Originally published in Southern Knights 2

"So, you're just leaving then?"

The words held a sense of deja vu, and Han Solo put aside his hydro spanner and turned his attention from the newly attached radar dish on the Millennium Falcon to look down at Luke Skywalker, who was staring at him with an unreadable expression. Luke had been absent from the Endor base for the past few days, spending some time on the medical frigate having repairs on his artificial hand that had been damaged on Jabba's sail barge during Han's rescue from the Hutt. It was good to see Luke again, but there was something in the young Jedi's voice that made Han wonder if Luke was as glad to see him.

He said, "You missed your line, kid. It should be 'So, you've got your reward and you're just leaving then.'" He grinned. "Yeah, I'm leaving, but no, I'm not getting a reward this time. The trouble with respectability is that it doesn't pay worth shit."

"What about Leia?" Luke asked, his eyes narrowing. "You're not walking out on her, are you?"

Han stiffened. "Do you think I'd do that?" he asked, all the more touchy and offended by the question because there were problems in his relationship with the princess that he hadn't really admitted to himself yet, and Luke's question probed into a tender spot like a tongue investigating a bad tooth. But Han wasn't running out on Leia, and his voice rang with outrage. "Is that all you think of me, kid?" Ever since his rescue from Tatooine, Han's emotions had been up and down more often than a shuttleship. Leia had told him that she loved him, but she was very attentive to Luke, and in the six months that had passed since he was encased in carbonite, anything could have happened. It wasn't until the Death Star was finally destroyed that Han realized what had been motivating Leia, and along with the overwhelming relief he'd felt to know he hadn't lost her after all, had come a number of confused emotions, most of them much less easily defined. He was uneasy, not about his feelings for Leia or hers for him, but about other things, and Luke's instant suspicion of his motives wasn't helping.

"I thought friends trusted each other," he went on, realizing as he spoke how much he'd changed since the first meeting with Luke back in the cantina in Mos Eisley. Back then, he wouldn't have admitted to either trust or friendship for anyone but Chewie. But Luke had changed too, developing his Force skills, discovering that his father was none other than Darth Vader, confronting his father and helping him to turn to the Light side of the Force again before he died. Luke was no longer the young moisture farmer from Tatooine who was still wet behind the ears--assuming anything on desert Tatooine could be wet. He was a person to be reckoned with. But Han was hurt by Luke's doubt, and with his own problems adding to the difficulty, he was more than ready to jump on Luke for it.

"Well, you look like you're leaving," Luke said reasonably. "You look like you're getting the Falcon ready."

"I am. It needed a lot of work after Lando got through with it, but I'm ready now."

"Is Chewie going with you?"

"Yeah."

"And Lando?"

"No. I think it'll be a while before I'll let him get within shouting distance of the Falcon again. 'Not a scratch...'" He grimaced. "What about Leia?"

"Leia's got responsibilities here, kid. Getting this base set up, making contacts, coordinating efforts to track down Imperial ships and find out where surviving bases are located. She doesn't have the time to take off on a smuggling run." Han knew he was deliberately misleading Luke, but he couldn't help it. Luke was part of the problem and would have been even if he hadn't questioned Han's motives.

Luke was silent a moment, and Han said quickly, "Don't go using the Force on me, Luke!"

"I wasn't. Han, you know I wouldn't ever do that."

"Unless you thought you had to, right?"

"Well, maybe in an emergency..."

"I don't want to get any closer to the force than I already am," Han said. "And I don't want you using it as a lie detector on me. You used to give people the benefit of the doubt."

"I still do, Han. I'm just concerned. I don't want Leia hurt."

"Leia doesn't need you to defend her," Han said with certainty. "If there's anybody who can take care of herself, it's Leia."

"She's always been strong," Luke admitted. "But she shouldn't have to be, not now. I thought the two of you had worked things out."

"Who says we haven't?" Han asked, his exasperation growing.

"But you're leaving."

"And it doesn't matter to you why, does it? I'm not a Jedi, so I don't get the benefit of the doubt. You didn't even ask me where I was going, you just assumed I was running out on Leia. Well, thanks a lot, Skywalker."

"Han, wait. It's not like that. It's nothing to do with being a Jedi or not. I know you wouldn't run out on us, not now."

"You've got a funny way of showing your confidence, then. If you want to find out where I'm going, why don't you ask somebody you do trust? General Madine, Admiral Akbar, General Rieekan, Leia. They'll tell you where I'm going." He swung down from the top of the Falcon and headed for the ramp. "Now get back; I'm taking off."

"Han, wait," Luke called after him. "Will you just listen--"

"I've listened. I didn't like what I heard." Han entered his ship and closed the ramp.

He heard Luke calling, "Han, wait," but he ignored him.

He stormed into the cockpit where Chewie was running the preflight check and flung himself into his seat, muttering under his breath. The Wookiee looked at him in surprise and said, *Did you quarrel with Leia, cub?*

"No," Han said sourly. "I quarreled with her brother."

*With Luke?"* Chewie was surprised and it showed. *Why?*

"He thought I was running out on Leia," Said Han flatly. "Nice to be trusted, isn't it?"

There was a time when it wouldn't have mattered if he were trusted or not, but that was a long time ago, and he had felt more at ease, more secure with these people, especially since all of them had come to Tatooine to free him from Jabba's clutches. But that was before the news about Luke and Leia's relation-ship and the truth about their parentage had been revealed. Knowing he was being every bit as unfair about it as Luke had been, Han wondered if Vader could have any lingering influence on his son, and if it were the Vader part of Anakin Skywalker that had been at work when Luke had questioned Han. Solo didn't trust the Jedi very much or buy that hokey religious nonsense, though he knew enough to believe it was real. He had seen it at work; Luke had used it to help free him from Jabba. Han suspected that Leia often used it instinctively. Maybe it had made her more effective in the Senate at such a young age. But there was a part of Han that couldn't quite accept the Force, either side of the Force. It hadn't mattered before, but it mattered now, and Han knew that he would have to come to terms with it before he made a permanent commitment to Leia. He didn't doubt that he could make such a commitment. Hells, he loved Leia. For that matter, Luke was one of the closest friends he'd ever had. But things had gone wrong today. Though Han knew part of it was due to his own overreaction, it all couldn't have been. Once Luke had said that he didn't think a princess and a guy like him could ever belong together. Of course, they'd all changed since then, but Luke might still believe it.

"Maybe now that he's playing big brother he doesn't think I'm good enough for her," he muttered.

*You are wrong, Solo,* Chewie told him. *Luke does not believe any such thing.*

"Well, maybe he does and maybe he doesn't, but he didn't even ask where we were going. He just assumed that we were running out." Han leaned forward to make an adjustment on the board. "We about ready to lift."

*Yes. I would prefer a trial run through before we head for Alanjoria, though.*

"We'll run our tests and then leave," Han decided. "It'll give us a look at the rest of the system. You never know what might be lurking out beyond the outer planets. Some of those star destroyers got away."

Chewie turned and regarded his captain seriously. *Solo, you must make your peace with Skywalker,* he said

"He's the one who didn't take the trouble to find out what I was up to, not the other way around."

*Does that mean you need an apology? Maybe he was troubled about something you don't know about. It has not been very long since he lost his father.*

"Some father," Han muttered under his breath, suppressing memories; Vader on the Cloud City, Vader arranging to have him tortured, Vader ordering him put into carbon freeze. Han felt no sympathy for Vader, even if he had been Anakin at the end.

*Does that change how you feel about Luke?* Chewie asked him sternly.

"No." But Han's denial came too quickly, and he wasn't sure if he were telling the truth or not. He hadn't thought it would affect his relationship with Luke in the future, but maybe it had already begun to do so. Annoyed with both himself and Luke for the current state of affairs, he concentrated on the rest of the preflight check. Better to wait a little, to cool off first.

Chewie was probably assessing the state of his mood far better than Han could have done himself, but the Wookiee worked without any further questions, suggestions or corrections. It made Han feel like he was being humored, but he let it stay that way for now. Once offworld, he'd have plenty of time to think, and that was one of the reasons he'd jumped at accepting the mission the Alliance had proposed to him in the first place.

It had seemed a simple and reasonable request, and after volunteering to destroy the shield generator on the Forest moon, Han would have found it difficult to refuse another mission, especially one that would call upon him to do what he had been doing for years; smuggling. Now that the Emperor and Vader were dead and the fleet thinned out, the Empire was weak, but a long way from finished. Only the Emperor and Vader were gone from the vast network of Imperial governors, military commanders, planet-based garrisons and troops, spies, and government lackeys. As rumors of the Emperor's death spread, there would be a lot of jockeying and infighting for power, position, and rank, and even when the various planets realized how much of the fleet was gone, there would still be enough storm troopers based on most worlds to make immediate rebellion difficult. The Alliance was preparing to contact their own land forces on different worlds as they conducted a mopping up operation on the rest of the Imperial Starfleet; but before they did that, they wanted more up to date information on the moods of various systems. Local spies and Alliance cells could provide some of that, but not all, so couriers and spies were being sent out toa network of worlds that held strategic importance, worlds that seemed loyal to the Empire, worlds that had given no commitment to the Alliance. Sometimes a world might sympathize with the Alliance but would be unable to offer overt support because of one factor or another. It was this kind of world that the Alliance wanted to sound out.

It had been proposed to the Council that Han Solo could help them out, visiting worlds he'd known in the days of his smuggling career. Now that Jabba the Hutt was known to be dead, and the Imperial superstructure was in a state of transition, it would be safer for him to 'resume' his old career, and should anyone ask, he could let it be known that he had grown tired of playing rebel and wanted to get back to hauling money-making cargo again. While visiting a few worlds designated by the Alliance, picking up and delivering cargoes, he could see what he could learn in downport cantinas, in portmaster's offices, from customers, to determine which way the wind blew, and whether the worlds in question would choose to support the Alliance now. The Empire had held sway over so many planets that it would take a lot of time to align them with the New Republic.

Han was not the only agent being sent out, of course, but as a known smuggler with contacts on lots of worlds, he would be a useful one. And not only that, he was looking forward to it. It would be good to return, however briefly, to the life he had known for most of his adult years, to see old friends, even old enemies, to make familiar contacts, to go off with Chewie the way it used to be--the way it would probably never be again. He didn't really mind, he discovered. There would be times when he would miss his old life a lot, but nothing was permanent, a lesson he had learned as a small child--a lesson that had been reinforced thorugh many misfortunes, dangerous experiences, risks taken, friends lost and friends found. Nothing stayed the same. Sometimes it got worse, and sometimes it got better, but whichever it was, it would change around again eventually in one way or another. His life was heading toward good now, the chance of happiness with Leia, someone who really could belong to him, someone to care what happened to him, someone who understood how he felt. Chewie met a lot of those requirements too, but Chewie had his own family, and Han knew that eventually Chewie would want to spend more time with them, before his son grew up, before too many more days went by. Chewie would come back because they were too close to part forever, but Han knew deep inside that the carefree days of flitting about the galaxy, ignoring danger and letting luck help him through the troubles that he met along the way were gone.

Kenobi had said there was no such thing as luck.

Damn it. Han tried to shove the thought of Kenobi from his mind, but it would not be shoved. Kenobi would not stay neatly dead--Luke had admitted once that Kenobi still talked to him sometimes, and knowing the Force even as little as he did, Solo didn't quite disbelieve the kid, even though he had made loud and skeptical noises at the time.

Damn and blast the Force. Han had seen it working, had seen Vader call his blaster from his hand. Hokey religions and ancient weapons were no match for a good blaster, were they? Han shivered slightly. Vader had proven his careless and bragging word wrong in one instant and had followed it up with torture and carbon freeze. Vader controlled the Force. So did the Emperor, or something much like it. And so did Luke. Han knew that Luke was not like Vader and the Emperor. Yet. But Vader's blood ran in Luke's veins. Vader had not set out to be seduced by the Dark Side of the Force. Han couldn't count on the basic goodness of Luke's nature or the strict and moral upbringing he had received from his conservative dirtsider aunt and uncle to protect him from the seductive lure of Darkness. After all, Kenobi was supposed to be on the light side, the good side, and he had deceived Luke, lied to him about his parentage. Luke had explained a little of what Kenobi had told him on the legendary world of Dagobah and it sounded remarkably like manipulation of the story to suit Kenobi's own ends. If that was the good side of the Force, Han wanted no part of it either.

And Leia? Leia was Vader's daughter. True, she had been raised in ignorance of her Jedi background, just as Luke had been, and she had had no training, though Luke was starting to talk to her about it and about his desire to carryon the Jedi tradition. Han wasn't sure he could handle that.

Leia was the same person she had always been, stubborn and feisty and capable of looking out for herself. She didn't need to be protected, though Han found himself wanting to protect her. Her strength, her self reliance, her sarcastic wit, all drew him. She could break through any pretensions he might use on her just as he could do to her. They matched each other, the princess and the smuggler; he had never expected to find the mate to suit him in the Alderaani royal house, even if she were there by adoption not blood. He had certainly never expected to find her possessing the Force.

But damnit, he wasn't going to give her up now. Held find a way to cope with her background--hells, he knew nothing about his own father except that he had been a Corellian and a pilot, often enough synonymous. For all he knew, his father could have been as bad, in his way, as Vader. His mother had refused to discuss his father. There had been no holos of him, no records that he even existed. So where did Han Solo get off being upset about Leia's father?

Now he had time to think, time to learn to accept. There was a mission to carry out, one he would enjoy despite the possible dangers. The word of Jabba's death would be spreading even now. He'd been propped up on one wall of Jabba's palace long enough for the news to get around that the contract Jabba had on him was negated. It wasn't the remnant of Jabba's men and the few bounty hunters who might not have got the word that worried him. He had other enemies too--but it was a hig galaxy. He knew how to watch himself, to guard his back. Six months in carbon freeze had not dulled his edge. And even if it had a little, which he wasn't admitting to anybody, least of all himself, Chewie was here to back him. The Wookiee was enough to deter all but the most determined trouble that Han was likely to encounter on his journey.

He gave Chewie a grin and said, "Never mind about Luke now, pal. Let's get on our way. We've got a lot to do and I don't want to stay away too long."

Chewie must have rightly interpreted that to mean that Han didn't want to stay away from Leia too long, but he didn't say so. He nodded his shaggy head and suggested that Han call in for clearance.

Five minutes later, they lifted off, leaving the Forest Moon of Endor behind them.

Luke finally tracked his sister down in her quarters, a hastily constructed hut on the surface of Endor below the Ewoks' treetop village. For the moment, the Alliance was staying right here, but it wouldn't be a permanent base, so anything set up was bound to be temporary. No homebody, Leia had done little to give the hut any personal touches, but as Luke pushed aside the curtain that covered the doorway, he saw that a few other touches had been added--a couple of Han Solo's shirts, a spare belt, a pair of muddy boots shoved half under the bed. In his current frame of mind, Han's prospective brother-in-law viewed these signs of his friend's residence without enthusiasm, but he put them from his mind when Leia appeared in another doorway.

"Luke," she cried and held out her arms to him. "I'm glad you're back. I've missed you." She hugged him tightly and he hugged her back, delighted to have found family in the midst of war, especially family he already loved and trusted. Though he knew she was strong, he tended to worry about her, and he was worried now, but he wasn't quite sure how to bring up the subject. He had discovered that his sister was very stubborn on the subject of a certain Corellian smuggler.

"How's your hand?" she continued, either ignoring his mood or genuinely unaware of it in her pleasure at his return. "Let me see."

The damage sustained on Jabba's sail barge had been neatly repaired and his hand was functional again. He flexed it for her, remembering too vividly the moment on the Death Star when he had cut off his father's hand, discovering it to be mechanical like his own, then he pushed the memory away. "It's fine, see," he told her. "I'm all right."

"Good. Then we can put you to work."

"Leia, you've got to stop thinking about work and rest sometime. Your arm hasn't had that much time to heal. You can't do everything."

"That's what Han said," she told him. "He fussed over me worse than you did. At least by the time he gets back, I'll be long recovered and I won't have to put up with that any more."

"Where's he gone, Leia? I saw him getting ready to leave and he said to ask you or Rieekan or somebody where he was going."

She looked at him in surprise. "What happened?" she said. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"Are you reading my mind?"

"No, your expression. I became good at that when I was in the Senate. Is something wrong between you and Han?"

"Tell me where he's going."

"On a mission for the Alliance," she explained, a look of alarm on her face. "Why?"

Luke grimaced. "I made a mistake," he said. "I saw him getting ready to leave and I asked him if he was running out on us."

"What!" She grabbed his arms and shook him. "Luke, how could you?"

"I don't know. He was troubled about something and he was getting ready to leave. As soon as I said it, I was pretty sure I was wrong, but there was something bothering him, Leia. It was more than just a dangerous mission."

"I know," she said, some of her anger ebbing away. "I think he's concerned about Vader--our father," she added hastily before Luke could comment. "I know you saw good in him and at the end you proved that you were right but even knowing that, it's not easy for me to deal with. I knew Vader long before I met you, and I never sensed anything about him that would lead me to believe he was my father. When you told me we were brother and sister, it was as if I'd always known it, but I still have to remind myself that Darth Vader was once a man called Anakin Skywalker and that he was my father. If I have trouble with it, I can hardly blame Han for doing so. Vader had him tortured on the Cloud City, Luke, not for information but to lure you there. Han was just a pawn. And he was put into carbon freeze at Vader's orders, not for himself but simply to test it to make sure that when he did it to you it wouldn't go wrong. He lost six months of his life because of our father. I have trouble forgiving Vader for that myself." She shivered suddenly. "And he tortured me for information, when I was a prisoner on the first Death Star, before you and Han rescued me." She caught Luke's arm in a more gentle grip. "Luke, we both have to give Han time. And I need some for myself."

He was sorry at once. "I know, Leia. It was easier for me because of the Force. I knew there was still good in him, but you and Han would have no way of knowing that. When I told you why I had to go and face him, I knew you didn't understand that you couldn't understand. You believe it now though, don't you?"

"That there was still good in our father?" He knew from the curiously tentative way she said the word 'father' that she was still uncomfortable with him, and he couldn't fault her for that. There were times even after presiding at his father's deathbed that he was still uncomfortable himself. How much more reason would Leia have?

"Yes," she said at last. "I do believe it, or you wouldn't be here now. But there's a difference between believing something rationally and knowing it to the depth of your bones. I haven't got that far yet. I'm not even sure I want to. For your sake I do, but for my own?" She shook her head and turned away. "Vader was my enemy for too many years, Luke. I'm trying, but it's hard.

"And if it's hard for me," she continued earnestly, "How much harder must it be for Han? I wish you hadn't doubted him, Luke. How did he react?"

"Lost his temper, jumped allover me."

She smiled a tender and rueful smile. "That's just like him, isn't it? You'll have to apologize, Luke."

"He's already gone."

Disappointment flashed in her eyes and was masked so quickly that Luke was not quite sure he'd really seen it. So his suspicions had driven Han away before there had been time for proper goodbyes. Luke knew that it was his lack of faith that had made Han leave earlier than planned and for Leia's sake, he was sorry. The last thing he wanted to do was to make her doubt Han, but he was still worried.

"Leia, I sensed conflict in him," he said honestly.

"Don't you sense it in me too?" she asked. "Tell me the truth, Luke. Don't you sense it in me, too?"

He nodded. He had felt it the whole time they had been discussing Vader, and it was no weaker than Han's had been. Jedi or not, Luke was not yet perfect at reading other people; he was too new at it, and almost too young, in spite of Yoda once saying he was too old to begin the training. His early life had been sheltered and he lacked the cosmopolitan experiences of both Han and Leia, though he was learning fast. Maybe he had overreacted to Han's mood, his expression. But Han's reaction to his questions had proven that there was something serious troubling his friend. Luke had handled it incorrectly. He should have realized how uneasy Han was about things Jedi, about Vader and consequently about Luke and Leia's relationship to him. Maybe it was better that Han go right away for a little while and take his time thinking things out while he was gone. Luke had no doubts at all about Han's plans to return. That should have told him he had overreacted.

"I understand," he said. "I think. I will apologize to him, Leia. He's my best friend and I don't want to doubt him. I really don't. I may be a Jedi, but that doesn't mean I'm always right." He smiled a little. "But he wasn't right either, Leia. He overreacted, too."

"I know. He does sometimes." Again the fond smile. "But that's something that we'll both have to live with for awhile. I think he's still upset from the carbon freeze, still feeling his way. It disturbed him more than he ever admitted. If you'd seen him on the Cloud City before this happened, you would have seen a different Han. And he went into it so bravely." She closed her eyes over the memory of that moment. "All of us need time, Luke, just like the Alliance does."

"Tell me about his mission," Luke asked her, and she began to describe Han's plans to visit four different planets, pick up cargoes there as if he had returned to his old way of life, and listen for anything that might help the Alliance. Han would be good at it; he'd learned early to live by his wits and to watch out for trouble, and to get the feel of a place as soon as he arrived.

"What really worries me," Leia said when she finished, "is that he might like it too much."

Luke was touched that she would admit so much to him, but her words worried him. "You mean he might not come back?"

"He'll come back," she said. "I know that. I just don't know if he will want to stay."

"You don't trust him either," Luke discovered.

"You're wrong. I trust him with my life. It's just that I don't know what his feelings are. I know how he feels about me and how I feel about him. But I don't know how much he'd have to give up to stay with me, and it might be more than I could ask of him. It has to be his decision, Luke. Loving somebody isn't always enough. Han loves me, but I don't know yet if he loves me enough to stay in spite of everything. That's got to be his choice and no one can make it for him."

Luke grinned a little. "You said something like that about Han once before, Leia."

"I meant it then, and I mean it now," she said. "I won't know until he comes back what he intends to do. I know what he says he wants to do, but until he comes back again, I can't be certain. I trust him. But he has to follow his own path. I hope that path leads him back to me, but I don't know yet if it will."

"You're being very brave about it, Leia."

"I'd let both of you down if I weren't."

*****

Alanjoria had nothing to show for it except its location. Situated as it was at the juncture of several space lanes, it saw Imperial troops constantly passing through on their way to someplace more interesting. The planet itself was not gifted with rich resources, and the people were relatively indifferent to who ruled them, knowing that their taxes would be high no matter who sat on the Emperor's throne. They made money off the storm troopers who came there: in cantinas, brothels, and souvenir shops where one could buy anything in the galaxy, the more illegal the better. But away from the vast market on Thare, the capital and spaceport, there was nothing to do on Alanjoriat and nothing to see. Troopers came and went, transferred from one ship to another, spent a week or a tenday at the transit camp then went on to their ultimate destinations. Beyond that, the Empire didn't bother with Alanjoria much. They taxed the cantina owners and the madams, and they inspected any place of business that had dealings with Imperial troops, but other than that, it was left alone except for the merchant ships that brought the supplies that the Thare market needed to keep in business: liquors of all sorts, drugs, exotic merchandise. Any smuggler worth his salt could get a cargo to Alanjoria, and Han had had no trouble there. The Alliance had provided him with a cargo of Andarian dream water to sell--the gods knew where they had acquired it for it was worth a fortune, and it sat on contragravity platforms in his main cargo hold packed in dry ice. If it was jarred too much, it lost value, and instead of giving dreams, it gave hangovers, which was not a bad thing in itself, but which would be had quite easily from any number of less expensive potions. So Han's cargo was treated with respect. He would have no trouble selling it to the first merchant he offered it to, and from then on out, finding cargoes would be his job, one he knew well enough not to worry about.

They came out of hyperspace further from the planet than Han would ordinarily, but the Falcon had destroyed the second Death Star, even if it had not been Han at the controls, and it was possible that the word had been transmitted back to the Empire and that people were looking for him. He knew that much of the Imperial Starfleet had been destroyed when the Death Star blew, but there were still enough troops around to endanger the rebellion: land based storm troopers, transports, TIE fighters, a few of the Star Destroyers--some of them had fled when the Death Star had blown up and not every ship in the fleet had been there. So Han chose to come out of hyper on the far side of the asteroid field that separated Alanjoria from the next planet in the system, to take time to find out what was happening before he called in for clearance.

At first glance it didn't look good. Han had never seen such a large number of troopships in one place before, coming and going, presumably picking up troops and unloading them. There must be a mobilization someplace, and the Alliance needed to know about it. Han would have to send word of what was going on here to the Endor base as quickly as possible.

But he could not abandon his mission to do so. Leia had furnished him the names of a few Alliance people in Thare to contact for information, supplies, a place to hide if that became necessary. One of them would have to find a way to report the troop mobilization, once Han was able to get a clearer picture of what was happening and why.

"Well," he said to Chewie, "We'd better go on in."

The Wookiee looked at their screens. *Maybe we should wait, Solo,* he suggested uneasily.

"I know. A few of those ships have to be freighters."

*Maybe they've been conscripted.*

That gave Han pause for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Besides, we've got a legit cargo, and there isn't a blockade. I bet the Empire doesn't want to make it any more obvious than it is what's going on here. If they start conscripting ships and blockading a wide open world like this, then there'd have to a lot of explanations, and that's the last thing they'd want. If things go on the way they have, the Empire's gonna be out. They've got to cover up the reason for the mobilization because if even one freighter captain gets suspicious and spreads the story that something's up, the end will come that much faster."

Chewie looked at him consideringly. *You may be right,* he conceded. *But we should go in prepared for trouble.*

"Hey, you're talking to Han Solo. I'm always ready for trouble."

Chewie gave him an exasperated and disbelieving look. He didn't remind Han of the many times that trouble had found him effortlessly. Instead, he turned back to the controls. *We go in,* he agreed.

Han was proven right. They had to identify themselves to ground control, but no questions were asked, at least none that promised trouble when they got on the ground. "That you, Solo?" the cheerful voice of the controller came to him. "You haven't made port here in a long time. Been in jail?"

"Han, Jorvis. Just associating with a classier lot of people these days."

Jorvis let out a snort of skeptical laughter. "Docking Bay 40, Han. Stop by if you've got any interesting cargo. I'm still the easiest man to bribe in forty systems."

Han gave a crow of laughter. Jorvis Tand was one of the most harmless men in forty systems. Cheerful and open about everything, even his more criminal proclivities, he had never even managed to irritate the Imperials. Some said he was an Imperial himself, under cover, but if that were true, Han had never had any problems with him, even if he didn't slip him a bit of choice cargo. He hadn't heard of any ship's captain who had either, so maybe Jorvis was not connected to the Empire after all.

"What makes you think I've got anything to interest you?" he asked.

"Knowing you, Solo, you're probably one step ahead of some world's customs inspectors."

"No, Jorvis," Han said with hurt feelings. "When did I ever bring trouble with me?"

"When didn't you?" Jorvis replied cheerfully. "Docking Bay 40. See you around, Han."

There were no Imperials waiting for him when he docked, no storm troopers, no signs of danger at all, but Han stayed in the Falcon for about an hour to see if anything happened before he let down the ramp and went looking for a buyer for his dream water. Or rather, considering how rare it was and how much in demand, Han went out to find a good price for it.

He went to Marcissa's place first. Held known Matcissa for ten standard years and liked to throw a bit of business her way whenever he got the chance because she paid top prices and seldom asked embarrassing questions, though she didn't let herself get suckered into any obviously crooked deals. Marcissa ran the best brothel in Thare. She was at least twenty years older than Han and he sometimes suspected that she had known his mother because she tended to be protective of him, to fuss over him as if he were a favorite nephew. Even if she didn't know anything to pass along to the Alliance, even if she didn't buy his cargo, it would be good to see Marcissa again.

She hadn't changed much. She still looked half her age, though the makeup on her face was a little thicker and more obvious than it had been in the old days and there was a brassy touch to her hair that spoke of too many bleachings. But when she saw him, her face lit in a welcoming smile and she flung her arms around him enthusiastically. "Han, my pet. They said Jabba had you. I've been worried sick."

"He did, 'Cissa," Han told her. "But I got away, and he's dead now. Don't worry about me. I'm safe and back in business, and I've got a great deal for you."

As he had intended, the mention of a deal reassured her more than words could have done. She stood back and looked at him consideringly, and was silent a long time, but when she finally spoke it wasn't about the cargo he had dangled so temptingly in front of her. "You've changed."

"What d'you mean?" he asked involuntarily.

"I'm not sure, my boy. But there's something different about you. I can feel it."

"Not you too," he said with a grimace.

"Not me too what?"

"Feeling things."

She thought about his words, then she said, "Why not? I always could sense things about people. How d'you suppose I've stayed in business so long and still prospered in a cutthroat field like this one without it? A little instinct and luck, Han, my boy. Why're you so jumpy about it?"

"I'm not," he said mendaciously. "And there ain't nothing different about me either."

"There is, but it's subtle. I'll have to think on it. Come into the back room and tell me what you've got for me."

He went with her into her office and perched on the corner of her desk. "How about some Antarian dream water?" he offered.

"You don't!" She looked at him curiously. "It's been impossible to get any for several weeks. I'll take all you've got and pay you what it's worth."

"If it's that much in demand, the price just went up."

"Fine," she said. "I'll make a lot more for it than I would ordinarily. Good quality?"

He produced a bottle from his shirt front. "Try it." She held it up, studying the greenish-amber color before she uncorked it and sniffed the contents. Then she poured herself a tiny sip and tested it on the tip of her tongue. An expression of sheer delight crossed her features and she lifted her eyes to Han in pleasure. "I don't know where you got this, my pet, but it's worth it. I'll take it off your hands. Contragrav stored?"

" Naturally."

"A deal then," she said with a smile. "Now what can I do for you in return?"

"Information," Han replied. "And if you could point me in the direction of a cargo to Jesset..."

"Well, I can find you a cargo--I think Mandon wants to run some foodstuffs there. But as for information--what kind of information and why do you want it?"

"I saw a lot more troop ships than usual on my way in," Han explained as if that had caused him to be curious. "I wondered what was goin' on."

"Tell me and both of us will know." She sipped the rest of her drink and stared musingly at the ceiling. "Something happened, something big. There's a rumor going around that the Emperor is dead. Now I don't believe everything I hear, but something's got the Imps panicked. Business has been bad for the past week too, not enough to really hurt yet, but enough to make me wonder. I was talking to Rackell at the Yellow Plume the day before yesterday and she said she'd noticed the same thing. We're still getting the ordinary troopers just like always, but not the officers. Or at least not as often, and when they come in, they seem preoccupied and don't spend much money. I don't know what's up, but if something has happened to the old bastard, maybe that's what's wrong."

Han nodded. "Yeah, I guess so. Does anybody know what happened to him?" He wanted to see how far the rumors had spread already.

"The storm troopers aren't talking. But the underground rumor is that he was building another battle station like the one that did for Alderaan and that it blew up and took him with it."

The rumors were getting pretty specific. If Marcissa knew that much, then how much more would the Empire be likely to know? Han had an uneasy feeling that he might return to the ship and find it surrounded with storm troopers. But if it was, there was nothing he could do about it right now, so he only nodded. "Yeah, that's sort of what I'd heard," he admitted.

"Somebody did a good job," Marcissa said, and there was no hidden meaning to her words. She, at least, had made no connection between Han Solo and the destruction of the Death Star. "I wonder what'll happen next," she said thoughtfully. "Generally I'd think that we'd just get a new Emperor, but I don't know. Something big's going to happen this time. Maybe a war."

Maybe a war indeed, Han thought ruefully. Unarmed troopships were no match for the Alliance, no matter how many of them there were. A lot would depend on how many star destroyers were left. land-based fighting and mopping up might take years, and Han didn't want to spend the rest of his life chasing storm troopers from world to world. Maybe once the Alliance could announce a government, some of them would come over to the side of the New Republic. That might prove interesting.

"I don't know," Han said at last. "But there'll be a lot of trouble."

"And you're going to make a big profit from it, aren't you, Han?"

"Somebody has to," he said, though he knew it wasn't the truth this time. He still liked the idea of being rich, but he no longer felt the urge to pursue it with the same single-mindedness he had before he'd become entangled with the rebellion. not that he'd ever been particularly successful at it in the first place.

If Marcissa were disappointed in his answer, she didn't show it. Instead, she said briskly, "Well, I want to see your cargo, so I'll come back with you to the Falcon and bring along transport and a few bodyguards. Ready?"

"Yeah," Han said. He knew 'Cissa wouldn't really try to cheat him. She'd strike the best bargain she could, and as it turned out, they haggled amiably all the way back to the ship before arriving at a price that both of them could live with.

There were no trace of storm troopers around his ship, and when Han signaled for admittance, Chewie opened up for him and reported that all was well. But Han's sense of danger was growing. He had a bad feeling about something.

"Stay alert," he told the Wookiee that evening after Marcissa had gone, leaving in her place a sizeable amount of credits, which Han had instantly concealed in his secret safe. "I'm gonna go out and have a look around."

Chewie studied him thoughtfully. *I think you should stay here,* he suggested. *You don't meet Mandon until tomorrow and there's no reason to go out looking for trouble tonight.*

"I'm not looking for trouble, Chewie," Han remarked. "I want to look up a few old friends, that's all. Come with me. We'll have a good time--just like the old days."

But Chewie shook his head. *I do not like the thought of leaving the ship unguarded.*

"Hey, nothing happened while I was gone, did it?"

*No. Not that I saw.*

Ignoring his own uneasiness, Han said, "Chewie, if you start having feelings about trouble, too--"

*No. I am being cautious. There are too many troops around. They're going to be checking out everybody they see.*

"Not if I'm not doing anything wrong," Han said reasonably. "Besides, I want to get the feel of the place. It's why the Alliance sent me here, isn't it?"

Put like that, it sounded convincing, and Chewie backed down. But on his way to a cantina he knew, Han wondered if it had been only an excuse for visiting some of his old haunts and remembering the days when his responsibilities went no further than his ship, his co-pilot and his cargo. He wished Chewie would have come with him, or that, failing to come, he hadn't looked quite so disapproving when Han left. Committed to his plan, Solo had refused to back down, even though he knew Chewie was probably right. Annoyed not only with himself and Chewie but also with Luke, Leia and half the galaxy in the bargain, Han decided he was going to enjoy himself tonight if it killed him.

Then he wondered uneasily if there was something prophetic in that thought.

"Solo," hissedGarrettXatt with relish. "I swear it was Solo."

His crony and co-pilot Rau, a Corellian like Han, but no friend of Solo's, put aside his glass and glanced over at the doorway of the cantina.

"Not here, you idiot," Xatt retorted. "This afternoon, coming out of Marcissa's."

"I thought the Hutt had Solo," Rau said gloomily into his drink. "Thought you weren't going to worry about him any more."

"If Solo's here, then Jabba doesn't have him, and I'm going to worry a lot. I don't like Solo. I would've let Jabba do my dirty work for me, but if Jabba screwed up, I can't let Han get away."

"Gonna kill him?" Rau asked, a moody look on his face. "I suppose you want me to help you." He heaved a sigh. "I don't have anything against Solo, do I, Gar?"

"He tricked us out of that cargo back on Ord Mantell six years ago. You do remember that, you fool? And he got that saloon girl away from you too. Remember her?"

"She bothered me so, wanting to get married," Rau remembered. "I didn't care that much."

"you don't care about anything, you damned idiot. Listen to me. Solo's the one who put the Imps on our back that time we were making the Kessel run, before he had his run in with Jabba, and we had to hide out on Promethium for six standard weeks before it was safe to come out. And he killed Tor." The tone of his voice when he spoke proved that this was still the main grievance, and Rau looked up at him sadly, knowing that if Solo were indeed here that there would be no distracting Garrett from pursuing him and doing away with him if possible. Tor had been Garrett's captain before he'd met Rau, and from what Rau had heard, he was a dangerous bastard that didn't treat anybody right except maybe Xatt. He'd plundered his way through the galaxy stealing and killing and generally doing whatever he liked without regard to the law or anything or anybody who got in his way. Rau had heard that Tor had gone after Solo's Wookiee friend and had half killed him before Solo arrived on the scene, and that Tor might have even been running slaves back before either of them had met him. As near as Rau could tell, the Wookiee had been captured by slavers once. If it had been Tor and the Wookiee recognized him, he would have gone for him, and it was said that Tor carried enough weapons to stop a charging bantha, let alone a Wookiee. Rau suspected that Solo might have a very good reason for killing Tor, but he knew better than to say so. In his gloomy way, Rau was loyal to Garrett and he'd do whatever Gar told him to, whether he wanted to or not. If Gar wanted Solo dead, then Solo would have to die. But it was going to be such a bother.

Rau sighed. "Oh, all right," he conceded. "What do you want me to do?"

"You could show a little initiative once in awhile, you idiot," Garrett snarled. "Come on. We'll go out and look for Solo."

"If he got away from Jabba, what makes you think we can get to him?"

"Because we're gonna ambush him," Garrett explained impatiently. "We'll drag him into an alley and kill him, leave him for the Imps to find."

"What about the Wookiee? I'm not taking on a Wookiee, Gar, not even for you. That'd be too hard."

"Lifting your drink to your mouth is almost too hard for you," Garrett told him. "The Wookiee can be shot from ambush. Neither of us could miss a target that big. Rau, you do what I tell you, and that's final. I don't need a mate on Killandra that badly. You help me or you go."

"I'll help you, Gar," Rau said quickly. For all that Garrett abused him and complained about him, he also protected him from everybody else and he didn't expect that much of him. Rau could trail safely in Garrett's wake and people would leave him alone, and Garrett would defend him against anybody else, no matter what he would say to him in private. In a strange, unassuming way, Rau loved Garrett. If Garrett told him to do something, he would, even if it meant he had to exert himself.

"You'd better," Garrett said. "Now get along and track down the Falcon, and we'll find out where Han's gone tonight. Probably the Yellow Plume. Then get back here and let me know. When he leaves, we'll ambush him, kill the wookiee first, then Solo. I want him to die slow and know where the blow came from that killed him."

As soon as he walked into the Yellow Plume that evening, Han knew that something was wrong. He wasn't sure what, but the atmosphere was so thick that it would have taken a light saber to slash through it. Han halted just inside the door and looked around the room, one hand dropping automatically to rest on his blaster butt, unhooking the holster guard. There was the usual crowd doing the usual drinking and the usual stormtrooper contingent was in its private corner being avoided by the rest of the patrons just as usual. Rackell was behind the bar, her green hair piled in intriguing swirls on top of her head--it hung to the floor when it was unbound, and Han had fond memories of a few layovers here in Rackell's company, enjoying himself with her and tangling in that glorious hair. Tonight Rackell's face was grim and tense as if she expected to be shut down at any minute, and she didn't notice Han standing in the doorway, which was a very bad sign.

His eyes moved past her, studying the customers. There were a few familiar faces, a lot of people he'd not seen before, and, off by himself, at a corner table, was a man in black body armor and a helmet. Vader, he thought for an instant then shook his head, reminding himself that Vader was dead. This man's helmet was a different shape, too. From what Solo could see of it, it was molded to fit his skull, and only his eyes were open to view, though a transparent shield protected them too. The man wore a short, knee-length cloak and he had a blaster and something that looked like a wooden stick about four feet long tucked into his belt. Han saw the hilt of a knife protruding from one of his boots and a leather strap around one wrist spoke of another knife up his sleeve. He was looking in Han's general direction, though he was paying him no heed, and even across the room, Han shivered at the sight of his eyes, penetrating eyes, the kind that never missed a thing. If the man looked at him, he would see him soul-deep, the Corellian thought with a sudden chill. But the man was sitting there holding a drink in one hand, his helmet's mouth guard lowered so he could drink. There was a medallion around his neck, light against the black of his armor, with a design that Han didn't recognize.

It was this stranger who was disturbing the bar. He was sitting there doing no harm, but the tables around him were unoccupied, and even the storm troopers were giving him a wide berth as they made trips back and forth to the bar.

Han avoided him too as he went over to Rackell. "Hi, beautiful," he said.

She spun around at the sound of his voice, and her eyes lit. "Han!" But she kept her excitement under control and spoke in an undertone, casting a look in the direction of the man in black armor as if to see if he had noticed Han's arrival.

"Who is he?" Han asked, gesturing with a lift of his shoulder. His hand remained on his blaster, and though his back was turned to the stranger, he stretched out with his danger-sense in that direction as if he expected a knife in the back.

"He's a deathwalker," Rackell said.

"He can't be. There's no such thing." Han's protest was automatic and involuntary. Deathwalkers were legends, the kind that were sometimes used to frighten children or to make cheap holo-vid dramas about. No one Han knew had ever met one before, though people always said they'd talked to others who had seen a deathwalker and lived to tell about it. Not even Chewie with all his years of travel had ever encountered one.

"He is," Rackell said. "Can't you feel it?"

Han could, but he didn't like admitting to that kind of sensitivity. He shook his head. "Probably just a. bounty hunter," he scoffed.

"Well, aren't deathwalkers bounty hunters of a sort?" she asked reasonably.

"I'm not sure what they are," Han said. "I know they're supposed to be killers, though." He sneaked a glance at the deathwalker, who was merely sitting and sipping his drink from time to time.

"He looks like one," said Rackell. "Han, much as I like seeing you and want you to stay, I think you ought to leave. Word was out that Jabba the Hutt was after you. Maybe he hired a deathwalker to find you."

Han didn't like that idea at all. It was said that once a deathwalker accepted a contract to kill, nothing could revoke it until the victim was dead. Even Jabba's death would not negate a contract with a deathwalker--assuming they existed at all.

The deathwalkers were a kind of Assassin's League, but they were a cut above the average assassins' guild that existed on many worlds. The elite of assassins, they were called. Trained in every form of hand to hand combat imaginable, skilled in disciplines that could enable to draw far greater reserves from themselves than the average being, deathwalkers had little to fear from ordinary people. Han had heard that it took years of training for a deathwalker to become a master of his skills, and that his training never ended. If this man were a deathwalker, he would carry a vast assortment of weapons, beyond the blaster, knives and staff that were visible. He would have a kind of sixth sense about danger to prevent him from walking into traps, and his reflexes would be incredibly fast. In short, Han thought bitterly, he would probably be a skilled Force-user. He wondered if the Emperor had had deathwalker training or if Vader had after he'd betrayed the Jedi and fallen to the Dark.

Deathwalkers were left alone by the Empire, so maybe there was reason to believe it, though they were reputed to be completely non-political. They could not be hired for political assassinations unless the proposed victims met their criteria for death. It didn't matter to a deathwalker what a man's politics were. What did matter was whether he deserved to live by some mysterious standard that only they knew about. It was said that the Empire had once or twice made the mistake of killing a deathwalker, and that there had been retaliations. They were very precise and no one suffered except those responsible. But should it take twenty deathwalkers to avenge one of their own, revenge would come one day. It was easier to ignore them, hope that one was not a target, and try to pretend that they didn't exist.

Neither would deathwalkers aid the rebellion. Politics was not their concern, and there would always be those deserving of death whether the galaxy was ruled by Empire or Republic. Han vaguely remembered Leia mentioning the deathwalkers once, and he also remembered that no one had ever taken her up on her suggestion that the League be contacted. Just as well. Loyal to nothing outside the League, a deathwalker would not be a comfortable ally if he were an ally at all.

"He can't be here for me," Han said. "Nobody knew I was coming here until I got here. Besides, Jabba had me for awhile. That would have ended the contract."

"You're alive," Rackell pointed out. "So it wouldn't. He doesn't look like he's paying any attention to you, but he might be. Why don't you go back to your ship, Han and lock yourself in. Get offworld as fast as you can."

"He ain't after me," Han repeated, trying without success to convince himself. Taking the drink she offered him, he downed it without even tasting it, feeling only the burn as it slid into his stomach and sat there heavily, making him feel sick. He glanced at the deathwalker again.

This time, the man was looking right at him.

His eyes trapped by that terrifying and compelling gaze, Han could only stare back, his belief that the man was after him now a certainty.

The deathwalker raised his glass to Han and drank. His mouth quirked in what might have been a smile.

Han tore his eyes away, almost in a panic. He had to get out of here. He'd heard that deathwalkers always gave notice of intent to kill, that they would offer their opponents a fair fight. Maybe Han had just been given his notice. He wasn't about to stick around to find out.

"You're right," he said. "I'm gone. Rackell, honey, let me use the back way."

"Sure, Han. Do you want me to send a bodyguard with you?"

Han wanted her to, but he shook his head. If the black-armored man were really a deathwalker, ten bodyguards wouldn't save his life. He set down his glass and turned as if going to the necessary, then he slid behind the bar, through the door into the back premises. Rackell came with him, cupped his face in her hands and pulled him down to kiss him. "Be careful," she whispered and let him go out into the night.

Han sensed pursuit immediately. He drew his blaster and turned, glancing in all directions without spotting anything. Another legend he'd heard about deathwalkers was that they could turn invisible at will, become phantoms of the night. You didn't see a deathwalker until he struck, and then it was too late.

But nothing happened at first. Han was halfway back to the Falcon, ducking uneasily into shadows whenever he saw anyone coming or heard anything that sounded suspicious, before the trouble finally struck, and when it did, it seemed unrelated to the black-armored man in the bar.

"Solo," hissed a voice that was dimly familiar, and as he turned toward it, he felt the slice of something sharp and hot into his side. His breath went out in a whoosh as he felt the knife. There was no actual pain at first, nothing at all except a strange burning like cold fire, then the pain caught up with it, and he gasped. The deathwalker...

But it wasn't the deathwalker. "You didn't think I'd forget you, Solo?" the voice continued, more familiar now. "This is for Tor." The knife was yanked free, drawing his blood after it. "I wanted you to know who it was that killed you, Solo. It's Garrett Xatt. Remember me? Remember Tor?"

"I remember that bedamned slaver," Han returned. "That scum deserved to die." His breath caught and he tried to suck it in again, wincing.

"You killed him," Xatt said relentlessly. "I always knew I'd get you someday, Solo."

A movement beside him revealed the pathetic shape of Xatt's shadow, Rau, who caught Xatt's arm and said, "Come on, Gar. You've finished him. Let's get away from here. The Wookiee might come. Please, Gar, let's go."

"Chewie," Han said in a whisper. Chewie would come. Chewie would never expect his return this early. He'd let himself be panicked by the deathwalker and left far earlier than usual, so Chewie would not come looking for him until it was too late. Han would lie here while his life slowly slipped out of him and by the time Chewie came, it would be over. With his hand pressed into his side, slippery with blood, Han slumped to the ground, and Xatt laughed triumphantly.

Then his laugh caught and broke off as if it had been snapped in two. Han turned his head painfully against the rough pavement, scraping his cheek, and saw a dark outline at the head of the alley. Black cloak, black armor, black helmet, with a spot of white at his throat where the medallion hung.

It was the deathwalker.

Han's vision was fading fast, but as he stared at the man he knew had come to kill him, he saw the bright glow of something that looked like a lightsaber. The deathwalker held it in his hand, and Han realized that it must be a lightknife, smaller than a traditional saber, the blade not quite as long as a man's forearm. While Han watched him, the deathwalker drew back his hand and flung the blade. It spun end over end, glowing blue fire...

He never felt it strike him...

The first thing Han Solo was aware of was pain, a deep burning pain in his side that stabbed and went on stabbing as if the lightblade was embedded there. Then came the familiar rumble of Chewie's voice speaking softly and intently to someone. Had Chewie sensed his danger then and overcome Han's two old enemies and the deathwalker too to rescue him? Could even a Wookiee hope to take on a deathwalker and win?

The voice that answered Chewie was human and it was speaking standard with an accent not too different from Han's own. Not Corellian but maybe Messaki. The Messaki were kin to Corellians and almost as good at piloting and building ships, but Han counted no Messaki among his friends. Yet Chewie was dealing with him peacefully. A medic then? A healer?

Han opened his eyes and found himself back on the Falcon in his own bunk. A stranger was doing something painful to his side, but though he flinched, Han made himself ignore the pain as he studied the stranger.

He was a man of late middle years, younger than Kenobi had been when Han met him, but older than General Rieekan. He had lost most of his hair, leaving him with a bushy gray fringe like the Sellenic monks on Torq wore, only longer, curling over his collar in the back. He had a sharp beak of a nose like a hawk's beak, and he wore a bushy gray moustache beneath it. His mouth was thin-lipped and drawn in a hard line as he worked, and his face was craggy and worn as if he had done far more than his share of living. But it was his eyes that drew Han and held them, and sent a sudden uncontrollable shudder through his body. They were a translucent brown as if lit from an inner glow. Narrowed now in concentration, they were still vivid and penetrating, the kind of eyes that didn't miss anything, no matter how carefully one hid it. Han could imagine women being drawn to those eyes like a flitter to a flame, but he was not drawn. To his surprise, he was not repelled either, but his predominant reaction, which he tried to hide, was one of fear.

The man was the deathwalker.

The body armor, helmet and cloak had been shed to reveal a black tunic and pants, with the medallion still around his neck. Up close, Han could see that it bore a design that was unfamiliar, probably hand carved, possibly some kind of antique lettering, broad shouldered and well muscled, the man's ready pose and tight control belied his apparent age. He was somehow ageless.

Han tried to sit up, and a huge furry paw came to rest mid-chest and held him down. *No, cub,* Chewie said. *Don't move yet. Wait until he is finished.*

"What about that light knife?" Han asked, appalled to find his voice a husk of its former self.

The brown eyes met his. "Garrett Xatt is dead," the deathwalker said quietly, not as if he were bragging about his accomplishment, but as if he had been forced to do something that was necessary but unsought, not because Xatt had been a good person but because he had been alive and now he was alive no longer.

"I thought you were after me," Han said weakly. "You musta saved my life?" He shot a quick and curious glance at Chewie, who nodded.

The deathwalker said, "I merely prevented your death." Then as if sensing Han's uneasiness, he continued, "You have nothing to fear from me, Han Solo."

Han believed him, but it made him more uneasy. "You reading my mind, old man?"

"No. My kind are feared. I recognized the look."

Han tried to make his expression noncommital and knew he was failing. He said, "Are you really a deathwalker?"

"So we are called. That does not make you our target. You need never fear a deathwalker, son."

"Tell that to the people you killed."

*Han,* Chewie objected angrily, *This man saved your life. He fought Xatt and Rau for your life. He brought you back here and used his skills to mend your wound.*

Han lifted his head to look down at his side, where the deathwalker was spraying synth-flesh over the wound. "Uh, thanks," he muttered.

"I didn't do it for thanks," said the man. "But for an old loyalty, and because the men who attacked you had no honor. Chewie told me about your feud with Xatt and how you saved Chewie's life when Tor tried to kill him. You acted with honor and I could do no less when I rescued you."

"What was that you threw?" Han asked, easing back against his pillow.

"You recognized it," the deathwalker said. "It operates on the same principle as a lightsaber, but it is smaller and more mobile. I have my own larger blades for close fighting."

"Are you a Jedi?" Han asked.

The deathwalker looked at him in surprise. "No."

"Do you control the Force?"

"Would it be so terrible if I did?" he asked.

But Han didn't answer. He said, "You know who I am. Who're you?"

"My name is Anjin Vann."

"You're Messaki?"

"I was years ago. I've lived away from there a long time. I always wanted to learn the skills of a deathwalker, so after the Clone Wars, when I found myself on Tiram where the headquarters is, I stayed there. I've been studying ever since, and teaching as well, and I hire my skills when needed to keep in practice."

"For bounty?"

"Not really," Vann told him. "We don't refuse money; we need to live, too. But that's not our main purpose. The discipline is its own reward, that and the skill that comes with it. Most of us would not care if we never killed, and some of us hire ourselves as protectors rather than assassins."

Whatever you say," Han agreed tiredly. He found it very strange to be lying here listening to a deathwalker talking about other things than death. Listening to a deathwalker at all was almost unbelievable, but discovering a code of honor among a band of brutal killers surprised him far more. He wished he was not so drained and tired now because he felt a faint stirring of curiosity.

But Vann rose and spoke quietly to Chewie, who left and presently returned with something in a tall glass. "You'll need to drink this," Vann said.

"What is it?" Han asked suspiciously. "It's not poison. It's a concoction of my own--it helps to speed blood replacement, since we don't have the requisite blood to replace what you lost. We used up your plasma stores already."

Han didn't have the energy to sit up, so Chewie supported him effortlessly, fussing over him as if he were Lumpy's age. Vann held the glass to his lips while he drank. As Han had expected, it tasted foul, and he coughed and sputtered, but most of it went down. For the first few swallows, his stomach protested in outrage, then obviously resigned, it settled back to normal. Han made a face and gasped a protest or two, but between Vann and Chewie, he could not resist.

When the glass was empty, Chewie eased him back onto the bed, careful of his injured side. "Get some sleep," Vann said. "You'll feel better when you've rested. In the morning, Chewie and I will see to your cargo."

Han flashed an outraged look at the Wookiee. "What've you been telling him?"

*Only that we have a cargo to pick up and that Mandon will bring it in the morning. Besides,* he added, *I trust him.*

"He's a deathwalker," Han's voice rose dangerously.

*He is trustworthy,* Chewie insisted stubbornly. *Go to sleep, cub.*

"I'm not a cub," Han mumbled, his voice fuzzy with weariness.

*You are acting like one.*

Han couldn't find the energy to protest. Sleep came over him as suddenly as the transition to hyperspace, and he remembered nothing more.

After a sleep full of nightmares from which Han awoke at random intervals, hot and feverish, only to fall back into more dreams, he became aware of someone sitting with him, talking to him soothingly from time to time, wiping the sweat from his face, rearranging the blankets, and he muttered vaguely for Chewie to stop fussing over him.

"Go to sleep."

It wasn't Chewie. Han roused more fully and looked up into the face of Anjin Vann as it bent over him. The deathwalker's eyes were calming and serene, but his face was concerned. "Go to sleep," he said again. "You need rest to gain your strength."

Confused and puzzled at the presence of the deathwalker at his bedside, Han didn't know why he would bother to sit with him. His honor wouldn't demand that from him, surely. And where was Chewie? He licked his lips and tried to swallow. At once Vann held out a glass of water and lifted Han's head so he could drink it. It felt good, fresh and cool, and it soothed his parched throat. He took another sip and was able to ask, "Where's Chewie?"

"Asleep. He didn't want to go, but I agreed to take turns with him."

"Why?" Han tried to prop himself up on his elbows. There wasn't as much pain as he had expected, though he was weak. "Why're you bothering? Saving my life doesn't go that far, does it?"

"Sometimes," Vann said.

"You said something about an old loyalty," Han remembered. "What'd you mean by that?"

"Did I say that?" Vann asked mildly. "It will keep for the morning. Now go to sleep." At his words, Han felt his eyelids drooping again, and his voice was slurred as he murmured, "You drugged me."

"Just something to help you sleep." Vann put his hand on Han's forehead to test for fever, smoothing his hair back from his eyes. "You are safe."

Han believed it. He didn't think anybody would try to cross a deathwalker to get to him. Satisfied at least for the moment, he let himself drift back to sleep. This time there were no nightmares, only soothing dreams: Leia smiling at him, Chewie, old friends, even, oddly enough, his mother. She'd been dead a long time, and Han had not really thought about her lately. In the dream, she held out her hand to him, smiling, and Han was eased and comforted. He slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.

In the morning, he wanted to get up, but Chewie was there when he awoke. *Not yet, Han,* he said as he set a tray of food in front of his captain.

"What about that cargo?" Han wanted to know. "Mandon come yet?"

*Yes, and gone again. We go to Jesset as soon as we are cleared.*

"I didn't find out enough here," Han muttered. "I told Leia and the others I'd see what I could pick up."

*You learned about troop mobilizations. I contacted the Alliance rep here last night after we knew you'd be all right. The word will get back to the Princess.*

Han glowered at him, feeling he'd let Leia down although it didn't really matter who gave the word as long as it was given. "I didn't find out where the rendezvous was," he admitted.

*Near Lydant,* Chewie said. *That's the word, anyway. It will serve.*

"How'd you find that out?"

*Vann told me.*

Han sat up abruptly but carefully. "Vann did?" He shook his head, adding to his lightheadedness. "I thought deathwalkers didn't take sides."

Chewie shrugged. He only knew that Vann had told him, and apparently hadn't questioned the deathwalker about his motives.

"Why'd he want to help me?" Han wondered, swinging his feet carefully over the edge of the bed. Chewie didn't try to stop him, but remained unobtrusively within arms reach in case Han became dizzy. When Solo didn't try to stand, Chewie placed the tray on his knees, more to keep Han from getting up than to make sure he ate, he suspected.

"Eat your breakfast," Chewie instructed, ignoring Han's question

Han looked at the tray and made a face. "What is it? It looks terrible."

*It will help you regain your strength.*

"Something solid would be better."

*Tonight, if you are feeling better. This is a broth my people know, and Vann provided the drink.*

"It's yellow," Han said with distaste. And a sick yellow it was too. He didn't want any part of it.

*You will drink it, or I will hold you down and pour it down your throat.*

The corners of Han's mouth quirked in a grin, but he tried to hide it. He was sure that if Chewie didn't hold him down and force the drink upon him, Vann would, and neither alternative appealed to him. Before the Wookiee could add to his threat, Han picked up the glass and sipped the contents cautiously. To his astonishment, it tasted far better than the foul drink he'd made Han swallow the night before. This one was smooth and mellow and fruit flavored with just enough tartness to soothe his throat without burning it.

Han finished the drink more slowly, savoring it. "What is it?"

*He didn't say.*

Encouraged by the drink, Han sampled Chewie's nourishing broth and found that it was good, too. It was rich and thicker than it looked, with tiny chunks of bread or dumplings in it that added a nutty flavor. It was hot and it warmed him all the way down. "Hey, Chewie, maybe we should let you do the cooking more often," Han remarked.

The Wookiee grimaced at him.

"Well, that food processor is only good for scrap anyway. You keep comin' up with things that taste like this and you can be the Falcon's official chef." He tilted the bowl to scrape up the last few spoonfuls, then, though he was still hungry, he turned to more urgent matters. "What about Vann?" he asked. "He's still here?"

*He is going to Jesset with us.*

That was too much, and Han put the tray aside and started to get up to object, but it took more energy than he possessed and he swayed a little and had to be helped back to bed by Chewie, who lifted his feet up and placed him on his back again without effort. Outraged, Han struggled against him, but he couldn't match Chewie's strength even when he was in peak health, let alone now when he was weak from his wound. He allowed Chewie to restrain him but his eyes were angry.

"Why'd you agree to that?" he demanded. "We don't need him. I don't trust him." Even as he said it, he knew it was not quite true--it was possible that he could come to trust the deathwalker. He believed that the man would not lie to him, but he still felt uneasy about him, and he would have preferred to have found that Vann had gone already, as silently and mysteriously as he had come, though that would have alarmed him too.

*I trust him,* Chewie repeated. *And so can you. He did save your life.*

"Yeah, and I owe him for that, but I'm getting tired of having it rubbed in all the time."

*I wasn't,* said Chewie mildly. *What is it that bothers you, cub?*

Han shot him a resentful glance at the name, but he said, "I don't know. He's a deathwalker. And he must've followed me out of Rackell's place or how else would he have been there when Xatt got me? Maybe he was in it with Xatt."

*Then why did he stop Xatt from killing you?*

"I don't know," said Han, frustrated. "But he wasn't there in time to rescue me by sheer chance. I want to know why. He saw me in the bar, I know he did, and he let me know he was watching me. So when I snuck out the back way, he musta followed."

*Maybe he did. We should be glad. If he hadn't been there...* The Wookiee's face reflected his concern at Han's near escape, and he patted Han's shoulder as if to reassure himself that his favorite human was really alive and getting well again.

"Yeah," Han said sourly. "so now he's got me owing him. I don't like it."

*Talk to him,* Chewie urged. *Ask him why he did it.*

"He said something about old loyalties," Han remembered. "He wouldn't explain when I asked him about it last night. But I never met him before, Chewie. I don't know him from before."

*Maybe you just don't remember him.*

"Nah, I wouldn't forget somebody like him," Han said with total certainty, but then he caught himself, I thinking hard. There was a faint fragment of a memory, so intangible that it was almost unreal, but it niggled at the edges of his consciousness. It was the eyes. He remembered Vann's eyes, and he knew he couldn't have forgotten them. But it had been so long ago. He had been a child then, very young. He had an image of a much younger man, hair black and wavy with a pronounced widow's peak, the moustache dark, the eyes twinkling with good humor. When he reached after the memory of the man who had obviously been a younger Anjin Vann, it slipped away from him, and he let it go uneasily as if he'd touched fire. He didn't want to remember Anjin ValtJn. Better never to have seen or heard of him before. He didn't like the feel of this. Not one little bit.

*You do remember him,* said Chewie.

"No!" It was almost a shout. He didn't want to remember.

But the memory came back, and Han let it, a memory of a woman, with tears in her eyes, arguing with Vann, while an uneasy Han, very very young, hid in the back room, peeking around the corner of the door. Vann turning and leaving, wrapping the cloak of his dignity around him as he went. The woman muttering a bitter curse and flingimg something small and breakable after him that shattered against the closing door. Han shut his eyes. He liked that memory even less than the first. Why would Vann have argued with his mother?

Then an idea came to him that was so distasteful that Han pushed it from his mind before it had time to crystallize. No. He wouldn't think about that.

If Chewie saw and recognized the horrified look on his face, he decided to ignore it. The Wookiee could be very discreet when he had to be, and maybe he thought this was one of those times. He said, *You stay in bed now, and we'll get under way soon.*

"I don't want him coming with us," Han said quickly.

*You are not well enough to help me raise ship, Solo, and we owe the Alliance all the speed we can.*

"You just love putting me in the wrong, don't you?" Han said unfairly, propping himself up on his elbow. "Okay, go on, get out a here, and if we're stuck with him as far as Jesset, he leaves the minute we get there. And that's final," he added to the Wookiee's parting back. "You hear me, Chewie. He goes."

Chewie keyed the door shut behind him without further comment.

"Ah, damnit," Han said as he eased back against his pillow. "Damn it all."

He was left alone long enough to have plenty of time for thinking. He made himself sleep for part of it, though it was an uneasy and dreamladen sleep, like his fever sleep had been in the night. This time, Vann was not there to soothe him back into a more peaceful rest.

It must have been half a day later when the door to his cabin slid open again and Vann stood there. Feeling much better, Han sat up and said, "Get outa here, deathwalker."

Vann stopped in the doorway. "The condemned man is usually given a final word," he said.

"I don't want to hear it." Han knew that was unreasonable, but he didn't want Vann's explanations or excuses, nor did he want his worst fears confirmed. He thought of Luke then, wondering if Fate--or even worse, the Force--was getting back at him by putting him well and truly in Luke's place. He didn't like the idea one little bit.

"If nothing else, you owe it to yourself," Vann said. "I know you don't think you owe me a thing, but--"

"Only my life," Han said sourly. "But there's no reason why I should owe it to you to hear you out." He hoped if he said it firmly enough, he could convince himself, but he didn't. Instead, he slid up to lean against the headboard of the bed, unwilling to listen lying down. He said nothing else, but Vann didn't seem to require an invitation. He came the rest of the way into the room and sat down on the chair beside the bed. "Han," he began.

"The name's Solo," Han told him. "Han's what my friends call me.u To someone who had saved his life that was unfair, even cruel, but he didn't want to hear anything from Vann or permit him any degree of closeness.

Vann's eyes flashed some emotion Han couldn't identify. "You may be right," he said. "It's your decision anyway. I've got a story to tell you. You weren't well enough to hear it last night. Today, you're better, and it's up to you. I think you should hear it, but if you insist I leave without telling you, I will."

That wasn't fair. Had the man persisted, it would have been easy for Han to drive him away, but he couldn't do it when Vann himself offered to go. Han did owe him his life--possibly more than once--and he couldn't toss him out without giving him his turn, even if he didn't want to hear it. If Vann went willingly without talking, it would put Han in the wrong, and it would put him still further in the deathwalker's debt, and he couldn't allow that. Even the truth would be preferable.

So he said, "You're here. Talk. But I might stop you."

"That's your choice. I can't force you to hear me out, and I can't force you to accept the truth. A man must do that for himself. I have reason to believe that you're strong enough for the truth, but I don't know if you'll use it or not."

"Aren't you flattering yourself, old man?" Han asked.

Vann looked at him, slightly puzzled. "Flattering myself?" he echoed.

That wasn't the response Han had feared from his stab in the dark, and it reassured him slightly. Maybe, just maybe his speculation was wrong. "Never mind," he said uncomfortably. "You've got something you want to say. Say it, and we'll see what happens next."

"All right." Vann smiled at him, a tired and half regretful smile. "First of all, my duty requires me to offer you the right to join the deathwalkers."

That was the last thing Han expected, or wanted. He said quickly, "I ain't gonna be a deathwalker."

"You will get another opportunity for refusal when you know more," Vann said. "You have a place there, though you don't know it."

"I don't want the place, and I don't need it. I've got my own place already," he said, thinking of Chewie and the Falcon, Leia and Luke, and even the Alliance. Jedi crap might be better than this. Damn it, it was a helluva choice either way. Han shook his head and longed for the old days when he and Chewie were just a pair of smugglers with no part in the larger scope of things. Life had been far easier then.

"Yes, you do," Vann agreed. "But since the League of Deathwalkers is in one respect hereditary, you have the right to know of that aspect of your life, too."

Hereditary? Shit. It was true then. Han closed his eyes. He didn't want this. He only wanted to order Vann away before he heard any more. But after coming this far, he couldn't back down. He said, "Hereditary?" in a cold voice.

"Han, your father..."

"I ain't got no father," Han said. Period. Full stop. The implication was that he didn't want one either.

Vann looked at him in surprise, then his face cleared. "Oh, I see," he said. "No, Han, I'm not your father. Has that been worrying you?"

"No," Han lied. He wasn't sure he believed Vann anyway. Vann had been there in his memories, arguing with his mother. "What makes you think I'd believe anything you said to me? I remember you. You came when I was a kid. I knew I'd seen you before. If you're not my father, then who are you?"

"No relation at all," said Vann easily. "Though I would feel no regrets to be kin to you. Even," he added with a sudden easy smile, "if you are behaving like an idiot right now."

"Oh, sure, pick on me when I'm down," Han said, but somehow he felt a little easier with Vann than he had before. He wouldn't have known how to handle an unexpected father after all this time. When his mother would speak of him at all, she had told him his father was dead. He didn't want what good memories he had of his past to be tarnished with lies--the way Luke's had been.

"I knew your father," Vann explained. "He was my closest friend, and I avenged his death. I did come to see your mother. You couldn't have been more than three at the time. I'm surprised you remember me at all."

"I didn't at first," Han said. "My mother fought with you, didn't she? Why?"

"She didn't want your father to be a deathwalker. She told me she would hold me responsible if he died." He closed his eyes a moment, reliving memories. "As it happened, he did die, and it was partly my fault, but only because I'd recruited him into the deathwalkers. He came of his own free choice, though. I avenged him--a deathwalker never dies unavenged--because it was my place to do so. I went back to tell your mother, but she wouldn't see me. She still blames me for your father's death."

"She's dead," Han said. "She died when I was fourteen. She probably did blame you for it, but it sounds like it was his own choice." It was easy to absolve Vann of the death of the father he had never known. It was harder to accept his father as a deathwalker. The only difference between what he'd feared and the reality was that his father wasn't someone to deal with now. He had still been a deathwalker. He added, "If it's hereditary, was my grandfather a deathwalker, too?"

"No. It's not always hereditary. New blood is always welcome, but sons and daughters are welcome if they want the position."

"Women too?" Han asked, not really surprised.

"Why not?"

There was no reason why not. Han had known enough women who could easily have been deathwalkers: smugglers, a pirate or two, bounty hunters. He thought fleetingly of Leia, wondering if she would train to become a Jedi now. He hated the idea of that.

"Do deathwalkers use the Force?"

"Maybe," Vann admitted. "What does that have to do with the situation?"

"I just wondered," Han said lamely. "You said you weren't a Jedi."

"The Jedi are one sect of Force-users. A person can use the Force without Jedi training or without Jedi beliefs."

Remembering Vader, Han nodded. "But that means there could be a while group of different sects of Force users."

"True. The Force is part of all life. We train to be in tune with ourselves and our surroundings, and we touch the Force that way. We don't consciously manipulate it any more than one manipulates the blood running through his beings. We are the Force, and so are you, Han Solo, every time you do something instinctive, every time you use your 'luck' to get out of a tight situation, every time you do something that feels so right that you think you were born to it. When you are in tune with your ship in space, you're in tune with the Force."

"No," Han insisted desperately, "I ain't no Force user, and I'm not gonna be. I won't let myself get twisted that way."

"Twisted? Life isn't twisted."

"No, but the Force can be used to harm people. It can kill. Vader..." His voice trailed off awkwardly.

"Vader is only one man. He was once a Jedi, I'm told. Deathwalkers don't sanction Vader's use of the Force. He chose his own way."

"He's dead," Han said. When Vann didn't reply, Han asked nastily, "Didn't you feel it through the Force? If you're so in tune with it, you must have?"

"Not specifically," Vann said. "My use of the Force, as you call it, isn't a conscious one, or at least not often. I don't deliberately control it and call it to me to wield like I do my blades. I've trained to be in control of my body; I can lower my pulse and respiration if I need to, I can conserve my strength so that when I'm tired, I have fighting reserves. That's the way I use the Force. I don't use it against my enemy. I use it to bolster myself. Anyone can do that, Jedi or no. Maybe I could train to use the Force as a weapon against my enemies, to manipulate them, but I don't need to. I am at peace within myself and that gives me the strength I need."

"Sure it does," Han said scornfully. It sounded like another hokey religion to him, and he wasn't prepared to accept any philosophy that touched the Force. "Could my father do that too?" he asked. He didn't really want to know, but he couldn't avoid knowing.

"Anyone can do that, Han. It isn't the same as having innate Force ability. Your father had none, by the way. He was trained to be in touch with himself, body and spirit. You or Chewie could learn that, if you would submit to the discipline. But you couldn't learn to use the Force as a weapon, to reach out with it and touch others, to manipulate people, to lift objects and yourself with the mind alone, to sense the future and the past, without some Forcegifts above and beyond what the ordinary being has. The ones with the gift found their way to the Jedi or the Sith, or learned to use it for power, the way the Emperor does--or did. I heard he was dead."

"Yes. Vader killed him."

"And Vader's dead, too? No wonder I've felt uneasy in the Force. Large events have been occurring."

"They don't touch you, old man," Han said nastily. "I thought deathwalkers didn't interfere with politics."

"Not the way you mean it. We don't hire ourselves in wars as mercenaries; we don't accept such contracts simply because the man is on one political side or another. We have a larger--or smaller--scope than that. Suppose we allied ourselves with your Rebel Alliance?"

"Mine?" Han asked suspiciously, wondering how much Vann knew about him.

Vann ignored the interruption. "Suppose we supported the Alliance. And suppose the person appointed president of the Republic turned out to be the most corrupt being in the galaxy. The Republic might still stand for the universal good, but if we were allied with it, we could not accept a contract against its leader, could we? Deathwalkers have our own individual political views, and most of us have supported the Alliance. Some of us are even fighting for it now, as individuals. But the League chooses neutrality." He added, "The Jedi were the same. They fought for truth and justice. They didn't fight for the Republic. They fought for what it stood for. There's a difference."

Han could see his point, but he didn't like it. He liked it even less because the knowledge that his father had been a deathwalker and had used the Force, even on a small personal scale, really troubled him. It wasn't enough that he was uneasy about Luke and Leia and the Force. Now he had this to contend with too. He wished he'd never heard of Anjin Vann.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "I don't want any part of the deathwalkers, no matter what the individual members believe or don't believe. And I don't want any part of you. So when we get to Jesset, you get off."

"If that's the way you want it," Vann said, but he looked disappointed.

"And don't go telling me about my father and the Force. I don't want to hear it."

"I told you he had no Forcegifts. I don't think you really do either, though you have more innate ability than he did. I also think you're worried about it."

"I thought deathwalkers couldn't read minds."

"We can't. But I've lived a lot of years, and I can read expressions and sense feelings. I may not be a Jedi, but I'm not Forceblind either. A deathwalker can feel things that aren't apparent and sense things that aren't there."

"I can do that after a few too many drinks," Hah retorted sarcastically. "Sounds like there's a thin line between your Force and the Jedis' Force."

"One is active and one is passive, that's the distinction. The Force sometimes uses a Jedi; it can lure him to the Dark Side. That generally doesn't happen with a deathwalker because we don't use it for power, we don't really use it at all."

"You just said you did."

"It's hard to explain it to you when you don't really want an explanation. You only want to justify your misconceptions."

"Sure, put me in the wrong. Soon as somebody has anything to do with the Force, the first thing they start doing is blaming me for my attitude. I don't need that."

"Han, you've got a sore spot where the Force is concerned. You know that as well as I do. I'm only trying to explain to you how I am in touch with it. I can't justify other people who are in conflict with you. But have you ever stopped to wonder why you're so touchy about it?"

"Yeah. I know why. Vader used it against me. He had me tortured and he put me in carbon freeze. Isn't that reason enough? Ever had hibernation sickness, Deathwalker? Ever woken up in a strange place and not been able to see? Try that sometime and see what you think of the Force when you know it's how you got there in the first place." Immediately he wished he could recall the bitter words. He hadn't meant to tell Vann that much about himself. But it was too late to call it back. He blanked his face and waited for the deathwalker's response, ready to eject the man from the room if he had to.

Vann's face grew serious. "I didn't know about that," he said sympathetically. "Is that how Jabba got you?"

"Yeah. How'd you know about Jabba?"

"The word went around. I understand you were his prisoner for a long time."

"Yeah, and where were all you deathwalkers coming to avenge me in my father's name?"

"We discussed it when we found out what had happened, and we planned to free you, but before we could, your friends got you away, or so we heard. We lost track of you after that, until I saw you yesterday. We never sought you out before because we had no way of knowing if you were interested in the League, but you and others like you have hereditary rights are known to us, and the policy is that when we encounter one of you, we will approach you and tell you of your rights within the League. I've done that, fulfilling my duty. I've told you more of the deathwalkers than I would have done ordinarily, because your father was my friend, but I won't try to make you change your mind. You see, the League won't manipulate you through the Force or otherwise."

"You better not," Han said. The conversation had tired him, and he was ready to rest, knowing that it would take time to regain his strength. Aware of his fatigue, he concentrated on his wound. It was tender but not as painful as it had been, and quick movements had not jarred him into remembering it during the conversation with Vann. He must have lost a lot of blood for him to be so weak, but the knife hadn't struck anything vital. He touched the synth-flesh carefully; it felt slightly warm to the touch, but until he prodded it hard, it didn't hurt much.

"What'd you do to this?" he asked Vann. "Force-heal it?"

"No. Deathwalkers are trained in healer skills. I used formulas we've developed through the generations. Natural remedies to speed blood replacement, herbs to clean the wound and promote healing. Chewie knew some of them, too. You had plasma last night. You'll have to replenish your stores of it at Jesset if you can. And you're a fast healer too."

"That's got nothing to do with the Force," said Han quickly.

"No, with your genetic make up. Corellians are generally fast healers."

That was true. Han relaxed a little though he knew he was still touchy about both Vann and the Force. He didn't want to talk to Vann any more. "I think I'll get some sleep," he said, and Vann stood up at once and turned toward the door.

"We'll be at Jesset soon," he said.

"Good. Then you can go about your business."

Chewie would have admonished him for his rudeness, and though he didn't want Vann to stay, that sounded a little strong even to him. He added, "You did what you were supposed to do, and I'm not buyin' it, so that takes care of your responsibility, doesn't it?"

Vann said softly, "Yes."

"Then what else are you worried about?"

"My obligation to the son of my friend. Nothing to do with deathwalkers at all." He was silent a minute, then he added, "You're very like your father."

Han was quite willing to refuse the bait, but something in Vann's voice told him it wasn't bait after all, simply a statement, that Vann was remembering his friend and missing him. The thought of the deathwalker having that much vulnerability touched Han, though he didn't want it to. He almost said, 'Tell me about him,' but at the last minute, something held him back. He waited silently, saying nothing at all, giving no encouragement, and after a bit, Vann sighed almost inaudibly and left the cabin.

Han glared after him, resenting the fact that the man had made him feel guilty as if he'd done something childish and petty. He didn't want to get to know Vann any better, to hear about his father and the Force, to learn of his father's career as a hired killer. He hadn't been idealistic about his father the way Luke had been before he discovered the truth, but when he'd considered it at all, Han had thought of his father as simply another Corellian pilot and had been content with that knowledge. Vann's words did not invalidate that much--most Corellians who left Corell were pilots. But the knowledge that his father had belonged to an Assassins' League who trained by becoming in tune with the Force was unwelcome. Han didn't want to think that he was even unconsciously in tune with the Force himself, but Vann had made him suspect his most contented moments when he felt one with his ship, and doubt his luck as he managed to evade dangerous and potentially lethal situations.

No such thing as luck, Kenobi said.

Han took his pillow from behind him and flung it at the door with all his strength.

Chewie fielded it as he came in with a tray. *You look better,* the Wookiee said, ignoring the pillow as he would have ignored a light breeze--or a child's temper tantrum.

"I'm okay," Han said unconvincingly. "I'm not staying in here any longer. I want to get up."

*Eat first,* instructed Chewbacca, holding out the tray.

It was the same meal as before, and even knowing how good it tasted, Han looked at it sourly. "How long before I get any real food?"

*Tonight,* Chewie said. *Eat.*

Han complied only because getting his strength back was imperative. He wasn't going to be much use to the Alliance if he couldn't walk across his cabin without getting tired. He'd need to be in top shape again before he went out looking for information for Leia and the generals. He said through a mouthful of the broth, "I gotta get well."

*Anjin has ways of training that might help you.*

Han deliberately ignored Chewie's use of the deathwalker's first name. "I don't want deathwalker training," he said flatly.

*It's stupid to refuse help when it is offered with no strings.*

"Ain't nothing in this galaxy offered without strings," Han said bitterly.

*Even the Princess' love?*

That was an unfair question. Han knew that Leia had not bargained with him when she told him she loved him. Luke's friendship had been that way too. Han wasn't sure where that stood at the moment, but he suspected that the strings had finally shown up there. Would Leia's love for him have hidden strings, too-and if so, was this mission one of them? "I don't know," Han said.

*You're hopeless, Solo,* Chewie said. *What is it that frightens you so much?*

"Nothing."

*Even more hopeless than I thought. At least fear would be a reason for your stupidity.*

"Oh, great. You're turning on me, too. More strings?"

Chewie looked hurt, but he didn't back down. *You know my loyalty is yours, cub, even when you are a fool. If I weren't loyal to you, I wouldn't try to make sense of your problems. I'd just go. Only someone loyal to you would put up with you when you act this way.*

"Thanks a lot," Han said, but with sorrow rather than anger. He'd thought that he could count on Chewie's support through everything, but now the Wookiee was telling him that he would support him only when he did what Chewie wanted him to. Slowly he was being backed into a corner, by Chewie, by Leia with her expectations, by Luke with his suspicions. He, Han Solo, was being turned into something that he was not, that he didn't want to be, turned away from what he considered his true nature. They didn't want him for what he was but for what they could him over into. Even Vann, a comparative stranger, wanted to shape him in his father's image. They were using the Force as a measure of his worth. It symbolized everything Han Solo was not and didn't believe in, and everyone was pushing it at him. Accept Leia as a Jedi, accept Luke, who was as suspicious of him as Vader had been, accept his father's oneness with the Force. And what had the Force ever done for him? It had robbed him of six months of his life and twisted everything he ever loved until it was just beyond his reach. Even Chewie was siding with the others now.

*Han, you know I don't want to hurt you.*

"Don't then," Han snapped. "It doesn't matter anyway. Right now, I got a job to do, and if I gotta eat this crap to get well enough to do it, then I will. Once we report back, then we'll see."

Chewie knew him well enough to look worried, but he didn't push it, and in his present frame of mind, Han took it to mean that Chewie was ready to give up on him, too. He applied himself to the nourishing and tasty food that stuck in his throat and didn't look up again until he heard the door closing behind the Wookiee. Then he set the tray aside and got to his feet, balancing himself carefully against the side of the bed. He was going to get fit without any Jedi magic or deathwalker training. It was only a little knife wound.

Where had his mysterious luck gone? He hadn't even had a clue that Xatt was there lurking in ambush. He should have sensed something...

He cut that thought off quickly. Was it true then, was he unconsciously using the Force like his father had, and had his rejection of it caused him to lose his sense of impending danger? Maybe that was what it was like to be Force-blind. How did people survive without that extra sense that warned them of trouble? And was that sense part of the Force? No. Han wouldn't accept that. It was part of him and always had been, and it was nothing to do with the Force at all. Nothing.

Han made his way carefully to the 'fresher and let the sonics surround and refresh him, but while his body felt eased, his mind was still jumbled with conflicting emotions. He wished he'd never gone into that cantina in Mos Eisley. Better that he'd never become tangled in this web of complications. His life had been fine before, just fine. Maybe, once this mission was finished, he'd go back to that life. If Chewie didn't want to go, there were other co-pilots.

Han came out of the 'fresher and dressed, favoring his side a little, though it didn't hurt much. He found that it tired him merely to put his clothes on, but he managed. Sitting on the edge of his bunk to pull on his boots, he wrestled with a moment of dizziness, but it passed, and he called upon his inner resources for the marathon walk to the cockpit.

Chewie was there, and Vann was in Han's seat, a sight that enraged him, though his voice was level when he said, "I'll take over now." Vann relinquished the position without speaking and took the seat behind Han. Chewie looked over at his captain but didn't express his concern.

"Where are we?" Han asked, getting the feel of the controls and checking readouts as he spoke.

*Coming up on Jesset,* Chewie explained.

"Fine." Han read his position. A few more minutes before they came out of hyper. He'd timed himself well. Too well? He wondered briefly about the Force and if it could have had anything to do with his timing, and he rejected the thought and concentrated on bringing the Falcon out of lightspeed.

******

Jesset was a metal-rich mining planet, dominated by the Empire for the minerals necessary to build star destroyers and other ships. There were Imperial troops stationed there, but mostly away from the cities, and the Mining Guild controlled shipping, under the guidance and supervision of the troops. Han's cargo was foodstuffs for the garrison there. It felt odd to be carrying cargo into an Imperial base, but the Falcon was going in this time under forged registry and Mandon had a legitimate contract with the Empire, so unless someone was looking for him specifically, there might not be too much trouble. Han knew better than to hope for that, though, and when he contacted the ground, he kept his voice official and brisk.

"This is the Niqhthawk's Mate, requesting clearance with a cargo of foodstuffs from Alanjoria," he reported.

"You are expected, Nighthawk's Mate," the ground controller replied, and Han relaxed a little, knowing that Mandon had done his work for them. "You'll land in Docking Bay 86 and wait on board for the pickup. How many people do you have on board?"

That could mean trouble. "Myself, Captain Ran Waystar, my mate Jessaba, and passenger Anjin Vann." Vann was wanted for nothing and could safely use his own identity.

"You will be inspected," the voice informed him, not menacingly, but routinely as if he gave the message to everyone landing on Jesset, and Han, who had been here before and passed muster with a variety of false ID's, felt his tension ease slightly. He set the Falcon down, ignoring his fatigue and the dull throbbing in his wound.

When he opened the hatch to meet the inspector, he was steady on his feet, though it took some effort.

The inspector was a young Imperial lieutenant with a checklist and the harried and frustrated face of a man whose day has been bad from beginning to end, which Han took as a warning not to cross him. He produced his papers without being asked and the young officer skimmed them without paying much attention--so there was no suspicion of a cover up, or perhaps the cargo was important enough that it didn't matter if the pilot who flew it in used a false name or not. The team of workers accompanying the lieutenant followed Han's directions to the main hold and began to offload, while the Imperial sat down in the lounge area, put his feet up and closed his eyes. Han felt an unexpected sympathy for him, recognizing the signs of a man who sees his world beginning to crumble around him and who is powerless to stop it.

"Hard day?" he asked sympathetically.

"You got it," the man replied. "A few more like this and I'll desert and find myself a rimworld and ignore the rest of the galaxy."

Han had met a few Imperials who were more 'human' than the rest of their counterparts before, and realized that this man was one of them. He was an officer doing a job, not a monster intent on enslaving the galaxy, and Han found himself feeling for the man. "Things going wrong?" he asked, remembering his mission and deciding that there was no time like the present to start. "We've been hearing rumors..."

The Imperial looked at him sharply, glancing down at the requisition papers and said, "Well, you've come from Alanjoria. You would have picked up something there. I don't know what's going on--nobody ever tells us anything. But something's got people panicked. I don't like it. Makes it hard to do my job."

"Sounds like it would mean a lot of trouble. At least I'm just giving you a straightforward cargo."

"Yeah, and it means a lot, let me tell you. Shift's almost over and I go off duty as soon as you're unloaded. I can use it." He pulled off his cap, ran his hand impatiently through a tangled mop of curls that indicated the gesture was habitual, and replaced the hat. "Damn it, I wish I was due for leave. Though I hear they're not giving it these days."

"Something must be wrong for them to stop," Han suggested carefully. Across the room, Chewie and Vann waited, unspeaking, sensing perhaps that Han would do better without interruptions.

"Something serious," the man said. "Never mind. It's good to get a routine cargo--they haven't been coming in as often as they should be, and the quartermaster's throwing fits, as if it were my fault that the Emperor--" He cut off sharply, and something in his face warned Han not to ask the obvious question. So the troops knew something had gone wrong with the Emperor. Maybe they didn't know officially that he was dead, but Han was pretty sure the rumor had spread like wildfire, along with that of Vader's death and the loss of the Empire's new battlestation and much of starfleet. Yet here was routine struggling along, pretending nothing was wrong beyond a little inconvenience. Everything looked disorganized, but no one had tried to seize power yet.

"The Emperor does keep things tight," said Han noncommitally, a regular freight hauler who didn't particularly approve of the Emperor but who wouldn't say so to an Imperial. "Anyway, he's not my problem, I hope. I just want to get offloaded and see what kind of nightlife I can find here."

"Mind the curfew if you do," the lieutenant said. "It's strictly enforced."

"Curfew? That's new, isn't it?"

"Just this week." Han sneaked a glance at Chewie, whose eyes held the same awareness that Vann's did. Maybe the run of the mill storm trooper on a backwater planet didn't know the whole story officially, but if there were curfews, the local populace suspected something and was testing the limits of authority. Maybe it was the kind of sign Leia had been hoping for.

The lieutenant called his thoughts to order and closed up again as if he feared he had said too much, and Han carried on a one sided conversation about such inanities as port fees, the expected winners of the Games at mid-year, and which cantinas he liked on a variety of worlds. Chewie offered an opinion or two, and Vann pitched in, and the lieutenant mellowed a little under the barrage of harmless chatter, though he didn't mention the state of the Empire, curfews, or the Emperor again. When the cargo was ready, he took himself away quickly, and Han looked at the other two uneasily.

"D'you think he's worried he said too much to us?"

"He might be worried that he said too much," Vann replied, "But I don't think he was that worried. Maybe he didn't take himself that seriously."

*He might have been a much shrewder man than he looked,* suggested Chewie, but Vann shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. I didn't sense any concealment about him, except that he shut up when he thought he was being too indiscreet. He knows something is wrong, and he really meant it when he mentioned hiding out on a rimworld."

"He wasn't so bad," Han admitted. "I hope he makes it." Then he turned his thoughts back to his own problems. "I"m gonna go out and circulate before the curfew," he announced as if defying either of them to protest. He looked at Vann and added, "you can be out of here when I get back."

Chewie did speak then. *Are you well enough? Do you want me to accompany you?*

Han did, but he didn't want to leave Vann alone on the Falcon or to insist upon his immediate departure either, So he shook his head. "Nah, people'd notice the two of us together, and we might be recognized. I'll be careful."

Like you were last night? Han saw the thought in his co-pilot's face, and Chewie's struggle to repress it. He decided to avoid another argument now, so he turned and fetched his blaster and strapped it on, then left the ship without speaking.

It was midday, planet-time, and Han, who had just come from offworld and had been awake for most of a day, ship's time, was tired. He didn't want to take a few hours to get acclimated to the change in planets, even though he knew it was wise. He'd just stay out a couple of hours, he decided. His wound was feeling pretty good, but he knew he didn't have a whole lot of energy yet. Better not to get too tired if he didn't have to.

Almost immediately he felt that he was being followed. It was a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, as if invisible eyes tracked his every move, though whenever he turned carefully or lingered to look for traces of his pursuer, no one was visible. Vann, he thought, though why the deathwalker should be following him was a mystery. He had told the man that their acquaintance was finished, and that should have been that, unless Vann felt that his friendship with Han's father had created a debt. The debt, if any, should have been paid by saving Han's life, but Han didn't think that Vann would consider it So. Han's blatant rudeness should have put an end to any sympathy Vann might have felt for him, but Han was uneasily certain that Vann was still sympathetic and would like to continue the relationship. He knew he wanted nothing further to do with the man.

But as he wandered around the port, dropping in at a cantina here and there, spending a little time over a drink or a few words of conversation with an old acquaintance, the feeling of being followed never quite went away. If anything, it worsened. Finally, feeling both trapped and tired, Han decided to return to the Falcon. He had been picking up signals from everyone he talked to that they thought the Empire was starting to crumble and that they would look forward to the decay. he knew that some of them were glad because it would make it easier for them to prey on others, but there was a lot of genuine, if closet, support for the Alliance and the potential New Republic. Leia and the Generals would like that.

But the uneasiness kept coming back, and he let his weariness and the ache in his side steer him in the direction of the ship.

"Waystar!"

For an instant, he did not remember the name on his false papers, then instinctively he turned. Another alley, and a shadowy figure waited for him there, shielded from the slanting late afternoon sun, a figure in a brown hooded robe. Kenobi, he thought, then he shook the thought aside. He was getting obsessed with Kenobi, and it had not been Kenobi's voice.

"Yeah?" he said, moving over to the figure, his hand on his blaster.

"You don't need a weapon, Waystar," the voice continued. "I want to make a bargain with you."

Han recognized the voice then; it was the lieutenant who had come to the Falcon. "Yeah? What d'you want, officer?" He let a little sarcasm filter through at the title.

"I want to get offworld," the lieutenant said. "Something's gone wrong and I want out. I've had it, and whatever's going on now is the last straw. You're a pilot. Let me come along to your next port."

"Why should I?" Han asked suspiciously. "You're probably just tryin' to trap me, find out if I'm for sale or working for the rebels or something. No way. I'm just out fur myself and my ship, and I don't need that kind of trouble."

"You've got it whether you know it or not," the lieutenant said. "That fellow, Vann, he's a deathwalker. Did you know that?"

"So? He pays his money, and it's as good as anybody else's."

"Even mine?" The officer dug into his pocket and produced a wallet. "I can pay, Waystar. Or should I say Solo?"

"Solo?" Han echoed, doing his best to sound perplexed. "What do'you mean, Solo? I'm Ran Waystar."

"You're Han Solo and you're wanted by the Empire, but I didn't turn you in. That should be enough to get passage out of here, but I'll pay too. Look, Solo, the Emperor's dead. Things are getting ready to blow up, and I want off world. I want out of it. I've done my job and I'm tired of it. I want to get away. You can take me to those rebels of yours if you want to. Only it'll have to be quick, because not everybody's as stupid as the port authority or Captain Ralor, and somebody's going to find out that the Millennium Falcon is here. I suggest you get offworld now--and take me with you."

"Sure, and if you know all this, you're trying to find out how much of what they want me for is true, so you can get the reward when you take me in. I bet you've got the storm troopers lined up all around the Falcon."

"Not yet, but it'll happen eventually. Solo, you've got to believe me. I've let information slip to the Alliance since I heard about what happened to Alderaan. My name's Maro Pettirion. I'm Alderaani. Can't we finish talking about it on your ship? It's important. I've got information. Not really important information, but maybe the little I do have can buy me a way out of here."

Han looked at Pettirion thoughtfully. Now that he studied him, he realized that Pettirion was not that much older than Luke Skywalker, two or three standard years at most. His brown eyes were guileless--either he was really what he said he was or he was the sharpest con man Han had encountered in a long time.

"You been following me all afternoon?" he asked.

"No, just the last timepart, trying to find a way to get to you without being caught at it."

"Well, if you haven't been after me, somebody else has." Han didn't like that. He couldn't let himself trust Pettirion, but he almost did. He'd liked him earlier, and he found that he still did, though he was wary. Someone with an open face like Pettirion's could be a skilled liar, an undercover espionage agent. Han had no way of knowing, though Vann had sensed no deceit in him. Han didn't like to rely on Anjin Vann, but he knew that a deathwalker's senses were supposed to be excellent. The Force again, he thought bitterly, and despised himself for relying on it even as little as this.

"All right," he said. "We'll go back to the Falcon--separately. If there's any trouble, you're on your own, and I won't cover for you."

"Fair enough," Pettirion agreed. "I just want a chance."

He ducked back into the alley, and Han turned and headed for the ship.

But the sense of being followed had not gone with Pettirion. It was still present, though not as strong as it had been, and Han realized that he'd had one follower all the afternoon, and that Pettirion had been the second. Stopping again, Han pretended interest in a shop window, though the first watcher would have seen him talking to Pettirion and have realized that something was going on.

Although he had seen no one approaching, Vann was beside him. "Solo, you've got to get offworld now."

Han didn't doubt the deathwalker. "I was just heading back to the ship," he said to the black clad figure, uneasy with the mask and armor after the simple black tunic and trousers Vann had worn on the Falcon. "If that kid set me up--"

"If you mean the Imperial lieutenant who came to the ship, I don't believe it," Vann said. "I saw you talking to him. I sensed he was troubled and would try to find a way to leave all this behind. If he has made arrangements with you, you should honor them. Let's get back to the ship. Even if you don't want me to go with you, I'll escort you back there."

Han felt like things were rapidly getting out of hand, and he said, "Nah, if there's trouble, I won't abandon you here. You can come with us to our next planetfall. But only on sufferance, right?" he added as Vann's eyes warmed.

"Of course," Vann agreed blandly, and Han had the distinct impression that he was being humored.

They went as fast as Han's wound would permit and maybe a little faster, so he was perspiring and short of breath when they reached the docking bay. There seemed to be no trace of troops, but Han had a bad feeling about it, and he sensed the tension of Vann's stance. The deathwalker took the staff he carried and pulled each end, and it came apart to turn into two long handled short swords, double-edged and lethal looking. At least they weren't lightsabers, Han thought as he watched Vann swing them around in a testing motion.

"Here," said the deathwalker and passed one to Han. "Use it left handed if we get into hand to hand combat, and use your blaster as you ordinarily would."

Han hefted the blade and found it well balanced, fitting to his hand as if it belonged there and he had held one every day of his life. He didn't like the feeling.

They entered the docking bay, and Han caught a flash of brown at the ramp, Pettirion, talking to Chewie. The Wookiee had his crossbow ready for trouble, pointed not at Pettirion but out past him. He lowered it when he saw Han and the deathwalker, then he jerked it up again.

Vann spun lightly on the balls of his feet, light as a felinoid, and flung something that had slid down his sleeve easily into his hand. It looked like a bladed wheel that spun end over end at the storm trooper who suddenly appeared behind a storage crate, raising a blaster, and it knocked the weapon from his hand. The man let out a yelp and as if the sound was a signal, there were suddenly storm troopers everywhere.

Han's blaster fired over and over as he tried to work his way toward the ramp. Chewie emerged from its shelter firing his bow again and again, and Pettirion produced a standard blaster from beneath his robes and took aim at the troopers, either truly on Han's side or fighting for his life. Whichever the reason, it helped, and Han knew that even if Pettirion's desertion had triggered the attack, he was paying his way.

Vann proved to Han just exactly what a deathwalker could do. One hand free, he had whipped out his light knife and was using it to deflect blaster bolts the way Luke Skywalker did with his saber, but with such a small weapon it called for precision work. Vann seemed to have eyes in the back of his helmet, for he didn't miss a shot. When several storm troopers broke cover and got close to him, he knocked one of them away with his sword,and spun around to kick the second, knocking him off balance. Han knew that getting up in storm trooper armor was not one of the easiest things to do, but was glad when Vann deftly kicked his blaster away from the downed trooper's hand, spinning it out of his reach. Then he leaped away and, without losing grip on either weapon, he flipped backwards up to the top of a packing crate, dousing the knife blade long enough to fling another wheel. As Han reached the foot of the ramp, Vann shoved the knife hilt back in his boot and came running after him, the sword disabling one more trooper on the way. Han thought the deathwalker was a goner as another trooper raised a blaster and took careful aim, but when the bolt struck, Vann was no longer there, and Pettirion raised his weapon and took out the trooper.

They retreated up the ramp, and Han sealed it and set off for the cockpit at a dead run. Chewie was there before him, already firing up the engines as Han joined him, and as he had done on Tatooine the first time he'd met Luke Skywalker, Han took his ship up fast, away from the danger.

This time there were no star destroyers lurking in ambush, but a string of TIE fighters rose up after them. The turret guns spoke, and Han realized where his two passengers had gone once the ship was sealed. "I got him," Pettirion crowed excitedly over the speaker, sounding so much like Luke had on that long ago flight from the death star that Han heard himself replying, "Don't get cocky, kid."

Vann's chuckle at the response came over the link, as he dispatched yet another TIE. Then the coordinates were set, and Han pulled the levers to send them into the safety of hyperspace. He intended to come out after a short hop and reset the course so they wouldn't be tracked. If Chewie had been on board the whole time, no one new could have come and placed any homing beacons on the ship, but Han still didn't quite trust Pettirion, and he knew he didn't trust the men who'd taken the cargo off, so the first thing he intended to do was to search everyplace that the Imperials had been, and to search Pettirion himself. If the man meant what he said, he'd submit to the search. Han wasn't going to risk leading anyone to the Alliance now, or to let himself be taken as a hostage.

"Time for a search," he said over his shoulder as Vann and Pettirion came into the cockpit behind him. But when he stood up, the room suddenly began to spin around him. Dizzy, he grabbed for Chewie's shoulder to support himself, realizing that he must have completely overtaxed his strength. It had only been a day since his wound.

He saw both Chewie and Vann reaching for him in concern, surprise on Pettirion's face as the kid made a grab for him too, then darkness covered him and the last thing he remembered were Vann's surprisingly gentle, deadly hands catching him as he fell.

When Han woke up later, he wasn't sure how much time had passed. There was no pain, and he felt comfortably rested and not nearly as defensive as he'd been before. He lay back looking up at the familiar ceiling of his cabin, then he got up, checked the chronometer and discovered that it was morning, ship's time. They must have let him sleep the night away.

He got up and examined his wound; it looked much better than it had, and it wasn't bothering him any more. It was tender and it twinged a little when he moved, but he could live with that. Standing up didn't make him dizzy. Though he had not yet regained his full strength, he was almost well.

He dressed quickly and went out to see what he had been missing. He found Chewie and Pettirion intently concentrating on a game of holo chess, and hid a grin when he realized that the Wookiee was winning.

Anjin Vann sat at the auxiliary board watching the game, his face amused and thoughtful. He'd shed his armor again, and Han realized that he preferred him that way. The armor was somehow ominous and it reminded him of Vader, though the design was vastly different.

"You look better today," Vann said easily, as if twere were no bad feelings between himself and Solo, and Han decided, that for the moment, he would not provoke anything. Vann had helped him to get away; Vann had now saved his life twice, and Han couldn't overlook the debt.

"Yeah, I feel pretty good," he said. "Did anybody check for homing devices?"

"We all did," Pettirion said. "Chewie thought you were suspicious of me, so I let myself be searched and then we went over every place the work party had been when they were unloading the cargo. We didn't find anything."

"You didn't mind being searched?" Han wanted to know.

"I didn't exactly like it," Pettirion admitted, "But you've got no cause to trust me yet. I'd like you to take my word, but I can see how it'd be hard, when I've been Imperial."

"Hells, I was an Imperial myself for awhile," Han said. "I won't hold that against you." He added quickly, "So where are we?" before anyone could enquire about his past military service, a subject he preferred never to discuss.

*Dn the way to Ryderaan,* Chewie offered. *Your original coordinat