

receive a warm reception in a nearby sector known as Hutt space, as the reigning

species - the Hutts - have no wish to engage us in warfare."

"Nom Anor assures," Choka said contemptuously. "Continue, tactician."

The tactician inclined his head. "Lastly, the New Republic military has deployed

its fleets to protect the Core, or perhaps in the aim of mounting a

counteroffense. I remain confident that we could repulse an attack, but I am

obligated to report that they are learning slowly how to dupe our dovin basals

and frustrate our weapons."

"There will be no cannibalizing of ships," Choka ordered gruffly. "I will be

arriving soon from our shipyard at Sernpidal with a young yammosk and additional

forces. In the meantime, the fleet will divert to Hutt space, under the

leadership of Commander Malik Carr."

Malik Carr stepped forward and offered salute.

"Commander Tla and Eminence Harrar are hereby recalled to the Outer Rim."

Tla and Harrar said nothing.

Attention turned to the third villip, consciousness-joined to Prefect Drathul.

"I would speak privately with Executor Nom Anor," Drathul said.

When everyone else had filed from the command center, the prefect's wide and

broad-browed face took on a minatory look. "Precisely what occurred, Executor?"

Nom Anor gestured in dismissal. "The blame lies with Harrar and Elan. They had

no knack for improvisation."

"Were the Jedi involved in thwarting us?"

"They may have had a hand in it."

Drathul's villip nodded. "Word has reached my ear that some of your agents were

responsible."

"They were trying to protect our interests, nothing more."

Drathul considered it. "For your sake, Executor, I hope so. After the

Praetorite's disaster in the Helska system, Warmaster Tsavong Lah will brook no

further failures on your part."

Nom Anor nodded. "I understand, Prefect. I have a new plan in mind, which I

intend to launch once the fleet has been relocated to Hutt space."

"Do not disappoint me."

"You have my word. What's more, we may have found a potential ally on Coruscant.

Someone as yet unknown - though highly placed in the New Republic military or

intelligence divisions - reached out to us through my agents."

"Interesting," Prefect Drathul allowed. "Learn the identity of this one."

"I will do so."

"One final question, Executor. Have we underestimated these infidels?"

Nom Anor scoffed. "Only their blind good fortune."

*   *   *

"We were lucky," Droma called down to Han from the roof of the Falcon. "Some

minor scoring around the aft heat exhaust vents, but nothing a bit of plasteel

and paint won't remedy."

"We don't have the time for that," Han said from the floor of Docking Bay 3733.

"Besides, I like her scratched and imperfect."

The Falcon sat on its hard stand, umbilicaled to diagnostic monitors,

pressurizers, and tanks of coolant and liquid metal fuel. They had spent more

than two days going over the ship, inside and out, making repairs where

necessary and generally tidying up. Droma had shown himself to be an able

mechanic, although slightly better at intuitive problem solving than he was with

hydro-spanners or macrofusers.

"Come to think of it, a paint job might not be such a bad idea," Han said a

moment later. "After what happened in the Bilbringi system, opticals of the

Falcon are probably plastered inside every Yuuzhan Vong warship and

coralskipper."

"Provided the paint job turns out better than your beard."

Han frowned and grabbed hold of his chin. "You want to talk about follicle

disasters, if those mustachios of yours get any longer, you'll be tripping on

them."

Droma climbed down off the roof and jumped nimbly to the floor. Han tossed him a

rag and watched as Droma cleaned his hands, then used the bristly edges of his

hands to clean his velvety fur.

Aware of Han's gaze, Droma paused. "What?" he asked.

Han concealed a grin. "Nothing. How 'bout you unhook the outboard power feeds

while I take care of the refueling lines?"

Droma shrugged. "Fine with me."

"Then I guess we're all set."

Droma studied him for a moment. "Will Leia be coming by to see you off?"

"I don't think so."

"A pity. I wanted to tell her good-bye."

"Next time," Han said, then quickly added, "Not that there's likely to be a next

time."

"Well, then, tell her good-bye for me - the next time you see her."

Han scowled. "All I'm saying is that I don't want you making yourself too

comfortable in the copilot's chair."

"I know better than to do that."

"I'm just trying to make clear that this isn't a permanent arrangement. You and

me, I mean. It's just till we find your family."

Droma smiled faintly. "What happened to the tab I was running for you?"

"Look, chum, humans don't believe in life debts. When somebody does us a favor,

we return it and the slate's wiped clean. I help you locate your clanmates, then

we both go our separate ways, understand?"

"As opposed to what - my flying around the galaxy with you in this relic?"

Han sniffed. "You weren't saying that when we went after Reck."

"I was just being polite. I had you figured for the type who'd be sensitive

about his ship."

"Sure you did."

They fell into an awkward silence, which Droma broke. "I'll see to the power

feeds." He had started for the stern when Han called out to him.

"Hey, Droma. We'll find your sister, you know." Han allowed a grin. "Even if we

have to search half the galaxy."