Han Solo's Nomads, a star wars fanfic

173 Han Solo's Nomads

Han Solo's Nomads

Ed Fisher

Han Solo's Nomads

STAR WARS: HAN SOLO NOMÀDJAI

(original title: Han Solo at Doomsday's Edge)
Supposedly written by Ed Fisher,

but in reality written by its 'translator' Gáspár András

A Quality Autism Press publication

Translated by DougieFFC in June 2024

Fan printing – not officially published

Please share freely

Re-host with permission only: –

contact u/QualityAutism or u/DougieFFC

Other Titles by Quality Autism Press:

-The Jedi Prince Sequel Trilogy by Noah Beierlipp:

Shadows of Obi-Wan

Legacy of Doom

The Admiral's Wrath

-The Ultimate Chronology by Noah Beierlipp

Volumes 1-4

-Indiana Jones: The Complete Chronology by Noah Beierlipp and Jeremy Rempel

-The Vergere Compendium by Troy Denning

-A Quantum of Solace by Kevin J. Anderson

-Hextrophon or: How i learned to stop worrying and love the Cult by John Buenosdias

Noah's Note: These novels (Han Solo's Nomads, Han Solo: The Imperial Agent, Han Solo and the Bounty Hunters, Han Solo's War) were originally written in Hungarian, but marketed by the Hungarian publisher A Valhalla Páholy® (The Valhalla Lodge) as a translation from English-language novels supposedly written by American authors named Dale Avery and Ed Fisher in 1978. No such English books or authors exists, and this is the first-known full translation of the four Han Solo novels into English made publicly available.

The books you are now about to read are perhaps some of the most obscure novels in the entire Star Wars franchise, with a complicated history. In the early 1990s, translations of the early Expanded Universe novels by Hungarian publisher A Valhalla Páholy became very popular in Hungary following the release of Heir to the Empire, so much so that an unofficial Thrawn sequel, A Jedi Hatalma (The Power of the Jedi) was published by a subsidiary of the company before Dark Force Rising was released. Translations of Brian Daley's Han Solo Adventures proved a hit as well, leading the publisher to commission four original stories ghostwritten by the Hungarian translators of the other EU novels, through the exploitation of a copyright loophole in Hungarian law that affected A Valhalla Páholy's licensing agreement with Lucasfilm. These four ensuing novels, Han Solo: Nomádjai, Han Solo: A Birodalmi Úgynök, Han Solo és a Fejvadászok, and Han Solo Háborúja, written by the Hungarian authors under the names "Ed Fisher" and "Dale Avery," were presented by the publisher as translations from English-language novels, but were in fact entirely unique to Hungary. These too became popular with Hungarian fans, who knew nothing of their sketchy publishing origins until the internet became widely-used in the late 90s, at which point it became apparent none of these novels existed in America or the UK (or anywhere else for that matter).

When Lucasfilm realized one of their local publishers was exploiting the terms of their licensing deal, they promptly sought legal action that prevented the novels from staying in print.

Now, the big question: are these novels canon, at least to the Expanded Universe/Legends?

Absolutely not.

They were not commissioned by Lucasfilm, and simply put out by the licence holder in a foreign country without approval or knowledge of anyone in the company. The fact that Lucasfilm, after learning of their existence, shut further printings down should speak for itself as well.

Nonetheless, these 4 novels are an enjoyable and fun read worth sharing with people who liked Daley's Solo Trilogy, or just pulp Sci-Fi adventures in general. Though they don't fit that well with the attempted larger continuity of the EU, the translators working on this project have decided not to change any plot elements, adjust dates, or phrases for the most part, but try to simply stick as close to the original authors text as closely as possible, to archive this work as it was intended.

Translator-Editor's note: These four books were translated using paid-for AI software, and with the help of a native Hungarian who both recommended the approach and provided invaluable insights (thank you S.) across the month of June 2024.

Ed Fisher

Han Solo's Nomads

A NEW VOLUME IN THE STAR WARS SERIES BASED ON THE STORIES BY GEORGE LUCAS

Valhalla Páholy®

Budapest 1992

The translation was made from the following edition:

Ed Fisher

Han Solo At Doomsday's Edge

A Wallace Book published by Pendragon Books Ltd.

Translated by András Gáspár

Cover art by Zoltán Boros and Gábor Szikszai

Typography: Csaba Marjai

Technical editing: András Adamov

A member of the AVALON Publishing Group

ISBN 963 7632 16 6

VP-SF-151292-20.43.12

The exclusive distributor of the volume is King Könyvkiadó és Kereskedelmi BT. 1041 Budapest, Latabár Kálmán u. 1.

Published by Valhalla Páholy. Responsible publisher: Csanád Novák, executive director. Responsible editor: Csanád Novák. Proofreader: NWAI system. Typesetting, layout: Valhalla Páholy Kft. The printing was done by Alföldi Nyomda. Printing order number: 8159.66-14-2. Responsible leader: Géza György.

Printed in Debrecen in the year 1992

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This novel narrates the events following the Brian Daley Han Solo trilogy and precedes Dale Avery's previously published story, Han Solo and the Imperial Agent, in chronological order.

Dedicated to Annette, who chased me across the 69th Street Bridge after learning of my long-term plans.

Chapter One

The Star Destroyer approached stealthily and opened fire on the Millennium Falcon without warning.

One moment, Han Solo was looking at the distant, pearly-white sun of the planet on the cockpit's tracking monitors, and then, as the laser blast shook the ship, he saw nothing for a while. One of his passengers, who had been admiring the panoramic view of the target planet, virtually fell into his lap. Solo would have scolded them harshly if they weren't an attractive woman.

"Chewie!" he shouted, sharing the responsibility with his towering Wookiee co-pilot. We've got a buzzard attacking from the sun!"

Chewbacca needed no further prompting. The Imperial fleet's typical combat tactics always enraged him to the core. Having spent the first fifty years of his life as a guest of the Imperial administration on unhealthily climated prison planets, he never missed a chance to repay his former tormentors. His path through the galaxy was marked by shattered jaws, dented stormtrooper helmets, and smuggled contraband. Now he adjusted something on his instruments to get a clearer picture of the meddling vessel.

His growls did not bode well.

"Of course," groaned Han, reluctantly pushing the girl away. Kirra Mallowy's presence would have been a strong argument for any kind of craziness, including the Kessel Run strewn with mines and storming the Imperial Palace. "We'll continue this later," he whispered for decency's sake, then shook his head.

"Chewie, set the course to zero-zero-seven!"

The Millennium Falcon, banking slightly, sped onward through normal space towards the target planet's sizeable moons and its extensive debris field. Beyond the cockpit windows, laser beams streaked through the eternal night, the flashes of light bringing a fierce smile to the Corellian's lips.

"Not bad, not bad at all," he muttered. "Lucky for us, our big bird is a little late. They'll stop shooting soon, you'll see!"

Another passenger in the cockpit—a thin, stooped Belzagorian, whose blue hue was still vibrant for his age—coughed repeatedly. Among his kind, this expressed impatience, unease, or perhaps something else entirely: after a four-day journey, Solo knew as little about this civilization as he did at the start.

"Captain..."

"Relax, folks, relax! I promised to get the cargo to Premont on time and in one piece—us and the ship included. If I'm not mistaken…" he cast a quick glance at the navigation computer's readouts, "…we'll be through the roughest part in just a moment. Lean back for a change and enjoy the flight!"

"I haven't been worried for a moment," noted Kirra. The tones of her voice this time evoked the image of gently clinking champagne glasses in the Corellian's mind. The girl was a refined presence, the kind hard not to notice – and impossible not to irritate. "Never forget, Captain: we thoroughly assessed your skills before hiring you for this job." She met Solo's scrutinizing gaze. "These clearings are not exactly made for bush pilots."

Mentioning this did not improve the mood of the Falcon's two-man crew. Clearings. That's what they called the gaps in the ring system (some claimed they were migrating gaps), which were as rare as they were inaccessible – a way for Mother Nature to hint to all sane travellers to approach the planet from its axis. Perhaps only the Premontologists of the Old Republic knew the location of all the clearings (or the patterns of their migration) – if, that is, a strange world on the edge of the galaxy ever warranted its own branch of science.

Observers from the Empire's more goal-oriented era, venturing into this harsh region of space, recorded only a few remarks and did not come up with any particularly novel theories. Questions later posed by their superiors were limited to the topic of the military applications of the crystalline material composing the rings. The answers must have been disappointing, as not a single Imperial official had paid attention to this speck in the universe for the past fifty-odd standard years.

The commander of the Imperial destroyer made another targeting attempt, clearly indicating that the Falcon should turn back and surrender - a very determined and annoyingly precise suggestion. The energy blast nearly overloaded the shields of the old smuggler ship, equipped with every possible heavenly gadget. Chewbacca became so busy that he even forgot to grumble. The wedge-shaped body of the destroyer now shone on all the tracking monitors: its size and proportions betrayed the designers' megalomaniac tendencies. The gun stations' crew performed their duties soullessly, and everyone aboard the Millennium Falcon felt like the much-endured metal hull was tolling like a giant bell.

"Captain…" tried the Belzagorian again, but Solo silenced him immediately with an upraised index finger. He took the ship into another turn and then winked at the Wookiee.

"The controls are yours, Chewie! Show our guests what a real bush pilot can do!"

The Belzagorian tried to protest, but Kirra silenced him with a gesture.

"Bollux!" Han now spoke into the internal communicator. "Is everyone back there okay?"

"We're good, Captain," came the reassuring response from the labor droid. "Blue Max detected some ionization, but he says it's within safe limits. Of course, in the planet's atmosphere..."

"Let's skip the details, alright? How's the cargo holding up?" Solo frowned. "I really hope not a single damn container has come loose. If any have, we can all kiss tomorrow's meal goodbye. Remember those weeks when you two were struggling with those embarrassing power supply issues!"

"I could never forget, sir," Bollux assured immediately. "It's a pleasure flying with you, sir…"

Han cut the connection and gave Kirra a reassuring wink.

"There's too much maneuvering," the girl remarked coolly. "If your Wookiee friend keeps this up, we won't be able to avoid the destroyer's tractor beam. They'll catch us and hand us over to the Economic Police. They'll tear us apart. We could lose everything."

"I'd sooner marry a princess," Han Solo declared with deep conviction.

Massive chunks of the strange material forming the rings orbited along Premont's equator. The larger ones were almost transparent, as if made from frozen seawater. The smaller ones—ranging in size between a satellite and a small frigate—gave the impression that something was dormant at their centre: alien life, or perhaps the ancient secrets of the planet's origin.

To the crew of the destroyer, it might have seemed that the madman piloting the fleeing ship was eager to unlock these secrets.

Orders rang out on the bridge, targeting systems coldly locking on, while gunners gritted their teeth, trying to hit the ship darting on its erratic path. The black-clad officers exchanged grim looks, feeling success was within reach.

They were wrong.

Euphoric from his friend's trust but still very much clear-headed, the Wookiee guided the ship along the edge of a clearing with small growls and the tiniest of finger movements. Then, as the fire from the Imperial gun stations became almost unbearable, he dove into the dazzling crystal maze.

In the first moments, Solo watched with eagle eyes, but upon seeing the indicators gradually turn green, he did exactly what he had recently advised his passengers to do: he leaned back and enjoyed the ride. Chewbacca, continually grumbling, maneuvered the Falcon among giant crystal globes, skillfully avoiding the rapidly approaching smaller chunks. The twin spotlight mounted on the ship's bow was not needed this time: the constantly moving planes multiplied and intensified the light from Premont's distant sun.

The deep blue-skinned Belzagorian, who had been staring forward almost hypnotized until now, exhaled. It took a noticeably long time: either his lungs were enormous, or his body stored the life-sustaining gas mixture at unusually high pressure.

"Captain..."

"Mr. K'brull?" Han wondered how many semesters his client had spent mastering the art of being a pain. Smuggling, dodging authorities, yes, but sitting still? That's typical high-society behavior.

"Captain! I would like to know if you are aware..."

Solo nodded without hesitation. A well-calibrated mind probe might have identified the reprimand in his grin, but K'brull seemed oblivious to such subtle nuances. For a few minutes, those crammed in the cockpit watched the slow dance of the blocks in reverent silence. Then, everyone except Han and Chewie flinched as the computer demanded attention in its typically insensitive electronic manner.

"No need to worry" - said the Corellian, smiling again. "You can slow down, Chewie: the old buzzard's heading home..."

Kirra glanced at the tracking screen. The yellow triangle representing the Imperial destroyer indeed changed direction and quickly moved out of the Falcon's sensor range.

"They didn't even try launching fighters," Solo noted. "Something tells me we didn't really interest them."

"Where do you think it's heading?" pondered the Belzagori aloud.

"Obviously to Yaga Minor" Han muttered. "That's the closest major fleet base, about three hundred light-years from here. Far as I know, there aren't any Imperial bases in this area. But those tax men? They roam in packs. Not like they have much to do—mostly for the company. Habitable worlds are rare here, and places that can actually pay are even rarer."

K'brull was indifferent to this explanation. He was worried about something else entirely.

"What business would an Imperial warship have out here anyway?" He cast a suspicious glance at the girl sitting to his left. "By the High Galaxy! What is your esteemed father up to on this planet that's so important to them?"

"To my knowledge, the Emperor hasn't yet restricted the private extraction of mineral resources by decree," Kirra replied acidly. "Imperial fleet units are permitted to search commercial ships, registered or not. And before you start ranting again, let me remind you: we offered to transport, install, and pay for your precious machines to Premont unconditionally. I didn't insist on your presence, even if I do respect your expertise."

The blue-skinned man slowly shook his head. His sigh sounded like the hiss of a tired serpent.

"Our company is among the oldest and most reliable enterprises on Belzagor. We cannot allow its reputation to be tarnished —even due to certain clients' irresponsibility. We always install our equipment ourselves under all circumstances, dear young lady. This is a well-established practice, which we could not change, even at your express request."

"You don't take the regulations on export duties quite as seriously, do you?" Han took control of his ship again, navigating towards their destination by instinct rather than relying on his instruments.

"Circumstances sometimes compel a business to make concessions," the Belzagorian said cautiously. "Do I need to explain that to you, Captain? If you've traveled through the worlds of the Ollam Sector with your eyes open, you might have noticed that the economic situation is… Well, to put it mildly, unfavorable."

"I had to keep my eyes open. If I didn't, we'd get knocked out, robbed, and maybe even sold at the first street corner," Han muttered. His brow furrowed as he thought about the mud pits orbiting the small, cool stars of the mentioned region and the months wasted there.

After they had finally freed themselves from Gallandro, the ruthless bounty hunter in the employ of the Security Police—thanks to their good fortune—they tried to pick up where they had left off, striking dubious deals with dubious clients in the Outer Rim worlds. It had to be that way: the flames of rebellion were spreading from star system to star system along the more frequently travelled trade routes. Rumors were spreading that the Emperor was preparing to dissolve the Senate; Bail Organa, Viceroy of Alderaan, had resigned his mandate in protest and went into voluntary exile on his home planet. The scum of the turbulent galaxy naturally tried to take advantage of the situation: life and law had never meant less in the galaxy since the ill-famed Clone Wars. The crew of the Falcon did everything they could to stay afloat, but Han, Chewbacca, and even the droids sensed that sooner or later, all four of them would be swept away by the dirty tide…

That's when Kirra appeared, looking for an off-the-books ride for her newly purchased machines, her uninvited companions, and herself. The deal was made. Four days later, even in the crystal labyrinth of Premont, Han didn't particularly regret it. He was reluctant to admit it, but he would have been satisfied with half the agreed-upon payment if it meant he would never have to return to the rat holes generously called starports throughout Ollam.

"Your calm is enviable," K'brull muttered, getting up to check on his men. "We were just fired upon by fifty blasted cannons!"

"Sixty-three," Han corrected, descending further into the amber glow. Beyond the drifting blocks, the planet's surface occasionally became visible: enormous basins, larger than one could imagine, dissected by ridges where oceans once were. The ancient continents were now fractured mountain ranges. Numerous wind-worn peaks marked the countless former islands. A tired, ancient planet: fit for philosophers, holy madmen, and fearless profiteers. "You don't get shot at much back home, do you?"

"You guessed right," the Belzagorian replied dryly. "Under normal circumstances, my job is the most I could lose." He turned to Kirra. "If I had known this in advance…"

"Would you have backed out?" the girl asked slyly.

A smile flickered around the thin figure's lips. He stood straight in the cockpit doorway, his thin legs trembling almost imperceptibly.

"I'm getting new insurance."

Chewbacca's thunderous laughter was cut short by the flashing of warning lights. The Falcon, which had been flying at a steady pace, now trembled and began to lose speed.

"Captain…!" the Belzagorian's indignant shout rang out immediately. "Oh, for..." Solo tried to get the situation under control, but first, he had to understand it. It didn't look like an easy task. "Bollux! Can you hear me, Bollux?"

"Loud and clear, Captain," came the reply. "Blue Max reports significant energy loss in the engine block. The safety reserve is temporarily inaccessible: all relays have failed. Request permission to…"

Sparks flew above the cockpit control panel, and the monitors went dark one by one. A metallic crunch, another shower of sparks, and the Millennium Falcon was shrouded in a mysterious twilight.

Chewbacca leapt from the co-pilot's seat, rushed past K'brull, who was gripping the doorframe, and, under the bewildered gazes of the Belzagorian technicians, tore open the panel covering the service hatch. Bollux clattered in from the stern, holding an old-fashioned handheld lamp, ready for anything.

"Captain…" came a hoarse whisper from the darkest corner. "Captain, if perhaps…"

"Later, K'brull, later!" Han waved his hand, feeling like the ground was slipping from beneath him. His ship - which he had won in a fantastic sabacc game from one of his former business partners - had never experienced a power outage like this. Half-rising from his seat, he stared at the slowly rotating, multi-thousand-ton blocks around them.

"Solo! Look!"

In Kirra's eyes, the reflection of Premont's distant sun glinted—and something else. Han shuddered: he saw it now too. It was as if space around the Millennium Falcon had ignited. Amber-colored lightning bolts shot out from the sudden blaze towards the weathered smuggler ship. Solo felt a strange tingling sensation; a faint halo surrounded the passengers and the cockpit's furnishings.

"Chewie! Manual brakes!"

The Wookiee's deep roar came from the depths of the service hatch.

"We're unable to maneuver, Captain," Bollux crackled, quite unnecessarily. "The power levels of the main and auxiliary propulsion systems have dropped to a minimum. The gravity and pressure equalization system is holding for now, but without replenishment, the batteries will quickly run out. According to Blue Max, the static buildup exceeds…"

At this point, he fell silent because Chewbacca's shaggy head emerged from the service hatch. He barked something to Solo in his twisted language, then disappeared again. Shortly after, a thud was heard, and the ship trembled once more.

"What was that?" Kirra exclaimed, glancing around. The ever-brightening glow beyond the polarized window irresistibly drew her gaze.

"Harpoon cannon," Han replied dryly. "Two of them, to be exact. Chewie aimed them at the nearest material block, and both shots obviously hit. If all goes well, we've anchored."

"Anchored?!" K'brull wailed. "And what happens if the debris closes in? If we don't even have enough power left to operate the steering thrusters?"

"Then we'll have to go on foot from here," Solo said. "The surface is just a jump away, as you can see!" His clenched fists slowly relaxed as he began to regain his composure. He stared at the Belzagorian, then at the old work droid. "Bollux! Dig out every usable breathing mask and make sure they're ready! Chewie and I will also need deep space suits. Move it!"

The Millennium Falcon jolted as its thick cables tightened. It slowly tilted its nose upwards: a smaller crystal block struck its side and shattered into a million pieces in a silent explosion.

"Deep space suits?" Kirra tried to keep up with Solo in the main corridor. "You're not planning to venture out there, are you?"

"If we want to get power—and move forward—we have to do this. The safety relays are shot, and the emergency batteries are isolated. There's plenty of solar energy here in the ring. I have light traps, but I can't trust anyone else to set them up and connect them. If we charge the batteries, we can start figuring out the problem. If we fix it, we'll get out of here, and by this time tomorrow, your father can throw a banquet for his machines. If not, we ditch the cargo and try to make it to Premont alive."

"How?"

"With a zip line, for instance" Han muttered. "I knew a guy who managed it."

"Ridiculous!"

"Maybe. But Chewie and I owe our lives to plenty of ridiculous stunts."

"Listen to me!" Kirra hissed. "I want to help. For the machines' sake, if you like. For my father's sake." She grabbed Solo's arm. "You saw that thing through the window too. What do you think it will do next? How long do you think you can work out there peacefully?"

"It's not a living being," the Corellian pointed out calmly. "Look, if I got scared at every electrostatic discharge and energy knot, I'd never get more than a light-year away from my parents' house. Chewie and I will quickly…"

Kirra stepped aside, leaning her back against the wall.

"Would you entrust your ship to a bunch of strangers?"

Solo was taken aback. This perspective hadn't even occurred to him until now.

"Well..." he began.

"Let me help!" the girl insisted. "I grew up around machines like these and similar ones. I should go out with the Wookiee. It's the least I can do for the cargo. While we're working, you can keep things under control in here. Besides," she continued, looking directly into Solo's eyes, "you're the only one who can manage reactive thrust without automation. We'll only have a few minutes of power. We need to use the thrust wisely."

Han slowly, reluctantly nodded. This was clearly true.

"Your co-pilot knows his craft," Kirra said. "You just entrusted him with your ship. Why not trust me for a change?"

Solo was about to respond, but Chewbacca's deep roar interrupted him. The towering anthropoid emerged from the maintenance hatch, dust billowing from his reddish-brown fur. He clattered down the Falcon's main corridor and, upon seeing Bucket struggling with the deep-space suits, roared again—this time with a distinctly plaintive note.

"Well, Captain?" Kirra stamped her foot. "Have you decided?"

"Look…"

"Just don't tell me that if I get hurt out there, you won't have the face to confront my father with an unsettled bill! Business is business, Solo, and it comes with some risk."

"Tell that to K'brull too, if you get a chance," Han muttered, then waved dismissively. "You'll find a small chamber down the hall to the left. The light switch is at shoulder height, and the bench is in lousy condition. Suit up! The Wookiee will be waiting for you at the airlock."

A triumphant smile lit up the girl's face. She must have been accustomed to such outcomes. "Thank you for your trust," she said. "Really, thank you." "Don't mention it," the Corellian nodded with a stony expression, then, as the girl turned on her heel, he glanced at his shaggy partner.

"Take care of her, Chewie! Believe it or not, she's worth nearly fifteen hundred Imperial credits to us in one piece. Set up those damned light traps: we need to get power so we can maneuver. Do it quickly, and don't take any risks!" Thinking about the strange glow that had paralyzed the ship, he added in a quieter voice, "I was sure it was a smart move to pull in here, into the debris field." A long pause. "Alright, alright! Can't I ever be wrong...?"

"Connections in place, Captain!" Kirra's voice rang out twenty-odd minutes later in the dark cockpit of the Millennium Falcon. The communicator was down, but the spacesuits' internal batteries held enough charge to relay her words through optical cables to the ship's main speakers. Simultaneously, as Chewbacca's Wookiee commentary came through, a few displays flickered to life, casting an eerie glow over the tense faces. "The light traps will activate soon. Get ready!"

"I was born ready," Solo muttered grimly. Only now did he begin to understand why most stranded spacefarers eventually go mad. "Bollux, Max! Just a few more minutes, and we'll switch to reactive propulsion. How are we doing with the ionization?"

"The level is stable, Captain," reported the droid. "Blue Max doesn't believe it could cause any problems. Of course, if the electromagnetic flux..."

"The what?" someone in the cockpit asked in confusion. This time, K'brull shushed them, avoiding Han's gaze, disciplining himself with such willpower that the Corellian was genuinely worried for his health.

"...if the flux goes above the current level, we'll face more energy loss, which would make maneuvering, well, a real pain. In extreme cases, we might get discharges. And with the shields down, I don't need to spell out what could happen.""

"We're doomed!" whispered one of the Belzagorians with heartwarming optimism.

"Hang in there, Captain!" Kirra's voice came through the cable. "Just a few moments, and we'll be flying again. Once we..."

The line went silent, and at that moment, the flickering lights in the cabin went out as well. Outside, however, the brightness continued to intensify, casting the two figures working outside the ship in sharp, fragile relief. Chewbacca, as much as his harnesses allowed, maneuvered towards the girl to grab and pull her back. Seeing that he couldn't reach her, he suddenly freed himself from his restraints and lunged toward her—then froze in place. His body, like Kirra's, was now surrounded by an amber-colored corona that pulsed like a living being, seemingly paralyzing their will.

Sparks flew among the crystal blocks; they were tremendously powerful but did not cause any further damage to the Millennium Falcon. At least not yet...

Solo's fingers tightened on the reactive propulsion switches. Just before the second malfunction, the instruments indicated some charge—but could anyone rely on information from machines in such a situation? And more importantly, what should he do with the thrust just a few seconds after losing both his co-pilot and his client?

"Bollux!" he roared, pushing himself away from the console. "Bollux!"

The bulky droid was fumbling with a third, much more worn deep-space suit, visibly perplexed. Perhaps it was more than just perplexity—his uncertain movements indicated circuitry malfunctions. "Cap… cappttt…"

Solo leaned against the inner airlock door, panting. His right hand reached for the weapon hanging at his side: an instinctive but entirely unnecessary motion. This time, his reflexes couldn't help him. He was facing the blind forces of nature—forces more relentless than any Imperial official and more dangerous than the late Gallandro's laser pistol.

"That thing out there," he whispered to the robot, "it got the girl." He glared at Bollux, boiling with anger. "It got Chewie. It got us... again!" His fist clenched. "Help me! I have to bring them back before…"

"Captain!" shouted K'brull, who was pressed against the ship's wall by a sudden jolt. "Don't go! Don't go out there! If you perish too, a painful death awaits us all! You can't…!"

"Can't I?" Solo snapped, struggling with the gloves of the deep-space suit. "Then listen, okay? Close the airlock behind me and open the outer one! When I come back and knock, do the same but in reverse. Think you can handle that?"

"I hope so…" the Belzagorian muttered, bewildered. "But please, consider our situation too! Without you, we have no chance…!"

"I'll be back!"

Bollux toppled over with a heavy thud, then, like a calculated boxer, collapsed onto the deck. Pungent smoke wafted through the air.

"Ahoy, Captain!" one of the technicians from the cockpit shouted, likely having learned maritime terms on his home planet's seas. "You need to see this, sir! Something…," he coughed rapidly, "…something indescribable is approaching us from the direction of the sun!"

Chapter Two

Han Solo had seen many unusual ships during his travels. His fellow Corellians were notoriously extravagant with their enormous vehicles throughout the galaxy. The annual Kessel Run drew the strangest of contraptions like a magnet from the farthest corners of space. The vessels of non-human civilizations were sometimes surprising, sometimes repulsive, and sometimes downright astonishing, yet even the most outlandish creation of an alien mind couldn't compete—with this.

A colossal, amber-hued behemoth drifted slowly toward the Millennium Falcon. It was not just larger but also bulkier than the saucer-shaped freighter. It looked like a wayward denizen of some water-covered planet, like a giant shell or a forgotten relic of the cosmos that had long forgotten its destination. It was an ancient construct, no doubt about it. Meteor impacts had scarred its surface, and cosmic dust storms had smoothed its edges over eons, turning it into a crude slingstone—a streamlined yet asymmetrical form that defied human logic.

Air hissed from K'brull's lungs as the massive structure shifted. For a moment, it seemed as if it would plummet from the heavens, but then it leveled out and continued its course—by interstellar measures, it was now barely an arm's length from the Falcon, and the figures floating helplessly beside the Falcon's hull.

Before Solo could move or curse, the alien craft emitted beams—likely force fields—wrapping around their helpless prey. The captured figures began to rise, drifting towards the grotesque cavities dotting the mysterious intruder's hull.

"You!" Han bellowed at one of the Belzagorians. "On the right side of the console, you'll find a few switches in two rows. If power somehow restores, press them all, and if the weapons system activates, turn the belly guns towards that monstrosity! If it comes closer, if it emits a beam towards me—you'll know what to do, right?"

The technician, whose face appeared bluer than usual, nodded silently and quickly. Han Solo saw this face, along with K'brull's terrified grimace, before the inner airlock door slammed shut.

The outer door was easier. As he neared the edge of the Falcon's weakened antigravity field, he quickly lost weight but felt his strength increase proportionally. His blaster no longer weighed him down. The coil of wire over his shoulder and the harpoon gun strapped to his back felt as light as feathers. He vaguely remembered a pressure gauge and an oxygen regulator somewhere on his left, but he didn't have time for that now. If he was late, if Chewie and the girl vanished into one of the dark corridors of the giant shell, he'd never find them. And if the force field caught him too—well, then he'd get a close-up look at an alien world whose secrets he couldn't care less about…

To the right of the outer airlock, attached to the hull, he found Kirra's wire. Chewbacca's was thicker but hung limp like a decapitated serpent. Of course, Chewie had freed himself just before the "attack" to move more freely… Han didn't look down into the yawning void but grabbed the taut wire and set off.

His face was bathed in the flickering light of Premont spinning below as he distanced himself from the open airlock with giant leaps. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen a world from this perspective. Normally, his boots' weak magnetism would be enough to secure his footing on the Falcon's hull, but magnetism, like every other form of energy, was unreliable in this cursed debris field: he moved faster than expected, but every step risked his suit's integrity. As he emerged from his ship's shadow, he squinted at the angrily sparking distant sun, which through his visor's filter looked almost violet. The nearest moon was somewhere on the other side, but its pull was felt everywhere: the crystal dust swirled wildly in the beams of light.

Han grasped a panel of the Falcon's main locator, anchoring himself as best he could, and after some hesitation, managed to aim the harpoon gun. From this angle, the alien ship seemed as large as a moon; Chewbacca and the girl were barely visible. The amber beams surrounding them helped him aim—he only had to account for the tidal forces, Premont's increasing gravity, and the floating debris. He took a deep breath, muttered a prayer—and fired.

The wire rope coiled forward with nerve-wracking slowness. It took almost two minutes for the grappling hook to find its mark, and another two for the tensioning mechanism to finish its work: a makeshift cableway now stretched between the two vessels. Han hastily tested it —the hooks held.

The Corellian secured the other end of the rope to the locator stand (the harpoon gun ended up there too; after all, he might need it again at any moment), and with a click of the safety ring on his shoulder strap, he detached himself from the Millennium Falcon's hull.

He fell or rose; it was just a matter of perspective. His speed—like everything else out here—was relative, but enough to take his breath away. After the first few meters, he involuntarily looked back over his shoulder. He wondered if this was the last thing Torm saw when he sent him out of the Falcon's airlock to his doom. Star's End was far away, thousands of light-years and standard years distant, and thinking of that prison colony's destruction brought Han back to the present. Here and now, only the alien ship, that grotesque shell, existed in its threatening reality. It existed and approached. Han kept his hands on the tanks strapped to his belt: if the giant structure's operators targeted him with their strange beams, he'd respond with his own jets—and dodge.

At least the first time. After that... well, hopefully none of the bastards inside would think to grab an axe and cut through his rope...!

In the last meters, he indeed had to resort to the gas canisters, but it was more to avoid bruises than for propulsion. His deceleration – just like his earlier speed – had reached alarming levels. As soon as the canisters were empty, he extended both hands and searched for support with his feet. Just in time; with a loud thud, he "landed" on the surface of the ancient structure. He immediately looked up, searching for his two companions with his gaze. They disappeared into the machine's interior at that very moment. With an angry shout, Solo threw himself after them: the dark hole swallowed him as it had Chewbacca and the girl.

He had no time to turn on his helmet light, but he did not need its help either: the glow surrounding the captives' bodies illuminated the winding passage. The tunnels had gnarled walls, branched out in different directions, narrowed in some places, and widened into caverns in others, seemingly creations of beings lacking any engineering ingenuity, or perhaps of nature itself with terrible taste. The increasingly uneven terrain forced the Corellian to move more slowly, giving him a chance to read the atmospheric analyzer's information. The temperature and pressure were far below the safety minimum – Han did not like to think about what fate awaited his companions if their deep space suits got damaged for some reason. But for that matter, he would not have liked to be in the shoes of the clumsy vehicle's operators either. He already felt sorry for the first unfortunate soul who would appear in the corridor opposite him.

Every meter felt heavier on his body and gear, so he discarded the empty gas tanks and loosened his straps. A quick glance at the displays: his air would last another hour. If Chewbacca and Kirra were harmed inside, if they suddenly ran out of oxygen, he'd have to make do with even less for the return journey. Given the circumstances, it would take ten to fifteen minutes to reach the Falcon's airlock—assuming they emerged at all and the shell's inhabitants didn't object to their hasty departure.

At that moment, the dim light illuminating the tunnels began to fade, then vanished.

"Blast it…!" Solo grabbed his blaster with his left hand and fiddled with his helmet light with his right. The thick gloves made his fingers clumsy: it took minutes before the tunnel was lit by a strong, bluish-white beam. The light swept over the curved walls, moving up and down through the swirling dust, and then…

It outlined the towering figure of an alien in the passage.

"KARRRSH?"

The terrifying apparition leaned forward—at that moment Solo almost shot it and with its large, dark eyes, it stared straight into the beam of his helmet light. It was only an arm's length away, but the Corellian lowered his weapon a second later. Why he did so would have been hard to explain on the spot. Perhaps the human-like face's expression or the large smile around the mouth made him hesitate. He crouched and stared back. Waiting, seeing nothing happen, he dimmed his helmet light a bit. The creature's dark eyes slowly closed, then opened wide again. Its lips—framed by coarse, pale-gray fur—formed words, and Solo found himself hearing them, deep-space suit and vacuum be damned, just like before:

"WELCOME, BRIGHT ONE, TO OUR HUMBLE ABODE, SO FAR AWAY FOR SO LONG."

Solo stared at the giant humanoid, frozen and unable to move. It seemed to belong to the human species, no doubt about that. But what to make of those pitch-black, unblinking eyes, the strange growths on its wide forehead – and especially the fact that this nearly three-meter-tall figure lived, breathed, and even spoke in an environment lethal to humans and similar beings?

"WELCOME, BRIGHT ONE, TO OUR HUMBLE ABODE, SO FAR AWAY FOR SO LONG."

This sounded more concrete. It was something he could grasp. Han lifted the blaster again by its barrel, and although worry gnawed at him more and more, and although he would have preferred to rush on, he found himself answering aloud:

"Peace... Yeah, right, peace! I bet you dragged Chewie—my partner—and my client in here out of sheer kindness. Where are they? What have you done with them? And while we're at it, who exactly are you?"

The large, dark eyes closed for the second time since their encounter, then opened wide again. Their owner did not rush the answer. Apparently, it was used to considering each crude thought shared with it one by one.

"Well, what'll be?" Han said impatiently. "Look, I value peace, but my ship's floating out there dead in the water, passengers are stomping around, the ring gap could close any second, my partner and client are in danger, and my oxygen's running low..." A quick glance at the displays. "Answer a bit faster will you?"

His outburst, however, remained ineffective. More seconds passed before the alien's broad face lit up. It literally lit up: it finally understood.

"HAIRY BRIGHT ONE IN IRON WITH SMALL FEMALE?" It laughed, throwing its head back – the echo of its entirely improbable good humor thundered in Han's skull like the roar of a distant explosion. "THEY CRAWLED THROUGH THE DARKNESS TO BE WITH US IN OUR HUMBLE ABODE, WHICH CELEBRATES. SHALL WE GO?" The alien leaned closer to Han, carefully touching his helmeted head. "YOUR SHIP? YOU COME FROM NOMAD WORLD, HEARD OF COLORFUL WANDERER AWAKENING?"

"As a matter of fact..." With the danger of confrontation gone, Han felt himself relax a bit. He almost felt like laughing too – but then he quickly remembered: many had paid with their lives for such carelessness. He pulled himself together, cleared his throat. "That ship out there? Yeah, it's mine, but I don't really know the area. The planet's called Premont, far as I know. We're delivering machines and spare parts down there. We fled into the debris field to escape another ship; didn't count on the electromagnetic fields from the crystal blocks. Now we're out of power and in a heap of trouble." He began to lose his patience. "The Wookiee is my friend! And as for the girl..."

He didn't quite know how to continue. Fortunately, there was no need: the giant humanoid slowly raised its hand and nodded. It turned on its heel – its floor-sweeping robe sending shimmering dust flying – and silently signalled the Corellian to follow.

Solo obeyed. An almost childlike trust in the alien, something he had never experienced before, awoke within him. A being that, according to all known laws of physics, should be lying dead – for the temperature barely rose above cosmic freezing point in here, and the air pressure was so low that even an armored Imperial troop transport could easily jump over it – was alive and moving! And as if that weren't enough… Oh, stars!

From the side passages, more and more humanoids appeared. There was no doubt that they belonged to the same species, although Han noticed certain differences among them in terms of stature, skin tone, and clothing. There were men and women, older and younger, distinguished and even more distinguished, wise and weary. There were a few children – the shortest of whom was still a good two heads taller than the Corellian. Their garments were visibly handmade, using tools similar to those Han had observed on many backward worlds. The men wore numerous small amulets around their necks. The women had hair clips of wrought silver in their manes. One of the children was clutching some sort of toy: the lamp light gleamed on a figurine carved with remarkable care from dark meteorite metal…

Solo squinted, tilted his head to the side as he watched, then jolted and trotted after his guide. Reflections could wait. There were more important matters to attend to.

In the more central passages of the alien vehicle, the gas mixture produced by the unbelievably ancient machines grew denser. The temperature hovered around minus eighty, and clouds of vapor swirled around the humanoids' lips. The procession passed by spacious caves made cozy with the furs and trophies of gigantic beasts – these were obviously homes for families. The amber-colored glow continually grew stronger. Large crystals emitted this light – they could only be fragments captured from the debris field or carved from larger blocks.

So they use electromagnetic energy, Han thought. They must have known about the crystal and its properties for ages, and although their civilization isn't exactly technological, they understand how to harness the latent forces within it. These energies power the machines, drive the snail shell – and probably disable any ships that come close to them. A practical solution. But how do they do it? "ANCIENT KNOWLEDGE," answered the leading "man" to the unspoken question. "ONCE THEY USED IT DAY AFTER DAY. UNTIL ONE DAY, THE WRITING SAID. THEN NOTHING. SILENCE. EMPTY."

"I think I get it," muttered the Corellian, frowning. "The revered ancestors overdid it. They tried to unleash energies that are unreasonable to use for a single purpose. They ended up destroying the world properly..." He thought of the wars ravaging the galaxy, the Authority, the Emperor, and the Empire; his mouth tasted bitter. "Nowadays, you're more cautious, right?"

This time, he waited in vain for an answer.

"Who are these people and what do they want from us?"

Kirra stood, holding onto her two companions' arms, slightly trembling as she stared at the crystal formation glowing at the center of the alien vessel. The massive block was protectively, though incongruously, surrounded by various machines belching steam and smoke.

"Remnants of a long-lost race," explained Solo, casting searching glances at the aliens gathered in smaller groups. "Their ancestors lived on that hunk of rock we call Premont. Their whole culture grew up in this system, messing with the structures of crystals that are worthless to anyone who isn't telepathic. All our problems? We owe them to those crystals. The ark they're traveling on runs on electricity or something close to it, derived from the crystals. They use it to 'capture' anything interesting that pops up in the surrounding space. They're curious, and I can't blame them—it's been ages since they last swung by this region..." The Corellian, not knowing why, lowered his voice. "They say the Jedi Knights of the Old Republic knew the method they developed to release latent energies. Must have been effective, maybe too effective—it definitely led to the downfall of its creators. The traces of the pre-Premontian culture have been wiped out over the centuries." He shook his head grimly. "I doubt that either your father or your colleagues have heard of it."

"Pre-Premontian culture, remnants, Jedi Knights…!" Kirra looked up plaintively. "Down there, it's not archaeologists but entrepreneurs working, Captain! Uncovering the remains of alien cultures hasn't been among the set goals until now, but given the circumstances, I believe there's no obstacle to starting some supplementary scientific activities…." She took a breath of oxygen-rich air from Chewbacca's tank, then continued: "We can certainly expect many interested amateurs and professionals from the surrounding Sectors, and of course from the Empire's core systems. In better places, this is called tourism…" Her eyes sparkled. "My compliments, Captain! This detour, despite its inconveniences, will surely earn a place in our company's legends. Decades from now, it will likely be remembered as a turning point. And if we consider that I might owe my life to your intervention, we should discuss the matter of special compensation. Perhaps…"

"Slow down!" Solo warned. "I didn't do what I did for special compensation, only to collect the agreed payment – and to have Chewie grunting contentedly by my side. We're going back to the Falcon. If the Premontians agree, we'll recharge the system, deliver the machines, and be done. I'd like to leave as soon as possible. And as for what you said about archaeological finds, tourist paradises, and big money, you can forget about it!" He glanced at the aliens, who were constantly consulting or perhaps meditating. "On the way here, I saw a strange statue in the hands of one of the burly kids. It depicted a damn gundark."

"Gundark?" the girl asked, puzzled. "What's that?"

Solo did not look at her.

"You don't know," he said. " Almost no one knows this, but the gundark is an ancient life form, probably as old as some of the stars we see today. Experts say it was one of the most ferocious non-human species that ever ruled the galaxy. In battles with our ancestors—battles that make the Clone Wars look like small skirmishes—it was defeated and went extinct. Recently, experts managed to create an accurate depiction after an Imperial cruiser found a stasis capsule in open space with an intact, very much alive specimen inside. Only three people survived the encounter, and for safety's sake, the ship was reduced to an ionized gas cloud. The gundark's grand return didn't go as planned, which is lucky for all of us."

"Highly enlightening," Kirra nodded nervously. "But what does all this have to do with archaeological finds?"

"More than you might think," Solo muttered. "Archaeology's a respectable science, but this ark? It's history itself! What do you think, how old could it be?"

The girl glanced helplessly at the Wookiee, who snorted dismissively. He had no idea either.

"A few hundred, a few thousand years. What does it matter, Captain?"

It was as if a smiling mask had been forced onto the Corellian's face. His expression was a mix of fear and reverence as he looked at the aliens.

"There's no trace of the gundark in the half-million-year written history of the galaxy," he said quietly. "And there's no mention of a high culture on Premont in the records. The planet's oceans probably dried up about a million years ago, and this ark was built by beings influenced by marine life. That means the desiccation process hadn't even started in their time!"

"You don't mean…?"

"But yeah, ma'am," Solo continued dully, "these creatures are the remnants of one of the species that took down the gundark. I'd bet they live for hundreds of thousands of years; some of them probably still remember Premont as it once was. Premont—and the entire galaxy! They've never heard of the Old Republic, but their values are probably closer to those of the Jedi than anyone we know or ever will know. And now they've come back home…" His voice dropped even quieter. "Just think! What will the Emperor say? And his new, dark order of knights?" He looked directly into Kirra's eyes. "What will the Empire say?"

Kirra's eyes looked enormous behind the helmet's visor. She wanted to respond immediately, but it took several seconds before she found her voice. Han thought she sounded quite hoarse – but it was possible the issue was with his own headset, or perhaps the girl's throat microphone.

This makes no sense at all! The Empire doesn't need to know what's happening here. We operate as an independent economic unit; no regional governor or moff commands us!"

"The regional overseers and the moffs might think otherwise," Solo countered. "Their agents—you didn't hear it from me first—are everywhere, and the hyperwave frequencies are constantly monitored. There are no secrets from the Empire's nosy officials."

"Then what should we do?" Kirra asked. "Cover it all up? Continue on our way as if nothing happened? Captain, this is an event of galactic significance! Just think about it..."

"I've already thought about it," Han assured her, visibly tensing. "Anyway, no need to worry. It's not up to us—it's up to them..."

A few aliens approached them again. The group was led by an impossibly old and massive man, whom Solo immediately sensed was probably the commander of the vessel and the colony. If this position had still held any significance among the former inhabitants of Premont, they likely hadn't bestowed it on anyone more deserving over the past few million years. The old humanoid would have put any chieftain or leader from here to Coruscant to shame. His figure radiated dignity, his posture exuded strength, and in his gaze, besides wisdom, there was also something else: a timeless serenity.

Why should he worry? thought Han. After all, he has already faced every conceivable and inconceivable difficulty in the infinite expanse – perhaps more than once…

"LIGHT DWELLERS WITH METAL AND FUR-COVERED BEING," the alien began. "KIRRASOLOCSUBAKKAWOOKIE LIKE US LAND ON PLANET: STRANGE STRANGE AWAKENING…"

"He finds it peculiar," Han muttered. "And call me Jabba if he isn't right!" He stepped forward. "So, you've decided. You're landing with us. Well, this is…" he searched for the right expression, "…well, just great!"

The wrinkled-faced humanoid's gaze rested on him. It was a penetrating look, as if its owner was admiring the orderly parade of atoms that made up the Corellian's body. Then, a calloused, six-fingered hand – older than any living thing in the sky and under the sky – reached out and touched Solo's helmet visor.

"WANDERER," the voice resonated in his skull. He imagined it to be like the wind roaring over the wastelands of Premont. "ONE CAPTAIN TO ANOTHER, SEES, TRAVELS. DO NOT DELAY: THE MACHINE AWAKES, IT DEPARTS…"

Something jingled between the thick, gray fingers, then fell. Instinctively, the Corellian reached for it: he grasped a chain of heavy beads with a dull shine. The amulet hanging from it bore an unfamiliar engraving, but the gesture's meaning was clear without it. He glanced at the indicators on his deep-space suit: the oxygen pressure gauge was nearing the red zone. It was time for them to leave – the Falcon was indeed waiting.

"Wanderer," he echoed the word he had just heard, hoping his thoughts would convey his feelings. Because feelings are important sometimes – for beings of all kinds and ranks everywhere. He lifted his head and faced the old humanoid. "Traveler. You have returned home…" He cast a quick glance at the terrified Kirra, then looked back at the creature. "I hope what awaits you down there doesn't disappoint you!"

Chapter Three

The radio silence ended as they stepped back onto the Falcon. It was as if a dense, invisible curtain had been torn apart around them: now they could not only see but also hear the planet they were approaching by the second. A blue halo of flame flared at the ship's stern, and the slight vibration from the engines was felt everywhere. The cables that had served as anchor lines for the past hour detached from the hull one by one—the Millennium Falcon was free again.

"Bollux!" Solo called to the recently awakened and slightly unsteady work droid. "I need a systems check!"

"All systems are operational, sir," came the metallic, drawn-out voice. "Blue Max reports that ionization has dropped to normal levels. Whatever it was that paralyzed us, it no longer affects us. I hope everyone is feeling well..."

Chewbacca, seemingly unaffected by the forced spacewalk and the subsequent Wookiee-napping, now grumbled something between his teeth. The thought that there were humanoids larger than him in the universe unsettled him.

Couldn't have said it better, buddy," the Corellian smiled, though he wasn't in the best of moods. "Alright, let's see what the old girl can do!"

With an elegant maneuver, the Falcon finally rid itself of the cables snaking around it, dodging a few intrusive crystal blocks, and using its shields to deflect the dust swirling at the edge of the debris field. Within minutes, it left the clearing behind and prepared to dive into the thin atmosphere of the ancient planet.

Amid the general sigh of relief, K'brull stepped behind Solo, trying to appear as if he were studying the displays—though he was actually watching the snail-shell-shaped ship, which at that moment started moving again on the far side of the dust veil. The ancient vessel was wreathed in amber lightning: its systems were absorbing energy voraciously.

"And tell me," the Belzagorian whispered hoarsely, "tell me, are they reliable?"

"From our point of view, definitely," Solo replied, not without a hint of sarcasm. "Neither the ship nor the cargo really interested them. They're probably traders, but what they trade in, I've no clue. Based on what I saw inside their ship, they're skilled artisans. From what we know of their past, they're also extraordinary warriors. At first glance, you'd think they were fur trappers—but on hunting grounds like the ones they've traveled until now, neither you nor I would ever be able to hunt..."

He pondered as he watched the enormous ship, which now moved with surprising agility toward the distant curvature of Premont. Its passengers had been wandering beyond the edge of the galaxy for a very, very long time.

They had learned to respect travellers who knew and accepted danger, much like themselves. And they had recognized in them someone similar to themselves - could an honest adventurer ever receive a finer compliment?

He smiled faintly, but as he glanced at his instruments, his expression grew serious. What he saw reminded him that there were a few things to take care of before landing."

"You know, K'brull," he began, "I respect nearly all forms of bravery. Maybe it's because of my upbringing. Or maybe it's because where I come from, daring is a virtue. When a people build ships, they shouldn't shy away from tough opponents out there. My chosen profession, however, is guided by caution. You wouldn't believe what some folks will do for a good ship or even a free ride…"

He turned slightly in his seat, glancing at Chewbacca, who growled to emphasize the point. Besides K'brull, only two other Belzagorians were nearby, seemingly paying attention to other things.

"The situation forced me to leave the ship. I don't need to explain how tough that was, especially since I didn't trust you or your men one bit. But I went because I had to..."

Solo's right hand slipped to the grip of his blaster. K'brull likely didn't miss the gesture. "Do you remember what I asked your technician before I headed to the airlock?"

The Belzagorian didn't flinch; when he answered, his voice was very quiet:

"You said that if the situation called for it and if he had the means, to use the weapons against the intruder. Fortunately, it didn't come to that." A nervous cough. "Look, Captain..."

"As soon as I got back and caught my breath," Solo continued, "the first thing I did was check the readiness of the weapon systems. Your technician had both main laser cannons prepped for firing." He smiled. "Not a small feat, considering he's just an assistant mechanic who's never dealt with a YT-1300 freighter before—a model that stopped production long before he was born, and which has been through at least fifty different workshops to make it significantly different from every other YT-1300!"

K'brull let out a deep breath, straightened up, and took a step back. This, of course, made noise and caught the attention of his companions. The blue-skinned man's four-fingered hands hung loosely at his sides—Han understood this body language better than any words.

"You showed him which switches to operate," the Belzagorian said dryly. "We believed it was for the ship's safety…"

"Those switches," Solo said with a wolfish grin, "control the landing struts. At least, that's what they did when I left the Falcon. It takes a lot of practice to navigate my control panel despite misleading information—or to extract data from a mind-blocked, helpless droid's memory! Quite peculiar, don't you think? Especially considering your man had no clue about magnetic fluctuations…"

K'brull's lips curved downward. Disappointment? Anger? There was certainly no trace of the former helplessness in his angular face anymore.

"Let me explain…!"

"What else am I waiting for?" Han sighed, drawing his blaster. "Chewie, if you would…"

One of the Belzagorians lunged forward from the wall—the Wookiee's left-handed slap sent him flying to the gaming table. His companion tried to raise a palm-sized blaster from his thigh pocket, but the threatening barrel pointed at him made him reconsider.

"This might sound strange coming from me," Solo said apologetically, "but I'd like to see your papers, K'brull. Your fake ID, fake bill of lading, your fake quality certificates—everything. I might need them for an even dirtier job, right? You also have two minutes to whisper in my ear where that clever little beacon is that led your Imperial buddies to us. And I'm curious to know how many of them are waiting for us down there, and where."

The blue-skinned man glanced at his unconscious companion, then frowned as he turned back to the Corellian.

"You misunderstand the situation, Solo. I assure you…"

"I don't think we're the best candidates for insurance, K'brull, and dealing with those living fossils has tested both our nerves!" Han slowly rose from his seat, glancing at his snarling first mate. His blaster stayed aimed at the Belzagorian. "Some mistakes you just don't make twice. One of those is taking us for fools. Now, face the consequences!"

"The ship is full of my men," the blue-skinned man asserted. "If I call out…"

"I was wondering when you'd bring that up," Solo nodded slowly, then leaned towards the internal communicator microphone. "You there, Bollux?"

"Receiving, Captain," the work droid responded. "Order executed: the intruders have been neutralized."

"But…," the Belzagorian stammered.

Solo couldn't help but smile.

"The 'system check' is a coded command, K'brull. Once I give it, every hostile on the Falcon is to be incapacitated. In theory, a droid isn't allowed to use a weapon—even a stun weapon—on a living being. But sometimes rules get bent. We're alone. Why don't we clear up any misunderstandings once and for all?"

The Belzagorian glanced over Solo's shoulder, his expression unreadable. He didn't flinch even when Kirra burst in, followed closely by a robot wielding a bulky sonic rifle.

"What's going on here, Captain?!"

"We're just sorting out a few issues, ma'am. I suggest you stay put—things might get a little heated in here! What's the metal detector say, Bollux?"

"The girl is unarmed, sir. However, as for the other two…"

"Don't even say it!" Han stepped aside and leaned against the Wookiee's seatback. This time, the girl will listen and quietly back out of here. She'll wait, cheer us on—or try to figure out what we really loaded instead of machines and parts on lovely Belzagor!"

"Solo…" K'brull began.

"You've got about half a minute," the Corellian stated. "If you decide not to share your secrets, I'll make sure you're the first to reach Premont's surface!"

Kirra suddenly grasped the significance of what was said and jumped towards the door with an angry hiss. K'brull's remaining technician reached for her but failed to pull her back; Bollux's sonic rifle took him down. The paralyzing vibrations hit the girl as well, but with the droid's help, she managed to stay on her feet.

"A perfectly normal civilization," Solo said coldly. "Too bad, given their size, only one of them can fit behind a hostage…" He turned to Kirra. "Stay put, alright? I'm not done yet."

The blue-skinned man cleared his throat.

"You misunderstand the situation, Captain," he said in a surprisingly calm voice. "But you're right to keep the girl away from the cargo. I'm the only one who can move the containers. And I wouldn't want to be responsible for any accidents…!"

Chewbacca growled, leaned forward, grabbed the Belzagorian by the shoulder with his huge hand, and would have shaken him to his core if Solo hadn't calmed him down.

"Hold on, Chewie! Hold on, or else…"

"...or else you might as well turn your ship into a museum, Captain," K'brull finished for him, dully. "Because it won't be suitable for cargo transport anymore: the explosive charges we placed to protect the cargo could take out even a Corellian cruiser!"

Kirra gasped, and then did something that would have been astonishing to an outsider: she drew a knife. Han, hardened by the constant blows they had faced, didn't chastise his work droid, merely shrugged; he had seen more impressive acts from certain women in the worlds of the Ollam Sector. It was possible the weapon wasn't made of ordinary metal...

"Use your head, Solo!" K'brull continued, but cast an uneasy glance at the gleaming blade. "If we wanted you dead, we could've easily taken you out while you were outside. Or we could've called in the Star Destroyer right after you exited hyperspace to avoid any unnecessary risks in the debris field. Why do you think we didn't?"

"Why not?" Han snarled "Maybe because you don't like arriving in pieces and getting posthumous medals. What if the Destroyer's captain was having a bad day and started blasting us without asking questions? Raise a white flag at the airlock? Shout your boss's and liaison's names into the comms? What makes you think they'd listen? What makes you think they'd care?"

The Wookiee tightened his grip a little, lifting the Belzagorian's feet off the floor.

"There is... an obvious explanation," K'brull whispered. "Could I have a bit... of time to explain it?"

Solo grabbed Kirra's wrist; the knife's point was now barely two fingers' width from the blue-skinned man's throat.

"Chewie…!"

Reluctantly, Chewbacca loosened his grip a bit. The Belzagorian took a deep, endless breath; his skin, which had turned completely grey, soon regained its usual shade.

"Solo, you have no idea who we are or what binds us to the Empire. Even though you've been to some of the Ollam worlds, you can't grasp the true depth of the misery that Palpatine and his cronies have plunged us into!" He stared hard at Chewbacca, who growled and slowly lowered him.

"In my grandparents' time… Belzagor was a wealthy, reputable planet, home to new patents and quality machinery. And how long did it take for them to turn it into a dump? Do you have any idea how little time it took for the Emperor's occupying forces to deplete the last reserves of half a dozen systems? Look at me, Solo, and look at my people! We are typical representatives of Belzagor's second 'Imperial' generation. We aren't among the lucky few who got rich from the copper mining concessions, the sale of ancient lands, and custom-designed weapons. From childhood, we were taught to save money, words, air—even emotions. We have to make do with very little oxygen and hatred, Solo: that's all they left us. Agents of the Empire?—He laughed bitterly. "Believe me, Captain, we had a much more straightforward reason to stay with you, to breach our contract and tarnish our company's reputation, thereby losing our honor! Your appearance presented us with a unique opportunity to take a breath of fresh air—and to exact revenge on the Empire for the wrongs done to our civilization…"

He turned to Kirra. "The machines and parts you ordered were delivered to Gibbart VII on another ship, with proper documentation. The containers are stored and guarded at our company's expense. They can be collected at any time. Captain Solo will undoubtedly be willing to make this short detour after dropping us off at Premont with his current dangerous cargo. You will soon receive the precise coordinates of the landing site. He will descend, not obstruct the unloading, and then leave as originally planned: another five hundred credits await him as a reward for his efforts on Gibbart. We will also return an additional two thousand credits to your esteemed father, Miss Kirra. In return, we ask nothing more than that you do not bother us with further questions and remember us kindly despite the inconveniences."

"Hold on!" Solo raised his hand, completely forgetting about the blaster. "So you mean…"

"You'll get your money, Captain, with a little extra: can anyone ask for more these days?" K'brull's angular face brightened somewhat. "I must apologize for taking certain liberties on your ship. We only had a few days to familiarize ourselves with the systems; we had to rely mainly on observations and instincts, but I believe if the need arose, we would have managed with the weapons—perhaps even with the landing."

"Glad to hear it," Han muttered, imagining them trying to handle it. The performance of the Belzagorians, who were reputed for their technical skills in Ollam, regarding the Falcon did not excite him at all.

"Aside from placing the charges, we didn't change anything," K'brull tried to clarify. "As for what happened in the debris field… well, we were surprised by that too. I was a bit uncertain. These beings…"

"Nomads."

"What?" the blue-skinned man asked in confusion. He hadn't had the chance to examine the strange pendant hanging around Solo's neck. The Corellian was now fiddling with it absentmindedly, staring off into the distance. "Are you alright, Captain?"

Han was surprised himself. His eyes widened, and his fingers tightened around the grip of his blaster. When he thought of the giant humanoids and their vessel, it was as if something brushed against him. With the natural irritation of a man staring into the unfathomable depths, he furrowed his brow: enough! He had more important things to focus on...

"You mentioned nomads," the Belzagorian prompted, almost cringing under Chewbacca's reproachful gaze. Kirra stepped back, watching intently, though she hadn't put her knife away yet.

"It felt like I heard their voices," Solo muttered. "Impossible, of course, but…" He waved his left hand dismissively. "They call themselves nomads."

K'brull nodded hesitantly. The Millennium Falcon was descending deeper into the planet's atmosphere; in the increasing glow, the alien ship was no longer visible.

"Whoever or whatever they are, I'm glad we got away with just this much," he said. "On behalf of the Belzagor insurgents, I again apologize for the inconveniences. Believe me, we resorted to this solution out of utter desperation. We had to reach Premont to…"

"What's in the containers?" Han asked, beginning to tire of the unexpected twists. Routine job? Only the most determined xenologists and archaeologists dream of such things!

The blue-skinned man tilted his head to the side. There was no doubt he genuinely regretted the situation.

"Weapons, ammunition, explosives, and supplementary equipment," he listed in a flat tone. "Everything needed for a combat mission lasting two or three standard days. You see, Solo, the world we're about to land on is far from being as peaceful and deserted as it appears from up here. It has secrets. Secrets that even the most skilled mining engineer or archaeologist would struggle to uncover. Unfortunately, I can't say more..." He gave a faint smile to the girl. "Our commando's mission could be crucial for the uprising against the Sector, perhaps even the Empire. Your father will surely understand."

Han glanced at Kirra, preparing for another intervention—a woman from Ollam could easily become dangerous if things didn't go as she planned. And as for Ollam women armed with knives...

But the girl, who had stood motionless with an inscrutable expression, now sheathed the blade and—madness!—burst into deep laughter.

"My father would surely understand you, K'brull. He held similar principles all his life—until the very end..." It was impossible to tell whether she wanted to laugh or cry. "The end came about ten years ago; my political views were quite undeveloped at the time... My father, K'brull, was killed on Gibbart; the place where you sent those damned containers. He stood up to the Imperial governor, died for what he believed in, and taught me something my upbringing hadn't emphasized enough. I learned what hatred is!" Her face flushed, and she looked around with blazing eyes. "Since then, only the hope of revenge has kept me going. I've spent ten years of my life finding the right moment and place to strike back at the Empire with the same force it struck me. I found companions. We had money, equipment—and eventually, luck was on our side. We've been working on Premont for a long time, planning something only a well-trained group with perfect knowledge of local conditions could achieve. Just a few more days and a few minor details were all that was missing for the plan to come to fruition when…" She spun around and, in helpless rage, pounded the padded wall with both fists. Her straight, dark hair fell over her forehead, and her fingers turned white. But before Han, Chewbacca, or even the work droid could move, she turned back.

Her narrow face was an unwavering mask of self-control.

"What if we revive your squad and deactivate the charges protecting the cargo, K'brull? We'll be landing in minutes; it would be wise to find out whose cargo got lost along the way. Yours? Ours? Maybe both? After all, we have people around the Belzagor docks too... The container swap probably happened at the last minute, and if the Imperial intelligence had a hand in it... Well, it's possible we're transporting grain or even fertilizer for the grand cause. Let's see those containers! We can lament and apologize afterward. Because we've all lost, every one of us."

"Hold on a second!" Solo raised his voice. "Did I just hear that…"

But K'brull wasn't listening. He looked straight into Kirra's eyes; light spots appeared on his slate-gray face.

"So you too…"

"I hoped you'd catch on quicker," the girl said hoarsely. "Yes, I stand with the Rebellion. Like Rieekan, the deserter general of the Imperial Army. Like Bail Organa, the Viceroy of Alderaan…" She admired the view of Premont unfolding before them with clenched lips, avoiding Solo's gaze. "I am a rebel, just like you—and like almost everyone down there!"

Chapter Four

Something lurking beneath the planet's crust waited. There was nothing extraordinary about this: it was designed to wait and observe until its time came. Of course, it had no idea when its time would come; like other single-task machines, the concepts of today, yesterday, or tomorrow meant nothing to it.

It did not know boredom or stress—its designers, who had freed it from the burden of responsibility, also ensured it spent its days usefully. They endowed it with numerous senses, allowing it to comprehend, oversee, and control itsworld. This was, after all, its world. Those who served, protected, or opposed it did not know this—not even it was fully aware. Against the laser weapons and deliberate and accidental destructive devices of humans and other beings, it had one formidable argument—one more powerful than anything under Premont's sun...

It waited. It had not been given the ability to estimate the time spent waiting; this factor was irrelevant to its mission's success, so it had been eliminated, along with many other factors: emotions, excitement, satisfaction.

Yet, each time stimuli from the outside world reached it, they caused a change in its state of consciousness. Over time—a concept that carried no weight in its case—it learned to distinguish between "interesting" and "uninteresting" signals. Uninteresting were the sensations constantly bombarding its sensors: the howling wind, the swirling sand grains, the long, dry thunder during storms, the sluggish movements of man-made machines, the flow of energies through the passages of the subterranean world, the air swirling around certain identifiable flying objects... and, of course, the sounds that occasionally called to it. Its appendages had the ability to respond, so it did—but most of the time, it continued to listen outward, to listen and wait—for something.

One of the moments randomly plucked from eternity gained special significance for it when the unusual ship descended from the sky.

It was huge and strange, and the sensations it triggered were extraordinary. It tried to track its path, and when it failed, a kind of confusion arose in its mind that its creators would likely have interpreted as the machine equivalent of irritation. Among its secondary tasks was the recording and transmission of data on objects entering the atmosphere, but this time it responded to urgent messages with columns of zeros, and although it had control over certain anti-aircraft weapons, it did not deploy them.

It pondered. Its peripheral performance noticeably decreased as it focused all its energy on this complex, typically human activity. It was created in the likeness of mortal minds, and although most inhibitory factors were eliminated, it knew what foreboding was.

When it sensed the second ship descending into the atmosphere, its energy levels skyrocketed (much to the annoyance of some peripheral systems, that were without power for several minutes), and it quickly got to work. This time, it fared better: it identified the type of vehicle, its tonnage, and, based on the performance of the life support system, estimated the number of occupants on board—then it pondered again. What was the connection between these two extraordinary events? It had to find out—the success of its mission demanded it!

It followed the descending cargo ship with its "gaze." It was no secret where it was heading, and it had no doubts about its purpose. It knew what needed to be done.

At the moment of decision, long-dormant machines sprang to life. The temperature in one of the rooms designated for the crew began to rise. Electrical impulses surged through wires stretching dozens of kilometers; the crackling sparks might have been interpreted by any potential observers as signs of impatience. But the entity wasn't impatient; it was merely sounding the alarm for someone it could trust implicitly—unlike most mortals...

The Millennium Falcon rested on one of the landing pads at the ore extraction site, with ozone-scented vapor still swirling around its landing struts. Dust, however, was slowly settling all around, and through its veil, the silhouettes of massive mining machines loomed.

Sigmar Grattan, the man the newcomers might have addressed as Kirra's father, stood with a furrowed brow among his men, scrutinizing the ship. Han had an uneasy feeling under that scrutinizing gaze: it felt as if Grattan was calculating, weighing the risks and the trouble the battered vessel might bring.

"Whatever you're thinking, you better drop it," Han said, not too diplomatically. "My first mate is aiming right at you from inside."

The gray-templed, respectable-looking businessman—who could only be generously considered such—glared at the Falcon's belly turret, and then at Chewbacca, who stood with his large hand on the trigger, flashing his teeth as he watched the proceedings. The ramp had been lowered a few minutes earlier, but K'brull and his Belzagorian companions felt it was too early to disembark.

"The captain is a bit… distrustful," Kirra explained. "Considering the circumstances of the journey, not without reason." She glanced at the graying man. "It seems we owe him payment."

"But we can't even be sure he delivered the goods!" Grattan snapped. "If those gentlemen would be so kind as to disarm their bombs, we could find out more. If…"

"If K'brull did that, he'd be gambling, and he's not much of a gambler," Solo interjected. "He's traveled a long way to get here, and he has no interest in being thrown out just like that. He might not look it, but he's itching for a fight!"

"And just who would he fight against?" the graying man tried.

Han looked up at the sky. It was dusk; the debris field cut a glowing swath across the heavens, with a small moon shining silver beyond its arc. Spotlights along the perimeter of the facility were flicking on—Han's instincts told him there were probably infrared ones too. "This isn't getting us anywhere," he said, dejectedly. "To some extent, I have to represent the interests of all my clients, especially when I have no idea who's gonna reimburse me." He sighed. "If I decide to take the goods back to Gibbart along with the Belzagorians, I'm risking two things: my ship and my neck. They're a patient bunch, sure, but after everything that's happened, I can't afford to disappoint them. They've burned all their bridges to be here." He glanced at Kirra. "I think you'd find them useful, no matter what kind of mess you're diving into."

"Amateurs," Grattan said. "Isn't that what you said at the beginning?"

"I just said they're not exactly professionals," Han reminded him. "But there are certain things they're better at than all of us combined."

"Your work droid took out seven of them," the graying man hissed. "A mere robot! Where we're headed, there are plenty of machines, but far more dangerous people who..."

"My 'mere' robot would have caught you too, Grattan, mark my words! And as for the Emperor's stormtroopers and the rest of the Imperial elite, don't bother introducing them to me or K'brull's team. They know exactly what they're up against. Who are you to deny them their shot?"

"Their shot?" the rebel commander burst out. "What chance are you talking about?"

"Everyone should decide for themselves where and how they meet their end," Solo stated firmly. "It's all about free will, equality, and other such values. That's what you're fighting for, right?"

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but Kirra cut him off:

"Are you saying you believe in the cause too, Captain?"

"I believe in free will, definitely," Han replied cautiously, "since it's one of the essential conditions for free enterprise. But payment discipline is just as important. You understand what I mean, right?"

The girl's expression darkened. She looked past Han's shoulder, as if she had discovered something particularly interesting among the low hills.

"We understand," Grattan said curtly. "I have to yield to your arguments, Solo: there's a constitutional lawyer lost in you. Let's see those containers! It would be wise to finish unloading before dark..."

"What are you worried about?" Kirra asked.

"Recon droids. A dozen of them are lurking around here lately." At Grattan's signal, a few rebels stepped closer. "If you have no objection, Captain…"

"Stand down, Chewie!" Han said into the communicator. "We're coming up."

He led the way, followed by Kirra, Grattan, and the technicians. Kuka brought up the rear, his armor occasionally reflecting the spotlight's glare.

The two rebel groups met in the lounge. The Falcon's walls had certainly echoed more cordial words in the past…

"Greetings, K'brull."

"The pleasure is ours."

"We're not glad to see you at all."

"I don't doubt it."

"The bombs…?"

"The conditions…?"

The old man glanced at Kirra for help, then cleared his throat. "As we see it, Premont belongs to everyone. Anyone has the right to travel here and engage in a firefight at the first opportunity, get captured, or even die heroically—you're no exception. Captain Solo has made it clear that you have no intention of turning back. In the interest of potentially valuable cargo and peace, I offer cooperation. With certain reservations, of course, which it would be wise to accept without further scrutiny."

"Do you expect us to obey?"

"Just to use your judgment," Grattan shook his head. "We're a well-coordinated team, and we've spent a lot of time preparing for the operation here. Our chances of success depend on sticking to the schedule and not doing anything reckless. Can you vouch for your men?"

"Of course."

"So, contrary to expectations, we do have something in common," the graying man smiled. Han was starting to find him likable. "If it were otherwise, we'd all be packing up right now. Come on, K'brull, let's take a look at those blasted containers! It's time to find out whether luck favored you, us, or perhaps the Empire…"

They set off. This time, Chewbacca led the way; Han lagged behind a bit, matching his steps to Kirra's. "It's coming together, isn't it?"

Kirra's gaze was enigmatic. She seemed to handle Han's arguments well, but his style was clearly harder for her to accept. She nodded slowly.

"I suppose I owe you thanks," she said. "You risked your life for me up there, and you took risks for me down here too when you agreed to mediate." She smiled faintly. "Did it never occur to you that I might betray you?"

"As a matter of fact," Han replied with a frown, "it did. But when I saw Grattan and the others…." He searched for the right words. "They're such hardcore revolutionaries that any scout droid would be scrap metal if it mistook them for harmless entrepreneurs!"

"Fortunately, the Imperials are not such keen observers, Solo," the girl smiled again. "It's also possible, however, that their understanding of people leaves something to be desired…"

Han mulled over her last words with some amusement, then, having learned to fear strong emotions, asked, "What are the Imperials up to here?"

Kirra hesitated, then decided to answer, "No one knows for sure. If you're interested in the details, Grattan will probably…"

"Come on!" Han flashed his infamous smile at the girl. "Trust me, okay?"

"It's not primarily a matter of trust," Kirra shook her head. "We really don't know for sure what kind of experiments the Empire is conducting beneath Premont's surface. The intelligence reports are contradictory—likely intentionally so. The most probable scenario, though, is that it's some kind of new weapon..." She glanced around. "Apparently, a giant battle station is being built somewhere in the galaxy, Solo. The project is overseen by Grand Moff Tarkin, the governor of the Utapau Sector, alongside a member of the Emperor's dark order of knights. You've heard of the Sith Lords, right?"

"A little," Han muttered discontentedly. He couldn't stand the rumors about mysterious forces and lightsaber-wielding lunatics—and the mention of the Utapau Sector filled him with deep disgust. "They're funding this?"

"Not them," the girl sighed, "but the Tagge family."

Han looked puzzled. "Should I have heard of them too?"

"I doubt it. Suffice it to say, they're a wealthy and influential clan, whose head was granted a barony by the Emperor himself. The esteemed Orman Tagge! Most of his sons serve in the Imperial Fleet, one of them in Grand Moff Tarkin's general staff."

"Lucky guy."

"Yeah, that's right," the girl nodded, losing patience. "What's even more important is that the Tagge estate is just a few light-years from Premont. Everything suggests that this world—along with several others like it—is considered wholly theirs by the baron and his family…"

"That's their business!"

"…they exploit…" Kirra continued.

"It happens."

"…and if their interests demand it, they'll destroy it," the girl finished. "The reports say that the new battle station is being designed to destroy entire planets." She turned to face the Corellian. "Can you think of a better testing ground than an old, deserted world on the edge of the galaxy, Captain?"

Han was genuinely shocked. "Entire planets…?" He suddenly—without knowing why—thought of the strange nomads who had returned from a long journey and had likely also touched down somewhere far away. "But…."

"You heard right. We have to stop this atrocity at any cost. If we can cooperate with the newcomers, maybe we can still…"

The noise coming from the cargo hold cut her off. The door opposite them flew open, and Chewbacca came running, Grattan right on his heels. They both looked distressed. The Wookiee immediately bellowed the ominous news in his rough language.

"What do you mean you can't disarm it?" Han was baffled. "He placed them, didn't he? Chewbacca assured me that this turn of events is just as surprising to K'brull. Moreover…

"What do you mean it might EXPLODE?" Solo shouted. He grabbed one of the Belzagorians by the shoulder, who was already heading for the exit, shoving Grattan aside. "What's going on in there, you damn amateurs?!"

The blue-skinned technician surprisingly broke free with considerable strength and was gone. Solo spun around—following the first escapee were the rest.

"K'brull!"

It was as if a shiny, lacquered mask hid the Belagorian commander's face—yet even a red-blooded human would be sweating profusely in such a situation.

"Captain…!"

"What are you doing to my ship, you bastard?!"

"Captain Solo, I assure you…"

"Out!" someone bellowed. "The charges have been activated! The whole thing will blow in minutes!"

Chewbacca's mournful roars were drowned out by the blaring of the Falcon's alarms: one of the overzealous technicians had managed to activate the internal sprinkler system. In moments, they were all drenched; Bollux struggled to stay upright, continuously holding his arms out to protect Blue Max.

Grattan grabbed Solo by the shoulder.

"We have to go, Captain! There's nothing more we can do for your ship…!"

"Let go of me!"

Outside, in the twilight, the sirens started wailing.

Han's left arm froze in midair. The older man's mouth curved downward—as if he had been expecting such a turn of events for some time.

"When it rains, it pours…" he muttered, then looked at Kirra. "Get out, kid! Gather everyone and lead them as far from the ship as possible! We'll meet at the mine entrance after the explosion!"

Han Solo felt dizzy. For once, he felt like it was all over. And to think it seemed like such a smooth job!

"The Empire...?"

The graying man's half-smile mingled with a hint of bitterness.

"Bullseye, Solo! Thanks to you, the Belzagorians, or who knows who, they've lucked out this time. We have to fight!"

When a man anticipates the destruction of his only possession, the meaning of his life, and is running for his own he doesn't think—his instincts take over. He senses things he wouldn't notice under normal circumstances…

Han Solo ran. He saw energy beams sweeping the rocky ground around the doomed Falcon's ramp. He saw Chewbacca heading toward some piece of equipment with Kirra, miraculously reaching it. He saw Grattan fall wounded beside one of the ship's supports, then grab his weapon again and open fire on the speeder bikes rushing out from the barracks. His companions wasted no time: one overloaded vehicle immediately burst into flames, became uncontrollable, and crashed into a pile of rocks—white-armored figures tumbled onto the scorched ground.

"To the left!" someone shouted.

Han ducked, rolled behind a stack of pipes, and flicked on the targeting laser of his blaster with his right thumb. He had only moved about ten steps away from the Falcon when he noticed something.

Han furrowed his brow and shot the stormtrooper in the chest, the one who had jumped off his damaged speeder and was trying to take down Grattan as he ducked behind the landing strut.

Squinting, he waved to the older leader: run!

And then he saw it again.

In the circle of light seeping from the interior of the Millennium Falcon, a shadowy figure crouched and worked feverishly. The pungent-smelling extinguishing fluid streamed down the ramp in torrents, but the internal alarms had already fallen silent. Instead, the lift-off lights had come on, which usually happened after the ramp was raised and the hatches were sealed. But now...

Han ducked behind the pipes just in time. A high-energy beam shot from one of the guard towers, burning a hole just inches above his head in the tough plasteel. Sparks rained down on the Corellian, who, albeit belatedly, recognized the situation: "Grattan! Get out of there!"

The graying man rose to one knee, ready to run, when another shot hit him—this time piercing his left leg and sending him crashing to the damp ground.

Rage surged through Solo like an icy wave. "Chewie!" he bellowed, hoping his first mate would hear him through the chaos. "Sniper at nine-two-nine!"

Wookiees are not only known for their great strength but also for their sharp hearing and steady hands: moments later, a laser bolt as thick as a human arm struck the guard tower, silencing the Imperial sharpshooter forever.

Han was beside Grattan in two leaps. "Damn it..."

He didn't have to worry about the bleeding, but there were other issues: someone was shooting at him from his own ship's ramp as he bent to pull the wounded man aside. Grattan's eyes, narrow slits filled with pain, met Han's. "Get out of here, Solo! I'm done for."

"Fed up with it, huh? I can understand that..." Solo hissed, pulling Grattan under the cover of the ship's landing leg. A missed shot left a scorch mark above his head on the Falcon's armor. "If you're waiting for the explosion, relax: someone set us up, the ship's not in danger. But there's a scumbag inside trying to make a getaway. Seems like we brought something valuable in those containers, judging by how half the Emperor's army is on our tail because of it!"

"Why are you doing this?" Grattan wondered. "Why?"

"I could tell you, but in two minutes, you'll see!" Han growled. "An Imperial agent is about to steal my ship! It's bad enough if they identify it—worse if they tear it apart, as they usually do! You think I don't know them?" He kneeled to look around. "Stay here!"

"Don't worry," the graying man whispered. "I won't move..."

Solo sprang from cover and ran toward the ramp with a hoarse battle cry..

...only to come face-to-face with a two-and-a-half-meter-tall figure clad in cosmic armor.

Han's voice died in his throat. He realized what he was up against, and as the armored figure raised its left hand to aim a ten-barreled mini rocket launcher, Han dove to the side.

The death-bringing cloud of mini rockets whooshed past his shoulder, striking another guard tower. Burning wooden debris rained down on the stormtroopers who, learning from the rebels' example, sought cover among the barracks, awaiting reinforcements.

"Walkers!" someone shouted. "Walkers!"

Solo appreciated the warning, but he had enough trouble with the Imperial agent clad in elite armor. He rolled over his shoulder, fired two shots at the smoke-tinted faceplate, and then dove behind an earth mound without waiting to see the result. The agent sent a white-hot plasma ball after him, then slowly, almost hesitantly, turned toward Grattan.

"Hey!" Han bellowed, shooting at the monster again. "Over here, you bastard! Here!"

Another figure emerged from the robotic figure's shadow. This one wore the attire of a Premont miner, but his shoulders and chest were protected by brightly coloured energy-absorbing armour. He sidled up to the wounded man, hefted him over his shoulder, and dashed toward the Falcon's ramp. The armoured guard slowly turned, providing inaccurate but powerful covering fire for his more agile companion.

Solo adjusted the energy setting on his blaster, gritted his teeth, and shot the traitor's right knee, melting it. The man collapsed. The space trooper quickened his pace, trampling over him. With a claw-like hand, he roughly grabbed the man and dragged Grattan onboard like a rag doll. The ramp rose, the freighter's engines kicked up a storm of sand—and Han realized bitterly that he had lost the game.

All of it.

A bipedal patrol walker approached through the rubble. Its heavy steps shook the ground, its viewports gleamed like midnight eyes, and its onboard blasters kept the slowly rising Corellian in their sights.

"You wanna play?" Han panted, disheartened. "Fine, let's play!"

He aimed his blaster.

The walker, however, didn't shoot. Its crew seemed startled. The clumsy machine took a step back—then another. Han heard a deafening roar from behind him: his own ship, the Falcon, was taking off with a cargo worth a fortune, maybe more.

"Come on!" he shouted at the massive walker. "Fight!"

The war machine's servomotors whirred, the cockpit turned a quarter rotation, and its onboard weapons desperately searched for a target—only for it to appear and latch onto the walker.

With a short swing and devastating force, a five-ton fist came crashing down, and the pride of the Imperial army staggered back like a punch-drunk boxer. Its central stabilizer—along with its blasters and spare fuel tank—came crashing down as scrap metal. Hot oil splattered, and sparks flew.

Chewbacca's triumphant roar thundered across the camp—from the open cockpit of a twenty-ton, semi-intelligent excavator.

"Get back, Captain!" Kirra shouted down. "We'll pepper that bastard!"

The Imperial walker attempted evasive maneuvers, then charged at the tracked vehicle, aiming to crush its defenseless operators. Chewbacca responded with a precise, brutal punch from the machine's giant arm, followed by two smaller claws that swept the walker's legs out from under it.

The war machine crashed to the ground, black smoke billowing from its joints as its engines seized. Two soot-covered figures clambered out of the mangled wreckage and ran back towards the Imperial positions, where white metal gleamed in the light of Premont's moons.

Solo watched them with a steady gaze as he lowered his blaster. Those guys were lucky—they had somewhere to run.

Unlike him and Chewbacca...

The surviving rebels regrouped by the mine entrances as the night entered its third hour. They were grimy, exhausted, and resolute—though they had broken the Imperial assault, the cost had been high. Of Grattan's fifty men, twenty-two lay dead, including the commander himself, and many others were wounded. K'brull's unit fared better, or maybe they just had better positions: they counted four dead and one lightly injured. Kirra took command, her presence a stabilizing force between both groups.

"Let's see then," the girl began wearily. "Where do we stand, Captain?"

Solo, troubled by the loss of his ship and worried about Grattan's fate, swallowed hard and shrugged.

"Let's assume those who aren't here by now have fallen. It might sound dumb, but we didn't actually do too bad: if we had reacted any slower, if your 'surveyors' and 'miners' weren't so prepared, and if Chewie hadn't handled the grader right away, none of us would've made it past the first few minutes. From what I saw, they sent over two hundred infantry—including two squads of stormtroopers—a dozen speeder bikes, and five AT-STs against us. On some planets, that's the entire Imperial garrison.

He scanned the exhausted faces around him. "We destroyed or disabled most of their transport vehicles, took out three walkers, damaged another, and the fate of the fifth is uncertain, but since it hasn't tried to break through, it's likely facing issues too. The Imperials breached the fence from the southeast, got into the storage buildings, and dug in along the barracks line here, here, and here…" He marked the enemy positions on the blueprint. "We're in a stalemate, and that's unlikely to change before dawn: everyone except the guards can catch their breath."

"What do you expect after dawn?" one of the rebels inquired.

"An airstrike," Han replied bluntly. "If the Tagge clan's private army has walkers, we can assume they have atmospheric combat craft, maybe even TIE fighters. At dawn, they'll pull back the infantry units and start bombing us. We'd better be far away or deep underground by then. I assume," he glanced around hopefully, "you've prepared emergency exits in advance…"

"Of course," Kirra sighed. "The snag is, the traitor who managed to escape might know about all of them."

"I doubt the Imperials have enough men to guard every exit," the Corellian shrugged. "I'm more curious about what else that guy knows."

"Probably not much," K'brull muttered. "I hate to say it, but he was most likely one of us."

The girl gave a faint smile. "So much for common ground... The facts show that neither group's internal security is perfect."

The girl smiled faintly. "So much for common ground… The facts show that neither group's internal security is perfect."

"What about the guy the captain took down?" one of the armed men asked.

"He won't be troubling us anymore," Solo quickly assured them. He didn't elaborate on why. Enough people had seen Chewbacca steering his machine towards the Falcon's empty berth after taking out the walker.

The Wookiee now let out a bone-chilling growl to underscore Han's point. He had done an impressive job with the ancient excavator: before running out of fuel, he had taken down two more Imperial patrols and drawn the stormtroopers' fire while the scattered rebel units retreated. The heroic machine now lay burnt out and blackened in the open area opposite the barracks—it had reached the end of its road once and for all.

Kirra propped her chin on her left hand, blowing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "The two agents were probably working independently," she mused aloud. "It's pure coincidence that their paths crossed here on Premont. They likely didn't have time to coordinate. One of them—probably the Belzagorian—fiddled with the timed bomb's trigger mechanism to buy time by taking the ship. The other used the opportunity to send a radio message to the clan's units amid the chaos. He didn't have the chance to properly equip himself from our containers…"

"And that lapse cost him his life," Han finished with a touch of irony. "That's all well and good. The armored guy who escaped knows next to nothing about Grattan's group's preparations here—great. But what about the commander himself?"

A shameful silence fell. They had all overlooked this little detail.

"Grattan's still alive," the Corellian continued. "He's badly wounded, but I'll be a gundark's uncle if they don't patch him up. If for no other reason than to use a mind probe on him. They'll get everything they want to know from him in no time. Then it'll be too late to come up with new plans or try to pull off the old ones! If you ask me, we need to get off this rock as fast as we can!"

"And how, might I ask?" Kirra raised her voice. "There are still about fifty of us here, Captain, and as you might guess, we're not exactly overflowing with suitable spacecraft. To be precise, we didn't keep a single ship here to avoid arousing the Empire's suspicion…"

"Which, by the way, was solidified long ago," Solo noted acidly. "And yes, you can ask how we're going to fly out of here."

"You're not suggesting…?"

"Yes, my lady..." The Corellian grinned fiercely. "Our common interests just got a whole lot deeper tonight. Forget about the small fortune you owe me—in return, I expect you to consider my interests, which, by the way, are all our interests! We need to get the Millennium Falcon back."

Kirra sighed heavily, leaning back in her seat. She suddenly looked much more worn and exhausted. The armed men and women exchanged glances, some already gathering their belongings.

"I knew you'd come up with something like this, Solo," Kirra said. "You'll do anything, risk anything for that ship, won't you?" She stood up and dusted off her jacket. "Let's say we agree with your arguments. If we say yes, there are still a few minor details missing. We need to find that Imperial base we've been searching for years without success. We need to get in—without the hoped-for weapons and supplies, with a reduced number of troops, right under the nose of their prepared and alert guards, and without Grattan… Isn't that a bit much?"

Han also stood up. He signaled to the work droid, taking the high-powered infrared binoculars it had scavenged from a fallen speeder patrol's saddlebag. Chewbacca was already by his side. The Corellian scanned the positions of the Imperial soldiers, then raised the device higher, marveling at the star's veiled glow—the way one looks longingly at the lights of home.

"Don't worry!" he declared determinedly. "I got an idea…"

Chapter Five

The officer, who enjoyed the absolute trust of the ruler of the underworld, did not sleep; he awaited alertly for dawn. For clarification, it should be noted that he never slept—those who knew him (or rather thought they knew him) might have thought otherwise, but it didn't matter. The officer was an ideal soldier in many respects; the fact that he served here, rather than in the heart of the Empire or on the feverishly constructed Death Star, was justified by purely subjective reasons: the emperor, who once, as a human, called himself Palpatine, couldn't stand the hybrids —except for one.

To be a hybrid, from the officer's perspective, meant something different, a distinction, a superiority. Few among those like him had risen as high as he had. The gold braids on his black uniform and the flashes of his dark eyes commanded respect and urged caution. This was how he wanted it. At times, this pretence wearied him: under normal circumstances, his eyes were as lifeless as stones, as lifeless as the world whose soil he had treaded since his return.

The fact that he was technically a war hero (and, of course, a holder of the Imperial Durasteel Eagle Cross) deterred almost everyone from coming near him, yet he did not suffer. The being whose orders gave meaning to his new life had somehow made him a part of its own entirety: they were one, like an arm and the iron-hard fist ready to strike.

On the platinum strip affixed to the left side of his impeccably fitting uniform's chest, the name Valance was inscribed – though this no longer held any real significance.

The officer had been standing motionless for hours behind the barricade raised by the stormtroopers, awaiting the dawn. In his brain, which controlled silicon-cell reinforced, poly-fiber muscles and artificial organs, stimuli flickered at lightning speed by human standards. An ocean of questions and answers. A flood of impressions. His vision and hearing were much more refined than those of ordinary mortals – his sense of smell could have been as well, but his calibrators did not pay special attention to it. No one could fault his sense of smell: he could detect abnormalities and danger from afar, like the most dangerous predators. However, the passion for the hunt had long since disappeared from him: what he did, he did out of sheer sense of duty; he no longer asked for nor expected anything from his life.

"It's very quiet over there, sir," remarked the senior member of the speeder bike patrols, a twenty-something corporal. Both his captain and lieutenant had perished in the battle fought at dusk. He offered his own infrared binoculars to the officer dressed in black, then caught himself and slid them back into their case. "No movement."

The hybrid major nodded but remained silent; he felt that all necessary words had already been spoken. He was neither disheartened by failure nor would he have been elated by a brilliant victory. His master's indifference had rubbed off on him; he sensed that the events in the camp were not decisive in the overall outcome. According to reports, the unregistered freighter had landed smoothly and was safe at the base. Now it was up to the isolated, divided enemy—they only had to wait…

After sunrise, atmospheric bombers arrived under the cover of two TIE fighters. One earth geyser after another erupted where the rebels' warehouses and barracks had recently stood. The action lasted barely five minutes, but it took an hour for the dust to settle. Imperial units approached the ruins with increased caution from three directions. New patrol walkers tramped in their wake. Later, around noon, they brought in work machines and excavators to help uncover the entrance to the tunnel system mentioned in the agent's report. The sappers successfully disarmed one abandoned mine, but four others escaped their attention: the detonations damaged the machinery, immobilized two walkers, and caused significant damage to both equipment and lives. The officer frowned as he stared at the distant horizon.

The rebels had vanished without a trace.

Han Solo had admit: Grattan and his team hadn't wasted their time in recent years. When Kirra and the others mentioned shafts and tunnels, he envisioned foxholes, narrow connecting corridors, and airless passages, the kind that could be found by the thousands across the galaxy—wherever conflicts raged, oppressors and the oppressed lived... Thanks to the training and equipment of the Premontran freedom fighters, they had been able to undertake a much more ambitious venture. First, they wove tunnels through the hills surrounding their camp; then, emboldened by the Empire's inactivity, they ventured further: they carved out storage rooms, air vents, halls serving as shelters, and even hangars into the old planet's crust. They didn't have much to fear from native animals or plants: Premont's evolution had long played its last cards, and only tiny life forms, enduring all hardships and scavenging for leftovers, were left to thrive on the surface.

After successfully navigating the first few kilometers of this man-made labyrinth, Han thought there might even be space for vehicles down here.

There was.

As distant mine explosions shook the ground, the team reached a sealed metal gate. Kirra, as if performing the most natural act in the world, dug out an infrared remote, entered the appropriate code on the tiny keyboard, and smiled contentedly when the servomotors whirred to life.

"Belzagorian craftsmanship..."

Under the ground, on the ground leveled with plasma cutters, a few target vehicles were waiting under canvas covers.

On the plasma-cut ground, beneath waxed canvas covers, several specialized machines awaited. All of them hailed from the manganese mines under Imperial control on Anthem II. Solo suddenly thought of Lando Calrissian, the era's most audacious swindler, who had once made a living selling and then stealing back machines just like these. Apparently, this shipment had never been recovered.

"Get in!" urged the girl. "We've good reason to think our opponents will reach this place sooner or later; we'd like them to find only the tarps and empty power cells!"

K'brull, who was working with two of his technicians to set up another nasty trap, looked up.

"If we had coordinated our needs earlier, we could have provided you with top-quality echo-cancellation devices, miss! Such passages can be made surprisingly undetectable provided…"

"Provided a few spies in the group to make blueprints of them," Han interrupted, jumping onto the nearest electric cart. Chewbacca followed effortlessly, while Kuka, carrying Blue Max, struggled to clamber on. "Let's see the next surprise!"

The caravan of carts soon set off, moving away from the scene of the clash with increasing speed. The path descended for a long time, then—after about half an hour—it began to ascend. After another thirty-some minutes, Solo had the feeling that they were no longer underground but inside a mountain. Amber-colored light seeped through cracks in the rock wall: it could have been sunlight, or the glow of one of the strange crystal formations.

"Impressive," the Corellian muttered. "All that's missing are skeletons in chains, shrouded ghosts, and moans, I swear...!"

Chewbacca thought it wise to mention that there should be no talk of chains in the near future.

The glow intensified. The boulders became increasingly fragmented; before the passengers on the carts, a breathtaking panorama of a long-dried river valley unfolded. Crystals indeed grew on the steep stone walls, exact replicas of those that made up Premont's notorious debris field. They vibrated with vibrant light, which visibly unsettled the remaining members of Grattan's group.

"What's wrong?" asked K'brull. Since he no longer had to conserve oxygen, the blue hue of his skin had deepened, just like his companions'. Breathing freely was a new experience for all of them, slightly accelerating their life rhythm. "What's wrong now?"

"The crystals..." Kirra whispered. "We've never seen them like this... before. As if..."

"As if they've awakened," Han helped out. He instinctively reached for his forehead, then his hand strayed to the medallion, the gift from the Nomads. "They must've sensed they're no longer alone."

"That sounds rather... absurd," muttered the spindly Belzagori. "At least from a purely scientific standpoint. If I hadn't seen what happened in the debris field recently..."

"But you did see it," hissed the girl. "We all did, just as we see this. Are you waiting for more evidence? Lightning and such? I'd rather do without that!"

Chewbacca grunted in agreement. This was the first time he completely shared Kirra's opinion.

So did Solo.

Meanwhile, Bollux opened his chest plate so that Blue Max could also observe the unusual phenomenon.

"The captain is probably right," the little device summarized its observations. "These crystals—if they are indeed crystals—are sources of significant amounts of energy. Perhaps this is the so-called 'Force within matter' that the mystics of old times called Ashla..."

"I call it static induction," Solo returned to reality, staring intently at the small computer's deep red photoreceptor. "What you're thinking of is atomic energy, a much more dynamic form of nature's self-expression!"

"There's no mistake, sir," Max replied in its childlike voice. "Atomic energy and similar para-forces were given different names by your knowledgeable ancestors. This was Bogan, a kind of negative radiation that influences the fate of living organisms for the worse. However, based on what we know about this world's former inhabitants, the Nomads, I doubt they derived their power from Bogan. They were typical Ashla beings..."

At this point, Chewbacca had had enough of the philosophy and let out a blood-curdling roar. Bollux promptly closed his chest plate.

At the end of the path leveled by the ground graders, another metal gate appeared. Han, learning from past experiences, was not particularly surprised by the size of the storage room hidden behind it. However, he was astonished by the equipment that emerged from under the tarps.

"Take a look, Chewie! I'll be damned if these aren't Incom ML-7s! Congratulations, General!" He squinted appreciatively at Kirra. "Whoever steals more than one of these models is really someone. I need the name and address of your fence—I'd like to recommend them to a very exclusive club, if you don't mind!"

"Amphibians have the advantage..." Solo admired the streamlined bodies of the atmospheric flyers. With these machines, they could reach almost anywhere on Premont's surface: they had taken a significant step closer to solving their problem, namely, reaching the Millennium Falcon. "What's the status of the armament?"

"Standard guns facing forward, fixed-mounted blasters in the side doors," Kirra said. "Given the local conditions, it doesn't seem like much, but we had to make do. Speed and maneuverability were our main priorities."

"Then let's relocate quickly!" suggested Han. In truth, he couldn't wait to be airborne again: he felt oddly vulnerable in "ground" combat. "Is the hiding place where you're putting most of the crew secure?"

"As secure as any hideout can be these days," Kirra nodded. "It's a natural formation, selected by experts from maps well before our detachment arrived. Only the autopilots of the transports know the exact coordinates. It's a simple but effective precaution. We expected to wait there after destroying the experimental plant until the frigate sent for us arrived..." She hesitated. "The question is whether it will manage to get here at all, with an Imperial Star Destroyer orbiting the planet."

"You always learn something new," Han shook his head. "In this case, the lesson is: you should ensure a way out not only in theory but in practice as well."

"You're Corellian," the girl murmured as she climbed into one of the atmospheric craft. "You were born a trader; you'll never understand. This war is about mor than logistics."

"Every war is about logistics," Han stated. "Takes money and some stake in the game..." He waited until everyone had taken their designated seats, then touched a few switches on the console. A tremor ran through the ship's body as the engines awakened. "By the way, if I were really the insensitive jerk you think I am, why would I be doing all this?"

It took Kirra several seconds to find her voice—she hadn't been prepared for this.

"Why? For your ship, of course, which you can only get back with our help! For the money you hope to get from us and the deposit the Belzagorians placed, about fifty light-years from here! You... you're just a common, cynical adventurer!"

"Adventurer..." Han savored the word. "I like the sound of that." With that, he turned the engines to maximum power and called out, "Hold on!"

The hidden hangar door in the depths of the mountain opened just long enough for the formation of five ships to zoom out. Four atmospheric flyers immediately turned north, staying close to the ground as they headed towards the rendezvous point. Kirra watched them until they disappeared behind the low hills—gliding close to the ground to evade Imperial locators and patrols—then turned to Solo.

"So where are we headed?"

Han didn't answer. Though he secretly longed to gain altitude, he kept descending lower—something the pilots of the departing vehicles wouldn't have dared to attempt. Steep rock walls flashed by on either side of the ML-7. The river valley continued on the surface, stretching for hundreds of kilometers like a jagged scar across Premont's face. The depth, as the escapees could see, exceeded fifteen hundred meters in places, and it was wide enough for a standard shuttle to turn around. Solo, of course, had no intention of turning around. On the contrary, he aimed to get as low as possible, using the canyon as a shield, causing momentary annoyance to the life forms that had chosen this secluded spot for their extinction.

Chewbacca, finding his seat too cramped, grumbled for a while before making himself comfortable on the rubber floor, watching the instruments from there. The array of green lights and empty tracking screens almost lulled him when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He immediately perked up and roared a warning.

Metal gleamed on the horizon as the detected objects changed course. They had been flying south, likely missing Kirra's four retreating units. The fifth, piloted by one of the galaxy's finest, wasn't so lucky: its trail of dust, though quickly dispersing, was still visible. In the canyon's shadows, the engines' flame turned into a glaring spot—too faint for a comet, too bold for a man-made craft…

Han tightened his grip on the controls, pushing the flyer even lower, hugging the canyon walls. He knew they had to stay out of sight, or they'd be easy prey for the Imperials. He signaled Chewbacca to ready the weapons, hoping they wouldn't have to use them.

"Hang tight, everyone," he muttered, more to himself than the crew. "This ride's about to get bumpy…"

"Watch out!" Kirra screamed.

The squadron of atmospheric fighters, which had begun their patrol at dawn alongside the bombers, was rushing in. The sun's rays glinted off their sleek tail fins, and their onboard weapons were already spewing fire.

Solo wasted no time with banter: using the available space, he tried to create as much confusion as possible for the enemy gunners. If his curses worked this time, the magnificent dome of the sky would split open, and the fighter squad would be swept to the depths of hell by the torrent of night—but of course, fate had other plans, and the Imperial ships kept coming, undeterred.

"Okay, Chewie," the Corellian muttered. "Let's see what we've got—and how long it'll last!"

The ML-7 surged forward. With a steep turn that defied any combat aircraft, it rose toward the sky as if snatched up by a whirlwind. Two hatches slid aside on its nose, revealing two gun barrels that immediately sought a target. K'brull, who was heading towards the two beam guns mounted in the side door, fell into the harnesses as if pushed from behind. Kuka held on tight: his metal fingers dug into the armrests of his seat.

Under Chewbacca's weight, the overloaded metal structure groaned, but the Wookiee was unbothered: he focused on arming the ship's weapons systems as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Han maneuvered to position himself between his pursuers and the sun. The move bought him a few moments: the Imperial fighters' laser cannons may have been superior, but the polarizers protecting the pilots' eyes were not. In the second turn, K'brull managed to regain his balance. The safety harness buckles clicked; the fixed-base side gun scanned the sky, ready for action.

"Six-nine-five," Han called back. "Everyone, here they come again!"

This time, the fast-paced fighter jets attacked in two waves, with better aim and mostly higher-energy shots. It wasn't just the Corellian's skill, but also luck, that the fugitives didn't perish immediately - at the peak of the ascent, they wavered in crossfire for moments, until Solo dared a bold move and directed the troop carrier downward.

They plummeted like a stone. The dust-covered surface of Premont came into chillingly sharp focus below: the gorges and riverbeds offered terrible landing spots but ideal final resting places...

"You're insane!" Kirra screamed. "Do you think you're piloting a spaceship? We're all going to die here!"

"It's adorable how you compliment a guy," the Corellian frowned. "Luckily, I'm not the sensitive type, so I'll say it again: hold on!"

He jammed the switch labeled TURBINE ON.

Hellfire ignited at the stern of the ML-7. The sudden acceleration mercilessly pressed every living and manufactured soul into their seats; the craft leaped towards the sky again. Before Kirra Mallowy's darkening eyes, dark spots shot in the opposite direction: the Imperial fighters. They tried to follow their prey, but in the heat of the chase, they realized its intentions too late.

"Look at that," Han murmured. "There's no better test for a pilot!"

The lead Imperial fighter, either a higher rank, more zealous, or simply crazier than his comrades, hesitated a second too long in firing his afterburners, crashing into the ground and exploding. Two other fighters narrowly avoided the expanding fireball, while a third disappeared within it, emerging as a cherry-red, bouncing wreck. Another fighter was forced into the canyon the ML-7 had just left. The pilot, likely surprised and perhaps intoxicated by his success, failed to notice the protruding rock that marked both his disgrace and end.

"Only three out of six earned the advanced rating," the Corellian noted. "This doesn't do the Tagge family proud. What will their high-ranking relatives say? What will the illustrious Empero..."

"Solo!"

Han reacted impeccably: he veered left, avoiding the head-on, frenziedly firing lead ship. K'brull seized the moment to make history again, sending off short, inaccurate bursts as a farewell.

"The nose gun is inoperative," Bollux reported, scanning the readouts. "Either we took a glancing hit somewhere, or the vehicle was designed for more conservative maneuvers, sir!"

"Three are still on our tail, and we don't know how many of their comrades they've alerted by radio," the girl added. "Forget the elegant solutions, Solo! Shake them off, and that's it!"

Chewbacca signaled his agreement with discreet grunts. He had partly selfish reasons: he feared that in the next turn, he would fall backward, chair and all.

The Corellian sighed. He was trying to prove something to the rebels: if nothing else, that whatever one undertakes, it helps if they are the best at it.

"It happens," he began, glancing at Kirra, "that in certain situations, I overestimate my importance. Got this burning desire to do something useful..." He flashed his characteristic smile. "Alright. Where do you want to go?"

Before the girl could retort appropriately, K'brull fired again behind them. Some of the returning shots from the fighters left charred streaks on the hull. This settled the matter once and for all.

Solo's body tensed. A glance at the fuel gauge: the reserve would be just enough. Quick glances to the right and left: all vital systems operational; reassuring green lights glowing as far as the eye could see. As for the trajectory data… Let's see…!

"K'brull!" he said firmly. "You've scared them enough for now; stop shooting! Strap yourself in back there and find your oxygen mask!"

The Belzagori obeyed without argument. The others quickly followed suit: except for Bollux, they all reached for the built-in breathing apparatus attachments. Chewbacca - in his case, the precaution was theoretical, as thorough shaving should have preceded it - shared some information with Han. There was no confidence in his tone.

"I know, I know," the Corellian waved off. "By the time we finish this turn, we'll have more than just atmospheric flyers to deal with. How many TIE fighters do you think they have?"

The Wookiee responded with a pained groan, almost sinking into his worn pilot seat.

Han increased the thrust and began a steep climb. The Imperials, attacking once more, missed their mark. Furious, they gave chase—no doubt seeing it as a matter of honor. This time, Han didn't attempt complex evasive maneuvers; he just altered his course enough to confuse their targeting systems. But within a minute, trouble reappeared. Kirra noticed first:

"Missile!"

"And make that three," Han muttered, glancing at the screen. "Looks like we've ticked them off a bit..."

K'brull, looking somewhat ridiculous in his rubberized harness, responded with precision. He grabbed the idle turret, removed its circuit cover, and set to work. Within seconds, he was loosening the mounting bolts, then shoving the entire assembly out the side door. The windstorm inside the transport quickly subsided; puzzled looks were exchanged.

"What the…?" Chewbacca roared and pointed at the monitors.

The spinning, falling turret suddenly transformed into a comet. Pulling a blinding flame, it crossed the path of the missiles, and as if by magic, they changed direction, turning their bright yellow-painted noses towards it.

"Short circuit..." K'brull panted. "The power cells… they melt down, and the heat... it disrupts..."

The first-launched missile hit its target first, scoring a direct hit and destroying the ML-7's glowing, rogue weapon mount. The second, following its programmed command, struck the hottest point, plunging into the fireball's heart instead of the transport's engines. The third continued resolutely upward, and would surely have ended the game if...

If its fuel injector hadn't failed.

The streamlined body shuddered, appeared to hover at the peak of its trajectory, then plummeted straight down. Far below, a fresh crater opened on Premont's battered surface, and with some delay, the sound of the explosion reached them.

"Two to one," the Corellian murmured. "That's worth a detailed expense report, K'brull! I think you're starting to get the hang of this..."

Then it was just the mad dash higher and higher. Solo monitored the instruments—there was no need to look up, as he knew without seeing that the sky outside was deepening into a darker blue, and through the thinning gas layer, the stars were winking at them once again.

"Altitude thirty-three-three," Kuka reported in a wooden tone that belied his metal shell. "We are approaching the edge of the atmosphere, Captain."

The Corellian remained silent. It seemed the thrill of the speed had captivated him. For someone born on a planet's surface but raised in space, the greatest horror was being torn from their life-sustaining environment—and this had happened to him when the traitors to the Rebellion took the Falcon from him. The edge of the atmosphere had never been a real boundary for Han; it might not even have crossed his mind that an escape attempt now could mean their deaths...

"Captain!"

"Captain Solo, sir..."

Chewbacca's furious roar silenced the doubters. He pointed to the tracking monitors where the pursuing fighters were visible—visible, but only for moments. Their weaker engines were giving out, afterburners struggling in the thin atmosphere. Frost coated their fuel lines, the low pressure burst thinner pipes, and leaking fuel cast dark clouds that obscured the sun. Finally, one pilot made the classic mistake of firing without considering the conditions. The green flash of laser fire was immediately followed by a blinding explosion as the fuel clouds ignited, consuming the reckless pilot in an instant.

"Altitude thirty-two and falling," Bollux deemed it necessary to remark. "We are descending..."

For now, they felt nothing—perhaps because, in the meantime, the fighters also succumbed to Premont's gravity, falling like stones to certain destruction. Two pilots managed to eject. Whether their parachutes opened or not, Solo could not check: he had more pressing matters. Only the engines, supported by the turbines, could alter the steep trajectory of the transport, but the engines were silent, with warning lights on the dashboard indicating declining pressure. Apart from crackling, there was no other sound; sparks flew from one of the wall fittings.

"Temperature rising," reported the utility droid. "The hull is heating up. According to Max's view..."

"Max can jump out," Solo retorted. "We'll meet at the Falcon's ramp tomorrow—or maybe never."

Bollux remained silent thereafter, silently watching the displays, and made no further comments, even after Han's first attempt to ignite the engines failed.

"Chewie, dial down the gravity compensator!" he commanded. "Dial down everything except the sensors! We can manage without fresh air for a while—but not without engines..."

The Wookiee set to work. His efforts channeled some energy into the overloaded generators, but the second ignition attempt failed as well. The planet's vast wasteland, stretching from horizon to horizon and now a graveyard for Imperial fighters, was eerily clear on the monitors. Black smoke drifted over the scattered wreckage.

"We might not make it," Han said simply.

His announcement was met with silence. The assembled crew—Belzagorians and Grattan's rebels alike— seemed to feel they had neither the right nor reason to blame him.

"I'm sorry we dragged you into this, Solo," Kirra finally spoke. "You're a decent guy, probably the best pilot I've ever met, and moreover..." She hesitated. "...moreover, you're likable. I insist you know my opinion, no matter what happens!"

Chewbacca straightened in his softly creaking seat and muttered something to the girl, perhaps the Kashyyyki equivalent of "pleased to have had the chance." He had a few words for K'brull and his companions as well, but they remained unspoken—Han chose this moment to attempt ignition again—likely for the last time.

A dry crackling, then... The engines roared to life.

The transport sped along the edge of a canyon, spinning around its longitudinal axis, plunging into the depths—but unlike the ill-fated Imperial fighter, it soon emerged. Extending its full wing surface, it slowed down, deployed, and then released its drag parachutes, which floated away like red-and-white striped jellyfish in the brisk wind.

Once they were level, Han exhaled. He glanced at the girl first, then at the conspicuously silent Bollux—since he didn't expect any situational assessment from them, he declared himself:

"Altitude normal, fuel reserve satisfactory. I apologize for any inconvenience experienced during the flight. Your expressed confidence in me," he looked straight into Kirra's eyes, "is an honor. I don't intend to disappoint any of you in the future. And now, if you agree, we will return to the..."

Chewbacca roared, cursing the planet and fate in helpless anger—and as the image on the monitors cleared, he was no longer alone.

"Two TIE interceptors approaching from the direction of the base camp," Han informed his terrified passengers. He leaned forward, grabbing the throttle. "Not that it matters, but... Hold on!"

Chapter Six

A TIE fighter is no joke. It is the Empire's most advanced, deadliest combat starship, ideal for aerial control of subjugated worlds despite its relatively short range…

Han knew he had lost. He did not have enough fuel or energy for another climb, and even if he did, it wouldn't make sense: TIE fighters were designed to operate within planetary atmospheres as well as in space. From the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon, this was never a problem, but in the ML-7, strictly meant for atmospheric flight, it was more than inconvenient.

"The second side cannon is still operational," K'brull said. "Then there's the nose beam weapon, which…" Under Chewbacca's glare, all his bravado evaporated. "…which is utterly useless. Sorry. Got any ideas, Captain?"

Solo, just for form's sake, increased altitude and speed, but quickly realized he couldn't compete with these machines. If he tried to run, he'd just give them an excuse to tear him apart. No way! Even in Imperial captivity, their chances of survival were better than up here."

"Turn on the radio, Chewie!" he said to the Wookiee. "Tune into their frequency: I'm calling to surrender."

Chewbacca obeyed despondently. If anyone knew about Imperial prisons, it was him. He worked the atmospheric flyer's radio, adjusting switches, increasing the transmission strength, then turned to Han and reported his findings.

"They're jamming us?" Han asked, puzzled. "Who would jam us, and why?" He paused to think. "Chewie! If these jamming signals didn't start in the last two minutes—and I'd swear they've been around longer—it's possible the patrol couldn't report us. The TIE fighters have no idea who they're dealing with—they might just suspect we're connected to the rebels. If we lie convincingly enough…"

"Think of Grattan!" the girl hissed. "Think of the mind probe! Orman Tagge is extremely thorough; he won't settle for half-truths. If he gets his hands on us, he'll know everything within half an hour, whether we like it or not!"

"He sounds charming," Han muttered. "Which rock did he crawl out from under?"

Kirra didn't respond—she was watching the approaching TIE fighters, whose wedge-shaped fins glinted in the sunlight. They screamed past the side of the transport, unmistakably signaling Solo to descend.

The Corellian—more out of defiance than prudence—waited a few seconds, and that was his lucky break.

Something streaked under the belly of the atmospheric flyer. Not one, but two swift, torpedo-shaped objects that an experienced observer would recognize as the dreaded retro-rockets of Imperial air defense.

Powered by anti-gravity diffusers instead of gaseous fuel, these missiles were equipped with mass sensors instead of heat or motion detectors. They homed in on specific weight targets with unrelenting accuracy, nearly impossible to evade…

The explosions occurred almost simultaneously. A scorched piece of a solar panel-covered tail fin fell into the planet's dust—there wasn't much left of the swift ships.

For once, Han Solo was speechless. He pivoted the transport, scanning the skies for more TIE fighters or retro-missiles—there were none.

"Well, that was…" K'brull started.

"I think 'unexpected' is the word we're looking for," the Corellian muttered, then turned to Kirra. "Another Grattan surprise?"

The girl shook her head silently, her face pale.

"We had nothing to do with this, Captain! We have hidden weapons scattered across the planet, but none that could rival… these. They were rockets; what kind exactly, only the black-market computer could tell—if it was paying attention."

"Blue Max observes almost everything, miss," the utility droid quickly interjected, opening his chest panel. "When in doubt, he can use my photoreceptors. What do you think, Max?"

The small device reported its findings. The listeners—especially the Belzagorians—listened intently.

"You'd make a great spy, Max," Han concluded. "Maybe you can also tell us where those rockets came from!"

"Judging by their speed, they traveled a considerable distance," the data-processing droid stated. "No missile can reach such speed within a few kilometers—and no launch site crew could determine the target with such precision in that time. Whoever fired them had to know the total weight of the TIE fighters, and if they wanted to be absolutely sure, even the weight of the pilots..."

"Isn't that an exaggeration?" the girl asked.

"Maybe," Han pondered. "But combined with the radio jamming, it's a serious puzzle..." He began to reduce the transport's speed, then descended back into the river valley. His calculation paid off: this time, their passage stirred no dust; they could feel safe for the moment. "What happened here can only mean one thing."

"And that is?" Kirra prompted.

Han gave a lopsided smile. If he felt vulnerable, he hid it well.

"Besides us and the Imperials, there's a third party interested in this game," he said thoughtfully. "Someone with precise intel on the Imperial war machine and top-tier air defense tech who, for now, isn't looking to fry us. Plus, they wouldn't be too thrilled if we got nabbed..." Han gazed out at the jagged cliffs sliding by. Crystals gleamed in the rock crevices, catching the ML-7's slipstream. A weird, weird world.

Kirra's hand—seemingly by chance—rested on the Corellian's shoulder. Concentration etched lines into her clear forehead.

"What can we do?"

"Nothing more, nothing less than what we originally planned," Solo said softly. "We need to find the Nomads as soon as possible."

The officer known as Valance had returned. Back to the base, hidden in a secluded valley where, thanks to the moisture in the soil, mineral salts, and constant heat, the vegetation thrived luxuriantly. Radar stations, watchtowers, and landing platforms were guarded by enormous trees: they grew to such heights in mere months instead of centuries, proudly proclaiming the triumph of Premont's incredibly adaptable wildlife over harsh conditions.

There were even animals in the thicket. As Valance walked through the plasteel-walled connecting corridor with his stormtroopers, he noticed a squirrel-like creature watching the procession with its shining eyes from one of the branches. Just a few months ago, this creature lived in the dust, resembling a lizard more than anything, and now… Yes, a favorable environment works wonders. It would be interesting to observe the steps of this pseudo-evolution over, say, two hundred years. By the end of the second century, the first intelligent being might emerge—the heir to Premont's riches, whose existence, in the truest sense, would be owed to the Empire...

The officer remained silent, listening. His abilities allowed him to sift through the cacophony of voices, isolating the key phrases that could redirect his thoughts. He passed by lower-ranking officers, soldiers, pilots, and droids. He acknowledged their displays of respect—and fear—though they meant as little to him as life itself. He glanced down into a floodlit hangar, where dozens of technicians worked on the captured transport ship from the rebels: they had already removed the containers and were now attempting to access the databank, so far without success. Valance, who gathered information using his own tried-and-true methods, smirked slightly at their efforts. "The radio communication is faltering. Since dawn, we've had no contact with four observers and a series of machines..."

"What do the maintenance teams say? Maybe the problem is at the head station; maybe..."

"The baron is nervous. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Nervous!"

"I'd be nervous too if I were in his shoes... He's spent billions on this setup, and what does he get in return? A bunch of malfunctions..."

"Hey, Pallott! Is your service insurance good for if we all blow up with the planet?"

The last question was asked by a CC-rated technician, and Valance, though he didn't show it, was quite annoyed at hearing it. The support staff shouldn't even suspect what kinds of experiments were taking place beneath Premont's crust!

An entire squad guarded the passage leading to the inner circle of the base. They were elite stormtroopers. They wore gray armor and carried weapons that could only harm living bodies, sparing the expensive—and irreplaceable—equipment. Beyond the rectangular gate, Valance also observed droids—they were not visibly different, but he knew they were individually programmed and dangerous.

"Identify yourself!" ordered the guard commander.

Valance leaned forward without argument, allowing the scanner to read the vascular pattern in his retina. Green lights lit up on the wall panel, the guard commander stepped back and saluted.

"Sir..."

Inside the inner sanctum, fewer personnel than usual were visible. Perhaps the cool air or the pulsating energy within the walls kept Tagge's privileged yet worthless personnel at bay. Valance despised them. His superior, the Baron, was a more complex problem; Valance's feelings towards him were not easily summarized. Tagge, the soul of the enterprise, undeniably possessed certain abilities, yet these (and the emotions they evoked) seemed intangible to the officer. Since his death and rebirth, Valance had an aversion to abstract matters, basing his decisions strictly on facts.

Fact one: Orman Tagge is fabulously wealthy.

Fact two: he loyally serves the Emperor.

Fact three: he abhors honorable combat, having never been a soldier.

Fact four: the weapon he devised is as vile as it is effective; in this regard, it likely surpasses Grand Moff Tarkin's Death Star.

Valance harbored a deep distrust of Tagge. Just like his true master, the nameless one.

e was alone in the corridor when he reached the first thickly armored airlock door. He looked around, then decisively reached for his right wrist and tore off the flesh-like cover from his hand as one of his living comrades would remove a black glove. Chrome-steel finger joints, synthetic muscles, and ligaments gleamed in the light of the hidden fixtures.

Valance stepped forward and placed his five metal fingers into the five dark holes in the airlock door. His wrist turned, then returned to its natural position. Servo motors whirred, the heavy door opened, then closed behind him.

He had to repeat the procedure twice more before reaching the five-by-five-meter sanctuary of the omnipotent ruler of Premont.

Orman Tagge believed that no other mortal besides himself could reach this point, and in a way, he wasn't wrong. With the full truth known, he would likely declare in outrage that his protocol droid had more humanity than what remained in Valance—but he didn't know the full truth. The cyborg officer had been here frequently in recent weeks; more often than the baron himself, who—unlike Valance—did not enjoy the omnipotent one's full trust.

"You wished to see me."

The officer's voice was more lively than his expression—his vocal cords had survived the days spent in death significantly better than his facial muscles. At least his strength was not to be complained about: his artificial heart pumped oxygenated blood substitute to all parts of his body with two atmospheres of pressure. This marvelous little device was protected by plasteel ribs and vertebrae.

"You wished to see me," Valance repeated. He was prepared to wait for hours for a response—if that was what the omnipotent one wished. But this time…"

"Connect to the terminal, Captain!"

The voice revealed little. It was colorless and measured, devoid of almost all emotion. However, a hint of irritation could be detected; it seemed the speaker was unsettled by the course of events.

Valance stepped up to the blue-lit terminal and established a direct connection with the mind that ruled Premont.

"The rebels…"

"They escaped." It was strange; there wasn't even a hint of dissatisfaction in this statement. "Except for one, whom Tagge is currently testing his primitive tools on... Don't worry, Captain: if I look deep within myself, this is what I wanted. Just a few minutes ago, a squadron of fighters found the fugitives' trail but couldn't stop them. Tagge's two TIE interceptors will likely have more luck unless they're destroyed first."

Valance's head snapped up. The rebels had managed to fight off two top-tier combat ships? Unusual...

"How did they deal with them?

"Oh, Captain! I dealt with them; I hoped that was obvious!" The personality, which had bequeathed its emotions and passions to this apparatus, slowly began to spread its wings, like a phoenix rising from its ashes. Its presence suddenly became palpable everywhere: its words rang with a mocking edge, and the wires and walls pulsed to the rhythm of its heartbeat. "I have said it enough times: I do not consider the rebels' presence a real threat. This time, they won't succeed with explosives or laser weapons; even the combined fire of their cruisers couldn't cause significant damage, as you well know! The plan is to eliminate these factors once and for all. No!" The voice faltered at this point, as if doubts gnawed at the impeccable circuits. "This planet is mine; it was destined to remain so—until the very last moment. And if, for some reason, the Empire abandons it..."

"It cannot belong to anyone else either," the officer nodded. "Once the retreat is complete, it must be destroyed, so its fate serves as a lesson to rebels across the galaxy... I understand the principle, sir."

"Then apply it!" the machine snapped. "A storm is brewing, Valance; the greatest storm imaginable!"

"A storm, sir?" His voice barely conveyed more than polite curiosity.

"Figuratively speaking, Captain. During the night, something happened that neither you, nor the baron, nor even the Emperor could have anticipated. A vehicle arrived from out there. A vehicle that neither the sensors nor the databases could handle. I highly doubt that the weapons at our disposal could have stopped it. It is surrounded by a force field. It landed. It waited. For what, I only found out this morning..."

Valance, typically unfazed, now felt a strange need to squirm.

"− Sir...?"

"They received reinforcements! Another ship entered the atmosphere, but I couldn't track this one either: it evaded detection and disappeared; only some disturbances hint at its current location…" Silence. ""And there's more, Captain! More are coming. I can feel it."

"The rebels?" Valance struggled with the overwhelming sense that he was on the wrong track. Had he always been this sluggish? He couldn't decide. "What interest would they have in retaking Premont? If they don't know the situation here, they're unlikely to attempt such a large-scale operation. If they know what the baron is working on, they certainly wouldn't risk…"

"Flawless reasoning," the voice boomed. "Except these do NOT belong to any rebel group we've identified. We're facing unknown ships with extremely unusual energy types: the situation could quickly become dangerous."

"In that case, order a general alert! As far as I know, you have the authority. Our units are ready for battle: a pre-emptive strike might…"

"You don't understand, Captain! We're approaching the point where I will inevitably lose control over events. If the threat exceeds a certain threshold, my peripherals will shut down one by one. I'll be blind and deaf, then suddenly my consciousness will switch off: THEN I'll be no better than a computer that runs Tagge's program without question, destroying EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE! THAT'S why I couldn't let the baron's fighters stop the rebels. THAT'S why we must ensure they continue their journey!" A hissing laugh. "Among them are those who arrived on that battered freighter yesterday. We ensured they couldn't leave. Not to please Tagge – though the fact that the prisoner's interrogation occupies all his attention buys us some time. Our goal was to discover the connection between the rebels and the outsiders. To determine what we can do without risking my existence!" The voice grew sharper, hurting the officer's sensitive ears. "Do you understand now, Valance? You MUST understand! We have many things in common – that's why I pulled you from the cryochamber. WE WERE BOTH valuable once. Our fates are two sides of the same coin: serve the Emperor, sacrifice our lives, then rise again for the Empire... But with what I might be forced to do here soon, we won't serve anyone! The devices made in my image are meant to control heavily populated, central worlds. Who will we impress if we destroy Premont along with ourselves? Tagge will move on and start anew elsewhere. WE, however, WILL STAY, Captain, because we have no other choice...! I MUST KNOW what's happening around me! Special Order One: keep your troops away from the rebels! Maneuver as you wish, monitor them, but do not engage! If they come for the freighter and their comrade, make sure they get in! They must live until we find out who they've allied with – THEN you can do whatever you want with them. I MUST KNOW if there's a way to avoid the worst, the final solution!" A strange sound, perhaps a sigh. "The most important thing I might not have mentioned, Valance: my honor. I've had enough. Enough, understand? My opinion was never sought in this matter, yet I HAVE an opinion; I do, I swear! This is all so foreign, SO alien! This isn't a battle, not an open fight – what's it to me? Did I ever seek this opportunity? Never! I DO NOT WANT TO BE TAGGE'S TIME BOMB! I DO NOT WANT TO DEFILE EVERYTHING I ONCE LIVED FOR WITH THIS DEATH!"

The captain, who was once called Valance, slowly nodded.

It was clear: they had all fallen into their own trap. The soul trapped in the machine was behaving increasingly unpredictably. It remembered more and more from its turbulent past. As for the hundreds at its mercy… Well, if things really go wrong down here, they will hardly have the time to call for help from the Star Destroyer guarding the system. And even if they do? The almighty one could easily prevent the evacuation and could do serious damage to the ship itself. There was only one vessel it was programmed not to harm: Tagge's fast cruiser. No one could get out of here except the damned baron.

And, of course, the one who manages to "reserve" a place in the momentarily invulnerable smuggler's ship…

he sleek, black ship descended smoothly onto the barren wasteland. In its final approach through the atmosphere, it utilized a code indistinguishable from those used by the Imperial test station's vehicles, fooling even the all-seeing eye. Upon exiting hyperspace and entering the system, it transmitted these same signals—the captain of the Star Destroyer guarding Premont dismissed it with a wave and continued his patrol. Another member of the Tagge clan eager for a share of the spoils? Or perhaps the Emperor had sent an inspector? The officer didn't care. It might meet its end in the debris field, just like that saucer-shaped smuggler's ship...

But that wasn't the case. The freshly arrived craft—a fragile-looking structure resembling a yacht—gradually settled in the dust. The ramp descended. For a few moments, nothing stirred inside the vehicle. Then a sound was heard, which didn't fit at all in the world of steaming safety valves, hydraulic assists, and blinking instruments: the roar of some animal. A few moments later, a bipedal, lizard-like creature with stunted forelimbs clinging to its body jumped onto the sand. It rolled to its side but quickly leaped up again. It roared once more—this time almost contentedly.

The figure that followed—impossible to determine if it was human due to the sand-colored robe, hood, and cloak—whistled sharply, summoning the beast. It obeyed, with a bowed snake-like neck, kneeling slightly to allow its master to saddle it.

Once done, the hooded figure secured a few smaller containers to the saddle, slung a short-barreled, dangerous-looking weapon over his shoulder, and returned to the ship for a few minutes. The "mount" waited impatiently, and when the figure reappeared, it greeted him with a loud cry.

"Jolpa 'Daq yIjaH!" the humanoid hissed in its own language as it nimbly mounted the saddle. "HaSta yIcha!" (Let's Go!)

The lizard raised its small head high. It flashed its pale yellow eyes at the hooded figure, then started running, taking long leaps over the sand. A hundred steps, two hundred, four hundred… Upon reaching the top of a small hill, the humanoid commanded a stop, turned back, shaded his eyes with a gloved left hand, and watched the ship.

"Chu," he said softly. It was as if a snake hissed under the hood. The fingers of his right hand, gripping the reins, clenched into a fist, relaxed, and clenched again; the muscles of both arms visibly tensed.

Rup… beH… bogh… vIS… Ha… law… quAng… taa…sIg… LUUH!

The craft exploded. A blinding geyser of flames lifted its fragments high, scattering them over the parched ground. The debris hissed and smoked—within moments, it crumbled into coarse dust, which was swiftly carried away by the ancient winds scouring the planet's surface. The winds would have eagerly carried away the sound of the explosion too, but they had no opportunity, as the destruction was as silent as it was thorough.

The newcomer steadied the restless mount and looked up at the sky. The sun hung high, its heat continuing its slow devastation. On this weary world, evolution had long since sounded retreat: there wasn't enough nourishment or moisture for even rear-guard actions, no unsightly but resilient creatures to fill Premont's shadowy corners. The figure scanned the surroundings with an infrared scope—nothing moved in the wasteland stretching from horizon to horizon, save for the lizard impatiently scratching against the rusty-smelling wind. Despite this, the figure knew that where it was headed, it would find very much alive beings. It would see the remnants of the planet's flora and fauna, the masters of survival, silently huddling beneath the trees that had sprouted in weeks and grown into giants within months...

He didn't blame them for this: once—not too long ago, in truth—he had eked out an existence on his own world just as they did.

Though he had been rigorously prepared for great tasks in the past! His instructors were excellent warriors, polished minds, and top-notch droids. He learned everything from them that someone like him would ever need, except one thing: how to lose.

And although he had suffered many minor losses and one truly painful defeat in his career, he believed it was never too late to continue the game already begun. Starting a new adventure also meant concluding the old one. Yet the game, the one true game, starts at the moment of birth and ends at the moment of death. Its outcome can only be one: victory.

The newcomer adjusted his attire. From under his cloak, he pulled out a fist-sized amber crystal and stared into its depths as if hoping to see his future within. And then…

Maybe it was his hand, maybe the sun's warmth: the crystal suddenly glowed. A peculiar internal fire heated it, its reflection smoldering in the hooded figure's eyes for a few minutes before subsiding.

The humanoid waited. He observed the crystal, then hid his treasure. He raised his left hand in an eerie, silent salute—then spurred his strange mount into a gallop.

He headed toward the Imperial experimental station, where the next, perhaps final, round of the game awaited him.

The last round, and an old friend…

Chapter Seven

"I could have sworn it was just ordinary metal!" Han Solo grumbled.

Chewbacca, whose mood had already been soured by the struggle with the pilot's seat, didn't hesitate to enlighten him: ordinary metal medals do not shine with an ethereal glow − and more importantly, they don't mess with the transport ship's instruments.

"If only it were just the instruments!" muttered the Corellian. "The turbine pressure is dropping. I've got a feeling we're in for a rough landing..."

Kirra and her companions silently, with military precision, fastened their seat belts. The daring maneuvers Solo had used to shake off the Imperial fighters left no doubt in their minds that this man was capable of anything.

The ML–7 began its descent with dignified slowness. The setting sun bathed the cockpit in golden light, lending a touch of artistry to the maneuver. The equipment, perhaps fearing to disrupt the idyll, failed one by one. In the final meters, Han had to rely on his instincts and common sense. Even so, the landing wasn't smooth—the transport skidded on its belly, kicking up a cloud of sand before crashing into a rocky outcrop and coming to a jarring halt.

The Corellian straightened up and threw the remains of the control stick into the corner. He pushed his flight goggles up on his forehead and smiled. His teeth's dazzling whiteness perhaps only rivaled by the glow of the medal hanging around his neck as he helped the girl to her feet.

"Let's move! We need to get as far from the ship as we can − a patrol could show up any minute... Spending the night here is a guaranteed capture, and we'd be buried in sand by dawn."

"What will we do out there?" K'brull questioned. "You just mentioned that the wind..."

"We'll see if my theory holds up," Solo said. "Remember what happened to the Falcon in that debris field? Energy levels dropping, equipment going haywire... Crystal clear!" He grabbed his gear and headed to the sliding door. "The Nomads have to be close. The force field powering their big shell and all their tech—that's what's screwing with everything else around here. We just need to figure out the range. And yeah, a little caution wouldn't hurt." His eyes flicked to the intact cannon. "Chewie, if you would..."

The Wookiee wasted no time unscrewing. He grabbed the blaster mount and yanked it out of the floor plate in one pull. The removal of the mount took only moments. The weapon's discarded parts fell at Kirra's feet. Chewbacca slung his prize over his shoulder and barked: as far as he was concerned, he was ready.

K'brull acknowledged the sight with a soft click. Although he tried to conceal it by all means, he was drawn to such obvious solutions...

The group left the crippled ship. Han looked back from the top of the first rise. Old Premont had already begun his work; small and large waves of sand swept over the ML–7's fuselage, dust funnels swirled around the wreck on both sides, ensuring that by morning all traces of the crash landing would be erased.

"Captain...?"

Kirra appeared beside him. The dusk wind caught her dark hair, making her cape and long white scarf flutter. The temperature had noticeably dropped − Han was sure they would need the blankets and portable campfire by night.

"I'd like you to stay in the lead," the girl said softly. "Your presence... not to mention the Wookiee's... reassures the people."

Solo nodded and quickened his pace without a word. So, the proud and unyielding Kirra...! How hard it must have been for her to admit that she needed the help of an ordinary smuggler! What could a fundamentally decent man used to easy prey do in such a situation...?

The Corellian had no idea. And since lengthy contemplation wasn't his forte, he waited for the girl and matched his pace to hers.

"You don't think much of us, do you?" Kirra asked quietly. "You're probably thinking something like: 'They blew their only chance, and they haven't even paid me for my services... Let's see if they're good for anything at all! After all, there might be some wealthy ones among them, or if not, at least those whose parents or relatives are! If I help them, maybe...'"

"You don't think much of us, do you?" Solo echoed without a smile. He felt somewhat disappointed. "Believe it or not, I've got my own thoughts on the Empire and your rebellion. A few months back, on some backwater planet in Ollam, a guy sat down at my table, playing the sympathy card. Said the Empire had taken everything from him. His only wish was to do something, anything, against them, so he decided to smuggle brandy to worlds suffering under tyranny. Do you get that? Brandy in the name of freedom! He had my ship pegged for his grand mission, and when I turned him down flat, I saw hurt in all four of his eyes..." He slowly shook his head.

"Of course, he wouldn't have been a real revolutionary if he hadn't come back the next night. And just to make sure, he brought four more revolutionaries with him, who ambushed us with overwhelming revolutionary fervor to cut our throats... It was a nasty mess, I tell you. And you hear about stuff like this more and more these days. One thing you should know, in business, advertising is everything – and I can't think of worse advertising than incidents like that. Right then and there, I swore I wouldn't do business with a rebel – even a real one – for less than ten thousand. And trust? No one can buy my trust, not even for that. These days, I value it a lot higher."

Kirra walked silently beside him for quite a while, gripping the straps of her backpack with her small hands.

"But you made an exception for us," she finally pointed out the obvious contradiction. "Why?"

Han watched the setting sun. He smiled again.

"Because I wanted to believe that, just once, luck was on my side. Because I could picture it – peaceful corners in the galaxy where enterprising folks chase their fortune under leaders you described your father. That dream's my refuge – and as you can see, it sometimes gets me into trouble."

"I'm sorry," Kirra said awkwardly. "I'm sorry, Captain… Maybe I should just call you Han? It feels more direct. As for the advertisement, I get it. Maybe…"

The idyll of the battlefield was interrupted by a snort. Chewbacca's silhouette was outlined against the crimson sky. In his left hand, he held the weapon he had dismantled from the transport, and with his right, he pointed straight ahead.

This could make a splendid recruitment poster, the Corellian thought. It has everything to ignite the public's imagination: travel, combat and mystery, attractive women and beautiful landscapes. DEFY THE LAW. JOIN US! Just two things are missing for perfection: the Falcon and some money..."

He waved to the girl, then took off running to catch up with the Wookiee. The others also quickened their pace and within moments gathered around him on the hilltop.

"That's it," the Corellian murmured contentedly. "That's it, I swear!"

Below, barely a stone's throw away by Premont standards, the warm lights of the Nomads' camp beckoned them.

Han laughed and tossed the amber-glowing medal into the air.

"MANY THINGS HAVE CHANGED HERE..."

The ancient Nomad's thought impulses were so deeply imbued with dejection that those seated around the warmth-radiating crystal involuntarily shivered. The Corellian had to admit: even smoother communication sometimes has its disadvantages. He and his companions huddled around the aliens' strange "campfire," trying to determine their true standing.

The first surprise hit them while still on the hilltop. Not one, but two gigantic ships rested in the valley. Or rather, they weren't resting at all! They were working, tirelessly. Clouds of dust floated as the giants descended from space slowly dug into the arid soil of Premont, like turtles. Some cave entrances disappeared, while others emerged at ground level. Nomads moved in and out of them − under the open sky, their size seemed far less intimidating to the observer. They were creatures of life and light: a sense of timeless tranquility surrounded them, no matter what they did, carried, or wore.

The same couldn't be said for some of their 'pets.' Not primarily because they wore nothing but their fur − it was not their appearance but the energy they harbored that seemed alarming. Those that resembled a cross between wolves and bears bounded around the camp perimeter like rubber balls, making thirty to forty-meter jumps, their howls echoing under the starry sky. Those that had no heads, mouths, or eyes, only two improbably muscular legs, galloped wildly back and forth. There were also snake-like creatures, but these − following the example of the ships − soon burrowed into the ground and have not been seen since.

"MANY THINGS HAVE CHANGED," repeated the old Nomad. Han could only infer from certain distinctive features of his clothing that he was the one who had given him the medal above. "THE WORLD HAS AGED, BEGUN TO DIE, DRY AND COLD. IT USED TO BE DIFFERENT. IT WAS LOVED."

"Yes, it was loved, of course," K'brull nodded rapidly. "Patriotism is one of the most fundamental traits of any sentient being. It may seem strange, but that's exactly why we're here too. You see..."

"Isn't this a bit too abstract for them?" Kirra worried. "Maybe we should let the captain handle it in his own way..."

"OUR TIME HAS COME," the old one continued undisturbed. "IN WAR, MANY THINGS CHANGE. MANY THINGS. THE PLANET GAVE US LIFE FROM ITS OWN. IT HELPED US WIN, KEPT US HERE. WE DECIDED: WE ARE LEAVING. IT ATONES FOR SINS."

"It wasn't their fault, but they felt it was,' Solo whispered to his companions. "They drained Premont's resources fighting the gundarks. The atmosphere thinning, oceans drying up – could be a direct result of that. What they've found now has stunned them – if that's the right word. You can also feel a sense of anticipation. It's tied to that so-called 'Awakening'..."

Concentrating, he conveyed the silent question:

Do all Nomad sailors return home?

"TWENTY TRIBES," the response took shape in his mind. "ALL WHO FOUGHT AND THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN BORN SINCE, MANY IN NUMBER."

The Corellian took a deep breath. The upheaval was greater than he had thought. And how much greater could it still become!

Soon?

"SOON…!" The wrinkled forehead of the Alien was so broad it could have served as a landing platform. The shining eyes – like the Falcon's twin spotlights. "TWO DOCKED. THREE AND FOUR ON ROUTE. OTHERS WAITING, BUT NOT FOR LONG."

The Belzagori shuddered.

"You can't keep this from them, Captain! You have to tell them! You have to tell them about the Imperial troops on the planet. That they have a weapon that..."

"About which we know absolutely nothing for sure,' Solo muttered. "How would you start? How do you get these guys, who are used to specifics, to grasp the abstract concept of the Empire?"

Kirra leaned forward.

"Maybe I can help... Give me your hand!"

Han obeyed without hesitation. The girl's palm was dry and cool against his.

"'Think of outer space…!" the girl whispered. "I am doing the same."

Solo obediently visualized his second home as he had seen it just a day earlier: in the boundless night, the stars twinkled in various colors.

"The Imperial destroyer..." Kirra murmured. "Can you recall it?"

"Are you kidding?" Han murmured. "I could draw it if..."

After a few moments, however, he had to reluctantly admit that he couldn't even manage the simpler task. Although he had encountered this type of ship countless times during his travels, his memory only retained blurred images of them. When he closed his eyes and tried to project the wedge shape against the backdrop of the starry canvas, he got nothing but grotesque shapes. In the confusion, only a few turbolaser shots were clearly discernible.

The Nomad hesitated.

'It's not working,' the Corellian gestured hopelessly. 'You know, when I run into one of these ships, the last thing I have time for is to admire them!'"

Kirra sighed softly.

"I understand," she said. "You did your best, I'm sure of it. The human mind is a tricky device; it could take days to convey such danger to these beings with these tools. We have no choice but to stay! Because if the Empire..."

Chewbacca, who had been silently observing the activity of the aliens, gave a guttural growl to get their attention. He conversed with the Corellian in his own language for a while, then, after Solo nodded, moved closer to the "campfire" and touched the Nomad.

"Quick, Kirra!" Han hissed. "Your hand!"

He grabbed Chewbacca's arm with his left and the girl's with his right, closed his eyes, and...

...and he was already falling. He fell through the infinite space, where — in an unexpected turn —a raging Wookiee's roar echoed through the storm that separated worlds. He fell through a nothingness filled with inhuman cries, and then a large, green planet surrounded by a glowing halo burst into his field of vision. He recognized it immediately, and this surprised him the most.

Chewie's home, Kashyyyk.

He already knew what was coming. He had heard the story enough times from his first mate and others like him; from those who had somehow been spared by the Imperial attack and the subsequent raid by slavers. He saw the Star Destroyers descending to the edge of the atmosphere, the lumbering troop transport vehicles, the ragtag pirate ships—so vividly, as they were forever burned into the memory of a young Wookiee. He saw the forest cities in flames, the fiercely fighting, woolly creatures, and he saw their enemies too—then he felt a taste of the Nomad's astonishment and realized: they had succeeded in making him understand what the Galactic Empire truly was...

He felt he couldn't take it any longer and opened his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked Kirra. The girl nodded silently, tears of pain and anger glistening in her eyes.

"GREAT EVIL," conveyed the Nomad. "BLOOD. BLOOD. WHITE STEEL. EMPIRE HERE? LONG AGO? WHAT TO DO?"

Han—he didn't know why—conjured up the image of an old blaster. He was trying to connect it somehow with the Empire when Chewbacca once again came to his aid. The Wookiee must have dredged up his most painful memories from the depths of his mind, and the Corellian shuddered, as he witnessed the death of someone who was very dear to his friend.

The Nomad responded with the mental image of a dead comrade, then darkness. He understood this as well.

"WEAPONS? MORE WEAPONS? NO! NOT AGAIN!"

He straightened to his full height—his subordinates seated around him did the same. Large, gray fists rose into the air. The howling of the wandering creatures caught in their throats, the runners halted; an unnatural silence descended upon the camp.

What is happening, Captain Solo?" Bollux asked, understandably having lost the thread. "I sincerely hope you haven't angered them somehow...!"

Kirra put her hand on the droid's shoulder .

"No, Bollux," she said softly. " You don't need to worry about that. Captain Solo and Chewbacca have just accomplished something that few in this galaxy can boast of: they have won an entire civilization over to the cause of the Rebellion. And they did it not in months, but in mere minutes. From today, we have twenty warrior tribes on our side!" She turned to face the Corellian and the Wookiee. "You may not believe it, but I truly... "

Then she leaned toward the Falcon's first mate and embraced him. Her next target was Solo himself, who this time—old habits die hard—expected less than what he ultimately received.

It was a kiss. A perfectly executed, incredibly passionate kiss, with just one flaw: she missed his lips by barely an inch. He was about to comment on the mishap when, somewhere above, at the top of one of the ships, the Nomad sentinel's cry rang out.

For heaven's sake, what happened?

The leader of the giant humanoids, without any hesitation, reached into his belt and pulled out a weapon about a meter long, ending in multiple barrels. Han, Kirra, and even some of the Belzagorians could feel the heat of his anger.

"FRIENDS STAY WITH US," he broadcast. "WE HAVE GUESTS..."

Bollux —and of course, Max hidden in his chest cavity—finally had their moment to shine: the work droid immediately began listing the data collected by the little supercomputer:

"Life form approaching the camp from the east. Height and approximate weight..."

"Forget it!" Solo hissed, drawing his own pistol. "You say just one life form? Because according to the Nomad, there are more." He pondered. "There must be more!"

"The signals are clear, sir," Bollux apologized. "And if you want to hear from Max himself…

"Don't you dare unleash that turbo-brain! We've got enough problems as it is!"

"But sir…"

Chewbacca spun on his heel, raising his bowcaster-shaped laser rifle in aim. Above, a blinding amber flame flared—the crystals powering the ships fed it, much like the beams that swept the camp perimeter like searchlights. The Nomads' shouts mixed with the roars of the four-legged "pets"—both sensed the danger.

"We should take cover in one of the vehicles," K'brull suggested. "These people have no idea how much damage a single long-range infantry rifle can cause if a stormtrooper happens to be holding it!" He took a deep breath with his enormous lungs. "We await your orders, Captain!"

Solo was taken aback. He never dreamed of such a turn of events.

"My orders?" he exclaimed. "But..."

"Not an officer, and not particularly sympathetic to our cause," Kirra interjected gently. "At least, that's what you claim..." She gave a faint, tense smile. "Admit it, Solo, the stars themselves have decreed it! You were born to lead, and to keep this a secret, they endowed you with an incredible reserve of nonchalance and cynicism. But now is the time. Don't fight it! Accept what fate offers..."

The Corellian grabbed her by the shoulder and almost yanked her out of the "campfire" light. He signaled to the Belzagorians, who grabbed their belongings and retreated toward the nearest cave entrance. Shortly after, the Nomads followed suit, heeding Solo's silent arguments: by the time the next shouts rang out, they were all safely hidden.

"What do those little sensors of yours show?" Han asked, peering into the darkness. "How many guests should we set the table for?"

Bollux, in whom the dimness of the alien ship evoked unpleasant memories of short circuits, replied after a brief pause:

"Max still detects only one signal source, Captain. Judging by its size..."

"That's it!" the Corellian seized on the words. "It's a huge beast, right?" He turned to his companions. "Could be a genetically engineered monster − I've seen those before. Maybe this is the Empire's big secret weapon they want to test on us..."

"Attention! When it appears, everyone keep calm, and..."

"Sir; Captain Solo..."

"...and under no circumstances open fire until I give the signal! These kinds of beasts are usually as stupid as they are ugly, but it's possible this one has some disconcerting abilities... We must be sure!"

"Sir..." the work droid tried again. "Captain! Max believes the life form's parameters are consistent with a humanoid, with a ninety-six percent probability of being a human being!"

The Corellian waved his hand dismissively. At least he tried...

"Look!" K'brull shouted. "It's about to... about to enter the light!"

"Take aim!" Han Solo hissed. "We still can't be sure what it is. If it doesn't surrender; if it makes any sudden moves, we take it down, understood?"

"Shouldn't we...?"

"Do you know what an atomic grenade does, Mr. K'brull? If that someone throws one in here while you're pondering the ethical implications, the whole gang won't be left with anything but your miserable hesitations! Aim!"

The blue-skinned man raised his blaster to his shoulder, just like the others. − "The distance is decreasing," reported Bollux. "Sixty paces. Fifty-seven... fifty-four... forty-nine..."

The Nomad leader transmitted a command telepathically to his comrades on watch above: the amber searchlight scanned the eastern horizon and then zeroed in on the approaching figure.

Kirra let out a deep gasp. The electric binoculars slipped from her hand and might have shattered on the floor if Chewbacca hadn't caught them in time. He handed them to the Corellian in silence, who visibly struggled to maintain his composure.

"What did you see?" K'brull asked hoarsely. "What the hell is it?"

"Not what, but who," Solo muttered. "It really is a human." He slowly lowered his pistol and turned to the girl. "No mistake. Kirra, it's Grattan. Grattan, the leader of the group."

Chapter Eight

Despite the critical situation and what she had just seen with her own eyes, Kirra was quick to respond: "Impossible!"

Solo shared her skepticism. He had been closest when the rebel leader had been hit and knew enough about laser wounds to be certain: Grattan could not possibly have recovered this quickly.

"Everyone stay put!" Han hissed, focusing on the approaching figure. "Grattan" noticeably dragged one leg, his arm bound in a sling—his facial features, however, seemed intact. Han's binoculars showed a forehead furrowed with early wrinkles and bright, far-seeing gray eyes. Could this man have escaped Imperial captivity on his own? And how did he find the camp? What vehicle brought him here?

"Max!" the Corellian called back. "Do you detect any foreign craft in our area?"

"The only detectable object is our troop transporter, captain," the little computer replied hastily. "The reflected signals from it are also constantly weakening: an increasingly thick layer of sand is covering the ML–7." Han grimaced.

"Well, that's just great! So Grattan either arrived flying on his own wing, or he grew out of the ground in our honor. I don't like this! Ready to fire!"

Chewbacca targeted the approaching figure again, and following his example, the Belzagorians did the same.

"Grattan!" Han shouted. "Grattan, stop!"

"You!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Thank heavens! I was already afraid..." Pause. "Where is Kirra? Where are the others? Did they make it too?"

The Corellian's gaze flickered to the fidgeting girl.

"I told you: everyone stay put! I'm not convinced by that person out there—this is too good to be true..." He pondered feverishly. "What would you do in a similar situation, Kirra? What would any of us do in a similar situation? After all, he's been through hell. Injured, likely exhausted: he could have wandered the desert for hours. Why isn't he yelling at us? And most importantly, why didn't he call me by name?"

"Captain!" Bollux raised his voice. "Max is acting strange, sir... According to him, this structure is being hit repeatedly. He mentions micro-vibrations that follow each other at certain intervals, and..."

At this, Han's suspicion turned to certainty. He signaled the droid to be quiet and quickly adjusted the binoculars' waveband. When he looked again, the device now displayed the highest energy rays of the spectrum: ultraviolet.

From this perspective, the picture was dramatically different.

The figure claiming to be Grattan still loomed darkly. But in his raised right hand, he held something brilliant, surrounded by invisible discharges. Similar discharges flared at points along the ridge: someone—or something—was bombarding the Nomads' dwellings with unseen beams.

"People!" "Grattan" cried out under the night sky. "Won't anyone take pity on me? After all..."

"Chewie!" Solo hissed. "Take him out for me!"

The graying man, as if he had heard, stepped back. The beam from the Wookiee's bowcaster hit him squarely. He collapsed; in Han's telescope optics, the radiant ultraviolet light extinguished.

"You know, K'brull," Han murmured, "you were right all along. No true Belzagorian would turn traitor: the one who made all our lives hell in the Falcon's hold, who operated in Imperial stormtrooper gear, and finally stole my ship, wasn't your compatriot."

""No?" the blue-skinned man gasped. Then he, too, realized what had been unsettling Solo for minutes. "So..."

"It was a Reek," Solo stated firmly. "A miserable shapeshifter from that unfortunate species that has no language, no past, and no homeland; their disguised individuals can be found on almost every major world in the galaxy. That one," he pointed with disgust at the body lying in the amber light, "at least found religion and a master: money and the Emperor!"

Kirra gasped for air.

"And Grattan...?"

"A prisoner," the Corellian said dryly. "Not just any prisoner: they couldn't get a single word out of him, not even my name—so they sent their spy back to us to find out a few things before..."

"Before launching a full-scale attack," the girl finished. "Yes, it's quite obvious. And if..."

This time, the beam that shot out from the hillside was visible to the naked eye: it slammed into the ancient vehicle with a screech. The first hit was followed by others, the explosions shaking the ground, and glowing clumps of earth showered everywhere.

"EMPIRE?" The Nomad leader's broadcast radiated terrifying fury. Han had to admit: their hosts were not ordinary human beings. "EMPIRE? LIVE OUR WORLD, DRILL EARTH, KILL BEASTS, BRING WEAPONS?" He threw back his fur cloak, grasped his massive rifle with both hands. "GET ANSWER!"

The Imperial scout droid was halfway down the slope when the amber beams struck it directly. It exploded instantly. The quickly fading fireball of its destruction cast a reddish light on the armor of the bug-like robots advancing in skirmish formation, illuminating and then vanishing on the all-blade, all-claw appendages. The automatons' photoreceptors were fixed on the two giant ships, their built-in guns seeking live targets.

Finally something we can easily identify! Solo thought. He fired, then ducked then ducked as the beams struck most densely around their opening. So far, they were just probing. Sampling, spectral analysis by eroding the ships' hulls—if only they were always this tactful when encountering something new! How much time do we have left before the real attack? And what should we use it for?

"Back!" the girl shouted, covering the retreat with her fire. "Let's find ourselves an opening a bit farther away!"

The Nomads didn't immediately grasp the severity of the situation—some paid with their lives for their recklessness. Han and Kirra's group of rebels stumbled up carved stone steps and through narrow passages to a new opening. They spotted the approaching robots again. Taking firing positions, they opened fire, destroying and damaging several before...

Before witnessing the remaining robots' destruction.

The two ships' engines—if that's what they were—activated. The crystals embedded in the ships' walls lit up, flooding the valley with almost daylight brightness. The ancient machines roared in the voices of a thousand sirens, and the giant structures trembled in every joint. A terrifying air blast swept away the scout droids, which crashed into each other, the cliff walls, and rocks, and disintegrated one by one. Those left behind on the ridge were torn apart by the crude Nomad hand weapons: the planet's inhabitants—despite their half-a-million-year hiatus—showed their best form. Within minutes after the machines stopped, everything fell silent. Even the lights dimmed—the stars above shone all the more dazzlingly.

"Suppose that being gets close to us..." K'brull took advantage of his companions' silence. "Suppose it gets this far! What was it hoping for? What did it want to achieve? One suspicious move would have been enough, and..."

"Reeks adapt lightning fast," Kirra said quietly. "Even a fraction of a second would have been enough for it to take on one of our forms, and then..." She shivered. "Well, from that moment on, we would have ceased to be a capable fighting team. We would have devolved into a confused horde, trying to figure out who was friend and who was foe..." She shook her head, playing with a rebellious lock of hair. "That's exactly Tagge's goal. He is willing to sacrifice anyone to work against us. He fears us—and by Ashla, he has good reason to!"

"And they have even more reason to fear them!" Solo pointed to the ever-growing group of Nomads gathering below. He slid his pistol into its holster, slung the Belzagorian-made blaster he had used against the robots over his shoulder, and then stood up. "Let's go...!"

In the space between the ships, silent Nomads stood with clenched fists. They had laid their dead side by side: the line extended from the middle of the first ship to the stern, which spiraled upwards. The bitterness and murderous rage of the towering humanoids swirled palpably around; it was as if the humans and their allied species were being choked by tears.

Solo stopped in front of the Nomad leader. The ancient hands still gripped the old weapon; new furrows deepened on the forehead, whose first wrinkles had been etched by the trials of the war against the gundarks. There was a peculiar gleam in the eyes—seeing it, Han thought of the Corellian expression his compatriots reserved for such situations:

Gag ten sai: the holier fire of blood.

Kirra—who at the sight of Corellians would have undoubtedly reminded them of the not-so-holy fire, the gag opuh sait—stepped beside him, then even further ahead, and touched the arm of the eldest Nomad. Solo couldn't perceive her thoughts, but he knew what she was communicating.

"Just for the record," he turned to the Belzagorians, "this is not a victory. The Imperial main forces will attack sooner or later. By then..."

"We have to move, that's clear," K'brull nodded. "There's no need to explain, Captain. We must go: we can't drag these beings into the conflict." He looked around. "In some ways, they are even more vulnerable than we are: I don't think they understand what is happening around them..."

The girl, who had been standing motionless with her eyes closed in front of the old humanoid, now stepped back.

"You are wrong," she said quietly. "They understand very well. They have decided." The Nomad chief, as if he had been waiting for this, raised his weapon-bearing right hand high.

His companions—about fifteen hundred of them—followed his example. The slowly rotating crystals at the highest points of the ships shone brightly, then faded. The wave of forgotten—perhaps as old as the universe—energy swept over the ridge, spread through the night, and sent the message of hatred and revenge without words.

Somewhere in the east, a light flared up, followed by a distant rumble announcing that a careless Imperial patrol craft (or perhaps a TIE fighter) had been expelled from the heavens forever.

A metallic hand touched Han's shoulder.

"Captain Solo..."

"What is it, Bolux?"

"I hate to interrupt your thoughts, sir, but Max thinks I must tell you: two more life forms are approaching from the western side of the valley!"

The hooded humanoid was caught off guard by the all-encompassing energy burst.

He owed his life to the simple fact that—following his habit from space—he approached the camp "towards the sun," using the largest rocks as cover for his approach. Even so, the invisible wave knocked him out of the saddle and threw his mount off balance as well: the reptile fell back but jumped up again with acrobatic ease to check on its master.

The hooded figure recovered more slowly. Being a sentient, even feeling being, the concentrated hatred in the burst shook him to his core. If the strike had hit him during a pleasure trip or a romantic stroll, he might have gone mad from it—but as it was, he only found his head and limbs lead-heavy for a few moments. He sat up, brushed the dust off his cloak... and then just waited.

He knew what hatred was—oh, he knew it very well! He was familiar with the ancient traditions of hatred and revenge in the sector of the galaxy where he was born. He could draw uplifting examples from the concentrated art and literature of fifteen planets and a dozen scattered civilizations if he wished. Hatred and revenge had only recently taken the forefront in his thoughts: previously, they had been as distant from him as other, purely abstract concepts. He was a soldier of the Emperor, and as such, belonged to the Empire that ruled millions of star systems. He became a soldier of the Emperor because he had never known any power other than the Emperor's, just as none of his people had. The culture that raised him had been fueled by the warrior spirit for centuries, perhaps millennia. It had to be that way: they fought an endless-seeming battle for survival against more numerous, better-equipped, and perhaps more viable races. Their victory—though a proud ahram would never admit it even under torture—was due solely to the alliance with the Empire, and the endless war was followed by the peace of the Empire—at least formally.

The ahram, these battle-hardened, long-suffering beings, joined their benefactor, the Emperor, in large numbers and served faithfully wherever he desired. They were a people of warriors. They knew no refusal of orders, no retreat, and if fate dictated, they accepted death with heads held high. Although they rarely had to deal with devices more complex than blades or firearms on their small, barren home planet, they learned to operate the machines provided to them with astonishing speed. The constant readiness ingrained in their genes made them faster and more dangerous than any of the Emperor's bipedal servants: the Imperial war machine valued and treated all of them accordingly. They were not given the cobalt blue armor of the fleet commanders, nor the snow-white armor of the stormtroopers—although some managed to get into these two elite units—they were reserved for much more important tasks. The Emperor saw them as the ideal tools for interstellar guerrilla warfare, the branch that could successfully fight the rebels gathering on secret bases. Planetary governors and moffs could request their assistance on a specific hyperwave band if they deemed it necessary; their transport and collection were handled by special ships of the Imperial Armada. The dignitary or official requesting intervention had to account for every surviving and fallen ahram.

In theory...

A smile dawned on the narrow lips of the humanoid who was getting up with a buzzing head. He believed in Fate and Predestination: these determined his place in the universe, whose laws no mortal being could ever understand. Fate willed him to abandon his assigned post, deceiving his former masters to cross into a closed system and land on a forbidden planet. Fate required him to destroy his ship, depriving himself of the possibility of retreat; to fight for what he believed in on this world, and if necessary, to die for his ideals. By Fate's will, those he had always considered enemies were now approaching him—those who might immediately shed his blood for his sins...

Then he heard that inner voice again:

Not yet! The vow! Remember your vow! You have tasks here!

The humanoid straightened up. His weapon weighed heavily on his shoulder: he couldn't reach for it. He watched the approaching figures through the slowly thinning fog. Leading the way was a tanned-faced, dark-haired human male wearing black boots and a high-collared duster, pointing a weapon at him. Behind him was a short, sharp-eyed human female, also armed. A fierce-grinning Wookiee. A CDV-class work droid. Thin, blue-skinned figures—like none he had seen before—and then...

His breath caught. His former superiors would hardly have blamed him for it: except for Han Solo and his companions, no one had seen raging Nomads in the last half-million standard years.

"Don't move!" the human male shouted in a gruff voice.

A Corellian...

The large droid repeated his words in a dozen languages, accompanied by an unmistakable gesture.

The humanoid slowly raised both hands—a gesture he had not learned from his teachers, nor from his Imperial trainers, but from his enemies—and with an almost imperceptible gesture, he signaled his snarling mount to calm down. Although the traditions of his culture did not recognize surrender, and delaying the end with words was considered an unforgivable sin, he hissed sharply to indicate he had something to say.

"He asks for time, Captain," the crude droid relayed. From the speed of its reaction, the ahram inferred it was in direct connection with an auxiliary logic unit. "If I may suggest..."

"Wait, Bollux! He's up to something!"

What happened next surprised them all slightly.

"I intend to clean my filter mask," the hooded figure spoke in Corellian and did so without waiting for a reply. Seeing his noseless face, bone-colored scales, and golden-green eyes, a murmur ran through the opposing ranks. Solo, Chewie, and Kirra held their ground: their weapons were aimed at what they assumed were the creature's vital organs.

"Thank you for the distinguished trust!"

"Who the hell are you?" Solo snapped. "What are you doing here?"

The ahram looked up at the sky.

"I came to die," he said simply. "For someone like me, there is no other ending: what will be, what must be, was declared and recorded long before I saw the light of day. This world will be the grave of my bones. But before I reach the end of the road, I must accomplish something. Something that no one else can do but me..." His golden-green eyes fixed on Han. The narrow, forked tongue flicked out from between his lips, then retracted again. "Do you know what honor is, Corellian? You must know—your people know. I fought against them. Excellent warriors. Partly thanks to their legacy, you were found worthy in the dust of this planet, becoming a leader. You have reason to kill me, and you may have to—but wait! I served the Emperor for a long time, gave up much, lost much, but never my honor. It remains untouched and will remain so even after I gift my blood to this planet. I ask for your help, and I offer help in return if you accept...!"

Solo tilted his head, pondering what he heard. Kirra stood silently, the Belzagorian detachment ready to spring into action. The Nomads were arriving from the camp—a perpetually silent army of mourning giants.

"Why did you come?" he finally asked.

"For the soul of a sibling," the ahram replied unemotionally. "I cannot snatch it from its tormentors alone. The Empire is vast, and its base here is defended by considerable forces. I have reckoned with them, as I have with my life. If you and your companions play into my hand, you will triumph in the battle. If not..."—a peculiar, toothless smile—"we will all perish here irretrievably."

"Let's leave the psychological warfare, shall we?" Han suggested, but his throat was terribly dry. This reptilian creature must be well aware of the Empire's Premont plans—why else would he have dared to come here?

"I'm a businessman, so let's look at it from a business perspective! Our help"—he pointed to those gathering behind him—"comes at a price. What do you offer in return?"

The snake-like humanoid chuckled hissing.

It was chilling to hear even laughing.

"Not more and not less than the planet, Captain—those who are concerned will surely understand!" He looked past the human male's shoulder, directing his words straight to the Nomads: "Your world, in exchange for my sibling's soul, Great Ones! A fair price, isn't it?" His gaze flicked back to the Corellian. "What else can I say? With my help, you might reclaim your ship, Han Solo!"

Orman Tagge woke up in a foul mood.

That the first light of dawn found him awake was not unusual—he usually slept little, having much to lose and feeling increasingly mistrustful of everyone.

As so often, he nostalgically thought of the "heroic" times when a bit of money and ingenuity could get a man anywhere. Palpatine, the monstrous Emperor, owes his power to money—and, of course, to the moneyed men—despite his recent efforts to shroud his successes in the mist of superstition. The ruler and his dark order! Sith and the mystical children of Bogan! Crystals and latent forces—great galaxy!

He tended to forget that whenever he stood before Palpatine, those certain forces gripped him too. He was unable to straighten up or look up while the terrifying old man's gaze held him. During such moments, he silently thanked his ancestors for the Emperor's favor and trust, eagerly presenting his latest plans.

He could afford to: he had reserves from a dozen industrial worlds, one of the galaxy's largest private fortunes, and ample manpower. He could have easily bought the title of baron from any ancient yet financially troubled system's aristocrat, just as he had bought his noble appearance: the wrinkle-free face, the far-seeing blue eyes, and the two artist's hands. But as a proud man, he chose the harder path—and there were moments when he could have cursed himself out loud for it.

This morning, for instance.

He still couldn't decide where he had gone wrong. He had carefully selected his employees and subordinates, the armed escort was impressive even by galactic standards. The Plan was undoubtedly excellent, and there were no mistakes in its execution... until now.

He straightened up, flexing his regenerated muscles. Even the most advanced meditech could not work miracles with his build and skeletal structure: he remained as disillusioning as ever. Such was the fate of artists...

Perhaps we were too hasty in deciding on the planet? he pondered. Should we have looked for a different location? Is that where the mistake is? He frowned. In theory, this can be ruled out just like the other reasons. I made the decision after consulting recognized experts and planetologists; the proximity of Premont could have been just one factor among many... What did we overlook? Where did we ALL go wrong?

And because his instincts—thanks to many years of court practice—were more refined than usual, it wasn't difficult for him to consider the possible consequences either.

If he failed at the last moment, he could lose everything. The people, the expensive equipment, the planet—and most embarrassingly, the Emperor's trust.

Devil and hell!

Meanwhile, Grand Moff Tarkin, obsessed with colossal structures and overwhelming firepower, was realizing his old dream. He was creating a moon-sized battle station that would make him the undisputed military ruler of the inner star systems. No world, no civilization could risk defying his will. If they did, nothing would remain of them but weightless dust and scattered debris.

Obey or perish — behold the longed-for Pax Imperica, fools!

With long strides, he hurried to the window of his suite and looked down at the lush forest.

Viewing the forest and its inhabitants, he could simultaneously see the evidence and consequences of his benevolence. An impressive yet depressing sight. He had brought water and life to this barren planet, giving its lower life forms a chance to survive, and what did he get in return?

Rebellion!

For every damned creature here rebels, even those conceived in the puddles formed from the liquid seeping out of the base's piping system. The rodents rebel, the shrew-like mammals rebel—creatures that, according to a report, had developed to this point in just a few months, solely thanks to him! They gnaw at the pipes to get more moisture. They devour or carry away organic matter, damage the laid cables—in short, they fight, they sabotage without even knowing it!

In his worst moments, Tagge toyed with the thought: what if these creatures weren't as stupid as they seemed...? During his travels, he had encountered countless forms of intelligent life, including some that an outsider wouldn't have accepted as intelligent, even under suggestion. He pondered what he would do if it was proven that they had abused his generosity. He always reached the same conclusion.

They might outsmart him, but they couldn't defeat him. The Plan was indeed excellent, and he had the power to resort to the Final Solution if he deemed it necessary. To strike back at the rebellious specks of dust if they forced him to.

He bit his lip.

How much easier his task would be if he could implement his plan on a densely populated planet in a more central system? Thanks to satellites and spy robots, he would immediately be informed of every step the rebels took. He wouldn't have to send out troops, valuable agents, even more valuable droids, and—most painfully—sacrifice TIE fighters. If the rabble's unrest filled him with deeper emotions than passing concern, he would quietly request the floor. His image would fill the visors' screens, in households, public spaces, government offices, barracks—everywhere.

He would urge the rabble to calm down, explain the purpose of the experimental equipment installed on their planet, and offer to resolve disputes fairly, asking only a few favors in return for his benevolence.

There was little doubt that the population would quickly hand over the agitators, rumor-mongers, and traitors—along with any possible external accomplices. Yes, that's how it would unfold on a centrally located planet inhabited by civilized peoples. But here... His hand clenched into a fist.

Whom can I press for cooperation? The mold?

The lizards? The shrews?

Because certainly not the fanatics who recently landed...

He spun on his heel and returned to his desk. With a few button presses, he projected a satellite image of Premont's southern hemisphere onto its surface. It was a half-year-old image, which would have been considered outdated from a tactical and strategic perspective in many places—but not on this planet, whose wind-swept wastelands had stretched unchanged under the sky for tens of thousands of years... On the map, holographic icons marked the sites of incidents and skirmishes. Red crosses indicated the last known positions of destroyed or downed machines. And their numbers were growing...

Tagge took a deep breath.

The information extracted from the captive rebel leader added only a few details to the picture. They had caught an incredibly stubborn individual: he fought the mind probe like no one before. Even his identity had several blank spots: the reek shapeshifter had to improvise here and there when he "wore his skin." The result: the idiot lay dead out there somewhere, along with the scout droids sent to cover him...

The baron pressed the comm switch.

"Major Feija!"
The desk screen lit up, displaying the features of Tagge's adjutant.

"Sir...?"
"Connect me with the Captain of Kiltech!"

Feija's sharp-featured face reflected surprise. After landing, the baron had ordered that they could only contact the Star Destroyer guarding the system in exceptional circumstances. The command bridge of the ship was mostly occupied by Imperial cadres, and there were surely some Eyes and Ears among them. If support was needed, it could only mean big trouble—and the ominous news did not necessarily have to reach Palpatine's throne immediately. Not to mention Grand Moff Tarkin's office.

"Should I repeat myself, Major?"
Feija flinched.

"Not necessary, sir," he said quickly and relayed the order. He looked up. "Kiltech is responding..."

Captain Roam, the commanding officer of the Star Destroyer, gave the impression of an even more rigid soldier than the major. He towered in the field of view as a living advertisement of the iron discipline reigning in the long-term mission units of the Fleet, with the metal buttons of his black tunic shining like distant suns.

"At your disposal," he bowed ceremoniously, though his gesture contained much less humility than usual.

"I might need your help, Captain," the baron began slowly, carefully emphasizing each word. "Some groups of rebels—don't ask how—have managed to get through the blockade and cause minor trouble down here. We have the situation under control, but we need to be sure: move closer to Premont and prepare your units for deployment!"

The black-clad officer's head movement conveyed polite disbelief and slight annoyance. He would have sworn that the freighter they had recently pursued perished in the debris field. How the hell did it manage to get through that gauntlet? And how many heavily armed rebel agents did it carry to give Tagge such trouble?

"I've already suggested that at least two ships are needed for effective control," he said dryly. After this conversation, he would order some data to be permanently deleted from Kiltech's computers to prevent other, much more embarrassing conversations. "However, you have nothing to worry about, baron: if necessary, I'll deploy ten squads to Premont to address the problem!"

"I am in your debt," Tagge snarled, barely concealing his malice. "You will receive the optimal orbital radius and the anomaly forecast for today and tomorrow from our controllers immediately. Stay on standby! End of communication…"

He ended the call and sat down at the desk. His smile would have frozen the blood of even the most cold-resistant beings.

"I have you now!"

He had always managed well with such hard-headed figures. A few carefully chosen words, and they do exactly what he expects—while believing themselves to be victorious in the process.

Bring your ship closer to my planet, Captain! Turn your databanks upside-down for evidence of your possible oversights! Until this matter is resolved one way or another, there will be great silence around Premont. Perfect silence in the ether and in this sector of space: I will personally ensure the appropriate level of jamming. By the time you locate its source—if you locate it at all—I will have restored order here and placed the blame on the rebels. And if I do not succeed…

He leaned back in his seat and interlocked his bony fingers. His smile faded but did not disappear.

If I do not succeed, I will disappear from here, and His Imperial Majesty's Star Destroyer will become another entry on the casualty list, like everything else near and far!

He regained control of his facial expressions and stood up.

He had gotten a bit ahead of himself. He had not lost yet. Not yet. And although he woke up early, he still had plenty to take care of and clarify.

He touched the 'com switch again.

"Send for Valance!"

Chapter Nine

"Let me get this straight…" Han Solo took a deep breath. "You're saying that the entire complex is one enormous bomb?"

The reptilian humanoid, who was crouching with his knees pulled up, basking in the sunlight streaming through the tent flaps of the Nomad tent, nodded. The Corellian glanced at Chewbacca and cleared his throat. "What did you say your name was?" he asked then.

"Rahinagharamaghoromalgahar," the ahram whispered with his eyes closed. "But I don't mind if you call me Rahin."

"You know, Rahin," Solo began thoughtfully again, "this is the most improbable nonsense I've ever heard. You're trying to tell us that the Imperials planted a bomb under their own base? Try something else!"

K'brull, the spokesperson for the Belzagorian detachment, stared ahead. "Strictly from a logical and logistical standpoint…" he said, "…unfortunately, it's conceivable that it's true."

The Wookiee growled angrily.

"When I refer to logistical considerations, I mean the economic ones," the blue-skinned man hastened to clarify.

"By logistical standpoint, I mean economic," the blue-skinned man hurried to clarify. "Just think about it! The Empire is currently maintaining thousands of ships and millions of intelligent or less intelligent beings in arms to overcome the rebellion. Do you have any idea what this costs? We Belzagorians do," he glanced at his ragged, gaunt, and fierce-eyed companions. "Operating, monitoring, and directing such a massive machinery, even with the Emperor's supernatural abilities, is no easy task. He can't be everywhere, and his subordinates—with few exceptions—are just as human as you or I. They can make mistakes. Every mistake can cost a ship, hundreds of Imperial soldiers' lives, an entire planetary system. Isn't it simpler then to preempt trouble and ensure the loyalty of key worlds once and for all, rather than organizing costly and uncertain punitive expeditions?"

Han glanced at Kirra, who shook her head, signaling him to wait.

"You think well, male," the ahram grinned fiercely. "Indeed, it is simpler to prevent trouble. This is how Baron Orman Tagge reasoned when he devised his absolute weapon to please the Emperor."

"The bomb, right?" Han muttered.

"The bomb," Rahin nodded patiently. "But not just any bomb. It's an unusually powerful fusion charge, placed in a vault at the appropriate depth beneath the crust. Deploying it, even considering exploratory drilling and sample analysis, takes only a few months—a comprehensive cleansing or open siege would undoubtedly take longer."

"Of course!" K'brull exclaimed. Since he hadn't been forced to run or shoot, he had calmed down a bit and began to feel in his element, contemplating theories. "Consider a centrally located world with representative rights, a relatively strong, well-equipped army, and a self-conscious, rebellious population! Ogana. Alderaan. Naturally, the Empire is present. Perhaps only a small garrison is stationed on the planet, but that's not the point—the point is what they use the people and equipment for! Suppose the Emperor doesn't want to destroy, but to preserve the valuable jewel of his crown. What can he do? He could attempt to weed out the dangerous elements—or he could place a bomb beneath the planet's crust that ensures the population's loyalty forever. Some of the 'traitors' might escape, but where can millions of cornered people run? Sooner or later, they will eagerly comply with every wish of the Imperial governor, so that the bomb never needs to explode!"

"Every new procedure comes with accidents," the reptilian alien murmured. "One mishap is enough for the worlds secured by bombs to turn against..."

"…the rebels," Kirra sighed. "This…" She searched for the right word. "This is diabolical!"

Chewbacca growled again, this time much more subdued.

"Sure is!" Solo nodded. "But what can't you imagine about the Empire?"

The present Nomads exchanged glances. As silent as they were in their mourning, their thoughts now raced just as swiftly, searching for clues and facts.

Kirra snapped to attention.

"Help us, Captain!" she asked Han. Together, sometimes enlisting Chewie's aid, they explained the bomb concept to the natives of Premont.

"Something tells me," Han Solo ventured, seeing the darkening faces, "that our hosts will like the baron even less from now on…"

"'Beware of the Emperor, especially when he gives gifts,'" K'brull quoted, then something occurred to him, and he shuddered. "Do you think they could be capable of destroying an entire world?"

The ahram chose this moment to straighten up and dryly continue listing the data he knew:

"After the fusion charge ignites, it sinks deeper and deeper into the planet's crust. It penetrates the rock layers, releasing thermal energies. It creates vibrations that lead to a tectonic chain reaction. The attacked world can be destroyed in a dozen different ways. Depending on its age and the composition of its rocks, atmospheric loss, fragmentation, explosion, or even…"

The Nomads must have started to tune into his brainwaves because they all jumped to their feet as one.

"IMPERIAL BASE!" echoed in the minds of those present. "BOMB THERE? BARON THERE? NO WAITING! WHERE EMPEROR?"

"The Emperor lives quite far from here…" Kirra explained, then, looking into the blazing eyes and tasting the emotions of the Nomads, added, "…fortunately for him."

"But the base is on the way," Han jumped at the opportunity, thinking of the Falcon. "Listen up, boys! How about a…"

"They'll follow you anywhere, Solo," Rahin noted. "It was expected, but I hope you haven't forgotten: to succeed, you must first negotiate with me!"

The Corellian sighed deeply and sat down again. He gestured, and the Nomads reluctantly followed suit.

"Speak!"

The scaly humanoid took a peculiar posture: he leaned forward, his forehead almost touching the ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was dull and colorless:

"In theory, there is no way to prevent the baron from activating the bomb's self-destruct. The system is foolproof. Remember, it was designed to prevent and retaliate against exactly these kinds of attacks. To save the planet, we need to access the bomb without approaching it—that's the crux!"

Han held back his usual sarcastic remark. As a smuggler and an honorary Nomad, he couldn't afford another mistake; the stakes included both Premont and his beloved ship. This lizard offered a double-or-nothing deal. So be it.

"Is it doable?" he asked calmly.

The ahram nodded slowly.

"Why else would I be here?" He pulled his bag closer and dug out a large, box-shaped device from it. "I will do the hard work myself—with this."

"An NSNH terminal, Captain," K'brull hurried to assist Han. "It's used for contacting systems that are not optically or acoustically linked. It has never been available commercially. Extremely sophisticated, extremely expensive—and extremely dangerous. Its possession—not to mention its use—is strictly punished in most systems."

"Once again, you speak well, male!" Rahin raised his voice, then glanced at Solo. "This terminal is one of the Emperor's useful gifts. The Emperor, in his infinite mercy, never forgets his obedient servants…!" The bitterness in his voice was evident. "Imagine what such a machine can do. Apart from the more intelligent droids, it can control any computer system. You can access data, transmit commands, even deal out death this way. Magnificent!"

"Its usability is limited only by its range," noted the Belzagorian. "Considerably so… That's why you need us, of course."

"Hah!" hissed the other. "You know a thing or two about infiltrating foreign systems... Very good. You will help me, and if my time comes sooner than expected, you will take my place!"

"I will," K'brull said cautiously, "if I understand the reason."

"You need a reason to act sensibly?" the ahram laughed joylessly. "Strange, but have it your way. First, we will attack the Empire's database using the terminal. The machine's range is limited, so we will incorporate an intermediate station into the chain. We will find a high-powered transmitter outside the atmosphere, whose equipment will allow us to transmit instructions and modify the baron's programs."

Han raised an eyebrow.

"The Star Destroyer!"

It was as if a smiling mask had been forced onto Rahin's scaly face. His emotions were increasingly taking over; it was clear that his true motives would soon come to light.

"My respect, Solo: I didn't expect you to be the one to figure it out. The Star Destroyer, indeed. If my calculations are correct—and they must be—the baron will soon call it closer. We can't know its exact role in the endgame—it depends on how he assesses what's happened so far and how much he's willing to risk to avoid disgrace... Regardless, the planet's fate hinges more on the bomb's reactions than on him." He laughed. "Did I not mention? The bomb thinks, it even feels. It has to be this way, Han Solo, it has to be! Because in this bomb resides the soul of my sibling—a sibling who gave his life for the Empire, who fell in battle on Mongross, while trying to fulfill the baron's impossible order! Tagge played dishonorably, he cheated, as always... He desecrated our dead. With the Emperor's knowledge and consent, he stole our sibling's soul, brought it to Premont, and imprisoned it in the bomb's control system so that it would serve him and him alone, and finally perish in sin! Hundreds of my kind volunteered to come here, to seek retribution for the insult to our race. The honor fell to me. Perhaps because they deemed me most worthy. Perhaps because it was decreed even before my conception that I would fall here. So here I am. Here's the deal, Han Solo: I will assist you. Together, we can defuse the bomb, defeat the baron. The giants will reclaim what's theirs. The Emperor will turn against us, but he cannot change what is destined. We may fall before finishing our task—the blue-skinned human will act in my stead. You, Han Solo, after escaping with your ship, will take my brother's soul to my kin. You'll speak of me before the Elders so that my soul may find peace in the depths of this world..."

He crumbled a clod of earth in his hand, let the rust-scented dust scatter to the wind, and then smiled again. "What is your answer?"

The Corellian stood up, took the heavier weapon from Chewbacca, and gestured to the waiting Nomads, then looked the ahram in the eye. "Let's go," he said.

Valance was dreaming of Mongross. Again.

In his icy cold dream, akin to human rest, he saw those fateful moments once more. The flames streaking across the red sky. The smoke rising from the rubble of destroyed buildings. He heard the screams—including his own.

A fatal incident. They were supposed to smoke out a small nest of rebels, but their leaders made the classic mistake that true leaders should never make: they underestimated the danger just because they were not facing human beings.

It was the first chapter of the galaxy-dividing war, the time of choosing sides. Beings from dozens of star systems fought shoulder to shoulder on both sides.

It took standard days—a small eternity—before the Empire's technological superiority prevailed. By the time the Star Destroyers (two of which were damaged by the minefield surrounding the planet) settled into orbit, Valance lay dead among the ruins of a ravaged settlement with hundreds of his comrades. Fortunately, he was found immediately—the rest almost took care of itself.

He slept through the moment of his resurrection in proper fashion. In the same icy dream where he still often retreated during moments of idleness: the blue-glowing darkness, which held neither fear nor pain, calmed him.

When the power cables of his artificial limbs were put in place, he felt a surge of power. It was barely more than a fleeting sensation—perhaps he would have forgotten it if he hadn't tasted it again later. Maybe it was the chemicals introduced into his body, or maybe it was the oppressive memories of his abruptly ended life that made him gradually withdraw from everything he once thought was important. He retreated to the deepest part of his strangely alien body, where the artificial heart pulsed, and where he slowly made a home for himself, the one who was once called Valance...

His eyes suddenly flew open—just like back then, in the biomechanical section of the Imperial ship departing from Mongross. Some stimulus from the outside world had found its way into his icy stupor and intensified his senses. He immediately realized what was happening—and knew that his time had come.

"Baron requests Valance. To all personnel: Baron requests Valance..."

The officer stood up and turned toward the narrow door opening. The same old song.

There were always those who struggled to say his full name and rank. They didn't really doubt his capabilities, had no complaints about his appearance, yet they shunned him, avoided him like the plague. It took him a long time to get used to it. It helped that loneliness and hatred meant nothing to him anymore. He existed as a special life form among the common living, who would be very surprised to learn how little he truly differed from them. The most fundamental driving force of his actions was identical to that of ordinary mortals.

He wanted to live. Not better, not more—just to live.

Perhaps because he knew better than any of them what death was like.

He adjusted his black uniform, pressed a few switches on the central console, which brought to life a whole string of red and yellow lights—then stepped into the corridor and went on his way. His breath swirled in the air as white vapor as he passed by the cooling chambers. Inside, people and other beings slumbered in the icy blue. They were just like Valance: they had crossed over to the Other Side but had returned thanks to the foresight of their superiors. Among them were successes and failures; some could match two stormtroopers in battle, and others who would be trusted with nothing more complicated than monitor duty. The officer knew them. He knew their exact numbers, strengths, and weaknesses—very few at the Premont base could say the same.

The inhabitants of the cooling chambers were originally intended to secure the base, in case the "complete withdrawal of the full-value ground personnel became necessary for some reason." In practice, this meant the Final Solution. In other words: the destruction of the target planet.

Valance opened, and left open, a multilayered plasteel door. He was thinking about Tagge—the crafty old Tagge, who charmingly extolled the virtues of his "security device" whenever he had the chance. "Upon activation of the bomb's fusion charge," he claimed, "the regular units, along with their equipment, will abandon their doomed post and board the nearby units of the Imperial Fleet. In the hours leading up to the catastrophe that will lay waste to the world, routine tasks will be carried out by the recycled workforce, for whom no commander, no regional governor will be accountable!"

The officer dressed in black smiled faintly.

A clean, elegant solution, one had to admit. Eventually, the explosion will occur—and while horror takes root in the hearts of the rebels and waverers, no one will spare a thought for the members of the "recycled workforce," who obediently and silently burn up in the flames of the local apocalypse...

So far, the theory. Practice, as they say, is another matter.

Valance felt it in his bones; he knew that Tagge would let no one—neither man nor 'borg—leave if he decided on the destruction of Premont. The Machine might hesitate, resist, but deciding in vain; sooner or later, the baron would see through the situation, and then it would be over. After all, no matter how independent a device might be, it could not disregard its creator's command! The process would start, Tagge would leave—everyone else would stay behind. As for the Star Destroyer...

The officer entered the lift. It took a while for those in the cabin to recognize him as the 'borg, and this only strengthened his resolve.

I must get onto that Star Destroyer!

He smiled again.

A few days earlier, he had only known the why, not the how. The rebels and the aliens (not to mention the Machine itself) had helped greatly without even realizing it. Each had played their role in the drama, the climax of which only he, Valance, would reach when he stepped unscathed onto the Kiltech's deck. It would be his task to report on what happened at the Premont station—in his own way, of course. And since no one would likely survive to contradict his claims, he would soon become a hero. The first 'borg to advance in rank... The first 'borg admiral...!

The lift door opened.

Three pairs of stormtroopers stood guard outside Tagge's office. Their armor, their stance reminded Valance of the Machine—or rather, the unfortunate being whose soul had been implanted into the Machine's control system on the baron's orders. Many had opposed the use of sentient automatons, but Tagge had marshaled his arguments (broader applicability, easier communication—and of course, decision-making ability, which, though limited, far surpassed that of standard computer brains) and prevailed. The snake-like creature injured on Mongross was declared dead, an unrecognizably charred native's remains sent to the imperial overseer. The ahram's body was consumed by fire a few weeks later on Premont—and what remained of him awoke hours later in the Machine...

Valance watched the stormtroopers with well-concealed disdain. He sensed the feeling was mutual. While waiting for admittance, he continued to ponder the strange joke of fate.

Machine and consciousness. A peculiar pairing. But a bomb endowed with a reptilian soul would have been hard to stomach for many—including the baron—so they took the implantation a step further: they made the ahram believe he had lived and died as a human being for the Emperor.

This pre-empted a series of awkward questions and silenced those who protested against the obvious desecration of a real human body and soul.

A perfect solution!

Or as the ancients might have said: "Bingo!" Long live the Emperor!

Long live the Empire!

A green light flashed above the door, and the stormtroopers made way for the officer dressed in black.

"Enter, Valance!"

The 'borg obeyed.

Tagge was waiting for him, sitting behind the desk. His posture lacked any ceremoniousness, and his movements—understandably—betrayed restrained irritation."

How does your comrade-in-arms feel?" he immediately returned to the topic.

"My comrade-in-arms, sir?" Valance echoed slowly. In similar situations, he often made himself appear more foolish than he actually was—and he managed to deceive almost everyone, as there was no equipment available on Premont to examine and regulate the sensitivity of his synapses.

The baron made an impatient hand gesture.

"I mean the Machine, Valance. According to my information, it 'favors' you the most among those we assigned to its service. It frequently contacts you directly. What are your impressions?"

"I don't understand the question, sir."

Tagge pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet. Something about this figure bothered him from the very beginning; he seemed more composed and calm than any other 'borg. Could it be possible that he was trying to fool him? After all, he was little more than a wretched droid…!

He forced himself to stay calm. After all, he was not an enemy—just a mindless tool. Perhaps he needed to formulate his questions more precisely!

"The situation is serious," he began with a deep breath, "and it could quickly turn critical. As the senior officer assigned to guard and maintain the equipment, you must be prepared to take command if our troops are forced to withdraw." He locked eyes with the 'borg. "Your responsibilities are clear. Do you have any questions about the task?"

"No, sir…" The officer spoke to an indeterminate point on the holomap flickering behind Tagge. The standard and local time vibrated in the upper right corner of the map. "As a matter of fact…" Just a few more minutes! "…I've thought a lot about this possibility. I am ready to carry out the task, I assure you."

A shadow passed across Tagge's face. Had he sensed something? At that moment, perhaps involuntarily, he glanced at the time as well.

"I have no doubts about that," he snapped at the officer. "However, the Machine's behavior has been somewhat unsettling. Since that freighter arrived, it has reacted peculiarly to certain tests. It insisted on leading the first assault against the rebel camp itself—it was so sure of its position that it only informed me of the developments at the moment the attack began. It concealed for months the existence of a primitive species' civilization on the planet's southern hemisphere, and I have the impression it did not do everything possible to locate and destroy the fleeing rebels…" He stepped to the window, his fists clenched as he stared at the forest. A bipedal scout walker passed by below, the plasglass panes shuddering slightly. "Or should I be more specific? The evidence suggests that it has misled us multiple times. I had to personally take over the direction of the operations. I struck at the natives' settlement, and…"

Valance raised an eyebrow. This somewhat piqued his interest. "May I ask, with what result?"

"…and I inflicted severe losses on them," Tagge concluded irritably. "It was confirmed that the surviving members of the rebel band that had settled here under the pretext of mining operations were hiding in that settlement. We currently have no data on their numbers and equipment."

"You struck them..." the officer pondered, then looked up. "And now you expect retaliation?"

"Don't you dare get cocky, you cursed 'borg!" Tagge exploded. "Don't you dare, because it might soon be proven that you played right into the Machine's hands! You think I'm that stupid? You helped it deceive me—and only the galaxy knows what else it's plotting! You forget who's in charge here, but I'll remind you, I swear it!" He touched the 'com switch. "Feija, can you hear me?"

On the screen, the chillingly sharp features of the major appeared.

"Sir…?"

Tagge smiled, his teeth flashing. "There have been issues with a target machine," he hissed. "Send your technicians to my office as quickly as possible! We'll need the mind probe too—we've never used it for such a task before! He spun on his heel, a handheld infantry weapon flashing in his hand. "Not a step, Valance! It seems I must go soon, but I cannot risk failure. I want to make a properly functioning senior officer out of you before I board the ship. Don't worry, we haven't forgotten about your comrade-in-arms either: your farewell will be hot and spectacular. I'm sorry. You'll understand within half an hour…"

Valance did not move. He heard the door opening behind him. The holomap's chronograph showed five o'clock.

"I am sorry too, sir. And you don't need to understand…!"

A blinding light flared in the passageway. A beam shot a long scar across the study wall; the holoprojector shut off. Tagge needed only a glance at the figures appearing on the threshold to grasp the situation. He fired twice—two 'borgs fell lifelessly to the corridor floor, but the rest pushed inward. Valance reached for his sidearm, making it clear he was ready to use it immediately.

Outside, the whine of automatic fire echoed—the stormtroopers from the eastern wing had engaged the attackers pouring out from the cooling chambers.

The baron leaped behind the desk—beams narrowly missing him— and activated a device. It responded in its unconscious way—and saved his life. A large section of the floor slid aside and then back into place. The 'borgs jumping over the desk searched in vain for their prey.

An explosion's roar and shockwave swept through the passages: Valance's team resorted to infantry grenades to clear the way to the outer circles of the base. The stormtroopers were scattered, decimated by the ambush—they retreated around a bend, trying to establish a defensive position there.

Major Feija's face appeared on the comm screen.

"Valance, you madman! What are you doing?"

"Following the Machine's current directives," the officer in black replied coldly, "and I suggest you all do the same if you want to live!" He cut the connection. Let the major ponder what he meant! By the time Tagge fights his way out of the service tunnels, the battle will be over, and he will be long gone…

"Look!"

Valance glanced back. A 'borg made from a stormtrooper was bent over the desk's tactical display, staring in disbelief at the ever-changing patterns.

"What the…?"

"Save your oxygen, soldier!" ordered the officer in black. "What you see is a brilliant testament to the Machine's foresight. The yellow arrows are surface vehicles, the red ones are various ships…" He glanced through Tagge's window at the darkening southern horizon. "The rebels are striking back."

Chapter Ten

Han Solo watched the parade from the pilot seat of an ML-7 identical to the ill-fated one. On the rear-view monitors, he could clearly see the second Nomad giant ship rising from its self-made nest of sand and rocks to shield the riders below with its force field. The first one also returned, bringing the remnants of Grattan's unit from the well-established hideout.

"Avenger squadron, receiving!" the voice of the fighter wing commander crackled in his headset. "Rendezvous at six-zero-nine-five!"

The not-so-streamlined B-wings streaked past on both sides of the troop carrier.

"In a few more months, the first X-wings would have arrived too," lamented Kirra, crouching behind Han. "Grattan has excellent connections at Incom. If only he could see what we see now!"

"He might not see it, but he sure can hear it," the Corellian consoled her. "And so can everyone else from here to Coruscant…." He glanced back again; the size of the Nomad ship filled him with awe. "Hey, Chewie!" he turned to his first mate. "Ever been in a fight where we were the ones with superior numbers? No? Didn't think so! We'll have to drink to this sometime…."

"Han Solo, respond!" came Rahin's voice. "Alright, we're closing in on the radar station. Air defenses are quiet for now, but let's not get cocky: we're landing and going the rest on foot. Once we secure the spot, you can make your move. Over!"

"I wouldn't dream of forgetting, Captain…" came the familiar, worried voice. "Over and out for now."

The Nomad "snail shell" had risen high, blocking out the sun. In its amber-flickering shadow, the native wolves' packs raced along, their howls carried far by the wind.

"Two tribes…" Kirra whispered. "Holy galaxy! If all twenty of their ships arrive, the Imperial Fleet will have no business here anymore. If all twenty tribes go to war…."

"Hey. slow down!" Solo protested. "This isn't some grand revolution yet. These noble beings are just ticked off, plain and simple. Think about it: you come home after a long, tough journey and find some unwelcome strangers trashing the place and throwing rocks at you the first chance they get. How would you feel?"

"I'd throw them out," the girl replied. "But I'd also make sure they don't bother the neighbors once they're out!"

Chewbacca barked decisively, indicating his boredom with the politics. The ML-7, followed by the other troop carriers, closed in on the Imperial base.

"Whoa," Solo murmured. "I'll be damned if those aren't trees down there!"

"Confirmed, sir!" Blue Max hurriedly added. "Trees, shrubs, bushes. I detect open water surfaces in the valley—not recorded anywhere on Premont. The planet's wildlife has retreated here, and… yes, there are animals too, and plenty of them!"

"Impressive," murmured the Corellian. "You boys would make top-notch employees at some advertising and propaganda agency if fate ever separates our paths. Promise me," he turned to Kirra, "you'll hire them if Chewie and I leave our bones in Tagge's waiting room! My soul wouldn't rest if…."

A gun turret emerged from the foliage, its cannon tracked the troop carrier for a while—then turned away, like a bored grazer.

Chewbacca sighed heavily.

"The Nomad force field can't be affecting this area yet…" Solo mused, standing up. "What's going on here?" Bollux didn't delay with the answer:

"Detecting energy discharges all over the base, Captain. Max believes it's not a malfunction but a firefight. It seems the local Imperial representatives have some serious disagreements. Maybe we should wait…."

"No, no!" Solo objected. "If our arrival doesn't instantly unite them, the Nomads' surely will, and then may the Ashla have mercy on us!" He checked his AG harness and flung the sliding door open. "End of the line!"

With a thunderous laugh, Chewbacca leaped out, arms and legs spread wide. Kirra followed a beat later, then the radio operator, and two more ex-miners: the five quickly disappeared into the foliage."

"Sir…" the work droid tried one last time.

"No more debate, Bollux: you jump and that's it! In a minute, something will happen to this machine that you really don't want to witness up close!"

"But sir...!"

Thanks to the AG harness settings, he saw the receding vehicle until the last moment. The emptied troop carrier left two silent gun turrets in its wake, shaved off some treetops—then crashed into the central building of the base, disappearing in a brilliant pink cloud of burning fuel.

"See, Bollux..." the Corellian muttered, diving into the whispering forest after his comrades, "…and they say the straight path is the best one!"

The Kiltech approached the planet with determination.

A yellow alert blared on the bridge, sending assistants and technicians scurrying with a sense of urgency. But at the posts, calm reigned—what else would you expect from one of the Empire's finest ships?

"Still no contact, Captain," reported one of the sensor operators working on the sidelines. "The debris field anomalies are distorting the waves... although it's not ruled out that the receiving station is experiencing a malfunction."

"Malfunction? For hours?" The captain did not like this at all. Perhaps he should send out those units immediately... but no. The baron's orders could not have been clearer: he had to wait.

"Gun three: fire!" he raised his voice, and a crystal block that had strayed into the ship's path shattered in a silent explosion outside. A pained smile spread across the captain's face."

"Maintain course!" he ordered, and with determined steps, he left the bridge. The first significant catch in months!

Tagge was halfway to the central building when he heard the sound.

It wasn't hard to detect: the entire pipe system cracked from the vibrations. The baron stumbled through the opening before him and found himself in the walkers' repair bay. The plasteel walls visibly vibrated, and sparks rained from the ceiling lights. And above all, that sound: as if the sky itself, the mercilessly blue sky, had split... Tagge jumped to his feet.

"Valance!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "You filthy 'borg, what have you done?"

"Sir...?"

He was surrounded by AT-AT pilots in earth-brown uniforms. He shook off the helping hands and shoved aside the sharp-faced officer who hurried towards him. He didn't have time to listen to reports; he had more important things to do now...

"Sir!"

Betrayed! There was no room for doubts anymore. He had lost. Not in some things—in everything. He chose the wrong planet, the wrong personnel, and—may the Emperor be merciful!—he misjudged the enemy's strength. He had to go. One thing, one small thing, was left that he had to do. A minor victory compared to the failure he suffered here, but undoubtedly worthy of the spirit of this dirt hole: everything must be destroyed!

He jumped out of the elevator on the fourth level and started running towards the suspended walkway leading to the inner circles. Wounded and dead lay along the walls—a squad of 'borgs had bled out here in their battle with the stormtroopers... At the third turn, an armored commando unit blocked his path: fortunately, all its members were alive. Their sergeant recited the data in a dull voice:

"They broke through in six places, also taking the smaller communication center... They are using grenades and cutting lasers... The spatial distortion..."

"Shut it down!" Tagge hissed, his face pale. "Shut it down now!"

"Impossible, sir," the sergeant stammered. "The comm center..."

"Use the larger one! Retune the antennas, call for help from above!"

The sergeant's wrist radio buzzed. Those around could also hear the fragmented situation report from the other side of the complex, the southern side:

"Rebel squads have destroyed hangars C, D, and F. Evacuated some pilots... AT-ATs are moving out, but uncertain how long they can hold... Immediate reinforcement needed, repeat, immediate..."

Tagge took a deep breath.

This too!

"We're pulling back," he declared firmly. " The shortest route leads through the inner circle. Follow me!"

They moved quickly through the maze of empty corridors. They dealt with any 'borgs they encountered—Valance's larger squads were already far away. After ten minutes or so, they were blocked by a thick metal wall. It was part of the first defensive line of the Machine.

Tagge cursed for a while—at that moment, even the most careful observer wouldn't have recognized him as one of the Empire's dignitaries—then he planted his feet firmly.

"Break through!"

The commandos set to work. Blue sparks rained down, reflecting hellfire in the rounded profiles of the armor. Two plasma cutters failed, but four others held up: soon, the way was clear.

Until the next metal wall.

"They want to corner us!" hissed the baron. "Move on!"

The stormtroopers excelling at overcoming the second barrier ran straight to their deaths: the corridor bend was guarded by 'borgs. Tagge spun amid the blue, green, and red lightning bolts, then threw himself into a side passage. Neither the surviving commandos nor Valance's undead followed him.

He was alone. For now.

Gradually, things became easier for him from there. He cut through the thinner doors with a laser carbine he picked up from the floor, and the thicker ones didn't resist the searing beam for long either. He felt he was getting closer to his goal, the main terminal of the Machine – and the Machine felt it too. There were no speakers in this section through which it could voice its opinion, but the silent movement of the cameras, the angry hissing of the freely snaking cables, spoke louder than any words.

"You don't want to die, do you?" Tagge snarled. "You fear for your life, just like Valance… But you won't escape, I swear. I'll personally start the program. I'll watch from above as you burn yourself – and them. Just a few more minutes…"

In the next moment, a powerful hit struck the main building. Multiple layers of plasteel walls buckled, and the shards of transparisteel windows danced with the reflections of millions of tiny explosions. The Imperial soldiers, pilots, stormtroopers, droids, and 'borgs stared silently at the sky.

The Nomads had returned home.

"Solo! Solo, come in!"

The call went unanswered in the dense forest beneath the immense shadow of the Nomad ship. The radio clicked off. In the underbrush, a few unsuspecting shrews scurried, but above, not a leaf stirred—as if nature itself waited for the Imperial walkers to move on.

The pilots of the monstrous walkers hesitated. They hadn't found a single rebel near the wreckage of the troop transport crashed against the wall, so they formed a line and penetrated deeper and deeper into the forest, still without success.

The officers in charge of the southern wing quickly adapted: unable to do much against the 'borgs, they sealed off all interior doors and vents, turning their focus to the rebels instead.

Their efforts made life increasingly miserable for one increasingly pessimistic Corellian, a dark-eyed Wookiee, a distressed girl, and a few so-called miners.

"How many rockets do we have?" Solo inquired. From where he lay, he could see the destruction caused by the walkers in the dense undergrowth. He heard the coarse growl of the chemical engines, the acrid smoke clawing at his throat – he was burning with the urge to act. "I need four, and fast!"

"I can only give you two at most," Kirra dashed his hopes. "And with one launcher, we wouldn't be able to take them all out anyway. Let's try something else!"

"Like what?" Bollux's voice dripped with pessimism – perhaps involuntarily. He was so immersed in his dark thoughts that he didn't even notice Chewbacca had disappeared from his side.

"Captain Solo..."

Han flinched. One of the former miners drew his attention to the movement among the leaves: a reddish-brown whirlwind leaped from branch to branch, stopping only at the edge of the clearing where the walkers were stationed.

"What's your first mate up to?" Kirra wondered. "If they spot him..."

"Quiet!" the Corellian hissed. He waited until the Wookiee was above the nearest walker, then adjusted something on his laser rifle's pulse regulator, aimed at the Imperial machine's side, and fired.

The pale orange beam struck the walker, nudging it slightly, but it left only a black scorch mark on its armor.

"Not enough!" the girl cried out. "Now what..."

The sound of the walker's hatch clicking open echoed like a gunshot in the silence. A pilot in a dirt-brown jumpsuit scrambled out with comical urgency, his gloved hand patting the side of the machine, seemingly searching for some bump or irregularity.

He had just drawn a satisfied breath when the wilds of Premont, characterized by a typical Wookiee growl, grabbed him.

His companion had time for only a strangled curse before a steely-muscled arm grabbed him by the collar, yanked him from his seat, and flung him away like a scarecrow.

Chewbacca swiftly and silently took over the abandoned monster – the other three didn't even notice the role reversal on their right flank.

"Fire at the left one, Kirra!" Solo shouted. "Now!" The rocket flew towards its target, spewing flames. It hit: the walker on the left flank collapsed to the ground like a felled beast. The two remaining ones immediately turned towards the likely launch site – but they had no chance to fire. The third walker, piloted by Chewbacca, charged with its "head" lowered, soon knocking one of them off balance. The Imperial pilots frantically struggled with their instruments, which registered increasing lateral tilt – then gave up and tipped over. Chewbacca stepped over them with high-raised legs and tripped the third one. Kirra's next – and last – rocket missed its target, whistling right between the two walkers.

"It didn't explode," Han consoled. "We can look for it later if you want. Now let's move!"

The Wookiee finished off his opponent with a hefty clang. The result was about the same as if he had tackled the pilots: the last walker under Imperial control wobbled for a while, then fell on its back and didn't move again.

The radio!" the Corellian snapped back to reality. "Turn on the radio!"

The former miner carrying the device hurriedly complied.

"Solo! Solo, come in! What's happening over there?"

"Just a picnic, Rahin," Han replied with forced calm. "You wouldn't believe the variety of things growing in this forest nowadays!" How's it going?

"How's that?"

"Forget it!" Han threw his back against the leg of the walker led by Chewie and reached out his hand to Kirra so they both could catch their breath. "A few more minutes, and we'll be at the target. Over."

"T-minus one hundred and five and counting, Solo! You'd be wise to hurry up!"

Damn you! Han grumbled silently as they left the wreckage behind and ventured deeper into the forest.

The Nomad batteries roared again, their second volley echoing through the woods like distant thunder.

The Kiltech's sensor technician watched the curves forming on his monitor with intense focus. The reflected light from Premont was so strong at this proximity that he had to shade his eyes as he looked up.

`"Sir...!"

The captain, who had just returned to his post, leaned forward.

"Report!"

"It seems a communication channel is opening, sir. They might have adjusted the antennas or filtered out the primary source of interference—in any case, we'll soon find out what's going on down there…"

"Excellent!" The captain rested his chin on his palm. "Lower forward shields! Prepare to receive transmission!"

Rahin and his companions reached the locators.

This part of the Imperial base remained relatively untouched by the chaos, but the fire that had broken out in the northern block was spreading in this direction, making it clear that the intruders would have little chance for more than one attempt.

"Ax-1 reporting," came the voice over the radio. "We've reached the trench. Repeat: we've reached the trench!"

The ahram hissed.

"You have to move half a ton of earth, Han Solo! How do you plan to manage that in the short time you have?"

"Ask Chewie. Ax-2, he stole the walker! If we... " Static crackled. "If we finish here, it's your turn to tell us where to find the Falcon."

"An ahram always keeps his word, Han Solo!" snapped the snake-like humanoid.

"And a Corellian almost never does," came the reply from the other side of the base. "But don't worry, this time I'll make an exception in your honor if we succeed!"

B-wings soared over the forest.

The Nomad batteries relentlessly bombarded the buildings of the outer perimeter.

Flames leapt high in the northern wing, their reddish light glinting off the armor of an ancient cargo ship abandoned in one of the hangars...

Grattan had grown accustomed to waking up to heat and pain over the past twenty-some hours, which is why the bone-chilling cold surprised him so much.

He opened his eyes. A narrow-faced, light-eyed, deathly pale-skinned man leaned over him, leaving no doubt about his identity with his black uniform, gloves, and insignia.

"Valance…? I told you to get lost…!"

The 'borg's face remained impassive.

"You recognize me, so they didn't take your mind," he noted. "You hate me, so you exist. You must come with me."

Grattan's body tensed.

"Where to?"

"To the Millennium Falcon," the officer stated, then gave a faint, very peculiar smile. "The game is almost over. I'll get you out of here…"

Orman Tagge was assaulting the final door leading to the main terminal.

He was fed up with the blinding light and acrid smoke (Valance had an easier time with his artificial hand), and memories of the base's blueprint were swirling through his aching head far too slowly. It might still work. It had to work!

Once he finished here, he needed to reach his ship. There wouldn't be time to deal with the other ship, the one captured from the rebels, but that didn't matter: the bomb would take care of the rest. By the time the Emperor summoned him, this whole ordeal would be a faintly unpleasant memory. The Plan was sound— destroying Premont would prove his bomb was ready for mass production and deployment. He would just need to pay more attention to the details—especially safety—next time. Much more attention.

He pressed the weapon's contact to its limit, and when the power cell gave out with one final burst, he reached for another. He didn't flinch from the shower of sparks. His eyes gleamed.

Let there be light...!

Solo swept away the quickly crumbling clods of Premont soil and firmly placed the contacts.

"Done!"

The radio operator nodded and re-established contact with Rahin's squad.

"Ax-1 has struck. I repeat, has struck," said the Corellian into the throat mic. "We are in direct contact with the bomb's systems: it's up to you now!"

The moment contact was established, the ahram got to work: he fed code after code into his portable terminal with almost unimaginable speed. K'brull, who was monitoring the movement of the radar unit, suddenly let out a sigh of relief:

"It's acquiring a new target!"

"The Star Destroyer," Rahin nodded. "And I can modestly say...," he closed his eyes, fingers dancing over the keys, "...it's found it."

"Captain!"

The shout caught the Kiltech's commander off guard. He spun around, ready to lash out at the source, but the sight that met his eyes quickly extinguished his aggressive impulse. The Star Destroyer's locator unit had moved. And it didn't just move; it kept moving. The emitted waves began behaving erratically, diverging from the assigned course—the only logical course. Their modulation grew stranger by the moment.

"What in the devil is this?"

The lights on the bridge dimmed, and the monitors flickered with the ghosts of meaningless signal groups. An alien will had infiltrated the computer system, harnessing the ship's vast energy for its own purposes and directing it toward a specific point on the planet's surface like an invisible lightning bolt.

The lights flared brightly.

They dimmed.

Flickered on once more. It was done.

The snake-like humanoid took a deep breath and stood up.

"Ax-2 has struck," he spoke into his throat microphone. "Stay tuned, Han Solo: the ceremony is still ahead of us!"

"Let's hope it's a quick ceremony," Solo whispered to Chewbacca, "because if we wait any longer, the Falcon's gonna end up stuck in one of those hangars! Get back to the walker and scope out the terrain; we might have to blast our way through what's left of the wall to get inside..." Han's voice trailed off.

The ground trembled.

Chapter Eleven

Shaking off the initial shock, Solo grabbed the connectors—an impulsive act that would change the fate of an entire world.

It started rather peculiarly: a dark wall loomed above him, absorbing him with numbing pain. The sensation was similar to what he had experienced alongside Kirra and Chewbacca not long ago, recalling the images of the siege of Kashyyyk. The only difference was that he knew he had just been hit by an electric shock, and the medium into which he was sinking deeper and deeper might as well be death.

It was only after an eternity that the sounds convinced him otherwise.

"jISoptaH 'ej QongtaH! Mulegh yaS! TaH? Wa'SaD, cha'vatlh! Duj ghoStaH!"

Hissing, not-so-distant voices. He didn't understand the words, but their tone spoke quite clearly.

The ahram's soul-summoning ritual! Rahin had finally begun — and immediately received a response from his imprisoned brother...

He couldn't enjoy this realization for long because a raging energy storm swept him away. He had the terrifying sensation of being torn into thousands of pieces; his senses were bombarded by a multitude of impressions, but he could neither sort them out nor make sense of them. Through his fading vision, he thought he saw the buildings, silos, and hangars of the experimental station, Imperial soldiers fighting each other or battling the rebels, TIE fighters and B-wings locked in deadly dogfights in the sky, the lakes and forests, the Nomads' racing wolf packs, and the two enormous Nomad ships hovering over the doomed complex like storm clouds...

"qama'pu' DIHoH 'e'luSov! jIQong vIneH!"

He saw a man with an improbably high forehead, who could only be Orman Tagge, storming the main terminal chamber. And through some strange feedback, he perfectly understood his intention, just like... just like...

Just like the Machine.

For a few more chilling moments, he merged, became one with the mechanism controlling the bomb built into Premont's crust. Now he understood the recent visions. Through the eyes of thousands of cameras and sensors, he looked down at the world where he was fated to live and suffer, to remember everything, to store everything before departing...−

"No!" he wanted to shout. No sound came out of his throat, as he temporarily had no throat — yet the reply came through the channel opened by the ahram:

"I didn't think you were so interested in our rituals, Han Solo. Or is it just that you've grown tired of living?"

"Cut the crap, Rahin, for the galaxy's sake! Do something!"

"There's no need. You let go of the contacts quickly, human, and that might be your luck. You'll regain consciousness in moments, but I hope you'll never forget what you've experienced. My brother is free. Everything that was, everything that could be, is safe in my hands. The decision is now yours. Use your power wisely!"

"My power?" Han gasped. "What power?"

The connection was cut off. − Captain! Captain Solo!

Something cool and soft touched his forehead. He flinched, opened his eyes, and saw Kirra and the others' worried faces against the sky.

"By Ashla's last strength!" Kirra exclaimed, grabbing his shoulder. "Any sane person avoids connectors during a transfer! You could've died, you know?" Then she did something entirely unexpected: she kissed the Corellian.

And this time, she didn't miss his mouth.

"You're quite special," she whispered. "And your Wookiee friend is no ordinary being either. Did it work? What happened?"

Solo struggled to his feet. He was dizzy as hell. "The Machine is now... empty," he managed to say with difficulty. "Rahin broke into the system and seized that program combination he calls a friend's soul. The mechanism is currently waiting for a new command. That is..." He swayed.

A white spot appeared in the middle of the plasteel door. It began to spread and smoke.

Are they breaking through?

Squinting around, he saw only the fresh dirt mound, the trees, the captured walker. The giant's cockpit hatch had just opened, and the Wookiee let out an impatient roar.

Then he noticed... something else.

The main terminal's keyboard in the emergency lights' reddish glow...

He swayed again, needing to steady himself in the girl's arms. "I have to tell you something really strange," he whispered, confused.

"And that is?"

"I am the Machine."

To Kirra's credit, her features only reflected polite disbelief.

"Well, that's... interesting..."

"I know what happened," Solo muttered. "During the transfer, when I got that electric shock. The just-emptied Machine somehow…"

"Absorbed an imprint of your personality, Captain," Blue Max offered helpfully. "Which, considering it was designed for just that, is hardly surprising. You only escaped because—luckily for all of us—you had a body to return to."

"You'll get a big dose of pure direct current, and you can use it however you want," the Corellian said gratefully, "if you also tell me what to do now!"

The small device "pondered." The walker Chewbacca was piloting shifted from one leg to the other—clearly eager to blast the crumbling wall and get to the Falcon.

"Just a moment, sir!" Bollux crackled. "This unusual situation requires thorough analysis. After all…"

"Quiet!"

Blue Max had made a decision. "Can you see the Millennium Falcon, Captain?"

Solo was taken aback. This obvious possibility hadn't even crossed his mind. He tested his newly acquired senses, and a few blurred images flickered in his mind, but they kept returning to that one image: the slowly melting armored door.

He flinched. Tagge!

He now knew how to use his power, but he also knew that if he acted immediately, he'd lose the Falcon. The Falcon!

A sudden shift: his beloved freighter in profile, standing in the middle of an empty hangar. Scattered smaller items and devices with blinking control lights indicated that the Imperial crew had abandoned their posts in a panic.

"It worked, Max! It worked!"

"Glad to hear it, sir. Now, you should determine if you can feel the ship."

"Feel it?"

"Exactly, Captain. If they intended to thoroughly examine the Falcon's onboard computer, they must have connected it to the base's own system… in this case, to you, sir. Through the cables, to a limited extent, you can take control of the ship again. You could even send signals, which would greatly…"

"Hold on," Solo murmured, licking his lips. "I see movement around the ramp!" His companions fell silent, hanging on his every word.

"Imperial soldiers," the Corellian whispered with his eyes closed. "In black. They look strange somehow—I can't tell why. Some are wounded. A major is leading them. They're supporting a civilian… Grattan!"

Kirra sighed deeply. "He's alive! But what are they planning to do with him?"

Solo frowned. "They want him to help pilot the ship. The YT-1300 is a rare bird; these guys used to Imperial tech would struggle with it. The only question is, what will Grattan decide…" He gripped his weapon. "Start up, Chewie!"

"Wait!" the girl shouted. "If you charge in, they'll definitely kill the prisoner and could seriously damage the Falcon too. We need another plan. What about the computer connection?"

Han focused again and managed to locate the cable bundle from the Falcon's external terminal leading into the wall. "I'm on it!"

"The speakers!" Kirra gasped. "Scare them away from Grattan!"

"Shouldn't I just scatter them with laser fire?" Solo grumbled. Then he fell silent, realizing: he could.

The Machine-absorbed personality imprint came to a similar conclusion. All around the hangar, the floodlights blazed back to life; the speakers crackled to life with deafening noise.

"Imperial unit, attention!" Han's metallic tenor voice boomed through the hangar. "This is the head of the Premont Medical Center's detached unit speaking. For the sake of peace, I advise you to lay down your weapons and move away from the civilian who does not enjoy your company at all!" A breath's pause. "Go on, Grattan! You can handle that ship on your own!"

The rebel leader immediately understood: he shoved the 'borgs aside and dashed toward the lowered ramp. Some of the more distant soldiers aimed at him, but then…

Solo involuntarily closed his eyes, dazzled by the flashes. For a moment, he feared he'd miss his big scene with Baron Tagge, but he was reassured that the armored door was still holding. The series of flashes occurred elsewhere in the hangar: the black-clad Imperial officer had turned his weapon on his own men, not sparing the energy. Grattan took cover behind one of the support legs, massaging his poorly regenerated leg.

"Solo! Is that you, Solo?"

"Bingo. Now get out of there!"

The smoke hanging over the floor parted to reveal the figure of the Imperial officer clutching a laser rifle. Dodging the fallen, he made his way toward the Falcon. "Rebel!" he shouted. "Can you hear me, rebel?"

"Stay where you are!" Solo barked. "Drop your weapon!"

The officer kept advancing steadily—now only ten steps away from Grattan's hiding place. "I need the ship, rebel," he announced, "and I need this man too! If you behave wisely, you'll see both of them safe and sound. Show yourself! Step out!"

Han fell silent; he wasn't sure what to say.

"Back off!" he finally shouted in warning.

The officer, whose tattered sleeve revealed the pitch-black metal beneath, pulled a red-painted grenade from his belt and slid it into his rifle's launcher. Both Grattan and Han flinched at the metallic click of the breech.

"Reactive charge, rebel!" the cyborg shouted. "If it explodes inside the ship, nothing and no one inside will remain intact! I have no business with you—I want to leave the planet, but I advise against getting in my way! If you try, I'll kill the cripple first, then destroy the..."

Rage exploded in Solo. His fingers whitened around his own weapon's grip, and the system, now mirroring his personality, reacted accordingly.

A hatch on the Millennium Falcon's underside slid open. The emerging laser cannon swiveled and locked onto the target, then fired.

"Nooooo!"

Grattan lifted his head, rubbing his eyes. Where Valance had stood moments before, a glowing cloud of dust now floated.

"Wrong approach," crackled the voice from the speakers.

Han Solo, climbing out of the trench, silently thanked the heavens for his fiery temper—not for the first time, and likely not the last.

"On your feet, Grattan!" urged the increasingly autonomous personality imprint. "Get to the cockpit! I'll tell you what to do—no mistakes. And then, a few moments later: "Welcome aboard!"

The voice continued to echo through the deserted hangar long after it fell silent. Only when the Falcon's engines roared to life, the freighter yanked free from its cables, and shot through the open hangar doors into the skies of Premont, did it finally fade away.

Tagge stepped over the remains of the armored door and entered the sanctuary of the Machine.

He had fought hard for this moment, and the anticipation of his triumph filled him with bitter satisfaction. Those who tried to stop his Plan would soon pay with their lives—and as for the unfortunate accidents that would occur simultaneously, he couldn't possibly take responsibility. The loss of the Star Destroyer would be chalked up to a simple calculation error, and as for the crew... He shrugged inwardly.

Does it even matter anymore?

Straightening up, he walked deliberately to the terminal and admired the play of lights. A magnificent piece of machinery.

He entered the code for the Final Solution and waited for the confirmation with a rigid smile.

Nothing happened.

He repeated the process, then again – to no avail. He glanced around, uncertainty creeping in, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Are you defying me?" he hissed at the silent walls, drawing his pistol. "You think you can do this? You think you can get away with it, you miserable reptile? Obey me!"

"Asking nicely never crossed your mind, I see..."

Tagge froze. The voice filling the room was not the Machine's voice as he knew it.

"What...?"

"Let me explain, Baron, please, remain calm!"

"I'll explain, Baron, don't worry. And to keep you from constantly eyeing the exit, I'll just block it, alright?" Specially treated armor plates slammed shut over every door. "I wouldn't go as far as calling you my prisoner—more like a guest, or even the host. I want you to witness a little miracle. Miracles are rare in these harsh times, don't you think?"

"Let me out!"

"I'm not letting you go, Tagge, so get used to it. A lot of people have met ugly ends because of you recently—how about something different for a change? A nice, clean finish. A true catharsis for the witnesses? That's what I've got planned for you."

The baron pounded on the armored plate blocking the exit.

"Just one knock is all it takes," the Machine informed him. "And before you get any more illusions, let me clarify: there won't be an explosion. Instead, there will be a gradual, slow heat release, affecting different parts of the planet in various ways. This chamber, for instance, will turn into a blinding inferno, consuming both of us. But that can't be helped. The fusion core will sink deep into Premont, releasing the chemicals trapped in the rock. It's going to be warm, Tagge. Warm and wet. Life-giving."

A wistful sigh. "Tell me, do you like the ocean?"

"You scum...!"

"Got it!" laughed the Solo personality. "I'm first of my kind, but probably the last as well. Farewell, Tagge! Enjoy your misfortune..."

The terminal lights turned red.

Then came the earth-shaking roar.

Chapter Twelve

Han Solo – now the one and only Han Solo – and his companions watched the station's destruction from the Falcon's deck.

The energy bursts slowly subsided, and after the initial steam explosion, the fires were extinguished. The base's buildings, hangars, docks, and radar installations collapsed into the ever-expanding crater in the central area—a white-hot hell where Orman Tagge had recently met his end. The remaining TIE fighters circled the white smoke column like dazed flies, then, running out of fuel, plummeted into the swirling chaos.

Kirra, kneeling beside Grattan who was resting in the lounge, occasionally looked up—her eyes meeting the Corellian's each time.

"He'll be fine," she said. "He's survived worse."

"Thank you, Solo," whispered the gray-haired man. "I don't know what got into you, but thank you!"

Han was equally puzzled by the events. He glanced at Chewbacca, then back at Kirra. "Looks like my ancestors' blood kicked in," Han muttered. "They say we used to be an orderly, straightforward bunch. Anyway..." he turned to K'brull, "...the Belzagori folks mentioned some compensation from the get-go."

The blue-skinned man, wounded for the first time in his life, nodded quickly. "Our company's reputation indeed obliges us, Captain: the agreed sum and the reward await you at Gibbarton."

"Gibbarton..." Han mused. "It's not far, but I have something to finish first." He pointed to the black silk-wrapped terminal darkening the floor.

And he pointed to the terminal wrapped in dark, black silk on the floor.

Rahin, crouching in a corner, hissed in annoyance. "Just because I didn't die there doesn't mean you can mock our traditions, Solo! By the will of Fate, I'll perish here next time."

"Next time?" the Corellian smiled. "If you're dead set on ending up in this planet's dust, you better get moving: in a few decades, you'll find seas in the wastelands, forests in the valleys, fresh crystal growths and cities in the caves... The Nomads will return, and if I got it right, they plan to stick around for a few million years. At least until the third generation grows up—the one that'll only know Premont as a paradise."

Kirra sat down beside Solo on the padded bench. "Premont..." she tasted the word. "I like the sound, but it's not very original. What's this planet really called?"

"No idea," Han admitted. "I never asked."

"Still, you're an honorary native," the girl smiled. "It's even possible that one day you'll return here with someone you love, to tell them the story."

"Not impossible," murmured Solo. "But not tomorrow, that's for sure."

Ignoring the others, the girl kissed him again.

The girl, ignoring the others, kissed him again. "One day—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after—you'll find your princess, Han Solo. Then you'll come to show her the world you helped recreate. You'll come, you'll see."

"She won't believe a word."

"You'll show her the medal."

"This isn't the first medal that..." Han searched for the appropriate term, "...well, found its way to me."

"Then you'll travel on and visit me on Turagran," the girl whispered consolingly. "If necessary, I'll swear that every word you say is true."

Solo stroked the slender hand reaching for his belt.

"Thank you in advance, Kirra," he said more gently than usual, then caught himself and stood up. "Come on, Chewie! There's still someone in the system we need to teach some manners to...!"

The captain of Kiltech stared at the displays over the shoulders of his subordinates.

"Fusion bomb!" he whispered in astonishment.

"I confirm, sir," groaned the technician. "The station is destroyed. A few TIE fighters are trying to leave the atmosphere now; we might learn from them what happened down there..."

"Doesn't matter," said the captain. His black jacket was almost soaked with the sweat of fear. "The baron activated the bomb, dealt with the rebels, and then decided to remain at his post. We've fulfilled our duty: there's nothing more for us here. I will ensure the system is declared a restricted area!" He straightened up and turned to his men. "Salute!"

The late Tagge would surely have appreciated this display of reverence—less so the sharp cry that interrupted the solemnity.

"Captain!" called a young sensor operator. "That particular freighter has left the planet's atmosphere and is heading straight towards us!"

Though the captain was deeply concerned for his ship's safety and eager to leave, he was overcome with rage.

"Prepare to fire, Lieutenant Hamod! We'll take down this lunatic as a parting gesture..."

Han Solo smiled as he listened to the captain of His Majesty's Star Destroyer, Kiltech. The questions were routine, but they were imbued with the arrogance born of power—and a murderous intent.

In a rare moment of silence, he leaned toward his microphone.

"Kiltech, this is the commander of the YT-1300 interplanetary shuttle speaking. I'm afraid lowering our shields, stopping, and allowing an inspection of our cargo, crew, and passengers is not possible: we're on a diplomatic mission."

This last bit of information granted those crammed in the Falcon's cockpit a few more moments of silence. The destroyer's captain was a cautious man, weighing every possibility individually—then decided he wasn't buying it.

"Kiltech to YT-1300! Who are you transporting? I repeat: who are you transporting?"

"More like whom, Captain!" Solo corrected. "A handful of men who have done everything they could. A warrior for whom honor is more precious than loyalty, and another who is finally on his way home. The future president of the planet Belzagor and his entourage—all in excellent health!"

"Are you mocking us?"

"I wouldn't dare! But I won't stop or flee this time, and in fact, I must ask you to clear my path, Kiltech!"

The Star Destroyer's captain fidgeted. He couldn't wait any longer near the doomed planet: one way or another, he had to deal with this speck of dust.

"Is that your final word, YT-1300?"

Solo flipped a switch on his control panel. From the depths of the Millennium Falcon's cargo hold, a makeshift platform rose. A piece of amber crystal at its center absorbed the energies of the nearby debris field—and glowed. The effect was immediate and profound.

"You see, Kiltech," Han said as his ship sped past the uncontrollable Star Destroyer drifting toward the edge of the system, "the best part of all this is that no one at the Yagai base will believe a word you say. They'll accuse you of incompetence, possibly demote you—life can be cruel even to the most loyal. If you can still hear, if you understand, make the best of it: never forget!"

The Kiltech's lights only flickered in the distance as the Falcon jumped to hyperspace.

Han entrusted the controls to Chewbacca and set off to acquaint Kirra more thoroughly with the ship.

"Do you sleep in the same room with the Wookiee?" the girl asked innocently.

Solo gazed into the infinity.

"We sleep little, and even that in shifts. As for me, I like to... keep busy even during rest."

"We sleep little, and take turns when we do. As for me, I like to keep myself...occupied even while resting."

"You look tired," Kirra whispered. She pulled him into a wall recess and—true to her habit—kissed him.

"Sharp-eyed..." Han Solo sighed.

He realized that on his long journey to his princess, he had arrived at another lovely stop.

Of course, he had no reason for regret then or later...

THE END