Han Solo and the Imperial Agent, a star wars fanfic

203 Han Solo and the Imperial Agent

Han Solo and the Imperial Agent

Dale Avery

Han Solo and the Imperial Agent

STAR WARS: HAN SOLO A BIRODALMI ÜGYNÖK

(original title: Han Solo's Gambit)
Supposedly written by Dale Avery,

but in reality written by its 'translator' Nyulaszi Zsolt

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.

DALE AVERY

Han Solo and the Bounty Hunters

This translation is based on the following edition:

Dale Avery

Han Solo and the Bounty Hunters

A Wallace Book published by Pendragon Books Ltd.

Translated by Zsolt Nyulászi

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 25 5

VP-SF-250393-48.15.22

Exclusively distributed by TóthÁgas Könyvterjesztő Kft.

1047 BUDAPEST, Perényi Zsigmond u. 15.

Published by Valhalla Páholy. Responsible publisher: Csanád Novák, managing director. Responsible editor: Ferenc Halmos. Art director: Csaba Marjai. Proofreading: NWAI system. Typesetting and layout: Valhalla Páholy Kft. Printed by Alföldi Printing House. Printing order number: 8414.66-14-2. Responsible manager: Géza György. Extent: 19 sheets. Produced in Debrecen, in the year 1993.

To Elaine, for her seemingly endless patience

Chapter One

"Well, alright," Han Solo agreed. Chewbacca growled in disagreement.

"I know, Chewie, I know," the captain reassured his disgruntled first mate. "It's dangerous. But let me remind you of the not-so-insignificant fact that we're broke and already owe Gritt two thousand for repairs."

"I offered twenty thousand," repeated the tall, lean man sitting across from them, coolly.

All three of them were sitting in the lounge of the Millennium Falcon, around the inactive gaming table. Han had always thought the dimly lit corners were more suitable for serious business discussions than brightly lit meeting rooms. Besides, they were so broke that conserving energy was a smart move.

The captain – once again – sized up the man: middle-aged, tall, strikingly lean. His face showed determination and a combative nature, his jet-black hair tied in a knot at the back, his eyebrows heavily darkened with some dark paint. He wore gray clothes. Solo's gaze – as it had many times before – settled on the peculiar, narrow object the stranger wore at his side, exactly where a respectable man would carry his weapon. A sword! Undoubtedly a sword. Not a Jedi lightsaber, this one was metal from tip to hilt. A completely ordinary sword! Han Solo, the gunslinger, couldn't imagine why the stranger carried such an antique. Perhaps it was a decoration, an inheritance, or maybe a tool, he guessed. It never occurred to him that it might be a weapon. The man with the topknot continued:

"I think, Captain, that twenty thousand is a fair price for such a short haul."

Han had to admit this, but his Wookiee first mate slammed his huge, hairy paw on the table and grumbled something angrily.

"My partner says that there isn't a more dangerous job in the galaxy, but he's heard of better-paying ones several times," Solo translated.

"It's unfortunate that your first mate is so concerned for his hide, Captain," said the stranger. "Nevertheless, you have already agreed, and I don't think it's necessary for me to sit through you disciplining your crew..."

He couldn't continue because Chewbacca sprang to his feet with a loud roar. He towered over the stranger, who had also jumped to his feet by now. He seemed half a head taller than Solo. The Wookiee's golden-brown fur bristled with rage, and he bared his terrifying fangs.

The stranger, however, did not lose his nerve: he lowered his head, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and drew the blade about an inch.

Han Solo didn't miss the gleam of the well-polished steel.

"Easy, Chewie!" he tried to calm things down. He grabbed his friend's muscular arm and squeezed it as hard as he could. Then he turned to the stranger and tried to lighten the situation with a joke:

"If you had such a thick hide, you might be more protective of it too!" He paused briefly, but the tension did not ease. "Let's discuss the details instead," he suggested. "Sit down... please!"

The stranger pushed his sword back into its sheath, bowed, and smiled. He took his seat. "So...," Han began, "... given the, shall we say, special circumstances, I think an additional two thousand..."

He got this far when the topknotted man stood up without a word and headed for the door.

"Okay, okay, twenty thousand!" Han called after him. "I just wanted to see if bargaining was customary for you guys. It's good to know before setting off, right?"

The other turned and stood rigidly in the doorway. He nodded.

"Tomorrow at dock 105, Captain. Landing code AS285319."

Han smiled, saw the stranger out, then rushed to the ship's computer to enter the code before he forgot it.

"Yes, Chewie, I see it's a forbidden planet, I can read," the captain grumbled. "But this wouldn't be the first time!"

Lines of text scrolled on the ship's computer display:

"Insular civilization, high degree of traditionalism. Use and carrying of firearms strictly prohibited under Imperial Ordinance BRET-18773. The planet houses an Imperial Governor's Office, and the atmosphere can only be approached with the governor's special permission..."

"Holy galaxy!" Han exclaimed. "This planet is a prison!"

Chewbacca barked a long series of comments on the matter. His remarks were not short of reproaches and concerns.

"First of all," Solo began with enviable patience, "let me reassure you: I didn't take a liking to the guy either. But business is business, and sympathy doesn't count here! Secondly: I told him getting in wouldn't be a problem because it isn't."

"It's a matter of a cloaking shield. No, don't even say it: I know the Falcon doesn't have anything like that... Yet! I talked to Gritt yesterday, and he promised to get one. Maybe even a military-grade one. Wait! Before you ask where we'll get the money for it, I'll tell you that the promised advance is just enough. Chewbacca growled. - No, not for the military one, but I'll figure something out with Gritt. You know, I once did him a small favor."

Another growl.

"Yes, I've mentioned this at least five times, but luckily Gritt isn't as ungrateful as you are!"

Loud indignation followed.

"Well, for instance, when... - Solo searched his memory but couldn't find a single instance when his Wookiee friend had been ungrateful.

From above, Dock 105 appeared just as small and insignificant as its hundreds of companions. However, it differed from them in one crucial aspect, at least from Han Solo's point of view: that's where the fortune he craved awaited him. Although he was well aware that even such a vast sum wouldn't last long for him. Someone else could live peacefully for a lifetime on it, but for him, it would vanish in no time, as if it had never been. Of course, others didn't maintain their own spacecraft, especially not buying military-grade cloaking shield generators, weapon systems, and specialized engines for it – because that's what Han Solo did.

His accumulated treasure was hidden here, integrated into this seemingly battered, old cargo spaceship, the Millennium Falcon. Sometimes he caught himself caressing and petting the "old lady."

His first mate, Chewbacca, felt similarly. They were inseparable friends, the mighty Wookiee and the shrewd smuggler captain. An unbeatable duo – they had hardly any rivals in the galaxy.

"Altitude, one thousand," Han read off the instrument panel. "I'll take her down manually."

"Disengage the autopilot, Chewie!"

The Wookiee grumbled indignantly, indicating that in such calm situations, landing was usually his job, and he'd gladly do it this time too, if Solo agreed.

"Okay, just be careful with the old lady!"

Another growl.

"Alright, alright! I know it's not your first time..."

On the planet Virgill, around Dock 105 in the central sector, heightened activity had been recorded for days. The Imperial Police immediately noticed the anomaly and began to investigate. Since nothing especially suspicion arose, the investigation proceeded according to standard procedure, often getting bogged down in bureaucratic red tape. Flight control only scheduled the next landing for the third day, so Sergeant Scarpa, who led the investigation, figured he could chell the permits and cargo then. Such tasks involved a lot of paperwork, which Scarpa hated. He couldn't even remember the last time he used his weapon. He felt sidelined, and in this, he happened to be right. He hadn't been promoted in fifteen years, and was consistently assigned the most trivial cases – of which there were plenty. To this day, he didn't understand where he went wrong: he had remained loyal to the Empire all his life, had even turned in his best friend, and yet...

Once, he requested an audience with the governor. It didn't last long. He entered, greeted the dignitary – he was very nervous. The governor didn't even get up from behind his desk, flipping through a dossier. He looked up and only said, "Scarpa, you're a lousy person!" Then he signaled that he could leave.

The sergeant was deeply despondent for a long time. What kept him going was the thought that one day the BIG CASE would come, which he could solve with brilliant success.

Now that the day had arrived to clear up the matter of Dock 105, he was walking alone towards the port. He reflected once more on his career – then chelled his weapon. Taking cover in a deserted alley, he quickly drew and aimed it a few times, as practice. It was good to stay in shape. Who knows? Maybe this would be the BIG CASE...

The Falcon touched down without a hitch, and Chewbacca leaned back contentedly in his reinforced pilot seat, softly growling as he received Han's praise: "I told you it wasn't your first time, Chewie!"

On the exterior camera screens, the figure of their client appeared: dressed in gray attire again, with his hair tied in a bun on top of his head.

"There's our friend," Han said, and instructed the camera's automation to track the man. "Chewie, keep the engines on standby, you never know! I'm curious how they managed to divert the Imperials' attention from their little private deal..."

Chewbacca suggested in his growling language that they probably didn't, but maybe it wasn't such a big deal because if they were caught here, they might just get twenty years of hard labor on some prison planet.

Nevertheless, everything seemed to be going smoothly. Han hurried down the Falcon's ramp to meet the bun-haired man, who didn't waste any time and handed over a thick wad of money.

"The advance," he stated. "Eight thousand, in galactic credits, as agreed."

Han, who appreciated this kind of straightforward thinking, took the bills with satisfaction and began counting them right there at the bottom of the ramp.

"Are you always this distrustful?" the other man asked.

"In matters of money and honor, yes," Solo assured him, pocketing the earnings.

The bun-haired man accepted the response without comment.

"We'll start loading," he announced. "Eight containers, each weighing two tons."

The captain didn't like the assertive tone. After all, maybe his permission wouldn't hurt in this matter, right? Then he just shrugged.

"I'll supervise the workers myself if you don't mind," he concluded the conversation.

The man nodded.

An hour later, Captain Solo wearily collapsed into one of the chairs around the gaming table. Everything was in order, but the loading process proved to be no easy task. The weight of the containers was a serious challenge. The bun-haired man's three companions – all seemingly dockworkers – had arrived with antigravity lifting spheres and super-strong straps. They carried the containers aboard one by one. They passed three straps underneath each one, attaching two spheres to each end – thus a dozen spheres provided the lifting force simultaneously. The real difficulty came in the spaceship's cargo hold, where they had to push the heavy loads into their designated places. The confined space and considerable weight demanded serious muscle work.

Meanwhile, Han even took the time to observe the workers closely – in the smuggling business, caution never hurts. He found nothing suspicious about two of them, but there was something off about the third one. Of course, he couldn't pinpoint what caused his uneasy feelings, so he chalked it up to his suspicious nature and promptly forgot about it.

But perhaps he shouldn't have...

Inspector Scarpa hardened his facial features and walked resolutely through the port. The buttons on his uniform gleamed, and the stiff black collar lay snug against his neck. It was uncomfortable, but it was regulation. A police officer's uniform must always be immaculate! That single white star, how it irked him! Oh, if only it were gold! Maybe silver—or if it must be white, at least there should be more of them!

He turned onto the avenue leading to Dock 105. He watched the signs above the gates: 101, 103… He felt dwarfed by the shadows of the giant domes. Virgill's intergalactic port served as a border station between the vast Empire's outer and inner sectors. Both outbound and inbound ships stopped here to resupply their stores or allow their crews to rest before the final big jump. A spacious spaceport was thus required, and since the docks were numbered according to their construction dates, Dock 105 and its peers were quite old and outdated. Private individuals and small companies rented space here, usually for a few days, sometimes for years.

Scarpa stopped at a gate. Dock 105, the sign announced. Excitement flooded him—could this really be the BIG CASE?

He entered.

He walked straight towards the spaceship. The workers respectfully stepped aside, except for one who whispered to him and showed some kind of ID. Scarpa resolved to hold him accountable after the matter was settled. He couldn't stand disrespect.

A dark-haired man of indeterminate age appeared on the ship's ramp. He wore medium blue military pants, a white shirt, and a canvas vest. His strong features made him appear experienced and dangerous.

"Greetings," Scarpa said formally.

"Pleased to meet you," Han Solo lied.

"I need to inspect the ship and cargo papers."

"Oh, everything's in order," the captain waved. "No need to chell, you can let us go!"

"I'll decide that," the official's face darkened.

"Please, go ahead!" Solo said cheerfully. "I keep them inside, as you might expect. After you!"

"Thank you," Scarpa replied, slightly more amicable, and hurried into the ship.

This can't be real! Han fumed inwardly. He fell for the oldest trick in the book! Either he's an idiot or he's planning something!

"Straight ahead, then right, if you please!" he directed.

Scarpa was satisfied with the man's manners.

"These are the ship's papers, and these are the cargo's," the Corellian handed him a stack of documents. "Please, take a seat! There, by the gaming table!"

The sergeant accepted the offered chair and began studying the documents. The ship's captain stood behind him, peering over his shoulder at the data. "But these are…"

Scarpa began, but Han Solo struck him on the back of the head so hard that he collapsed onto the deck without another word.

"Cash receipts," Han finished the sentence. "Chewie!" he then shouted. "We're leaving! Prepare for an emergency takeoff! Something smells real fishy here!"

The engines roared, and the Falcon shook. Chewbacca's excited cries came from the cockpit. Han rushed forward and wasn't surprised when—out of habit—he first glanced at the screen showing the dock. He was right: stormtroopers were pouring in, directed by the agent disguised as a worker. They expertly spread out, took firing positions, and without hesitation opened fire on the Falcon. The shots from the handheld blasters harmlessly bounced off the reinforced armor of the modified freighter.

"Go, Chewie!" Han yelled, but despite appearances, he remained completely calm. He knew the Imperials couldn't harm his ship as long as they didn't deploy heavier weapons. The Wookiee pushed the throttle forward. The engines roared, and the Falcon lifted off the ground. It flew out of the dock in a graceful arc, spinning just in time to slip through the closing roof panels.

"Yeehaw!" the Corellian cheered. "We've got this down to a routine! I only regret not taking out that undercover agent. Did you see how he directed the stormtroopers? He must be a big shot! The ship's cannon would've been perfect for him…"

"A firearm is a dishonorable tool for combat," an all-too-familiar voice announced from behind them.

Han turned in surprise. "You didn't disembark?!"

"As you can see," the lean man bowed. "I'm accompanying the cargo. Besides, I doubt you'd want me to walk straight into the arms of the authorities."

"Well, that's true enough," Solo had to agree. "Neither of us would benefit from that. What would they think when you tell them sixteen tons of weapons just slipped through their grasp?"

Go Rien Moss glared angrily at the sky. Six months of work and countless efforts were invested in this case, now likely all gone, vanished with an old tub! He might have to start all over again!

But that wasn't what bothered him the most. It was that he knew nothing about this Han Solo and his ship, the Millennium Falcon. For now!

He quickly cleared his mind of doubts and unnecessary worries. He summarized the facts, grouped, and rearranged them over and over. He opened two dossiers, SUCCESS and FAILURE. He was pleased to see that the former was still thicker.

He tried to predict the near future: endless possibilities came to mind. His task was to determine the next step and when it would happen. He wasn't afraid of failure; he had never experienced it. Careful observation, meticulous planning, precise execution—that's the secret of success. He would figure out what went wrong this time.

That cursed little cop ruined everything—woe to him if he ever gets his hands on him! He listened as the senior officer reported the events over the radio. He could almost see the departing fighters and their eventual return with nothing to show. This wasn't how things were supposed to go—his instincts told him

Chapter Two

Han almost felt offended when he glanced at the radar screen.

Only two TIE fighters sent to chase me!

It infuriated him that despite his spectacular start, they underestimated both him and his ship. However, since unnecessary recklessness was not among the characteristics of a successful businessman, he chose escape over battle this time. He programmed the course data, then engaged the hyperdrive control lever. The stars turned into bright streaks as the Falcon entered hyperspace.

It spent only a few brief moments there – Solo did not intend to leave the planetary system. At least not until he had acquired the necessary cloaking shield generator. The short jump was merely for the pursuing fighters to lose their trail.

As the ship reappeared in another part of the system with false codes, no one thought to connect it with the one that had slipped away seconds earlier. It was an old trick, yet few knew it – perhaps only the experienced "old foxes."

Gritt operated two docks on Virgillen, one legally registered, and one illegal. This way, he could more easily avoid the authorities' attention. Han Solo's ship was always repaired in the latter, so the captain wasted no time on unnecessary radio conversations, and headed straight there. He approached the surface in a mad dive, pulling the ship up only at the last moment – hoping his wild maneuver deceived the flight controllers. He continued to glide just above the surface, at an altitude that manuals on the subject alternately describe as life-threatening, impossible, or insane.

They were now flying over a forested area. Solo had turned off most of the instruments, relying solely on landmarks and instincts.

The topknotted man crouched in the seat behind Chewbacca, struggling to suppress his constantly rising nausea. All the while, he wondered if his master had chosen wisely when he selected Han Solo as their transporter. It seemed doubtful whether they would reach Quaron III – and if they would even survive the next moment or meet their end here in the jungle.

Finally, they slowed over a clearing, and his stomach turned again. The captain began descending with the greatest calm, even though there was nothing down there except a few tree stumps and scraggly bushes, nothing to suggest the a space dock nearby. Yet, suddenly, the ground opened up, and the Falcon slowly descended into the revealed shaft. They flew between gray concrete walls, and had gone deep into the planet's core when they arrived at a spacious underground chamber lit by sharply bright, white lights. Expensive instruments and toolsets were pushed to the walls, waiting.

Gritt was practically rolling in money, yet he employed only a small staff, saying he would not trust anyone else with the fine work. His stinginess was evident as he never gave a single credit's discount to anyone, no matter how esteemed a regular customer they were. He made only one regular exception: Han Solo.

Gritt was standing in the dock now – alone, of course – watching the Falcon land. He wore his indispensable, filthy yellow coveralls, with both thumbs hooked into his suspenders, rocking on his heels. He was a small, elderly, pot-bellied man who had been balding significantly for a few years.

Meanwhile, in the engine room of the Millennium Falcon, the engines slowly grew quiet, and in the cockpit, only the central electronics' faint hum could be heard as the computer ran the post-landing mandatory chells. Captain Solo rested his fists on the dashboard, leaning forward and staring out beyond the plasteel windows, into the darkness of a hangar's corner.

"What's that!? – he protested loudly.

At the opposite end of the hall stood a strange spaceship. It barely seemed larger than a Y-Wing, covered in dark silvery-gray armor. It resembled a giant manta ray, with the cockpit's black glass, opaque from the outside, gleaming where the eyes would be. Han's voice carried a note of professional envy as he admired the unknown vehicle:

"It looks disturbingly modern and dangerous."

Chewbacca expressed his opinion that despite everything, the Falcon would blast it to pieces if needed.

"Of course," the Corellian nodded slowly. "I don't think it's so hot compared to the Falcon!" The biggest surprise came from the topknotted figure, who announced that he had seen this vehicle before.

"Where?!" Han jumped at the word. The matter seemed suspicious, to say the least.

"I don't remember," the client shook his head, and though Solo pressed him for a while, he couldn't help any further. "I must have seen it somewhere for just a split second," he explained. "Otherwise, I would hardly have forgotten..."

"Whatever," Solo waved dismissively. "Eh, maybe it's no big deal, maybe I'm just being a pessimist. C'mon, let's go say hi to Gritt!"

They met at the entrance of one of the corridors leading to the hangar. Gritt stopped rocking and grinned broadly.

"Greetings, Solo!" he shouted loudly.

"Same to you, buddy" the captain grinned, patting the stocky man's back. "Did you get what I asked for?"

"Naturally," Gritt puffed out his chest proudly. "I can get anything, Solo. Haven't you realized yet?"

But there was something odd in his expression that made Han want to dig deeper:

"The military one?"

The little man fidgeted.

"Well, you see... I already sold it."

The Corellian's eyes widened, feeling immense disappointment. He wanted to scream at the little man, but he quickly controlled his temper.

"How could you sell it?" Han spat out.

"Well," Gritt spread his arms, "a paying customer came along who offered much more than I could expect from you, Solo. You know, you're not known to be a wealthy man."

That's when Han lost his patience.

"Who was the scumbag?" he burst out, as if it didn't make a difference. "I'll break his neck with my bare hands!"

"It was me," came a powerful, firm voice from behind him.

All of this seemed particularly eerie, because the captain hadn't heard a single sound as the person came up behind him. Han spun around as if stung by a bee, his fingers resting on the grip of his blaster.

He saw a tall, middle-aged man with a predatory face.

He had short, spiky blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a gaze that cut to the bone. He wore a black, tight-fitting outfit, making him look even thinner and taller. He carried a modern and dangerous-looking, short-barreled blaster at his side – in a hip holster similar to Han Solo's, hanging low from his hip, strapped to his thigh.

The captain briefly summarized what he saw in his mind – this was one of his favorite pastimes.

Damn dangerous, he thought. Better let Chewie break his neck.

But out loud, he spoke more cautiously:

"Hey, listen! I don't know if you've noticed, but this military generator is pretty bulky and heavy. It won't even fit in your ship!"

The other man acknowledged the information with a slight smile.

"Perhaps I have a larger ship as well," he spread his arms but never broke eye contact with Han for a moment.

This was infinitely irritating to the Corellian. He suspected the stranger's goal was to get him riled up. Out of sheer defiance, he released his grip on his blaster and bowed his head.

"I'm Han Solo, captain of the Millennium Falcon."

"Go Rien Moss," the other introduced himself.

"And a bounty hunter, right?" Han snapped unexpectedly, revealing that he was not entirely unskilled in psychological warfare either.

But the stranger proved not to be a novice, either: he instinctively avoided the subconscious effect of the aggressive question by taking a step back and pausing for a breath.

"Nicely done, Solo," he nodded appreciatively. "But what makes you think I'm a bounty hunter?"

"Because your ship is good for nothing but destruction and quick getaways. At least, seemingly," he softened the edge of his words.

"Brilliant logic," Moss nodded again. Han, as in many difficult moments of his life, smiled.

"Thanks," he said. "And this is nothing personal, but... I can't stand bounty hunters!" With that, he turned on his heel and hurried back to the Falcon.

Go Rien Moss had every reason to be proud of himself, as he had deduced correctly: the only way to reach Quaron III (bypassing the legal route) was by using a cloaking shield. So, weeks ago, he had one brought from the nearest Imperial repair base and placed it with a well-known, sufficiently intimidated black marketeer. Whoever the topknot man hired would need the generator. How it got from the observed black marketeer to the buyer didn't interest him – such trivial matters were for the Imperial Police to handle. He was only concerned with the final destination: the transporter who purchased the goods.

In this instance, Han Solo.

He did not seem an insignificant player. It might even require rethinking his plans because of him – the meeting was useful, worth the effort of organizing.

Now he needed calm above all else. Calm to thoroughly analyze the situation. He had unlimited access to the Empire's resources, but he still liked to handle everything personally. Grand military actions, extensive raids: not his style. In the midst of such bustle, the beauty is lost. The elegance. He knew well that this was due to his training, but he never wanted to deny his masters. Informers and traitors didn't work for him: he despised vile people. When he fought, he used his own strength, when he threatened, he fulfilled his promises personally. And above all: he knew his limits.

This Han Solo... Well, he was within them.

He paid for the generator properly – the money would be confiscated by the police upon arrest – and had it disassembled into small pieces to fit into the Storm's cramped cargo hold. That was what he had named this ship. It was produced in a very limited series, almost exclusively for him, and equipped with the most advanced Imperial technology.

He retreated to his small meditation chamber to think. The silence surrounded him like an impenetrable bubble. The question he sought to answer was this:

What will their next move be?

The answer came naturally: they will buy a smaller cloaking generator – for lack of a better option. This granted him another three-day grace period to act first again.

But what must I do?

This Han Solo couldn't be easily intimidated, and he might not even be able to bribe him... He had to think carefully about how to ensnare him.

In the meantime, he had to proceed by another path: He would stay in the background and watch, watch closely. He would approach his prey stealthily, like a hunting tiger – only to pounce at the last, sure moment.

He returned to the cockpit and settled into his seat. He was surrounded by instruments radiating calm, the controls of the weapon systems, the throttle, the joystick. His fingers slid over the switches: he identified himself to the onboard computer. He ran the mandatory flight chells, determined coordinates, activated the unimaginably powerful engines, and warmed up the hyperdrive. The noises of the waking spaceship gradually melded into a soft, steady hum. He entrusted the various phases of the take-off to the computer system; no human could harmonize the work of the thrusters so finely, calculate the weight and thrust at each point of the ship with such precision.

The Storm slowly retracted its landing struts and remained hovering motionless in the air, as if still supported by metal structures. The hull did not even vibrate, though it now rested on invisible thrust beams. Then, gracefully, it raised its nose toward the exit shaft entrance, and when the closing plate finally slid aside, it shot out into the open sky with a sudden increase in the hum.

Han Solo watched the demonstration from the Falcon's cockpit with a frown. He had no doubt that Moss's "message" was directed at him. There were only two other witnesses: Chewbacca, squeezed into the co-pilot's seat, and Gritt, standing behind the Corellian.

"Impressive," remarked the man in the yellow overalls.

"State-of-the-art tech," Solo sneered with disgust. "That maneuver was all electronics. No clue what kind; never heard of a computer that precise, but I'll bet it wasn't a human. No way a person pulled that off!"

Gritt nodded in agreement.

"You saw it, Solo: it didn't even waver, it didn't maintain level flight with constant thrust adjustments, it calculated everything – and well in advance. I could hardly believe my eyes!"

Han turned to the chubby man, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"How exactly did this guy get here?" he probed.

Gritt spread his arms.

"The fence I bought the military generator from recommended him."

"And you let him in at the first suggestion?" the Corellian was stunned. "You're getting old, buddy!"

"My fence is a hundred percent reliable," Gritt replied defensively.

"Really? Then why didn't he just give the device straight to the guy? Why did he bother with you?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Solo! The fence couldn't have installed the device."

Han shook his head in pity.

"Gritt, old pal! Let me point out that this guy didn't install it at your place either!"

The little man pondered, then shrugged.

"That doesn't change the fact that the fence is a hundred percent reliable."

Han snorted angrily. " "Your biggest problem is you're stubborn as a bantha!" he said. "Just install that civilian junk on the Falcon. No matter what, I'm getting out of here fast!"

"That 'civilian junk' costs six thousand, Solo! How much are you planning to pay this time? Ten percent, twelve? Or can I hope for fifteen?"

"You'll get the full amount, pal," Han tossed back, looking extremely satisfied. "And since I'm here, I'll also pay you that two thousand I've owed you for so long."

Gritt's eyes widened, but he didn't say a word – hoping it was all just a dream that would vanish if he spoke.

"You know," Han explained, "I'm practically rolling in money. The price of the military generator wouldn't have fazed me. We could have even had an auction to see if it's worth more to me or to your new pal... But you rushed things. No big deal," he waved generously, "the civilian model will do. Why make you richer if you're not my friend anyway?"

Sergeant Scarpa felt extremely offended by the events. Moreover, that kind, polite man turned out to be a criminal. Because, that he was, there were no doubts.

A law-abiding citizen does not knock out a police officer – especially not from behind – and, of course, doesn't flash expired bills instead of official documents.

But above all: they do not tie a law enforcer to a cursed armchair. But that's what happened!

They had tied his hands and feet to the chair with some wet, oily twine. Of course, this could only have happened while he was unconscious; otherwise, it wouldn't have been so easy for them – that was certain.

He glanced around to assess his chances of escape. He was left alone – good! He lay in a small, pantry-like room, surrounded by instruments flashing on something resembling a control panel, from which several cover plates were missing, revealing haphazardly wired circuit elements. He had no idea what all this could be, but the suspicion that he was still imprisoned on the Millennium Falcon seemed well-founded, given that he felt the floor's slight vibration.

Panic is not among the behaviors expected from a trained officer, yet Scarpa felt something like that now. By what right do they drag him from his home planet? On what basis do they haul him off to some unknown star system he never even desired to visit? What kind of people are these? If they are people at all...

As if to intensify his doubts, a nightmarish creature entered the chamber. Scarpa, blinded by the light pouring in through the doorway, could only make out its outline for a while, but that alone was terrifying. Huge, hairy, and monstrous – that much he immediately determined. This strain was already too much for his refined nervous system: he began to scream at the top of his lungs. From his confused monologue, Chewbacca managed to identify only a few words. These – such as illegal, I demand, serious consequences, despicable scoundrels – he carefully stored in his remarkably sharp memory, at least by Wookiee standards.

He listened indifferently to the uniformed man's outburst, then regretfully spread his arms. By this time, the officer's eyes had adjusted to the bright light, and he finally saw more than just the outline.

"Wow, a Wookiee!" he exclaimed, somewhat relieved, since these large creatures were known not only for their strength but also for their gentleness across the galaxy. "Mr. Wookiee, would you be so kind as to release me?" he pleaded in a more conciliatory tone. "After all, I am an official..."

Chewbacca shook his head, finding this clumsy figure endlessly amusing. "Perhaps," Scarpa continued, "I would be willing to consider this whole matter as if it never happened. I think, given your current situation, you won't find a better offer!"

The giant then bared his upper lip, revealing his enormous fangs. Whether it was by chance or not, Scarpa immediately forgot all the tales about Wookiee gentleness. He decided it was better not to push the matter for now. He submissively endured as the hairy creature untied him and led him to the spaceship's lounge. He already knew this room – few lounges enriched his memory with such memorable, yet shocking experiences.

"Welcome aboard... sergeant!" Han Solo read his prisoner's rank from his starched collar.

"I'm far from pleased to be here," Scarpa assured instead of greeting. "I demand to be released immediately!"

"Chewie! Be so kind as to show the gentleman where to find the airlock!"

The notion seemed to jolt Scarpa's mind.

"But... You're not planning to throw me out without a spacesuit, are you?"

"Well..." the Corellian pondered, "...I can offer a used spacesuit."

"That would be outright murder!" The officer seemed not to have heard the gentlemanly offer. The corner of his mouth trembled slightly, but otherwise, he showed no signs of fear.

"Other smugglers would do it without hesitation," Solo said. "But I, I must admit, I couldn't kill you that way."

Scarpa calmed down somewhat. "I suspected that you were, at heart, a decent man, Captain Solo."

"Nonetheless," continued the Corellian in a flat voice, "I can't let you go free either."

"Then what do you intend to do with me?" the sergeant asked anxiously.

Solo pretended to ponder this. The silence in the lounge grew thick – Scarpa's rapid breathing was clearly audible.

"Perhaps," Han said after a long time, "I could drop you off on some remote planet as a forced laborer. I could even get some money for you..."

"That's slave trading! I warn you, it carries severe punishment if..." Realizing the absurdity of his situation, the officer changed tactics: "I hereby promise that if you drop me off on an Imperial-controlled planet, I won't report this incident. I'll say I was unexpectedly called away for a relative's funeral."

Han and Chewbacca laughed almost simultaneously.

"Look, Scarpa," Han explained. "This current job is extremely important to me. I can't afford you messing it up. For now, you'll stay on the ship, and then we'll see what to do with you. Whether I'll let you go or take you to break rocks will depend on your behavior. Got it?"

"Perfectly," the sergeant replied and slumped weakly next to the gaming table. Something is wrong with the world – but perhaps a lifetime isn't enough to figure out exactly what.

The Falcon had been waiting for hours with its cloaking shield generator activated. There was only one tiny gap in the force field surrounding Quaron III – right above the capital and the prefectural base – and that too opened rarely, only to allow incoming or outgoing Imperial ships.

"Huh!" Han Solo sighed after surveying the scene. "What on earth are they guarding with such force?" he asked, turning to the topknotted host behind him, who rested his hand on the back of the Corellian's seat.

"Us," he replied. "Our warrior people pose a serious threat to the oppressors, even with swords."

"Oh, I see," Han muttered under his breath. He was getting fed up with the topknotted man's chauvinism.

"What's your plan, captain?" Scarpa inquired from the seat behind Chewbacca. "You won't get through here, accept it!"

"We're cloaked, officer! Haven't you noticed that no ship have detected us? That fighter almost crashed into us a moment ago if Chewie hadn't dodged in time. We'll wait until a larger ship heads in, and we'll latch onto it like a leech. We'll get in with it, as if pulled by a string!" He pointed beyond the cockpit window to a spot in the deep space. "Do you see that faint light spot there?"

"I see it."

"Well, that's an Imperial Star Destroyer. It's been circling here for hours, and it looks like it's preparing to enter."

"Then why are we wasting time, captain? Let's fly next to it!" the topknotted man advised. "My people are waiting for the weapons."

Solo's patience wore thin.

"Look! If we sneak closer now, we'd give a good chance to the dozens of technicians on board to spot us while they scan the space around them out of sheer boredom. Then there'd be big trouble because we wouldn't stand a chance against such a massive ship, even if you fought alongside us. Not even if you drew that dangerous sword of yours!"

The topknotted man's eyes narrowed, a shadow of anger crossed his face, but he finally controlled his temper.

"You'll regret this, Solo!"

Chewbacca chuckled softly, and Han also buried himself in studying the instruments to hide his smile.

The stars shone like tiny glowing bulbs – there was no atmosphere to dull or flicker their light. It took great skill to distinguish a nearby floating spaceship from them. For the Corellian, this was no trouble, especially after the Star Destroyer moved. From its thrusters, a flame, appearing as a small spark from here, burst out, and the large ship began to glide slowly toward the "gate."

"Yee-haw, here we go!" Han shouted. He was pleased with the turn of events, as he was terribly bored with the inactivity and wanted to get inside the force field as soon as possible to land on the surface, sell the smuggled weapons – but most of all, to finally grab the remaining twelve thousand and disappear from the area, forever.

His fingers lovingly gripped the Falcon's control stick, the ship responding sensitively to even his slightest movements. Approaching an Imperial Star Destroyer – even with a raised cloaking shield – was one of those maneuvers he would never have entrusted to anyone else.

The light spot first grew into a light patch, then the details unfolded: the wedge-shaped hull, the gracefully soaring command tower, the dozens of gun emplacements, the huge nozzles. Han had been inside such a monster once – he didn't want to go in there again. He slipped behind the tower. The cloaking shield was operating at maximum efficiency, so much so that the captain shut down a lot of other non-essential systems to ensure better power supply. He impatiently drummed his foot on the cockpit floor. He would have felt much calmer about the entry if he could slip through the gate ahead of the giant, but he didn't dare risk it, fearing they might come into the focus of the sensors. At the moment, he could feel safe: the area behind the bridge was known to be a dead zone for the Star Destroyer's equipment, a blind spot for the human crew...

Captain Reeken strode across the command bridge of the Imperial Star Destroyer named Hammer. Such simple maneuvers were typically carried out by his subordinates, while he – as was his habit – observed their actions with a critical eye.

The first officer – as usual – seemed thorough enough, yet somehow indecisive. He found the second officer much more promising. A conspicuously young man, Reeken often wondered how he had already reached such a high position with so few years of service behind him. Despite being a youngster, he excelled at textbook maneuvers, knew the mandatory theory by heart, and instinctively made the right decisions in critical situations. The captain didn't rule out the possibility that the boy possessed a faint spark of the Force. He looked at him fondly: yes, he would be his successor. The current one would meet with an accident, as there were a few loyal crew members on board who would gladly do such a small favor for their commander.

Indeed – he thought. The crew of an Imperial Star Destroyer is like a large family: the captain is the absolute master, and ranks – in a way – are inherited. It couldn't be otherwise. On such a massive ship, this is the only way to maintain the cohesion of the thousands-strong crew – the unbroken team spirit that might be needed at any moment…

So, he watched the boy when he noticed something unusual. The youngster kept looking back, scanning the wall behind him with a restless gaze. Each time he returned to his work with a dissatisfied expression: he hadn't found what he was looking for.

Reeken stepped beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"What's the matter, Marl, my boy?" he asked.

The boy shook his head, his usually confident gaze clouded with doubts.

"I don't know, sir. I keep feeling like someone is standing behind me. Someone trying to hide. But there's no one here..."

Long seconds passed in silence – the Hammer had meanwhile fully passed through the gate – when the boy slapped his forehead.

"Oh, how foolish of me!" he exclaimed, then turned to the bridge crew. In a sharp voice, he gave orders:

"Stop the ship immediately! Measure space density, especially the area behind the bridge! Quickly!"

Reeken still didn't understand, but he immediately pushed aside the lingering first officer and nodded at the boy's instructions.

They waited. The measurements were completed in moments. The results were loudly called out to them by the technician on the other side of the bridge:

"Eighty tons more, sir!" Marl looked at the captain.

"I suspected as much! Someone came in with us behind the force field. They're using a cloaking generator."

Reeken needed no more, he promptly resumed command.

"Tractor beams to the stern! Begin blind scanning. If you catch anything, report immediately!"

Minutes passed. The Star Destroyer slowed down, but had already passed through the gate.

"Beam five caught something, sir!" reported one of the operators. "It's trying to escape. Its engines must be surprisingly powerful."

"Pull it onto the deck! It can't escape now." The captain clasped his hands behind his back and looked at the boy with satisfaction. He found no reason to delay what he had long planned:

"First Officer! You are relieved! From now on, Marl, you are my right hand! Follow me: we're going down to the dock. I want to see what we've caught."

By the time they descended in the lift, the captured ship was already in the Hammer's enormous dock.

It still wasn't visible, but the space density sensors betrayed its presence.

"What's its weight?" Marl asked a technician who approached them.

"About twenty tons, sir."

"So, he wasn't alone," the boy nodded. "I suspected as much."

Reeken, disregarding his dignity, cursed vehemently. He couldn't see the contempt on the newly appointed first officer's face behind him.

"Make it visible!" he ordered.

In vain. Accompanied by a flickering light, the cloaking shield disintegrated, revealing the captured spacecraft. It was a small ship, covered in gray armor, reminiscent of a manta ray. In the open airlock door stood a blond, short-haired man. He looked extremely angry.

Chapter Three

Han Solo leaned back contentedly in the pilot's seat. The planet's atmosphere enveloped the Falcon, with clouds swirling beneath them. Finally, they saw the surface: vast, azure oceans spread between yellow-brown continents. From up here, there was no sign of cities or civilization.

Solo admired the landscape with awe. He loved planets like this, rich with water and forests—such places were rare nowadays. Wherever the Imperial administration set up, gray-white steel towers, artificial stone palaces, and huge hangars soon sprouted. Pipelines snaked across the ground, crystal-clear rivers turned murky, and the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by the roar of spacecraft engines. Bases everywhere, countless soldiers, regulations, and prisons. He understood why people rebelled against this and even took up arms to drive out the galaxy's most dangerous of pests, the Empire.

Of course, it would be an exaggeration to say that such freedom-fighting ideals motivated him when he agreed to this whole weapons-smuggling business. But it was undeniable that, besides the money, this also played a part. Solo typically didn't take on jobs that his rather loose moral compass objected to. He certainly wasn't as heartless as he liked to think. Perhaps if he no longer had any financial difficulties—which he found hard to imagine—he might even have time for such thrilling activities as a freedom fighting...

And what if he had joined the Rebel Alliance back on Premont, when, in a burst of generosity—and incidentally for the beautiful Kirra Mallowy—he had given them his droid Bollux and the little supercomputer Blue Max that resided in its belly...?

"Captain..."

Han snapped out of his reverie. Ah, well. No Bollux, no Max, and they were far from the ancient, thrill-seeking Nomads who had taken him in for a battle. As for the rebels... well, he could think about that later.

The co-pilot guided them toward the secret landing site. The cloaking shield continued to work its magic, hiding them from the ground radar scans. They descended into a valley.

The wildlife and birds of the picturesque landscape crouched in fear at the sound of the roar. On the lakeshore, hoofed animals drank from the crystal-clear water, while nearby, cat-like predators lurked in the tall grass—the hunt today was a failure.

"I love my homeland," the bun-haired man suddenly announced. "I love it more than anything else, it guides my actions, whatever I do. If you don't understand, Han Solo, why I do what I do, remember this!"

The Corellian did not reply. He was considering whether he had just heard a straightforward emotional statement…or a veiled threat.

"Stop!" shouted the bun-haired man. "That's the small town!" He pointed to the tiny settlement nestled by the lake. "Flash your headlights four times, Captain! My people will know I've returned."

Below, on the winding streets, among the one-or-two-story stone houses, people appeared and stared at the sky, shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands.

The Millennium Falcon hovered over a spacious sQuare paved with cobblestones, and the townsfolk gathered there.

"If they stand under me, I won't be able to land!" Solo worried.

"Feel free to start descending," advised the slender man. "They will jump out of the way."

"Alright," the Corellian shrugged. "You know best."

With that, he cautiously decreased the thrust: the Falcon began to descend slowly. Dust was stirred up in the sQuare, and leaves danced in the air. The gathered crowd quickly made way for the ship, forming a ring around it. The ship's landing legs touched the ground, and the leveling hydraulics hummed quietly as they did their job until the hull settled.

The dust settled, and the spectators dared to come closer. The spaceship's ramp lowered, and two men appeared in the opening. One wore a gray outfit and a bun, the other wore military trousers, a white shirt, and a vest with many pockets. They waved.

The head of the most prestigious local clan pushed to the front. He was an aging, shriveled man, with graying hair also tied in a bun, which seemed to be the local fashion. A sword hung at his side.

Solo's companion whispered advice into the Corellian's ear:

"Bow and greet him first! Here, this is a sign of distinguished respect."

Han hesitated for a few moments, as he didn't understand why he should feel this way towards the other man, but then he realized: if for no other reason, the old man's age warranted respect. Besides, it's better to stay on good terms with the natives - at least until they pay.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," he said. The old man bowed too, then responded to the greeting in a creaky, dry voice.

"Welcome to our planet, Quaron III. Have you brought what our people so desperately long for?"

Solo was pleased to see that people here evidently enjoy talking business and do not waste time on unnecessary small talk.

"Everything is here," he replied. "However, there are still some..."

"Debts," the old man interjected firmly. "Rest assured, we have not forgotten our obligations to you. You will receive what you are owed."

"Alright! Then perhaps we can seal the deal. I definitely don't want to hold you up in your fight for freedom..."

"Ah!" the elderly swordsman nodded. "I see you are a man of action. Please, follow me!"

"My first mate stays on the ship!" Han said firmly. "Hope that's alright with you."

"Oh no, no!" protested the other. "Please, come all! My people wish to see the heroes who brought them the promise of freedom!"

The bun-haired man nudged Solo.

"Don't decline the invitation! It would be a serious insult."

"If you wish," the old man continued, "I can post guards around the ship, though it is entirely unnecessary."

"Chewie, come out!" Han called into the ship, conceding.

"And the officer?" the bun-haired man snapped, perhaps a bit too harshly.

"Him?" the captain waved dismissively. "He's prisoner, hardly a hero. It'd tarnish our reputation if the people saw him with us. You get that, right?" He turned back inside: "Scarpa, lock the door behind us!"

The bun-haired man reluctantly gave in.

"Very well, the official stays."

At that moment, a considerable commotion broke out in the square, and it took Han a while to realize that it was caused by Chewbacca's appearance. The Wookiee stood in the Falcon's hatchway, his massive frame and formidable teeth commanding respect. He clutched his crossbow-like blaster.

The procession started. Four people walked in the center: Han, Chewbacca, the bun-haired man, and the elderly clan leader. They were accompanied by eight young swordsmen, four in front and four behind. Han Solo decided it was time to voice his curiosity:

"Tell me, sir," he turned to the old man, "is it a tradition here for everyone to carry a sword?"

"Oh yes," he replied. "As you probably know, the Empire forbids us from possessing and carrying firearms."

"And... how should I say this... So, before the Empire's visit... " Han avoided using the word "occupation" "... did you use blades back then too?"

Honestly, he expected an answer like: We didn't see the need!, or: Who would we use them against?, but instead, he got:

"Unfortunately, before, we didn't know about firearms."

The Corellian was so surprised that he said what was on his mind, something that never happened to him during business negotiations:

"So, it's illegal for me and my first mate to carry firearms?"

The old man nodded sadly.

"I'm afraid I must be disrespectful and ask you to hand them over, as you haven't surrendered them voluntarily. I am responsible for enforcing the laws in this city."

Solo's face immediately hardened.

"I'm afraid I have to be disrespectful and say no," he stated. For now, that was the end of it. They continued along narrow streets, between single-story and two-story houses. The Falcon's captain found the planet to be several millennia behind.

From up above, from the spaceship, he had noticed something strange in one of the town's spacious sQuares: in the center stood a large haystack, big enough to comfortably fit the Falcon underneath. He decided that if he had the time, he would examine it up close. Now, as they were crossing this sQuare, he approached it unsuspectingly and dug into it—he liked the smell of hay.

Suddenly, a strong kick hit his back, and he was pushed into the haystack. His head unexpectedly struck something hard, which rang with a metallic sound. He struggled to free himself, ready to harshly confront his attacker, but he got tangled in one of the securing straps.

Meanwhile, a fierce fight broke out in the sQuare. When Chewbacca saw his friend being attacked by one of the escorts, he leaped at the bun-haired man with an angry roar. However, he dodged the large Wookiee with the agility of a snake, and his deft move resulted in the escort behind him suddenly facing the enraged giant. The massive paws grabbed him—the guy's feet wouldn't touch the ground again until several meters away.

The other men were not idle either: Chewbacca felt a sharp pain in his back as one of them, with the utmost calm, sliced off his shoulder-slung blaster. The razor-sharp blade not only cut through the weapon's strap but also through the Wookiee's hide. In moments, blood soaked the silky fur, and the blaster fell to the cobblestones with a loud thud. Chewbacca spun around, roaring, to face eight gleaming steel serpents. He immediately bent down to grab his weapon from the ground, but the previously calm and observant old man swooped in with an incredibly agile and graceful cartwheel, snatching it right from under his nose.

The Wookiee suddenly felt extremely pessimistic about the outcome of the skirmish, so he stepped back, filled his lungs with air, and let out his people's blood-curdling battle cry. He decided he would rather die than be captured. He charged.

Han Solo had enough of his vulnerable position and gave a mighty yank on the strap coiled around his arm. The weather-worn strap was apparently quite worn out, for it snapped immediately. A shower of straw poured over the fighters in the sQuare, covering Wookiee and human alike. A wild melee broke out, filled with cries of pain and, of course, bits of straw. Han and Chewbacca, thanking their luck, managed to escape from the unusual harvest, wounded but alive.

They took off running as fast as they could back towards the Falcon—or at least where they thought the spaceship was. They soon got lost. Han cursed.

"Great, we're stuck in the middle of this dump, chased by a bunch of angry barbers with giant bloody razors, and we have no clue where the ship is! Chewie, why didn't you keep track of the path? Now how do we get out of here?"

Chewbacca growled mournfully to show his sympathy, then added a few details.

"We're injured, and we only have one blaster left: big deal!" the Corellian fumed, then sighed deeply. "I hope that dumb cop has enough sense to lock himself in the Falcon and not let anyone in. I doubt swords can cut through spaceship armor." This realization did nothing to ease their predicament. "I'll think of something soon!"

They walked on, heads down.

"Tell me," Han asked after a bit, "did you even chell what was under the straw?"

Chewbacca shook his head.

"Because I did. Brace yourself: a spaceship! And not just any kind..."

The Wookiee excitedly interrupted, saying he thought it was the stingray ship seen in Gritt's dock.

"Close, but not quite," Han shook his head. "It's not that bad. Then again, who knows... Remember Caspar and his ship, the Star Rider?"

The Wookiee nodded. How could he forget?

"Well, that was the Star Rider rusting away in there. Best smuggling ship ever built... after the Falcon, of course. Can't imagine what happened to poor Caspar to let his ship turn into such a pre-historic relic. I liked the guy..."

Chewbacca growled.

"Yeah, yeah, we had some disagreements over those three tons of alloy. But I was right." And before his first mate could say anything, he added, "And I'm not hearing any arguments about it!"

The Wookiee burst into a gurgling laugh and clapped his friend on the back with his broad paw. " Glad to see someone's in high spirits," Han coughed bitterly.

Scarpa, left alone on the Falcon, was initially at a loss for what to do. It was a fantastic opportunity to seize control of the spaceship and fly anywhere he wanted.

There was just one small problem—h e knew nothing about piloting a spaceship. Not at all. So, he decided to stick to ground operations. First, he would comply with Han Solo. Not because he intended to do so in the long run, but because he couldn't think of anything else at the moment...

He rushed to close the Falcon's door. He arrived just in time; a dozen young men with buns and swords were approaching the spaceship's ramp. Scarpa smiled at them, then pressed the lock button at the last moment. The heavy metal plate fell with a loud thud, right in front of their noses. They angrily pounded on the armor, but they had nothing that could damage it.

The sergeant then set about destroying the lock electronics. His aim was simply to keep out Han Solo as well. He grabbed the laser pistol he found in the lounge and shot up the control panel. He figured that on this evidently backward planet, only the Imperial Authority had weapons effective enough to melt the door. The minor detail that he also couldn't get out didn't worry him at first because it did not occur to him, and later it did not bother him as he discovered the ship's food supplies and realized he had enough provisions for years.

The thought that his actions might endanger Han Solo and his Wookiee comrade—since his tampering had made the valuable cargo inaccessible—never crossed his mind. Perhaps if he had considered this, he might have acted differently, as he saw himself as a tough but surprisingly soft-hearted man.

He wandered back to the cockpit and settled into the radio operator's seat. He began trying to figure out how to operate the equipment. If he could send just one sentence to the governor's office, he would be in the clear.

To stave off boredom, he talked to himself:

"Captain Scarpa... No! Governor, would you kindly receive the governor of Virgill planet... No, that's not right! Senator Scarpa, the governor of Virgill planet, humbly requests an audience with Your Excellency. Would Your Grace be so kind as to hear him?" He gestured with his fingers, as if indicating the man could enter.

"Ah, my dear governor! How are we, how are we? And your lovely wife, Mrs. Szarné?"

"...?"

"Oh yes, you heard it right: Mrs. Szarné! Because you, governor, are a piece of crap! Yes, indeed, crap! Ha-ha-ha!"

His hearty laughter echoed through the deserted corridors of the Falcon.

"I was thinking," he continued, "that as a sergeant... or rather a 'crapgeant'... ha-ha-ha... you could serve the Empire more effectively. We could use you as... fertilizer!"

"Hm...hm. Tell me, governor, do you know anything about radios? Hm...hm... You say it needs to be turned on here? Very well: we press this, click that... Bravo, governor, it's buzzing! Where do we speak into this thing?"

"Hello, hello, is there anyone there?!"

"What do you want?" came a voice from the speaker.

"I am Scarpa senat... I mean, Sergeant, from the planet Virgill. Actually, I'm not speaking from there, I'm just stationed there, and right now I'm not on duty, I mean I was kidnapped, but I've taken control, and now everything's fine, except I can't fly. But that's a long story. Is this the Imperial Governor's Office?"

A brief silence on the other end. "Yes, of course, Imperial Governor's Office. What do you need?"

"Your voice sounds familiar! Didn't you serve at the Virgill police before?"

"Yes, yes, at the police! Of course, I served there!"

"Oh, I'm so glad! Were you born on Virgill, or just lived there for a while? Because I'm from there. You must have seen those wonderful pictures of the giant pines of Virgill, well, I was born there, in those mountains where they grow... – Hm... Could you get to the point, Sergeant?"

"Oh, of course, of course! Sorry. So here's what happened..." And Scarpa broadly outlined the events since his abduction from Virgill.

"Calm down, Sergeant Scarpa: everything will be fine now!" came the reassuring voice over the airwaves. "I'll send a detachment for you immediately. Stay put and don't touch anything! Turn off the radio too... The red button on the right!"

"Got it!" Scarpa exulted. He complied, then leaned back in the chair with a deep sigh. He did it! Now, even if he didn't want it, he couldn't avoid a promotion. But he didn't want it, oh, he definitely didn't want it!

"That idiot thought I was the Imperial Governor's Office!" Solo burst out. "He messed with the radio! If he breaks something, I swear I'll... I'll..." He trailed off, not quite remembering what he was going to swear.

Chewbacca let out a series of ominous growls.

"That's it!" the Corellian seized the words. "I'll tear him apart! Or something very similar... Chewie, let's get to the Falcon somehow! Wait: find a tall tree, climb up, and see if you can spot the ship."

The Wookiee murmured something anxiously.

"How would they spot you?! You're camouflaged!"

They did as planned. Since the Wookiees lived their eternally long lives, in human terms, in giant trees, it wasn't hard for Chewbacca to climb up the branches. Up there, he wrapped his arms around the trunk—his brown fur blending perfectly with the bark's color—looked around for a long time, then descended and reported to Han what he had seen. The Falcon was just two blocks away from them, in the direction they were already heading. If they hadn't stopped here, they would have been there by now, but maybe it was better this way, because a dozen swordsmen were swarming around the ship. If they had suddenly stumbled upon them, they would have easily captured both of them.

But now they had a chance to plan.

"We sneak in as close as we can," Han whispered. "I'll fire a few shots to scatter them, then we bolt for the airlock. I'll cover you from the ramp while you punch in the special code. Sound good?" Chewbacca didn't look too thrilled this time. They crept from doorway to doorway. Han gripped his blaster tightly, but this time, a strange sense of foreboding crept into his usual pre-action confidence.

"Chewie," he tried to clarify, "are you sure you know the special code?"

The Wookiee protested indignantly.

"Then we should be fine," the captain waved off his previous unease.

They reached the sQuare. They hid behind a barrel, keeping a close watch on the area. In the center, with its sealed airlock, stood the Falcon. Swordsmen were bustling around everywhere, forming small groups, evidently fearing an attack from outside.

"Chewie!" Han whispered desperately. "They're waiting for us!"

Then he furiously pointed to the far side of the sQuare, where he saw something that completely enraged him: a large pile of carefully arranged straw. "Those bastards!" he hissed with hatred. "They've even gathered the straw! But they're not using it! They're not burying my ship in a haystack – I'll stop 'em even if it kills me!"

Chewbacca pessimistically remarked that it looked like it really might kill him.

But Han didn't hear this; he jumped out from behind the barrel and started shooting wildly – making sure to aim at the ground, not at the people.

Chaos erupted in the sQuare. The guards scrambled for cover – they weren't used to firefights. The Falcon's crew charged forward as one to take the ship by storm. They reached the ramp without much difficulty, where Han stopped to cover his friend as planned, who ran up and began working on the door lock.

With two huge leaps, Chewbacca was up there, already typing in the special code on the lock's control panel.

Nothing happened. He tried again. The result: nothing.

"Chewie, damn it, hurry up!" came Han's shout from below. He had a good reason to be anxious: the swordsmen had gotten up and were approaching the ship with measured, dignified steps. They formed a chain, radiating determination, showing they would no longer be deterred by the laser bolts flashing at their feet, ready to march to their deaths if duty required.

Chewbacca, with a mournful Wookiee howl, pounded on the stubborn door with his huge fists. Han shouted nervously:

"Don't tell me that dumb cop screwed up the lock, did he?!"

The guards' feet were almost on the ramp by then, despite Han's desperate shooting in front of them. After a while, he lowered his blaster – he didn't have the strength to massacre dozens of unarmed men.

"Okay, gentlemen!" he shouted. "No sudden moves: we surrender!"

The Storm glided silently over the twilight landscape, its gray armor making it nearly invisible against the similarly colored sky. Its flight altitude – just a few centimeters – was so low compared to its enormous speed that an untrained observer might have mistaken it for a simple glider.

Before the Storm was built, no spaceship could have managed such a feat, even if there was a pilot crazy enough to try. For this marvel of modern technology, however, it was just a routine task.

Go Rien Moss leaned back in his comfortable, black-padded pilot seat, watching the onboard computer displays. Beyond the pleasure of flying, the only situation he could imagine taking control from the electronics was combat. Intuition and cunning were still not among computers' strengths. Many had tried to develop such programs, but humans always triumphed. Perhaps it would always be that way. Go Rien Moss believed this happened because machines were not part of the all-encompassing Force and, therefore, did not receive its blessings. Artificial intelligence, after all, was nothing but abstract mathematics, and intuition could easily be defined as everything beyond that – hence the irreconcilable difference.

In the fields, the agricultural droids paused their myriad activities for a moment as the Storm flew past them. If such complex reactions could be attributed to them, they were surprised.

In the distance, the lights of the small town appeared. They were clearly visible even at this time, at twilight: the shadows of the high mountains cast the valley into darkness well before sunset. The ship reached the lake, water splashed everywhere – the electronics increased the flight altitude. Water dripped from the gray armor on the ship's underside, but the strong wind quickly dried it. A fisherman who had ventured far with his boat turned into the lake, shaking his fist long after the disappearing phantom.

The frantic speed only ended just before the town's harbor. The spaceship slowly settled, hovering motionless above the water – like some technocratic still life. Go Rien Moss had the computer perform depth measurements to determine the area's deepest point. When he found it, he had the location memorized, then piloted the ship to the nearest dock, close enough to disembark without getting his feet wet. After this, the ship returned to the recorded position and slowly submerged into the waves.

The Imperial bounty hunter watched the maneuver with a small smile – he loved the Storm. As the last ripples smoothed out, he pocketed the ship's small remote control and turned on his heel.

At this late hour, few people walked the streets of the town. He carefully avoided those few as well. Instincts long forgotten by most of humanity guided his steps in the right direction.

They were left alone in the cramped cell. Only a tiny window near the ceiling allowed a bit of light in, made impassable by sturdy iron bars. Han Solo paced back and forth like an enraged wild animal.

"Great job, Solo!" he muttered to himself. "This is what you get for being a humanitarian!"

Chewbacca added a pained howl to the conversation—although his anger was mostly directed at the pervasive musty smell assaulting his sensitive nose.

"Life is full of trials, but good always wins in the end," Han quoted some outdated philosopher. "Either the guy who said that was a total idiot, or the world has changed drastically since then," he grumbled.

Chewbacca agreed with the former.

They thoroughly inspected their prison: their impressions suggested an ancient dungeon. Only one thing didn't fit the picture: the cell door made of titanium alloy with an electronic lock. They quickly realized that they wouldn't break through it by force. They would have better luck tunneling through the wall. With a hundred to a hundred and fifty years of hard work, they might break out—somewhere.

"Chewie," the Corellian spread his arms, "you got any ideas?" But the Wookiee only growled sadly and shook his shaggy head. He carefully sniffed one corner, grimaced, swept away the dirt on the floor with his paw, and then sat down. He buried his bushy head in his deadly hands and hummed a sad Wookiee song.

Time passed: beyond the tiny window, the sun set, and the stars appeared. Quaron III turned out to be a moonless world.

"Hey Chewie," Han spoke after a long silence, "what do you think they're gonna do with us?"

His friend launched into a lengthy explanation in the Wookiee language, full of growls and barks.

Han Solo understood every word, of course.

"Well, that makes sense," he nodded after thinking it over. "If they kill us, they might never get their precious cargo. That could be our ace in the hole. The only question is, will we get a chance to use it... And we can't let on that we can't get into the Falcon either—if they find out, we're done. Ah, I wish we were inside already!" he sighed. "I bet that idiot Scarpa just blasted the lock... in which case we're screwed too!" he added with a wry smile.

Chewbacca nodded.

The silence thickened again, only to be broken by the hum of the electronic lock. The bolts clicked as they retracted into the wall around the door's edge. The heavy panel moved, slowly swinging open. In the revealed opening stood two men—one holding Solo's, the other Chewbacca's, laser weapon. They aimed directly at the prisoners. The skinnier one was instantly recognized: it was the bun-haired man.

"Greetings, Han Solo," he said.

"Yeah, I'm just thrilled," Han replied, and he probably would have hurled more insults if Chewbacca's quick growl hadn't warned him it was wiser to stay silent.

"Be careful with that weapon; it's not only dishonorable, but also a dangerous tool of combat," he added sarcastically. "It could easily go off!"

The bun-haired man ignored his words. "Our clan's honorary head wishes to meet you, Han Solo," he continued undisturbed.

"The only question is, do I wish to see him?"

The skinny man frowned disapprovingly. "Don't be disrespectful, Han Solo. As I mentioned before, respect and courtesy are essential virtues in our culture."

"I don't give a..." Han started to say more, but his friend quickly placed a heavy paw on his forearm and squeezed it hard: Calm down! "I don't give a..." Han finished awkwardly, then waved his hand dismissively. "Let's go, no need to keep the big boss waiting..."

They walked through winding underground corridors, and Han had long lost his sense of direction, but he wasn't worried about having to find his way back to his cell alone. They passed many more swordsmen along the way, and even saw women and children in some places.

Finally, they reached a spiral staircase and started climbing up. Solo guessed they had gone up several levels above ground by the time they entered a spacious chamber. Directly opposite them, in front of the far wall of the room, was a dais with a single, throne-like chair. A masked man sat in it, his gender only hinted at by the cut of his rich garments. At his side—what a luxury!—hung a firearm, not just any but an imperial blaster carbine. On either side, along the carpeted path leading to the throne, stood men in gray clothes with buns, swords at their belts.

"I see you're a mass-produced..." Han whispered to the bun-haired man, then added, recalling his words about respect: "...sir!"

That was too much. The man's face showed restrained emotions as he hissed, "That's twice, Han Solo. At the third, I will kill you!"

They slowly approached the figure lounging on the throne.

"Bow!" the bun-wearer whispered, grabbing Solo's neck and roughly forcing the Corellian to comply.

Han spun around to shrug off the hand gripping his neck. The native slashed the air twice, and Solo found himself in an armlock, immobilized. What's more, under the pressure from the bun-wearer, he was forced to bend further and further forward—he feared he would have to kneel, or he'd fall flat on his face.

The agile and skillful swordsman hadn't counted on one thing. Or rather, one person: Chewbacca. The Wookiee hit him on the head with his massive fist, and he collapsed like a sack.

"Enough of this!" the masked man snapped.

Soft noises echoed from all parts of the room as the swordsmen sheathed the blades they had drawn.

"Captain Solo! If you would kindly place my man's fallen blaster on the ground!"

Han made a resigned grimace, then pulled out the pistol he had picked up during the scuffle. He placed it on the ground very slowly. He didn't think it wise to point out that it was actually his weapon.

"Thank you for your enthusiastic cooperation," the masked man nodded. "I'm also pleased you delivered the indispensable cargo for me. I've been eagerly awaiting it!"

Han thought it was the right moment to mention that without him, nobody would access the valuable goods.

"Oh!" the other waved his hand dismissively. "I have powerful weapons to simply open your ship like a can of beans."

"If you even think about trying..." Han started, but the other cut him off.

"Let's leave the threats aside!" he advised sternly. "I still need your ship, Captain Solo, so I wouldn't like to damage it. Within reasonable limits, I'm willing to negotiate."

Han felt somewhat reassured.

"Pretty broad limits," he said. "Depends on who's calling the shots."

"I am," the other stated succinctly.

"In that case, I'm listening," the Corellian spread his arms in surrender.

"Cooperation starts with you opening the spaceship for me."

"And what do I get in return?"

"My goodwill, Captain Solo."

Han grinned. "Sorry, but in most parts of the galaxy, that's not worth much."

"But right now, you're in this part of the galaxy, Solo, and in my house, there isn't a harder currency than that!"

Han didn't know what to do. He had three options left. One: refuse, try to bargain more, but risk pushing too far. With such a quick-tempered people, they might chop him to pieces right there! Two: confess he has no idea how to open the Falcon's door without force—in that case, the result would be the same. Three: agree to it, pretending everything is fine, only for the truth to come out at the Falcon's door. He chose the latter. Let it come to this—at least somewhat on home turf.

"Okay," he said. "I'll open the Falcon: you get your weapons, and I get my remaining twelve thousand. Then I fly off, and we keep each other in good memory."

"With minor modifications, I accept," the other agreed, rising from the throne. "We leave immediately!"

The swordsmen surrounded Han and Chewbacca, and after the masked man took the lead, they all set out. There was no time or opportunity for the captain to ask what those minor modifications might be.

Outside, it was night. If they encountered any passersby, they quickly avoided the armed group, pressing against the house walls or darting into side streets. They were afraid. Han had his opinions about the security offered by the Empire.

This time, he paid close attention to remember the route and determine the location of his beloved ship. He felt he was successful. He made a quick calculation: three blasters, twelve swords—not an easy task to survive the adventure alive. Then it suddenly dawned on him what he had to do.

Only his friend noticed that his previous tortured grin suddenly turned into genuine good humor. The Wookiee got excited: he knew that Han Solo had come up with something again.

Chapter Four

Deep in the planet's depths, the damp caves and the sweat-carved catacombs had always lived inhabitants. Here were people who, for various reasons, could not live on the surface. They feared the rulers of the world above, fought against them, and couldn't hope for a single peaceful moment in their lives. Their existence was a constant struggle, yet they still dreamed of leaving a better future for their grandchildren. Those who had been defeated in the ceaseless battles and conflicts above, lived here. Ever since the Empire appeared on the planet, their numbers had increased, though the Quar people's millennia-long history had never known a peaceful decade. Perpetual strife reigned, wars raged, sometimes engulfing entire continents. For the locals, fighting was in their blood—it defined their lives. They did not fight for the sake of destruction, but for the thrill of the hunt, where one intelligent being pursued another, not some mindless animal. It was a noble passion: a game.

Mielta, a twenty-something Quar girl, grew up here, in the underground labyrinth. Her beauty was that of an almost translucent, pearly-skinned woman, and her heart was that of a freedom fighter. Her fiery temperament, panther-like agility, and cobra-like swiftness had quickly elevated her from the ranks of ordinary warriors. She had become a Varks, a leader: a commander of twenty people, who never had to wait long for action. Mielta eagerly led them into battles. Raids, kidnappings, sabotage missions—she had a long list of accomplishments.

"So, you're saying the second spaceship has landed?" she asked her lieutenant, One-Eyed Nort.

The man nodded.

"Has the Masked One shown up?"

"He has been spotted. According to our latest reports he left his palace, and he is heading towards the newly arrived spaceship with a strong escort, accompanied by the pilots."

"Thank you, Nort. Your spies have done excellent work, as always."

"Should we strike?" the man asked eagerly.

"For now, that would be recklessly bold. What new information do we have on him?"

"Almost nothing. He is a high-ranking Imperial official, but it seems he does not wish to use official resources in this matter."

Mielta shook her head. "I fear doing anything right now would be futile. If we attempted to take him out, it would result in significant casualties, and success is not guaranteed."

"Sooner or later, we'll have to act," argued the one-eyed man.

"Once we know enough about him, we might get someone else to do the dirty work. Everyone has enemies."

"Who are you thinking of?"

"Maybe the Empire. You just said he belongs to them, yet he doesn't use their resources. Maybe he has turned against them as well. If we find out who he is and what he is doing here, especially if we can provide evidence, the Empire might catch him for us."

The man shook his head in disbelief.

"I admire your cunning, Mielta." He admired more than that, but—better safe than sorry!—he said no more.

Movable spotlights were positioned around the Falcon to illuminate the surrounding area. Not one could approach without being noticed. However, the ship itself was cunningly hidden from view, as all the lights were set up with their backs to it, effectively blinding anyone trying to peer at it.

Han Solo's grin widened even more when he saw the scene. The circumstances favored his plan – even theatrical performances couldn't be better lit.

"Alright then," Han said, spreading his arms wide, "this is the spot. Chewie and I will head up to get the ship open. Your guys," he pointed to the masked man, "stay put and wait! I'll shout down when we're good to go."

"Han Solo," the masked man raised his voice, "do you take me for a fool?" This time, the Corellian did not voice his disagreement.

"How do you figure?" Han started, gearing up for a long back-and-forth over the plan. The end result didn't matter; it was all about putting on a show to keep everyone distracted as they neared the ship. "Maybe we all stroll over together? And then, right at the open door, you decide we're not needed anymore?"

"Captain Solo, I assure you that..."

"That's not enough!" Han cut in. "We need serious assurances here, not pretty words."

"Solo!" the masked man snapped angrily. "I remind you, I'm still the one setting the terms!"

The captain knew they had reached the riskiest point of his plan. If he misjudged the clan leader's patience and overstepped with his words, they were done for. But if he played it right, success was very close.

He pretended to fly into a rage: shaking his fist at the surprised masked man, he cursed wildly in an unfamiliar language. His words in Wookiee meant:

If I run, run! He judged there was no time for more. Suddenly, Chewbacca also pointed accusingly at the man:

"Gorrr!"Understood, he growled.

A forest of swords pointed at their throats, they both acted as if they were terribly frightened. Han found it particularly easy to do so, as for a brief moment, he truly thought he had miscalculated.

However, the masked man arrogantly straightened up and ordered the blades back into their sheaths. It seemed that all his suspicions evaporated at the sight of the two terrified prisoners. He was even willing to make some concessions:

"Four of my armed men will accompany you; I will stay here, and you will see that I give them no special orders, thus assuring you of my goodwill."

Han nodded in agreement.

They started walking. However, they had only taken a few steps when Han suddenly leaped forward and disappeared into the darkness surrounding the spaceship. Chewbacca immediately followed, before their escorts could react. They couldn't use their firearms anyway, as they couldn't see anything; the spotlights completely blinded them. Some even made the mistake of staring directly into one of the nearby lights. These men lost their vision for several minutes.

The masked man raged. At his command, a few laser beams sliced through the air and the ground under the Falcon's belly, but none came close to the fugitives.

They had hidden behind the ship's ramp. Han briefly explained his plan to his first mate. He grumbled in satisfaction until Solo clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to risk being discovered by their voices. The Wookiee muttered apologetically.

By this time, the pursuers had also entered the circle of light, but they couldn't see any better in the sudden darkness than before. They were adjusting their eyes to the dim light, which gave the fugitives significant time to act.

They did not hesitate. Han, who knew every curve of the Falcon's underside, navigated blindly down there. He headed for the small, atmospheric belly cannon. He remembered well that, for safety reasons, he had deployed it from the ship's body during landing and then forgot to retract it due to the events. The weapon still protruded before them. This was fortunate.

He immediately set to work: with practiced fingers, he located the control cable and simply ripped it from the control panel. The gun, resembling an infantry autocannon, immediately slumped lifelessly forward in its mount.

"Chewie!" Han yelled. "Get over here!"

The Wookiee bounded to his side in a single leap. With excited barks, he reported that the enemy was upon them, and...

Solo didn't let him finish.

"Stretch this apart!" he growled.

The living powerhouse sprang into action: he grabbed each prong of the fork with his massive arms and strained against it. In vain, the titanium alloy wouldn't budge. Around them, laser beams struck the pavement, erupting in showers of debris.

"We're toast!" Han muttered in defeat, but Chewbacca clearly had other ideas.

He took a deep breath – air whistling into his massive lungs – then braced himself again. His muscles, thick as tree trunks, bulged to the point of snapping, and the veins on his forehead stood out clearly even under his dense fur. He roared with the strain, like a ship's siren malfunctioning.

With a sharp crack, the fork snapped in two, the cannon fell to the ground, and the Wookiee stood there, motionless, holding the broken metal. Han knew he would never forget the sight of the gleaming alloy at the break.

"Hold on to that piece, Chewie: we'll keep it as a souvenir!" he suggested, but there was no time to linger; he returned to work immediately. He picked up the heavy weapon and, finding no handle, wrapped his vest around it. The armholes made excellent grips. He yanked his belt from his pants, threaded it through, and buckled it. He then slung the makeshift strap over his neck.

He snapped off the cover protecting the trigger mechanism, revealing the trigger and the control mode switch. He flipped the switch from automatic to manual and placed his index finger on the trigger.

He immediately felt safer. The weapon's firepower was negligible in aerial combat, but here, among infantry rifles, it was unbeatable. This time, Han – reluctantly, but learning from past experiences – caused significant carnage among the swordsmen. The survivors retreated within minutes.

Han and Chewbacca collected their abandoned firearms from beside the corpses, nd although the situation looked much better than just minutes before, the captain started cursing wildly.

"Listen, Chewie," Han said after he took a moment to chill. "We're stuck under the Falcon, enemies all around us, and even though we hold the ground, we can't get into the ship. We need some serious gear."

The Wookiee expressed his opinion that the belly cannon qualified as serious gear.

Solo snapped at him angrily:

"I hope you were joking, pal. If you try, I'll pack you into a fist-sized ball myself!"

Chewbacca assured him that he was, of course, only joking.

Han sat down, leaning his back against one of the Falcon's landing struts. He pondered their next move.

Sergeant Scarpa followed his orders to the letter: he was bored. He turned off the radio, leaned back in the pilot's seat, and put his feet up on the dashboard. He tried to figure out when the promised backup might arrive. While the alarm was raised, people were loaded onto transport ships, and they set off... Then, of course, there was the distance, about which he had no additional information. The broadcast sounded close enough, but – he noted – the radio's very purpose was to bring distant points closer together.

He was now certain that he had stumbled upon a BIG CASE. So far, he had acted smartly and cunningly, so it was no wonder that luck was on his side. Yes, indeed: he was winning! At least he could admit that to himself. Looking back, he hadn't made a single mistake. He had outsmarted everyone, including the sly Han Solo. He, and only he, had managed to stay inside the Falcon. He, and only he, had taken control. He had locked everyone out, and he had alerted the Imperial Governorship... And finally, he, and only he, would receive the commendation.

"That is," he exclaimed, "unless someone at the Governorship, some sneaky character, plans to steal my thunder..."

Yeah, right. They'd come here, confiscate the contraband, and put themselves in the spotlight, pushing Sergeant Scarpa, who did all the heavy lifting, back to his desk on Virgill, sorting paperwork all day... No way! They're not getting away with this! This is his own BIG CASE; he would kick everyone off his horse, and even cut off its tail if someone tried to grab it. He now understood why he was advised to stay put and do nothing! Well, he would show them!

And Sergeant Scarpa decided that if necessary, he would spring into action again.

Down below, in the maze of rooms and corridors within Quaron's belly, a messenger was hurrying towards his goal. He belonged to Mielta's Varks group, conducting surface observations, and what he had seen warranted the rush.

He passed through chellpoints, gave the daily password – and was let through. He had grown up down here, knowing the place like the back of his hand.

The scattered lamps were powered by independent generators, so wasting energy on unnecessary lighting wasn't wise. This was the realm of eternal twilight. Some parts lay deep underground, others were just below the surface. There were thousands of exits leading to cellars, sewers, and mines.

Many locals led double lives: working on the surface by day, plotting conspiracies down here by night. Some sections were controlled by one group or another, with real borders running across corridors and even the middle of large rooms. Hundreds of clans lived either peacefully or antagonistically alongside each other, in an area almost as expansive as the surface world.

Mielta's group belonged to the Kirkha clan, with their headQuarters situated in the Blood-Stone Hall. The exhausted messenger arrived here.

"I'm looking for Mielta, I'm a member of her group," he panted to the guards at the entrance.

"Password?" the guard barked.

"The scent of stone is only felt underground," he recited a line from a long-dead poet's verse.

He was allowed entry.

In the enormous cave hall, they clearly weren't conserving electricity. Dozens of powerful spotlights shone up onto the ceiling, reflecting the light to brighten the entire expansive chamber. In the center stood a stone platform, with steps around it serving as seats for the influential clan members. Below, in the single armchair also carved from rock, sat the Markh, the head of the Kirkha clan. The hall's walls were dotted with small alcoves where various varks and their confidants were seated.

At the rear, behind the platform, an enormous conference table spread out, now covered with a richly embroidered carpet, upon which woman was walking, following some ancient, slow, ritual dance. The music – mainly drumbeats and the wailing of raspy flutes – was provided by a small orchestra, and there was no shortage of spectators.

Most of the men in the hall wore swords; none had visible firearms.

Vark Mielta immediately noticed the new arrival. She paused her important discussion with the delegates of neighboring clans and stepped forward to meet the man.

"I see you have urgent news for me. Speak, let me hear it!"

"Mielta! A firefight broke out at the recently arrived spaceship between the Masked One's men and the two pilots. The pilots acquired weapons from the spaceship."

The girl pondered this.

"What you say is interesting. It suggests that the Masked One had a disagreement with the pilots, but more importantly, it suggests there are firearms on the ship. Where there is one, there could be more."

The messenger nodded in agreement, and Mielta continued:

"Both findings warrant one action..." She paused.

"We need the pilots," finished One-Eyed Nort, who was fidgeting beside her. The girl nodded in agreement and turned to him:

"Organize a group of ten of our best fighters!"

Both the messenger and Nort hurried off, while Mielta politely took her leave from the envoys.

The Markh took note of the scene, signaling for the music to stop and the dancer to freeze in place.

"Vark Mielta – I request a report!" he called across the hall.

The girl straightened up, adjusted her attire, and with the measured steps and straight back the situation demanded, approached her superior. With careful, chosen words, she detailed the situation.

The clan head expressed his approval and requested regular updates. Then he signaled again, and the orchestra resumed where it had left off, the dancer continuing from her last unfinished move.

Han Solo and Chewbacca made their third attempt to clear the nearby streets. Each attempt had ended in failure. Their opponents had somehow managed to acquire more guns, reducing the advantage of the dismantled deck gun to almost nothing. Their adversaries maintained an annoyingly precise barrage of suppressive fire on the sQuare. Once, they even launched a counterattack, which Han and his crew easily repelled. A stalemate developed, and any further assaults from either side only increased the likelihood that the firefight's flashes might be noticed from one of the Imperial ships above, prompting them to send down a unit to investigate. Neither side wanted liked that.

"This isn't working, Chewie," Han grumbled. "What the hell do we do next?"

The Wookiee shrugged, recalling a long list of situations where their circumstances were just as desperate or even worse – and they had always managed to escape somehow. He wasn't easily discouraged. For instance, there was that memorable incident with the three tons of milta alloy. Governor Sangor, the Moff of the Ruggel Sector, had developed a special milta alloy, which proved even more resistant to heat and friction than usual. The new material's price had skyrocketed: it was worth more than platinum by weight. Since milta mining was an Imperial monopoly back then, the high-ranking official couldn't obtain the special metal from anywhere but official sources. Thus, hiding the used quantity posed a significant challenge, as he intended to shortchange the Empire. His plan was to have spaceship parts made from the new alloy and install them as if they were entirely ordinary items. He hired a well-known smuggler named Caspar to arrange unsuspecting haulers. Caspar thought long and hard, then came up with a perfect plan: the dupes were offered a contract to transport some worthless cargo, and because the payment terms were irresistibly favorable, no captain would refuse the job just because the hiring company, supposedly for security reasons, required a pre-inspection of every involved ship at a designated service station. There, they would secretly install the milta alloy parts. Upon completion, they would offer another free service chell, supposedly as a sign of their satisfaction. There was no poor private hauler who would turn down such an offer! Indeed, this was the main selection criterion: the more penniless the person, the better. This was how Han Solo got involved, almost right at the start.

The plan worked perfectly for everyone, except for one captain. This particular individual sensed something amiss and refused the subsequent service chell at the end of the job. Despite Caspar visiting him at least half a dozen times and trying to explain that the service was free, despite coming up with at least as many false stories, and finally even willing to reveal the truth, that captain stubbornly said no each time. He claimed that whatever was in his ship and not cargo was indisputably his property. For another two years – until the Governor of Ruggel got fed up with the whole affair – six first-class bounty hunters chased the man across the galaxy. They couldn't catch him.

The parts replaced back then still hadn't worn down even a nanometer in the Millennium Falcon.

"Chewie!" Han shook his first mate's arm. "What's wrong with you? Did you doze off? Look over there!" He pointed towards one of the Falcon's struts.

The ground in a small area distinctly trembled, then rose – street cobbles rolling away, revealing an ancient cobblestone-covered sewer lid. It was moving.

Han and Chewie lunged at it in unison, but they were too late: the heavy plate had already been pushed aside. They only had time to draw their weapons and dive for cover.

However, they didn't open fire immediately, because instead of gray-uniformed, bun-headed figures, a white flag appeared – though it could still be a trick – followed by a raggedly dressed, one-eyed man emerging from the ground. He had no firearm, just the usual sword. He said:

"I'm Nort, the One-Eyed, your enemies' enemy, which makes me your friend."

"What do you want from us, Nort?" Solo asked.

"An alliance? Friendship?" The One-Eyed posed it more as a question than a statement.

"What are you offering, and what are you asking for?"

"I offer nothing, but my commander, the Vark... Mielta, she might."

Han found the bear-like man likable – he always appreciated straightforward individuals.

"Could we talk to your commander?"

"She came to meet you. Here she is!"

"Where?" Solo was startled.

"Here," the one-eyed man pointed to a strikingly young girl who had also emerged a while ago, but the Corellian hadn't paid her much attention until now.

"You mean her?!" Han stared at the pale-skinned girl in disbelief. "One-Eyed Nort, do you think I'm a fool?"

The girl then crossed the distance between them with a single, lightning-fast leap, kicking the blaster out of Han's hand. She leaned close to his face and hissed:

"Do you believe now that I can do more than just play with dolls?!"

The captain pushed the charming but fierce aggressor away by her shoulder – surprised at how fragile she really was. Accompanied by wide gestures, he yelled at her:

"You're crazy, sweetheart! What if I had pulled the trigger? There would've been a lot of tears – if you made it out at all... First rule: a real leader doesn't act reckless!"

The girl stood her ground, meeting his gaze with an unflinching stare, waiting patiently for him to finish his rant. Then she spoke in a cool voice:

"But you didn't pull the trigger."

"I could have!"

"You wouldn't have had the time."

"Wouldn't I?" Han scanned her up and down, then continued at the same volume: "You know what I think of you? You're an arrogant, silly hen!"

The girl simply turned her back but didn't step away: they still stood within arm's reach of each other.

One-Eyed Nort took over the conversation.

"Despite that, you need us, pilot. Without us, you won't get out of here alive."

Han realized then that he hadn't introduced himself.

"I'm Han Solo, captain of the Millennium Falcon," he pointed over his head.

"I apologize, Captain. You must follow us; you have no other choice…"

Nort pointed to the sewer opening.

Solo considered: it was true, there was no other option. Breaking out through the streets was suicide, getting back to the Falcon was impossible, and these people at least didn't have blasters! For now. It was a tough decision to leave the ship behind again, but they really had no

other choice. "Well, okay, let's go!"

They had been walking through the underground labyrinth for a good ten minutes. Chewbacca constantly grumbled his discomfort – no wonder, the Wookiees lived in the canopy of gigantic trees, and this rocky jungle was not to their taste. The damp walls, the lifeless silence: everything was alien to him. Chewie felt that if he had to spend any longer here, he would go mad.

Han Solo was reminded of the Masked One and his gang. He drew two conclusions. One: they had gone from the frying pan into the fire, as the saying goes. Two: the Quars were somewhat related to moles.

He found the living environment so contrary to human nature that he asked Nort:

"Why do you live underground? Radiation, meteorites?"

"The Empire," Nort replied succinctly, but after a bit of prompting, he elaborated: "They conquered our planet half a century ago. Before that, we lived in larger clans, with smaller ones merging into bigger ones, until there were only two enormous clans. Our lives were defined by fighting each other. Those were good times, balanced forces, with open opportunities for free warfare, as our opponents didn't form countries: they lived as neighbors – one side dominated here, the other there. Then came the Imperial troops. They were poor fighters, lacking combat spirit and morale, but they all had blasters. They helped one giant clan to victory. The ancient order was destroyed, the rules of free warfare were nullified. It was no longer about battle, noble play, but ruthless slaughter, genocide. Our clan will forever fight to restore the old traditions, against the Empire, even from underground. Until we defeat it and the traitor clans who joined the Emperor's service!"

Solo listened with interest to the brief story, but one thought kept running through his mind:

The Empire, if it really wanted to, could destroy the Quar people in a few weeks. It wouldn't be the first time they did something like this. Why don't they?

What chance would the swordsmen of free warfare have against the Empire's walkers and bombers? Virtually none: their revered blades would be practically useless.

Out loud, he only said:

"It's gonna be a long fight."

One-Eyed Nort nodded in agreement.

"You know, Han Solo, we respect traditions, but we're not fools. We follow the laws of free warfare when we can, but we don't shy away from firearms, because we see we can't get far without them. Few things have brought as much pain and bitterness into our lives as firearms.

"Against the Empire, I'm afraid, swords and tradition are not enough. This is our great tragedy. We can only keep our laws by breaking them. Where is the order in that?"

Han reflected on this. He had originally brought the weapons for such purposes. He always liked to help those in need, and if they were suffering because of the Empire, he was even willing to make significant sacrifices. The only question is whether they can pay for it...

"Tell me, Nort, do you have any money?" he asked cautiously.

"We have some, but we ration it carefully. Why do you ask, Captain Solo?"

"Not sure. I thought you might be interested in buying firearms. I might be able to get a few tons."

A sharp voice rang out behind them:

"What are you talking about, Solo?! You can get us firearms?"

It was Mielta, the fierce Quar girl. Her eyes sparkled brightly, her face was flushed – her previous irritation seemed to have vanished.

"Well, maybe..." Han hedged, but the girl cut him off immediately:

"Spare me the talk, Solo, just the weapons!"

"Alright then: let's talk about the price...! Fifteen thousand galactic credits in exchange for sixteen tons of top-quality goods. I won't even ask a thousand per ton. A very reasonable price! Do you have that much, girl?"

Mielta looked at him with contempt. Clenching her small fists, she threw the words at Han like scraps to a dog:

"I am a warrior, Solo, not a merchant. I have no money, only my clan does. And I have no say in that; only the Markh can decide. You need to talk to him. I'll take you to him."

The captain thought for a moment. Markh. Wonderful. This could just as easily be their chief or their treasurer.

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 In the Hall of Bloodstones, twelve varks, the council of the markh, gathered shortly after. They took their places on the steps at their leader's feet, all twelve facing Han Solo. No one danced on the huge, round conference table this time; it was surrounded by chairs, ready to be used as needed.

The master of ceremonies began the audience with ritualistic words: "Whoever wishes to speak, speak; whoever seeks counsel, let them ask; whoever wishes to accuse, better remain silent. Truth shall be judged today!" He paused briefly, and the room was completely silent. Then he continued:

"First to speak is Varks Mielta."

The girl rose from her place, descended the steps, and faced the markh. This time she wasn't wearing her usual brown attire, but instead black trousers and a tunic with a venom-green cloak. She raised her head, her pale skin almost glowing in the intense lamplight.

"I, Varks Mielta, have requested the Markh's attention today on an important matter. Our dedicated struggle against the Empire and its allied clans may reach a turning point today."

She paused briefly for effect. Raised eyebrows, disbelieving looks – once more, utter silence.

"I present before the esteemed Markh and the noble council a man, an outsider, who arrived on that particular second spaceship. He calls himself the sworn enemy of the Empire, and when I found him, he was fighting against the Masked One –" with a slightly condescending tone, "with a firearm."

At that moment, the door opposite the Markh opened, and Han Solo and Chewbacca entered the room. The assistant of the master of ceremonies donned floor-length white cloaks on both of them – which only reached the Wookiee's knees, and since it couldn't be closed in front, his golden-brown fur was visible on his chest. Han couldn't stop laughing when he first saw his friend in this outfit, until they brought a mirror in which he could see himself. Then his good humor disappeared immediately.

He had prepared for his appearance. He raised both arms high, waiting for applause – which never came. Cold, scrutinizing gazes swept over him, and not a single word was uttered. But the captain was unflappable; he lowered his hands and casually strolled next to the girl – as he had seen showmen do on holovision.

"Hey!" he said loudly.

"Control yourself, Han Solo!" the girl hissed. "Behave as we discussed!"

For indeed, this had been discussed; Mielta had spent a good hour instructing the captain on how to act and what to say. In truth, Han had only changed the script slightly to tease the girl. Now, however, glancing around the room at the assembled serious-faced people, he realized he had thought of a bad joke. He quickly pulled himself together.

"Sorry," he whispered to the girl, then straightened up and bowed properly.

"I greet the illustrious Markh," he improvised because the original speech had somehow slipped his mind, "and the honorable council, and everyone else I might have left out." He glanced at the girl, hoping for some encouragement, but couldn't read anything from her facial expressions.

"So, I'm Han Solo, the Markh and captain of the Millennium Falcon clan simultaneously. Next to me stands Vark Chewbacca, my first officer. I request to speak to the illustrious Markh!"

"The Markh will graciously hear you, outsider!"

"Han Solo, if I may," Han sorrected, then launched into a complex argument, leveraging the half-heard information that the clan chief's favorite hobby was theoretical mathematics.

"What's the proposition?" he began. "That your noble-hearted clan wages war against the cursed Empire and its adjacent clans. This war is stacked against you, so it's pretty much hopeless… that is, it's gonna take a while to win," he corrected. "Now, since there are too many firearms on the other side of the equation, we must add eighteen tons to our side as well. Simplifying the equation of per capita efficiency, we get the result: firearms!"

The markh frowned in concern. "In short," he tried to summarize what he had heard, "you wish to offer us firearms."

"Sell you firearms," Han corrected.

"That's impossible," the other shook his head. "We are not traders! A warrior either receives a gift or takes what he needs."

"Alright, fine, no problem, you gift me fifteen thousand in Imperial credits, and I'll gift my eighteen tons of firearms to you. "Doesn't get any simpler than that!"

"Han Solo, this is circumventing our law!" the markh pointed out.

"Well... something like that," Han admitted. "But hey, it's a pretty sweet deal."

The Markh contemplated. "I'd like to see those firearms," he said at last.

Solo cleared his throat and shifted his weight. They had reached the most delicate point of the deal.

"So…," he began, "…the thing is, I can't get to them at the moment."

"So in other words, you don't have them."

"But I do! They're mine, just on my ship, and it's guarded by the enemy."

"So we can't inspect the firearms?"

"We can," Han countered, "it's just a bit of a hassle."

"Are you suggesting I seize your ship?" asked the markh, but didn't wait for an answer and continued: "In that case, it becomes our spoils of war, along with everything on board. I don't see why we would need you then."

"Your reasoning, sir, is not very sound according to Galactic Law."

The Markh spread his arms. "We don't much care about that, Solo."

The whole conversation started to remind Han of his encounter with the masked man. He immediately brought it up.

"Look, Solo," explained the Markh, "I don't intend to cheat you, merely to uphold our laws."

Han thought about it.

"Alright, fine, no biggie," Han started. "You guys got the idea of a reward? Like, say a warrior takes down some top enemy, and his boss gives him a prize for it."

The Markh nodded.

"Great: then in exchange for me opening the Falcon, thereby allowing the illustrious one to inspect the goods, you reward me by gifting the captured ship to me."

The other smiled and nodded in agreement.

"Shrewd man, Han Solo," he raised his index finger, "and I like shrewd people. I don't want to participate in the action myself, but I'll give you my best warrior, Vars Mielta, as my full representative. I'll give her further instructions. You may leave, Markh Han Solo!" And he just laughed, laughed, laughed.

Go Rien Moss watched the assault on the Falcon thoughtfully. This Han Solo is good, even better than I first thought, he concluded to himself. He acted like a true bounty hunter, exploiting the situation's opportunities, timing his actions well. It's a shame he's on the other side – he could have had a spectacular career. But perhaps his abilities can still be used…

Why didn't he escape into his ship?

There was only one explanation, as based on what he had seen, he could safely exclude cowardice and stupidity from the possible reasons:

He couldn't get into his own ship!

This, of course, created an entirely different situation: thus, no one's life is worth anything anymore. He was in big trouble on an alien planet, locked out of his spacecraft. Go Rien Moss didn't envy him. However, he gladly noted that in this situation, it would be easier to make a deal with him. Although, as events unfold, it might be more accurately called blackmail.

He watched with interest the people emerging from the ground – his infrared vision device allowed him to see details clearly even in the dark. He suspected who they were but wasn't sure.

How much trouble the Empire will have on this planet! he thought.

The girl's calculated, precise movements surprised him; it was something that could easily become dangerous. And of course, if not kept in check by skilled hands. He stored the fact that on Quaron III, the art of combat was practiced with bare hands, not just swords. And not at a basic level. But it's no wonder! However, these things will have to be dealt with later – either by him or someone else. First, he had to settle his pending matters at the Imperial Governorship. He headed back to the lakeshore to leave before dawn – avoiding unnecessary attention.

"Few dare to speak to the markh in such a tone as you did, Han Solo," Mielta said, shaking her head in disbelief. "He must have seen a great warrior in you to tolerate it."

"Maybe," Han nodded, then with a small smile at the corner of his mouth, he asked, "Do you think he's wrong?"

The girl stood there with a puzzled expression for long moments before she made a decision. Finally, she replied, "The markh is never wrong. That's why I was uncertain about you."

"That's very kind of you," Han assured her. "By the way," he added in a more conciliatory tone, "you looked quite pretty tonight, although here one can never tell if it's day or night."

"Quite pretty?" the girl echoed. "Thank you very much!"

The captain bowed gallantly, indicating it was nothing. "You think you're quite the ladies' man, don't you, Han Solo?" the girl asked with no small amount of irony in her voice.

"What are you getting at?" Solo grew suspicious.

"I'm just curious, since you keep tossing charming compliments at my feet. Who knows when I'll be next in line?"

"Well, you know... I can't complain. Although in space, there are relatively few pretty hitchhiking girls."

"I was thinking of the ports. Surely you have a sweetheart everywhere."

"There's one everywhere I land."

"And are they beautiful?"

"Well, the one I'm thinking of is a bit old, but she's quite lively under my hand!"

"Ugh, you pig!" the girl exclaimed, then turned her back as was her habit.

Han stepped closer to her and whispered his next words right into her ear. "Her body is gorgeous. You wouldn't believe it. Especially for her age!"

The girl stomped her foot in anger. "She's so streamlined, you know," Solo continued. "Her name is Millennium Falcon!" With that, he spun around and left the surprised Mielta behind.

In the adjacent room, Chewbacca was waiting. He was resting with his eyes closed on a huge bed made of piled sacks, next to which there was hardly any room for more furniture, except for a sturdy chair.

"Are you sleeping, Chewie?" Han asked very softly.

The Wookiee replied that he wasn't anymore, because some rude person next door was loudly praising his lady, and besides, he was only resting his eyes because he couldn't keep them open for long in the flickering light.

He was referring to the fan placed on a ventilation duct opening on the ceiling, which sucked in fresh air from an unknown height. Some ingenious person had mounted the light fixture directly behind it, so the light shining through the blades created the illusion of the outside world's proximity. The result was more than pathetic.

The Wookiee got up and stretched his enormous limbs. Han was always surprised by how gigantic his friend was when he fully straightened up. "Chewie, I often wonder if you'd be more useful as a rug..."

The response was not worth translating, but the following question was: Why'd you say again that you'd open the Falcon?

"Don't joke, otherwise they'll never agree to the deal!"

Chewbacca expressed his opinion that there had been no progress in the matter compared to the agreement with the masked man, as they were still unable to get into the Falcon.

"Chewie!" Han exclaimed indignantly, "How can you say there's no progress when they're paying three thousand more!"

The Wookiee began to laugh loudly, and after a while, he couldn't stand it anymore and collapsed back onto the bed. At that moment, the door burst open, and Mielta entered.

Han prepared to speak indignant words, strongly objecting to the lack of knocking, but the girl spoke first:

"Captain Solo, First Mate Chewbacca, prepare yourselves! We just received news that the Masked Man has left the positions around the Millennium Falcon, presumably to handle Imperial matters. We believe he's heading to the Governorship, so he won't be back before noon. The perfect moment has arrived: we attack. Please hurry!"

Chewbacca grabbed his laser rifle, and Han checked his own weapon in the holster attached to his thigh. "We're ready," he told the girl. "Let's go!"

A small band made its way from the depths of Quaron III to the surface. A group of determined warriors. Most of them carried swords at their sides; only Han Solo and Chewbacca wielded blasters, as did One-Eyed Noert, who had borrowed the deck gun removed from the Falcon.

Solo, of course, had taken back his vest and belt, but the clan's skilled craftsman quickly improvised a similar, even sturdier harness. "What's the plan?" Han tried to learn more about the mission, as he was risking his skin in it too.

Mielta, who was walking ahead of him, now turned her head over her shoulder: "If you really are such an exceptional warrior, then you don't question your commander about the details of the operation, but obediently carry out the tasks assigned to you!"

"That sounds great," Solo agreed. "Except there's one hitch: you're not my commander, at best, you're just my ally."

"Then what right do you have to question me?"

"Look, Mielta, you're a Vark, but I'm a Markh in my own clan."

The girl laughed out loud. "Don't make me laugh, Solo! Your clan, if it's even a clan, has only two members, with you being one of them. I, on the other hand, command twenty people."

"Fine," the Corellian said, tired of the pointless argument. "Are you gonna reveal your plan or not?"

"You'll see when the time comes."

"In that case, I guess you won't mind if my first mate and I sit this one out. It wasn't part of the deal, just extra work."

"Alliance!" the girl reminded. "Merchants make deals. I don't need your help, Han Solo!"

From then on, the Millennium Falcon's leadership trudged at the end of the line, clearly withdrawing from all joint actions. Chewbacca growled at his friend. "No, Chewie, I have no idea how they'll manage with their swords against laser weapons," Han replied. "That's why I left the deck gun with One-Eye. And because I have a golden heart!"

They continued in complete silence until they were near the surface. They reached the city's sewer system through a narrow passage. The group halted – Mielta and One-Eye Nort scouted ahead. They divided into four groups of five each and disappeared down different corridors, ready around the designated exits.

Han and Chewbacca joined the group led by the girl. "I have a hunch what they're up to," the captain whispered to his friend. "It's better if we stay close to them because they might easily get into trouble. The plan isn't bad, but three groups don't have a single firearm. If those up there are alert – and why wouldn't they be, since it's their only job – then I fear this action will turn into a bloodbath."

Everyone waited, nerves taut. The tension in the air was almost palpable, for who knew what awaited them above – maybe death itself. Han suddenly felt pangs of conscience; after all, it wasn't even sure he could open the Falcon's door, or these people might be risking their lives for nothing. He wanted to say stop, let's call it off, I owe you a confession, but he knew it was too late. The euphoria of free war had already gripped them.

Mielta's soft whistle gave the signal. The people, like swift spiders, began climbing up the steel ladders. They pushed aside the manhole covers and were already on the street pavement.

They caught the enemy barricades from behind, reached them before a single shot was fired at them, and… found no one there. They turned back in confusion, seeking advice from each other, but mostly from Han Solo. He was still lingering at one of the exits, wrestling with a very bad premonition.

"Get down, get away from there!" he wanted to shout, but it was too late. Beams of light struck from above, like so many birds of prey, claiming numerous victims. The masked men were hiding behind the windows of the surrounding houses and had at least a dozen laser weapons.

"Back! Back underground!" Han shouted, then dived for cover, leaning out occasionally to return fire. He took down two enemy snipers. Chewbacca also took out one. By the time Mielta's group regrouped in the sewers, only eleven were left. One-Eyed Nort proudly reported that he had demolished the entire facade of at least two houses, killing at least four or five enemy snipers.

"So, their total loss is about seven people. That's roughly half," Han quickly calculated. "Not too bad!"

"Listen, Solo," the girl began, "if you start berating me now, you'll be entirely justified. I really messed this up!"

"Your plan looked solid," Han reassured her. "Problem is, the enemy's not dumb and they're packing serious heat. Didn't see that coming either," he added.

"Thank you, Captain Solo, that's kind of you to try and comfort me. What do you suggest we do now?"

Han thought for a moment. If the moment had been suitable for such a thing, he would have felt great satisfaction: they listened to his every word without a sound.

"We can't attack openly; we'd need more firearms for that," he finally said. "The tactic One-Eyed Nort used is very effective, though somewhat ruthless. If he covers our advance from the background, we can ensure that they won't even dare poke their heads out of the windows. Question: is there any access point in the basements of the occupied houses?"

Mielta nodded.

"Well then," Solo continued, "here's what we'll do: One-Eyed Nort will take cover somewhere with the deck gun and keep the targeted houses under fire. The others, led by Mielta, will stage a feigned advance. Note: the goal is not to actually enter the houses but to distract the enemy from the real action! The primary concern is their own safety. Under Nort's cover fire, they should be relatively safe. No heroics! Does everyone understand?"

Vigorous nods.

"And how do we actually take the houses?" someone asked.

"Chewie and I will handle that!" the Corellian waved his hand dismissively. "We'll sneak into each one through the basements and neutralize the enemy inside. That's it!"

He addressed his next words solely to One-Eyed Nort: "Be careful not to hit us while we're in action!"

"Got it, boss!" the man assured him.

Mielta, who had been listening silently until now, her eyes narrowed, suddenly interrupted: "I'm coming with you, Solo! Mill will lead the decoy team," she pointed to a burly fellow.

"Fine," Solo agreed. "Then let's go, everyone to their positions!"

The people dispersed. Han, Chewbacca, and Mielta remained in the small, underground chamber formed by the converging sewers.

"It's up to me to show the way to the basement access points. Let's go!" the girl suggested, and without waiting for a reply, she started off. The sewage splashed under her boots. The Falcon's crew watched her for a long time, and Han muttered something about the shapely little bottom outlined by the brown trousers.

"This girl," he said thoughtfully to his friend, "is like a coiled spring, full of tension, full of pent-up strength. You never know when she'll punch you in the nose."

Chewbacca expressed that he thought she was too small and not furry enough, but otherwise fine.

"Well, in that case, she'd really be a winner," Han grinned. "Let's follow her!"

They turned into a wider passage, heading towards the square. Pipes opened up at various heights, with some dripping waste. Chewbacca growled, protesting against the assault on his sense of smell. The sound of their footsteps echoed loudly and reverberated for a long time.

"Here!" the girl pointed up at the vaulted ceiling. "That round hole up there?" Solo asked incredulously. Mielta nodded.

"How the hell do we get up there, missy?! Can you fly?"

"I thought," the girl began, "that maybe by standing on Chewbacca's shoulders…"

"Forget it!" Han cut in. "If you can stand on the Wookiee's shoulders with those filthy boots, I'll admit you're better than me."

The Wookiee shook his shaggy head in agreement.

Mielta turned to the massive creature. "Look, First Mate Chewbacca: people up there are risking their lives to reclaim your spaceship. If not for them, do it for the Millennium Falcon, because otherwise, it won't be…"

The Wookiee stared long into the girl's sky-blue eyes; nothing could be read from his fur-covered face. Then he interlaced his fingers and made a stirrup for her.

"Chewie," Han exclaimed, "shame on you!" But he also admitted that Mielta spoke convincingly. In the meantime, the girl climbed onto the Wookiee's broad back – now she could reach the opening. A small, yet sturdy-looking wooden door blocked the way forward. The planks trembled, and the iron fittings creaked softly.

"What the hell is going on here?" Mielta asked quietly, but before she finished speaking, she already had the answer. "Someone is standing guard at the trapdoor," she whispered down to her companions.

Han Solo spread his arms, indicating that this wasn't his expertise, and there wasn't much he could do from down there.

"Maybe you could shoot it open," the girl suggested. The Corellian thought for a moment.

"That doesn't sound too good," he finally replied. "One shot might not be enough, and if I don't hit the guy up there squarely, he'll jump aside and alert the whole house."

"Can't you increase the gun's power?" Mielta asked from above.

"I can set it to maximum, but it makes a hell of a noise, and that usually brings more trouble. Not to mention it almost empties the clip."

Chewbacca grumbled something.

"What did he say?" the girl asked impatiently.

"He said he has an idea, but you better climb down from his neck."

Mielta easily jumped down, splashing sewage on the other two members of the group. The Corellian curses mingled with the Wookiee's language.

"Shh! They might hear us up there," the girl warned them. "What is your friend planning?" she asked Han.

"Just watch!" Solo pointed at the crouching Wookiee.

Chewbacca remained motionless for a few seconds, then all the muscles in his enormous body tensed. He sprang from the ground, and as if propelled by a spring, flew toward the ceiling – surprising both onlookers with how high he could jump. At the right moment, his huge right hand struck the planks; the entire door structure, no matter how strong, immediately shattered and fell into the sewer, along with the man standing guard on it. Han's lightning-fast left hook rendered him harmless.

Mielta shook her head disapprovingly.

"Let's hope he was alone," she said. "Would you give me a leg up to check?"

She turned to the Wookiee, who was getting up and rubbing his fist with a painful grimace.

"I'd better go," Han said, stepping up to his friend. "Chewie, if you please..."

The strong Wookiee arms lifted him effortlessly, and he easily reached the edge of the opening. "Toss me up, Chewie!" he called down.

He was airborne immediately. He pulled his knees up and landed with a perfect somersault. Instantly, he lay flat on the ground, scanning the room with his weapon's barrel. He was alone. Various junk lay everywhere – old furniture, broken electrical devices, ragged clothes. A stairway made of packed clay led up into the house.

"All clear," he informed the others. "Send up the girl."

Chewbacca grabbed Mielta without objection and simply threw her into the room above, then climbed up himself, using his own strength.

"I always said Wookiees are really monkeys," Solo commented on the events with not a little malice.

Meanwhile, Mielta drew her sword from its sheath and started up the stairs. She suddenly halted and raised her hand in a warning gesture. In the silence, they all heard the approaching footsteps.

The girl swiftly and silently retreated into the room and hid beside the door, pressing herself against the wall. Han and Chewie took cover behind the old furniture. A faint light from a flashlight approached, followed by a man in gray clothing. As soon as he reached the corner, Mielta spun out and with a precisely aimed strike, simply sliced him in half. But the fight wasn't over yet, as two more swordsmen jumped into the cellar.

The girl continued to whirl – her arms like the blades of a windmill, parrying two seemingly fatal blows, then she attacked at ankle height, almost laying her sword on the ground. The two top-knotted men crumpled to the floor like rag dolls. The girl finished them off mercilessly.

Han Solo pondered the whole time whether he could shoot without endangering the woman who was darting around the targets. Reluctantly, he decided against it.

"Mercy doesn't exist in your vocabulary?" he burst out.

"For a warrior, it is often an unaffordable luxury," the girl retorted. "An enemy on the ground can always scream."

"After what you did to them, that's hardly certain!"

"You don't understand our people's strength, Han Solo. You might pass out from the pain of such a cut, but a warrior never would."

"Maybe," Solo shrugged, "but my ankle is a bit harder to cut through."

Chewbacca growled angrily, reminding them that they had more important matters to attend to than continuing a futile argument.

The Imperial Governor strode through the spacious corridors of the governor's palace with long strides. His features appeared troubled in the light pouring through the wide windows. Several concurrent issues were responsible for this.

First: what is one of the fleet's most modern Star Destroyers doing here? Why did it request entry behind the planetary shield? The Governor, for his part, would have gladly refused the request, but in the current situation, that would have been tantamount to suicide: it would arouse suspicion.

Second: this Han Solo! With his cunning, unreliable actions, he had forced the Governor into a position he had been most eager to avoid during the plan: having to deploy Imperial forces. He had handpicked the small detachment from his most trusted men, but still. The best-kept secret is the one only you know! This is what he had learned back in the days among the bounty hunters. And he had learned something else, which could be of great use to him now: victory depends on knowing your opponent, on predicting their actions. So what will Han Solo's next move be? He will try to reclaim his ship. He had made multiple layers of security at the site, but against such a character, nothing is enough, or almost nothing. He urgently needed to return to the Millennium Falcon and the weapons trapped inside it. He had to get them out, by force if necessary, or by trickery.

A short, red-haired man popped out from behind one of the doors.

"Russ," the Governor said coolly. "I've been looking for you for several minutes, and you were nowhere to be found! My time is too valuable to waste on tracking you down."

The small-statured personal secretary shrank even smaller. He had known the Governor for a long time, from those early days. He feared him, though the word "fear" was inadequate – he trembled in every fiber of his being, having experienced his bloody cruelty, the curses of his sudden wrath. But he was also grateful to him, for without him, he would have amounted to nothing.

"Establish contact with the Star Destroyer Hammer. Direct it to my inner office. I'll be waiting there; I hope it won't take long!"

The little man disappeared as silently as he had come.

The Governor hurried to the indicated room and did not have to wait long.

"This is Lieutenant Marl, first officer of the Hammer," the speaker crackled.

"This is the Governor of Quaron III speaking," he spoke into the microphone.

"Yes, I know, sir, the caller has already informed me," the voice sounded condescending. Stop, he shouted internally, this guy is no amateur, it will be hard to extract what they are doing here.

"I'd like to speak to the captain!" he said aloud.

"Sorry, sir, the captain has already retired; we keep Imperial standard time aboard, observing the day-night cycle. It is currently two a.m. by our clocks. Unless this call falls under the primary importance code, I'm afraid you'll have to try later."

Big mouth kid, he thought, but he knew he couldn't afford to wait.

"Then I'll direct my questions to you," he stated.

"I'm listening, sir."

"Are you here to take trained recruits on board?"

"We have nothing to do with the special training program on the planet, but we are aware of its existence," came the reply.

That's forgivable, as long as you don't suspect anything about my plan, he muttered to himself.

"Are you here to conduct special measurements?"

"Well," came the response, "since you're trying to extract information from me about why we came behind the shield, I have to tell you: it's solely for a routine inspection."

"I see," the Governor replied disappointedly, but if he had believed until now that this was the truth, the presence of the Empire's latest young genius convinced him that perhaps the leadership suspected something of what he was doing here. It would be wise to accelerate events. From now on, the stakes were high, and Han Solo had better realize that too. If not, he would disappear from the scene!

He grabbed his mask and headed back for the weapons.

Chapter Six

From the doorway of the first-floor corner room where Han stood, he could clearly see the three snipers hiding in the room. More accurately, he could see their backs as they all stood by the windows, shielded by stacked mattresses, watching the assault below. They were in a difficult situation; in the other three houses where their comrades were, the guns had fallen silent one by one. They couldn't understand what had happened, as everything seemed to be going smoothly, and the attackers hadn't even managed to get close.

Han Solo acted just as he had in the previous three instances, stepping out into a narrow stance, lowering his hip, and raising his weapon to aim.

"Alright, freeze!" he barked. "Drop your blasters on the windowsill, real nice and slow. Then turn around, hands on your head. And don't even think about making any sudden moves!"

The surprise was indescribable. The snipers followed the instructions precisely. Seeing their expressions, Han decided it was worth living just for this.

"Step back! Move to that wall!" he directed. "Now we're going to tie you up. Resistance, as you can see, is useless."

It was done.

"Say ahh! Chewie, gag them!"

He glanced at Mielta:

"Hey, could you let your folks know it's safe to come in? We did it!"

The girl walked to the window and shouted out. Cheers from below drifted into the room.

"That's for you," she commented to Solo. "Please come to the window."

The captain looked out too, seeing the clan warriors celebrating around the Falcon in the square. They cheered loudly when they saw Han Solo, raising their swords to the sky and shouting his name.

Solo was touched. Love and appreciation always embarrassed him, perhaps because life had been so stingy with both. He watched One-Eyed Nort, who was waving his hands in the air, the Falcon's disassembled deck gun swinging back and forth in his grip. He smiled when…

When suddenly a shot whizzed over Han's head, the beam hitting One-Eyed Nort square in the chest. The giant man wavered, lowering his arms helplessly. Confusion spread across his face before he collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

A stunned silence fell, only a softly muttered Corellian curse could be heard. Han Solo's face changed drastically, not with anger, but with a determined defiance. This made him even more intimidating.

He spun around and started purposefully toward the stairs leading to the attic. Chewbacca and Mielta stepped aside without a word but followed him just in case. Reaching the attic door, he didn't hesitate or plan his entry, simply pushed the door open and stepped in. The low room was filled with junk, scattered around in picturesque disarray. A man stood in front of the only small window, holding an Imperial laser rifle. His tall figure was hidden by a gray cloak, his hair tied back in a bun. He smiled.

Han Solo immediately recognized the swordsman who had been a passenger on the Millennium Falcon for a while.

"Greetings, Captain Solo! You're a dead man!" The hardness in his voice surprised even Chewbacca. "Don't rush! It could be dangerous..." He threw back his cloak. Underneath, he wore the armor of Imperial stormtroopers. As if on cue, a dozen stormtroopers rose from behind the piles of junk. "One wrong move, Solo, and all three of you are dead!"

Han grimly shrugged and fired. He wasn't suicidal, so the next moment he threw himself backward, out of the room, down the stairs. He dragged Mielta with him, and Chewbacca needed no help. The room was torn apart by laser beams.

The bun-haired man, as if expecting this, skillfully dodged Han's shot, then quickly ended the shooting with snapping commands.

"Catch them!" he shouted. "I need Captain Solo alive or dead, I don't care!"

Meanwhile, the captain and his companions tumbled down the stairs. The bruises they received were painful but negligible compared to the injuries the laser beams would have caused if they had hesitated. They ended up in the basement. The chaos here was similar to the first house.

"To the sewer!" shouted Mielta. And although the Wookiee strongly protested, he had to admit that they didn't have time to run out of the house, as the door opened one level up. They all heard the approaching footsteps.

Mielta jumped first, the Wookiee followed, and Han was the last. He fired two quick shots at the leading stormtrooper – who fell back with smoldering armor – then leaped after his companions.

Wastewater soaked their clothing from head to toe. Chewbacca cursed furiously, as he couldn't get rid of the fur covering his body as easily as the others could their clothes. He couldn't even imagine how much time it would take and how many thorough baths he would need to finally get rid of that stench from his hide.

They ran. Mielta led the way. Looking back, they could see the white-armored figures jumping down one after another and starting to chase them. Soon, laser beams lit up the passage around them.

"I'll take the next corner and hold them off. You two keep moving!" Han panted.

"No!" protested the girl. "I have a better idea. You'll see in a moment."

Solo agreed for the time being.

A few minutes later, some structure appeared across the sewer. It reached almost to the vaulted ceiling, but in the dim light, the captain couldn't determine its purpose.

"Quick, let's climb up!" the girl panted.

Each ascended in their own way: Chewbacca jumped, the girl climbed up with the Wookiee's help, and Han found the ladder.

He had to admit that the girl had a good tactical sense, as from up here, they could lay down excellent covering fire on the pursuers left without cover below. He immediately got into a firing position, but something completely different happened. Mielta and Chewbacca started turning some huge cranks, which caused a rumbling sound deep within the structure. Below, a frothy flood was unleashed onto the stormtroopers.

Solo only now realized that they had reached the top of an underground dam. That's why there was so little water in the sewer! He looked behind him and saw a mirror-smooth water surface behind the dam, close to the arch's height. And then he started laughing, heartily and contentedly. Soon, Chewbacca's bass and Mielta's tinkling laughter joined his.

Meanwhile, down below, the Imperial stormtroopers were engulfed by the wastewater. They struggled against the flood for a while, then resigned to their fate, shedding their heavy armor and weapons, letting themselves be carried away.

Quaron III appeared as a giant blue opal sphere below. In places, like veins in a stone, the outlines of continents and the ribbons of rivers shone through the clouds. The Hammer floated motionless above the monumental jewel.

Silence reigned on the bridge, as Readiness Level IV allowed a sixty percent reduction in crew. The dozen or so people present were only performing routine checks and constant orbit stabilization. It was five in the morning by Imperial standard time. First Officer Marl was responsible for the ship's safety, and he didn't need to hand over his duties until eight in the morning.

No wonder he was surprised when Captain Reeken stepped out of the elevator.

"Good morning, Captain, did you sleep poorly?" Marl inquired politely.

"Greetings, Marl," the old man responded, shaking his head. "No, I just felt that you wanted to tell me something."

The first officer pondered.

"Well, sir, actually yes," he admitted. "I hope I didn't disturb your sleep?"

"Oh, not at all," lied the old man. "I was about to get up anyway." He walked to the window and looked down at the planet. "Beautiful! Don't you think?"

The first officer nodded. "Indeed, sir."

The captain turned back, looking searchingly into the boy's eyes.

"Well, speak up, son!"

"While you were sleeping, the planet's governor contacted us by radio."

"Did he reveal what he wanted?"

The boy smiled slightly.

"Yes, sir, although he didn't intend to."

"What do you mean?" the old man raised an eyebrow.

"He asked questions that clearly revealed he was extremely worried about the fact that we requested entry behind the planet's shield. He wanted to probe what we were looking for here. I used the Desbreen interrogation technique."

"That, as far as I know, is almost a military secret?"

"Indeed, sir, it's part of very high-level Imperial training."

"Hmm, strange," the captain rubbed his chin.

"But that's not all, sir. Do you remember the Imperial bounty hunter we caught yesterday?"

"Of course."

"He also used the Desbreen technique when he tried to conceal his intentions."

"What?"

"He managed to do it, sir, because his papers were perfect, he didn't behave suspiciously, so I didn't push for a thorough interrogation."

"Ah! And what conclusions do you draw from all this?"

"That, sir, the two individuals are one and the same."

The captain pondered in silence for a long time.

"You know, Marl, that it's dangerous to accuse such a high-ranking Imperial official without proof, don't you?"

"Are you implying, sir, that the bounty hunter was escorting a ship that was obviously coming with the intent to smuggle?"

"Yes. A bounty hunter employed by the Empire can be excused for doing something like that with some secret intention, but hardly the governor of the given planet. Especially in the case of such an important planet. There are other similarities between the two individuals, sir," the boy insisted.

"Well?"

"The tone, the inflections, the speech style."

"And the voice quality?"

"That can be electronically altered, sir."

"Anything else?"

"The Desbreen technique is mostly learned only by bounty hunters and a few other people who are so specialized that they cannot be considered in this context."

The captain narrowed his eyes. "Then how do you know it?"

"I belong to the latter group, sir."

"I see... And how interesting do you think all this is?"

"Interesting enough, sir, because this planet is the site of an extremely important Imperial experiment."

The old man turned back to the window and lowered his voice. "You mean the Caron project?"

"The Caron project, sir."

"The one about selecting and training the best Imperial stormtroopers from individuals of civilizations developed in perpetual wars, like the Quar?" The captain tried to clarify any misunderstandings.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you surely understand when I say that for such an important position as the governor of Quaron III, they would certainly place a thoroughly vetted, reliable person. Don't you think it's pointless to worry, son?"

"I understand, sir, what you're saying, moreover, that's what makes me uncertain. But all the other facts match so closely! Please, sir, allow us to investigate this matter!"

The captain nodded.

"Do so, son."

Chapter Seven

Han Solo, Mielta, and Chewbacca peeked around the corner into the square. The girl's men were clustered against one wall, guarded by four Imperial stormtroopers with weapons ready.

The bun-haired man stood at the top of the Falcon's ramp, studying the door's opening mechanism. The technician beside him pointed out some small discolorations.

"Look, sir, it's clear that the internal control panel has been blasted apart."

"Hmm, quite a strong door! You wouldn't think it's just a freighter…"

"Thank you," the bun-haired man cut him off. "Can you open it?"

"That's a complex question, sir, it depends on…"

"Just briefly, please."

The technician continued, slightly offended. "Not now, only with special tools."

"What do you need?"

"A Rinex key and a Moss decryption unit."

"Alright, you'll get it." He walked down the ramp, glancing at his watch. "Where the hell are those soldiers?" he muttered to himself.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the square, Solo and his companions had a quick strategy meeting.

"If we start shooting suddenly, we can take down at least one each," Han planned. "That leaves three, and one of them is a technician, making the odds more even."

"My people will jump in as soon as they have the chance," added Mielta.

"Okay," Han nodded. "So, when I give the word, we all jump out from behind the corner. Now!"

The stormtroopers were momentarily confused by the sudden blaster fire. By the time they could take cover, only two were left standing – the bun-haired man and the technician.

The captives didn't hesitate, quickly neutralizing the fallen soldiers and using their weapons to join the firefight. The Imperials soon realized they were in serious trouble, unable to move out from the cover of the Falcon's ramp.

"Listen, Han Solo!" the bun-haired man's voice rang out. "I have a proposal!" At Han's signal, the firing stopped.

"I have the disassembled laser cannon from your spaceship! You know that if I aimed accurately at the ship's metal legs, I could cause serious damage, right? I hope you realize I can easily hit it from here! So, what's your answer, Han Solo?"

"I say you're a rat!"

"Alright, Han Solo! We've reached three, which means I'll kill you! It was foolish of you to insult me; everyone heard what you said. I challenge you to a duel because my name's honor demands it. You have to accept, Han Solo, you can't refuse, or you'll lose all respect from your men. Just ask them!"

"Fine, I accept," Han gathered all his archaic knowledge. "I choose a pistol as the weapon."

Laughter was heard from behind the ramp. "You're mistaken, Han Solo. Here, a duel means sword fighting!" And with that, he stepped out from the cover. "So from now on, you're a dead man, Han Solo!"

Han glanced at Mielta, who nodded.

"I'm sorry, Han Solo," continued the bun-haired man, smiling broadly. "You've lost! Though you didn't play badly, I admit." With that, he tossed the laser cannon to the ground.

"Careful, you idiot!"

"No point in worrying about that now, Han Solo!" The tall man drew his sword, throwing the scabbard far away. "Once I'm done with you, I'll find it. Won't need it until then." He stepped two steps closer.

Solo frowned in concern.

"What are the rules?" he turned to Mielta.

The girl placed her own swords on a spread-out cloak in front of him. One long, one medium, and one short, like an infantry dagger.

"You may choose any of these, as your opponent has selected the longest. But you can only take one," she whispered. "I suggest the longest one." Han scrutinized the weapons.

"Be careful!" the girl continued. "If you so much as touch one, the duel begins immediately."

"Is anything allowed?" the captain asked.

"Anything, but you can only use the chosen weapon, not even your hands or feet." Solo nodded.

"What's it going to be, Han Solo?" his opponent shouted. "Make your choice!"

"Alright then," Han muttered and quickly grabbed the shortest sword, holding it not by the hilt but by the blade's end. He simply threw it towards bun-haired man.

The sudden action took him by surprise; he had expected something entirely different. He had no chance to dodge the rapidly approaching weapon.

He stared in disbelief at the hilt protruding from his chest. His sword fell from his hand as he collapsed backward with a loud thud, instantly dead.

"Was I within the rules?" Han Solo asked worriedly.

The girl smiled broadly.

"Well, if we interpret the law literally, then yes, you were!" With that, she pulled the small sword from the dead man's chest, wiped the blood off, and placed it back on the cloak beside the other two. She rolled up the entire bundle and handed it to the Corellian.

"Take it, Han Solo, I'm giving it to you. You've earned it. A warrior needs weapons."

Han, touched, accepted the valuable items.

"Thank you," he muttered.

Solo stood at the Falcon's door, entering the special code on the control panel.

"Chewie," he shouted down, "if I manage to open this now, you know I'm going to be very mad, right?"

The Wookiee growled something back, implying he wasn't an idiot, and unless someone had fixed the door, Han Solo wouldn't be able to open it either.

That's exactly what happened.

"Chewie, this is messed up beyond repair," he concluded. "I have no idea how we're going to open it."

Just then, a man appeared at the edge of the square, diverting their attention from the door for a moment.

No one saw when he stepped forward; they only noticed he was already standing there. He wore black clothes, had a predatory face, and spiky blonde hair. From his hip hung a dangerous-looking blaster.

He stared unflinchingly down the barrels of the stolen Imperial weapons. In a calm voice, he said, "I'm here to speak with Han Solo."

The captain signaled to let him approach. The clan's swordsmen made way. The man's midnight cloak fluttered softly behind him as he walked closer.

He placed a crate on the ground at the end of the ramp. "The Reinex key. You obviously know the codes."

"What makes you think I need it?" Han raised an eyebrow.

"Otherwise, you'd already be inside," the man replied indifferently.

"Well, alright. What do you want in return?"

"We'll discuss that later."

"As you wish," Solo shrugged and walked down to the crate. He opened it and took out the tool that resembled a pistol, along with some other useful items.

"I suppose you want to come in," he asked the man. He nodded.

The captain began by using a fine thermal cutter to remove the fused control panel. He reached into the tangled wires, cutting them away from the damaged panel. He plugged the exposed ends into the appropriate connectors on the Reinex key. Once all the wires were connected, the tool began diagnosing the faults and then repairing them. A few minutes later, the small screen displayed a message indicating everything was in order.

Han entered the access code on the device's keypad. Moments later, the door opened. Solo's first thought was:

Scarpa, now I've got you!

Sergeant Scarpa watched the events outside the cockpit window with a sense of detached indifference. People came and went, and Han Solo appeared twice. The sergeant had been correct in disabling the control panel: the captain couldn't get in either.

Around noon, the long-awaited help from the Imperial Governor's Office finally arrived. Just in time, as a bunch of armed troublemakers were causing chaos in the square, and Han Solo seemed to have appeared in one of the upstairs windows of a house. Luckily, the stormtroopers quickly restored order: they herded the troublemakers, who were only armed with swords, into a group and then set off to free the impatient sergeant. Everything would have gone smoothly if that damned captain hadn't shown up again. It turned out that he was in league with the arrested individuals and, with their help, took control of the area around the ship.

From that point on, Scarpa couldn't understand what was happening; he only knew he'd be in serious trouble if Han Solo and his gang got into the spaceship. He decided to do everything he could to prevent that from happening. He piled every movable object he could find on board in front of the entrance door. He took up a firing position behind the improvised barricade, ready to sacrifice his life for the GREAT CAUSE. In that case, he'd surely be promoted.

He didn't have to wait long: suddenly, there was a soft hiss, and the door opened. Han Solo stood in the opening, a perfect target, looking furious:

"Scarpa, for crying out loud, what the hell did you do here!"

The sergeant gripped his pistol tightly, aiming directly at the captain's heart—he considered himself a good shot. But this time, he simply didn't feel strong enough to pull the trigger. It's different to shoot at targets on a range than at an unsuspecting flesh-and-blood person. They have feelings too: they love and hate, suffer and rejoice, just like the one holding the weapon.

"Don't move, Han Solo! If you take even one step forward, I'll blow your head off!" he tried to speak firmly, but it wasn't easy, as his heart was pounding in his throat from excitement. He silently prayed that the captain would take his threat seriously this time.

But that didn't happen.

Han Solo stepped closer, cursing loudly as he did:

"What's all this mess, Scarpa? You have half an hour to clean it up. I hope you know where everything goes, because if something isn't back in its place, I'll…"

"Stop, don't move!" the sergeant interrupted, standing up from behind the barricade. The gun trembled slightly in his hand.

Han Solo stopped in astonishment.

"Scarpa! Would you really shoot me?" The officer nodded vigorously. Solo studied him for a long time and then shook his head.

"I don't think you would!" With that, he continued to approach. The other man yelled in fury:

"Han Solo, you're a damned lunatic!" He threw the weapon to the ground. "First you kidnap me, then you threaten me, and finally, you murder a stormtrooper officer right before my eyes! Don't think you'll get away with this! Maybe you'll kill me too, but it'll be too late: I've already contacted the Imperial Governor's Office by radio, and they know all about your schemes!"

The captain looked at the wretched man for a long time, then calmly said, "Scarpa, you spoke with me on the radio!"

The sergeant's jaw dropped. He was silent for a long time, before quietly, sadly saying, "Han Solo, you tricked me…!" He slumped onto the barricade, burying his face in his hands. "What a damned fool I am!"

The captain felt pity for the poor man.

"Look, Scarpa, this…" he gestured around, "…can't stay like this."

The officer stood up and sighed heavily. "I'll tidy up right away."

"Captain Solo!" Go Rien's powerful voice was heard from outside. "I don't wish to enter the ship without your permission."

Han turned around. "Come on in, I give you permission! Please excuse my rudeness."

The man entered, moving softly like a cat. His gaze scanned the walls, lingered on various instruments and pipes, and finally settled on Solo. "It looks like a dangerous ship," he remarked.

Han smiled, remembering that he had once described the other's vessel in almost the same words. He knew that this was one of the highest compliments the Falcon had received.

"It is," he agreed. "Come on in! The meeting room is this way. I assume you want to talk."

The other man nodded.

Once they sat down at the gaming table, Han simply said, "I'm listening."

"Well," the stranger began, "let's get to the point: you cannot hand over the smuggled weapons to the Quar group waiting outside! That's what they're here for, right?"

"What weapons are you talking about?" the Corellian feigned ignorance.

The stranger shook his head disapprovingly. "Let's not play games, Captain Solo! If I may suggest, let's speak openly."

"Okay," Han nodded. "Then you stop giving orders."

"I'll explain why I made the suggestion. But first, let's head to the cargo hold and open a container!"

Han looked suspiciously into the man's sky-blue eyes, then shrugged and stood up. "Let's go!" he said.

In the dark cargo hold of the Falcon, the containers were lined up like giant statues. Han went straight to the first one and connected the decryption unit he had picked up on the way to the electronic lock control panel.

"They didn't tell me the access code," he explained.

The stranger scrutinized the tool in Solo's hand more closely. "I'm not worried about you, Captain Solo. If I'm not mistaken, this is from an illegal series of decryption devices."

"Well…" the Corellian spread his arms as the unit started working. "It's about time you told me who you are."

"Let's not rush," suggested the other man.

"By the way, let me point out: there's only one reason that would stop me from selling this stuff for good money: if you offer me more."

"We'll see about that."

Han grumbled, "You could pass any secrecy test if they taught that."

"They do teach it in some places," the man smiled.

The beeping of the decryption device interrupted further probing. The captain entered the suggested code, and the container opened with a loud hiss. "No way!" Han exclaimed. "This can't be true! Damn it!"

Chapter Eight

Mielta set up the guard around the Falcon and then retreated under the spaceship to escape the scorching heat of the southern sun. She felt it would be inappropriate to follow Captain Solo inside the ship. It was clear that the two men had matters to discuss in private. To her surprise, Chewbacca joined her after a short while. The Wookiee sighed wearily—remarkably human-like—and stretched out in the shade. Mielta was taken aback by his enormous size; lying on the ground, he resembled a massive, luxurious carpet even more.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" she asked, addressing the first mate informally for reasons she couldn't fathom.

The creature nodded.

"But you can't speak, can you?"

A shake of the head.

"Have you been fighting alongside Han Solo for a long time?"

Another nod.

"And you consider him a great warrior too?"

Nod.

"Because now I do too," she admitted. "You see," she said dreamily, "the Markh was right again. Maybe someday I'll be that wise, and perhaps even the Markh myself."

Nod.

Mielta smiled and patted the Wookiee's furry arm. "You're a sweet creature," she laughed, but then quickly grew serious. "Oh, forgive me, I didn't mean it that way, but I can't call you a man either."

Chewbacca burst into wild laughter, and soon the girl joined him. They laughed for ages, not knowing why, simply enjoying the release of tension, as warriors often do after a victorious battle.

After a long silence, the girl started the conversation again:

"Tell me, Chewie, does Captain Solo have a multitude of girlfriends all over the galaxy?"

The Wookiee shook his head, knowing that Han would probably be quite upset by this.

"Not even one?" she probed further.

Another shake of the head.

"I can't believe it; a man like him must have dozens!"

Chewbacca shrugged and grinned.

A brief silence followed.

"Alright," Mielta continued, "let's assume it's true. But how is that possible?"

The Wookiee spread his arms wide.

"You don't know either? Or can't you explain it?"

Nod.

"Which one are you nodding to, the first or the second?"

Another nod, and once again their conversation dissolved into mutual laughter.

Han Solo stared in shock at the contents of the container. Inside, neatly arranged, were Imperial stormtrooper armor and laser rifles. Next to them was a flawless shipping manifest, officially issued and bearing the personal seals of both Governor Virgill and the overseer of Quaron III.

"What the hell is going on here?" the captain exploded. "What the hell is this? This isn't an Imperial cargo ship!"

"Are you satisfied with the introduction, Captain Solo?" Go Rien asked in a cool tone.

"You knew about this, didn't you? Don't even try to deny it!" Solo accused.

"Of course I knew," the other nodded.

"Then explain it! I want answers, now!"

Han was beside himself, pacing up and down the cramped cargo hold like a wounded animal. He angrily slammed the container lid shut, not wanting to see its contents. The lock electronics protested with a desperate beep.

"You'll get them," the other promised, still maintaining his icy demeanor. "Could we possibly return to the conference room?"

Solo sighed deeply, then waved his hand dismissively.

"Fine. I'm sorry, but this," he pointed at the container, "really pisses me off. You know, I can't stand the Empire!"

"Too bad," the other remarked, without elaborating.

They sat down again at the game table, and the stranger began to speak:

"As you already know, my name is Go Rien Moss, Imperial agent, with a special assignment…"

"And a bounty hunter!" Han interjected.

"Yes, an Imperial bounty hunter. It's a type of special training. But the details don't concern you, Captain Solo."

Han recognized that this wasn't a question, but a statement.

"I get it," he nodded. "I really don't care."

"In this line of work, I am the second best in the Empire. The first slaughtered a bunch of stormtroopers about a year ago and killed three very high-ranking Imperial officials—the details are irrelevant."

Han nodded again.

"I've been tracking him since then, and about six months ago, I found him here, on Quaron III."

"How did you pull that off, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I don't. It's an old trick: I put myself in his shoes. It was easy since we grew up together, learned the same things—our lives were almost identical. I got the answer: step into the shoes of someone above suspicion. So I looked at which significant figures on non-central planets he resembled most. I went to those places, sniffed around. Now I know his new life too."

"Who is he?"

"The Governor of Quaron III."

"Fantastic, so he's got all the power on the planet," Han said, pausing for a moment. "Hold on, something doesn't add up here!"

The stranger looked at him expectantly.

"If you're the second best, and he's the first, how do you plan to catch him?"

"With your help, Solo," the man replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Hold on a second!" Han shouted. "What do you mean, with my help?! I must've heard that wrong."

"There's nothing wrong with your hearing, Solo. I do need your help to catch the viceroy. Or rather, the person hiding behind his identity."

"You're out of your mind, I'm telling you. You can't pay me enough to…"

"I won't pay," the bounty hunter interrupted.

"Then what will you do?" the captain jumped up from his chair.

"I don't expect you to risk your life voluntarily, so I'll blackmail you, Solo."

"Blackmail me?! With what?"

"With the roughly twenty active years you've spent in space."

"What's wrong with them?"

"They were all illegal, filled with smuggling and various misdemeanors. Enough to guarantee another twenty idle years... somewhere in an Imperial prison," he snapped.

"You'll never prove it!"

"Oh, I will. Look at me, you can find papers on anything if you're clever enough and know where to look."

"You bastard! Get off my ship!" Han yelled, pointing straight at the exit door.

The other remained seated, undisturbed, without even a flicker in his expression.

"Don't rush it, Han Solo. You need me too."

"Oh, come on! Like a hole in the head."

"You're wrong. Without me, you'll never get off this place."

"I'll leave the way I came in."

The other shook his head.

"They've already noticed. They'll catch you easily."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Take a risk if you want," he shrugged. "But even if you get out, you'll have to hide for the rest of your life. There'll be an official warrant out for you, and no one will hire a known criminal."

"Look," Han spoke in a conciliatory tone, realizing the bounty hunter was right. "You're tight with the Empire. You know where your runaway buddy is hiding, so tip off the military and let them handle it!"

The man smiled for the first time.

"I'm an employee of the Empire, not its friend. Besides, Solo, use the old trick, put yourself in my shoes. Honestly, would you betray your greatest enemy, call the military, and let amateurs mess up the opportunity?"

If the captain thought deeply about what the bounty hunter said, well, indeed, he had to agree with him.

"Maybe I wouldn't," he admitted, "but I wouldn't involve strangers either!"

"You're not a stranger to me, Solo. You're as much a lone wolf as I am, someone who never gives up. Together, we could catch him!"

Han didn't really know why—after all, this guy had blackmailed and threatened him—but he felt a budding sympathy for him. Maybe he too believed in this kinship.

"And what would you offer in return if I decided to help?"

"I'd destroy all the evidence I've gathered, and you'd be as clean as a newborn lamb."

"Tempting offer," the captain weighed it. Deep wrinkles formed on his forehead, and tiny crow's feet appeared at the corners of his eyes as he squinted in deep thought. He realized there was no other option but to agree.

"Well, alright," he nodded. "But let me warn you, no matter how tough you think you are, one day we're gonna be enemies."

"I'll do everything to avoid that."

Han forced a laugh.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of me!"

The other shook his head.

"No, Solo, I fear no one. I only respect you because you're good, Han Solo, very good."

First Officer Marl felt no particular surprise as he read through the report.

Three spacecraft nestled on the ground, in close proximity to one another, in a hidden mountain town nestled among gigantic mountains. This wasn't merely unusual, it was blatantly suspicious! Two of them were small cargo ships, while not much could be discerned about the third one as it lay at the bottom of the nearby lake. He had only expected two, but even the three didn't contradict his theories.

"Captain Reeken!" he turned to his superior.

"Please read this!" he handed over the document.

The older man quickly skimmed through the lines.

"Hmm," he began as usual. "Interesting."

"What do you plan to do, sir?"

"I'll dispatch a shuttle with some marines."

"I'd like to accompany them, sir."

"That's out of the question! I need you here; you're my best man. You can't endanger your life on reckless ventures."

"Sir," Marl attempted, "my instincts tell me this matter is more important than anything. Please, allow me to join the landing team!"

The captain narrowed his eyes as he studied the young man.

"Your instincts," he said slowly, "are usually spot on. I hope you're not abusing this trust."

"You can trust me, sir."

"Well, alright: I authorize the landing. In this case, you'll lead the operation. Your objective is strictly reconnaissance. I completely forbid any armed engagement!"

"Thank you, sir!" Marl bowed. "I'll will do my best to justify your trust."

About half an hour later, the young first officer walked past the two dozen camouflage-armored marines lined up in the hangar. He looked thin and short among the huge, square-jawed men. He briefly outlined the mission and repeated the captain's cautionary words.

"Everything understood?"

"Understood," boomed the masculine chorus.

"Then let's move," Marl commanded, leading the way. He greeted the pilots and checked that everyone had taken their seats properly. Then he gave the order to take off.

The rectangular shuttle lifted off the hangar floor and headed toward the invisible force field gate that sealed the exit. The energy curtain separating the hangar's normal atmosphere from the cold of space enveloped the ship, and allowed it to pass through, without letting a single drop of air escape.

They drifted lazily away from the enormous Star Destroyer floating in the dark void. The first officer glanced back fondly. The Hammer embodied everything that fascinated Marl about the Empire: power, invincibility, and technological superiority. There were rumors circulating in the galaxy about some small, insurgent group called the Rebel Alliance, who aimed to overthrow the Empire and the Emperor. Oh, how foolish, how arrogant! Perhaps in a year's time, the symbol, the most magnificent structure ever created by human hands, would be completed: the Death Star. Marl was hopeful that he would be assigned there.

They descended clumsily into the planet's atmosphere. Marl pondered why the shuttle was the least suitable for atmospheric flight among the small spacecraft he knew, especially since it was used exclusively for landings. There were indeed aspects where even the otherwise perfect Empire could improve.

The clouds, like the veils of a secretive bride, hid the surface from their prying eyes. One by one they passed by, and their view became clearer and clearer. Then suddenly, the planet's full beauty unfolded before them. Picturesque mountains, forests, a valley with a sparkling water surface at its bottom.

"There's the lake!" one of the pilots pointed out. "Where should we land?"

"At a safe distance from the town, but not too far," Marl replied. "I have no desire to walk for hours."

The bounty hunter smiled broadly once more.

"Well, Han Solo, from now on, you're a special agent of the Empire, on a covert mission."

The captain cursed, and Scarpa, who had just entered, dropped the heavy fire extinguisher he was about to put back in place.

"This applies to you too, Lieutenant Scarpa. Here are two silver stars," he reached into his pocket, "pin them to your collar. From now on, Captain Solo is your superior, and you are to follow his orders in everything."

The police officer stared incredulously at the two tiny silver items in the man's hand. His mouth hung open in astonishment.

"Well, come on, take them!"

"They're really mine?"

"Yes, just take them before I decide to keep them."

Scarpa clicked his heels together and took the stars.

"Understood, sir! Thank you, sir!" he shouted, this time sounding every bit the soldier.

Han cooled the mood.

"What are our orders?" he asked grimly. This wasn't how he had envisioned his future: as an Imperial agent.

"Since you're now my colleagues," the bounty hunter began, "I can let you in on some state secrets."

Han raised an interested eyebrow, while Lieutenant Scarpa put on an extremely officious expression.

"Quaron III is the site of a rather important, classified military experiment. The codename: the Curon Project. It's based on the premise that a species' way of life influences its genetic makeup, if not through natural selection. It's a form of microevolution. Well, when the Empire discovered this planet, Quaron III, it found a civilization that had been at war for nearly two thousand years, without interruption. This caught the attention of strategists, and they initiated the Curon Project. Over the coming decades, they plan to recruit stormtrooper legions more frequently. The selection and training take place here."

"Who's in charge of the project?" Han interrupted suspiciously.

"The Governor of Quaron III."

"Well, that's just great!"

Scarpa, who understood none of this but felt compelled to contribute, remarked, "It's good to hear that such grand projects are entrusted to responsible people."

"Scarpa," the captain raised his voice, "be quiet!"

The bounty hunter continued his briefing, "It's likely that the First, once he settled into the viceroy's chair, began reshaping the experiment for his own purposes. In a year, he's made significant progress. Fortunately, the Empire, fearing a local uprising, hasn't permitted the transport of firearms to Quaron III. Training has been modified and conducted with very few laser weapons. The units only receive their equipment after deployment."

Han Solo finally caught on. "Holy Galaxy!" he exclaimed. "He's organizing private legions here, and I would've delivered their weapons!"

"Don't talk in the past tense, Solo!" the bounty hunter warned. "You'll still be delivering them."

"You're crazy! Or are you in cahoots with him?!"

"Not at all, Solo. We're setting a trap for him. You'll be the bait, specifically the Millennium Falcon—more precisely, the weapons."

"That's great," Han snapped, "Do you want me to land in the Governor's courtyard or their training ground?!"

The other acted as if he didn't notice the sarcasm.

"That would be foolish; he'd be suspicious immediately. We'll do it differently, though the outcome will be much the same."

"Go ahead, explain it!" Solo urged.

"I'm trying, but you keep interrupting."

Han spread his arms.

"Can you blame me?! We're gambling with my life here! So, what's the plan?"

"For you, Solo, the situation is critical. You've fallen out with the client, and the success of the deal is questionable. So, you'll make a run for it."

"Good!" Han interrupted again. "Nice plan!"

"But," the bounty hunter continued without pause, "seemingly by accident, this time, the fact is you'll be clumsy. Unfortunately, you'll attempt to leave the planet's atmosphere right above the Imperial base. Since the First desperately needs the weapons, he'll be willing to use Imperial means. He'll drag you down with a tractor beam."

"In the atmosphere, using a tractor beam? No way!" Han protested. "A tractor beam in a gravity field is just asking for trouble. If those operators mess up even a little, I'll either burn up in mid-air or crash so hard my parts will be scattered all over the place."

"Don't worry, Solo: they're not that clumsy. They won't burn you up, and they'll disable the tractor beam at the last moment before landing. If you're quick and skilled, you'll be able to land the ship without significant damage."

"Without significant damage?!" the captain fumed. "You're crazy!"

"Many have said that," the bounty hunter smiled.

A wicked grin crossed Han's face. "I suppose you're coming with us?"

"Unfortunately, I can't."

"And what do you want me to do, take over the base? At best, there are two thousand soldiers in there, plus a bunch of recruits—nearly ten thousand guys! Fantastic!"

"Please, Solo, don't be ridiculous. Your only task is to provoke the use of the tractor beam."

"And then? How do I get out of there?"

"The Star Destroyer called the Hammer will extract you."

"Am I that popular?" Han laughed sarcastically.

The other man continued with utmost seriousness.

"Not yet, but you will be. Solo, I promise."

"Oh really, care to explain how?"

"Once you're inside the base, you simply disappear. At the first opportunity, you steal a TIE fighter, take off, and attack the Hammer, which is in stationary orbit above. Then, you dramatically return to the base."

"That's it?"

Go Rien Moss nodded.

"Listen: if I don't crash when I land, if I can hide on the base, if I'm not caught stealing a TIE fighter like a kid swiping candy, if I survive attacking a Star Destroyer with just one fighter, then dodge the pursuers, land on an enemy base like it's nothing, and finally escape from a welcoming committee of two thousand soldiers—if I pull all that off, my ship, the Millennium Falcon, will still be stuck in the Governor's hands!"

"That can't be helped."

"What do you mean, can't be helped?!" Solo snapped.

"You won't be able to get back to your ship; it will be under strict guard. I'll retrieve the Millennium Falcon from the base. I know the Imperial protocols well enough to outsmart them."

"What makes you so sure?" Solo asked anxiously.

"That's what I've been trained for. The Imperial command and security structure is deliberately designed with loopholes that can be exploited by someone who knows they exist, even if they're not originally authorized."

Han's eyes glinted with interest.

"Can you elaborate on that?"

"Don't be foolish, Solo," the bounty hunter laughed. "These are the strictest state secrets."

"I remind you that I'm an Imperial special agent!" Han asserted.

Go Rien found this highly amusing.

"You're a very entertaining man, Captain Solo," he said, but his tone made it clear that he considered the matter closed.

Han Solo didn't really know what to think of this man. As he explained what he expected from the captain, three possible explanations came to mind. One: he was completely insane—this seemed the most likely. Two: he intended to kill Han Solo in this convoluted manner. Three: he expected this much from someone he saw as his equal, based on his own capabilities. Of course, a fourth possibility occurred to Han, but he found it highly improbable. Namely, that he, Han Solo, was actually capable of all this.

"And tell me," he finally asked, "what'll you be doing while I'm risking my neck? Taking a hike in the mountains or maybe some swimming lessons at the lake?"

"Good thought, I'll consider it. But now it's time to act. It's an unpleasant duty, but you must inform your comrades outside that they won't be getting the weapons."

Han nodded, but he decided that, come what may, he would deliver the weapons to the clan, if not now, then later. Fortunately, it seemed the captured weapons had escaped the bounty hunter's notice, and the clan warriors would have to make do with those for now. His thoughts were interrupted by Go Rien's parting words.

"Goodbye, Han Solo, we'll meet inside the base!"

The captain escorted the departing man, then watched from the top of the Falcon's ramp until he disappeared among the buildings. Not long after, he saw a small gray dot appear in the sky, heading toward the capital.

Han shook his head in frustration. He felt like a fool, and he feared it was justified. This man had come from nowhere and left just as suddenly, but had completely upended his life in the meantime. Han Solo, Imperial agent! It sounded like the title of a bad novel. He had allowed himself to be blackmailed, dragged into this whole affair. He was utterly furious with himself. And then there was the unpleasant matter of the weapons. How would he tell the girl that the deal was off, at least for now?

As if sensing she was needed, Mielta emerged from under the Falcon, accompanied by Chewbacca. They looked very cheerful, and it saddened the captain that he had to dampen their spirits.

"What about you?" he asked the Wookiee with forced cheer.

The girl answered. "We were talking."

"I didn't know you spoke Wookiee!" Han was surprised.

"It's important," she spread her arms and laughed.

"Chewie," the captain's tone hardened, "check the instruments; we'll be taking off soon!"

The Wookiee, with a puzzled expression, walked away, and the girl asked accusingly,

"What do you mean, taking off, Captain Solo?! And the weapons?!"

"You can take the captured weapons, I'm giving my share to the clan warriors as a reward for their bravery. You, Varks Mielta, can board the ship to inspect the cargo. That was our deal, right? We'll return to the deal later; I have things to do now."

The girl just stood there, her expression so dominated by surprise that it could have been the subject of a study.

"What's happened to you, Han Solo? Have you gone mad?! Who was that man?"

At that moment, Chewbacca reappeared at the Falcon's airlock, holding the struggling Scarpa by the collar like a living indictment. The unfortunate officer's legs dangled in the air. The Wookiee's roar, heavily censored, conveyed something like: Where the hell did he get those silver stars?!

Han Solo stood in the crossfire of angry glares, recognizing that these people were essentially his friends.

"First Officer Chewbacca," he barked, "show them the goods, then hurry to the cockpit!" With that, he spun angrily and disappeared into the Falcon's interior.

Chapter Nine

"Sir, we've landed. The location is a clearing in the forest by the lake. We're about a half-hour walk from the town."

"Thank you," Captain Reeken's distant voice crackled through the shuttle's speaker. "Proceed with the mission."

"Understood, sir. Over and out."

"Over and out."

Marl switched off the microphone.

"You heard him, gentlemen," he turned to the soldiers waiting in the passenger compartment. "We're disembarking. Yellow alert, forced march! The direction," he glanced at the map glowing on the screen, "east-northeast!"

The giant men leapt out of the landing craft and formed ranks on the grass of the clearing. The pairs of forward and flank guards disappeared into the forest.

They moved cautiously yet swiftly. Marl, who lacked the physique of the marines, used special breathing exercises to alleviate the fatigue and pain in his body. He monitored as his heart rate decreased to normal, and his blood pressure dropped.

He figured it was almost time for him to take over command of the Hammer from Captain Reeken. The old man was no longer capable of making decisive, quick decisions. He overthought everything, worried constantly, and didn't trust his own instincts. His time had passed, and no matter how impressive his experience, sooner or later he would be unfit to command a Star Destroyer. It required youthful energy and strong willpower.

He had estimated correctly: they reached the town in half an hour. Like a tiny capital in the wilderness, the town stretched its tentacle-like streets in all directions. Docks snaked into the water from the lakeshore.

Suddenly, they heard a screeching sound: a small gray dot rose above the lake. It rapidly approached, growing into the shape of a trough-shaped spaceship. The marines instinctively took cover behind the trees, their targeting electronics beeped softly, the cooling systems of the heavy handheld weapons hummed, and the gun barrels followed the target unflinchingly. In moments, Marl found himself standing alone on the narrow lakeside path. The low-flying spaceship passed overhead in a flash, the sudden gust ruffled his hair, and tore yellowing leaves from the trees.

"The bounty hunter," he noted quietly.

The soldiers rose, some cursing softly. They returned their weapons to standby mode. Once they reformed their ranks, they moved on, but the air was thick with tension. They reached the first houses, the military boots clattering loudly on the cobblestones. The townspeople fled in terror behind the safety of their gates, heavy shutters slamming shut on windows. The young first officer was surprised at how much these people feared the Empire.

Seeing the hostile behavior, he pulled back the flank guards, who were nearly useless in the town, and reinforced the forward guard, who remained within sight.

Just in time.

The forward guard suddenly stopped, one soldier collapsed silently, another tore off his overheated, smoking armor with a scream. The narrow street filled with the distinctive blue flashes of laser beams. The marines ducked into doorways, and the diminished vanguard reported the incident over the radio.

"Concentrated laser fire from the first-floor windows of the red-painted house. Two to three snipers with Imperial infantry carbines. We're pinned down."

Marl signaled, and one of the heavy gunners calculated the coordinates relative to the snipers and fed the data into a programmable, shoulder-launched rocket. He fired: the rocket whistled as it launched, shot out of the doorway into the street, accelerated, turned the corner, and struck the target. Inside, life turned to hell for a few seconds, then the house's facade collapsed into the street. There were no survivors. Civilian casualties on such a remote, colonial planet did not concern the authorities.

They pushed forward. According to the aerial photos, they were two blocks away from the lens-shaped smuggler's ship.

"Well, that's where we stand," Solo concluded his briefing to Chewbacca. "Has the girl left the ship?"

The Wookiee nodded. He was greatly tempted to once again voice how insane he found the whole situation, but he held back, realizing Han Solo was already on edge, and extra talking wouldn't help now.

The captain, almost as if reading his friend's thoughts, said,

"I don't know how we're going to get out of this, because seeing it through really would be crazy." He paused briefly, then continued, "Chewie, I think it'd be best if you didn't..."

The Wookiee's angry growl cut him off. Chewbacca was nearly raging, shaking his head violently.

"Thanks, pal, figured I couldn't shake you off that easily. What did the girl say about the weapons?"

A grumble.

"Yeah, I bet she was surprised."

At that moment, the sound of running footsteps echoed down the main corridor of the Falcon. Han and the Wookiee jumped up and grabbed their weapons. But it was only Mielta who appeared in the doorway, looking extremely agitated. She panted out the words,

"Imperial soldiers are approaching! They killed four of my people!"

"What?!" Han shouted. "Gimme the details, quickly."

The girl shook her head in confusion.

"I don't know many. There are about twice as many of them, not stormtroopers, wearing camouflage armor, heavily armed."

"Marines!" Han recognized. "The Hammer! More players in this mess, and I'm liking it less and less!" he fumed. "How many people do you have left, Mielta?"

"Three," the girl replied promptly, then immediately looked grim, realizing the heavy losses her group had suffered. "Out of twenty," she added sadly.

"Order them back to the Falcon: we need to get out of here as fast as we can!"

"Does that mean you're taking us with you, Captain Solo?!"

"I'm not leaving you all here to be picked off by the Imperials! You can get off someplace else."

"Thank you, Captain! Please forgive my earlier harsh words."

"No, no," Solo dismissed it. "I was the one who was unfair, forgive me. The fact is, I had my reasons. I hope I can explain it someday."

The Wookiee rumbled politely but firmly, pointing toward the airlock.

Mielta took the hint and rushed off to take action.

"Chewie, start the engines! We'll stay in the atmosphere; the Hammer can't touch us there. The governor's air force likely doesn't know about this little private mission."

"What can I do to help?"

"Scarpa! If you know what's good for you, get out of here!" Han advised and started activating all the external cameras and motion trackers. On the screen, Mielta's people were seen running up the ramp, their boots already echoing down the Falcon's corridors. For a moment, Solo thought he saw a black shadow pass through the airlock with them, but it seemed so unlikely he immediately dismissed it.

"Close the door, full thrust!" he shouted.

At that moment, the marines appeared in the square, quickly taking up firing positions.

"Blast it! They've got anti-spacecraft missiles" Han yelled.

"They're aiming at the landing struts," Mielta noted anxiously.

Han's hand slapped the control panel for the ship's turret, but he quickly realized it was futile; the weapon had been dismantled and lay somewhere on the lounge floor.

"The first missile is coming!" shouted one of the clan members.

Chewbacca bellowed in pain like a wounded ox.

"Raise the shields!" Han commanded, his voice echoing through the small cockpit.

The Wookiee knew that raising the shields in such a dense atmosphere would cause the generator unit to explode, but there was no other choice. If the anti-spacecraft ordinance hit the ship unprotected, the missile would simply pierce the hull and explode inside. In that case, the Falcon would look like a gigantic, carefully scooped-out, empty tin can... He pushed the lever forward.

For a few seconds, the shield extended around the ship like an invisible umbrella, then slowly collapsed under the constant atmospheric pressure, the generator unit whining louder and louder until it blew out with a loud bang. Dead silence fell inside the ship. Han broke it:

"So much for our shield."

But they survived the missile. The timely deployment of the shield saved them from the blast. The marines, on the other hand, were scattered by the shockwave.

"Chewie! You just destroyed one of the ship's most expensive parts, but it was a good move, I'll give you that!"

"Look, Captain!" someone shouted. "They're shooting again!"

Han could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. Fortunately, it was just laser fire this time. Heavy weapons, though.

"Why are they shooting at the belly armor?" he muttered to himself. "They should know that's the strongest part of any ship!" Then he remembered: the girl had mentioned it at the start. "They're targeting the landing struts! Those scum! Chewie," he shouted, now truly desperate, "open the safety valves and boost the auxiliary thrust!"

Loud popping sounds echoed from almost every part of the ship.

"What's happening?!" Mielta screamed.

"The overheated coolant pipes are shattering," the Corellian shouted over the ominous noises, "Hold on, it's gonna be rough!"

"Won't the engine catch fire?" one of the clan members worried.

"Yes," Han replied as calmly as if he were talking about a summer sunset, "but it's still better than getting our struts shot out and the ship grounded."

The man shook his head in frustration... On a normal ship, coolant pipes wouldn't shatter...

"You're right," Han shot back, "but if you'd boarded a normal ship, you'd already be a pile of ash on the charred floor!"

At that moment, two things happened. First, a sharp crack was heard, and the Falcon tilted – second, the thrusters ignited. A sea of fire engulfed the area, and the ship shot into the sky like an arrow from a drawn bow.

The passengers and pilots in the cockpit tumbled over each other like dominioes, except for Chewbacca, who remained in control because he had stayed in his seat.

Han stood up, nursing his right arm, his sense of humor still intact:

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard the Millennium Falcon scrapyard. Our current altitude is a thousand meters, but I doubt it will stay that way for long. The captain wishes you a pleasant flight."

Only Mielta laughed.

"Chewie!" Han continued. "Can you give me a rough damage report?" For some reason, his spirits lifted.

The Wookiee began querying the onboard computer. Within minutes, he had the report ready.

Solo scanned the data flowing across the screen with him:

"The right rear landing strut is broken. Most of the cooling system is damaged, and cooling efficiency is down to five percent... The shield generator is burnt out, leaving the ship defenseless. Performance at zero percent... The cloaking shield generator took a direct hit and is melted beyond functionality. Performance at zero percent... The belly armor is punctured in three places, causing air and fuel to leak... Four localized fires were immediately extinguished by the automatic fire suppression system, no significant damage noted, but the ship is trailing smoke..."

Solo tried to process the report, remaining silent for a few more seconds.

"Well," he finally began, "to sum up: we can't land, we can't climb above three thousand meters. If we get hit by any serious weapon, we'll blow up immediately, and we can't fly faster than a propeller plane..."

Chewbacca let out an almost sobbing howl.

"Chewie, to regain your composure, take a look at the radar screen! Five atmospheric fighters coming from west-southwest. They're in attack formation. Now it all depends on whether they're the governor's or the Hammer's!"

"What's the difference?" Mielta shrugged. Han laughed.

"A minor one: the governor wants prisoners, the Hammer probably wants us dead."

"And which is better for us?" the girl asked, a question Han had already pondered.

Marl, The Hammer's first officer, groggily lifted his head from the ground. A sharp pain shot through his left leg. From the haze of unconsciousness, the memory of what had happened slowly emerged.

The anti-spacecraft missile had exploded closer than expected, even halfway. The blast wave had tossed people like leaves in the wind. There was only one explanation: they had activated a shield around the ship. Marl was aware of the consequences of such tricks, but with the smuggler's ship already far away, his knowledge was of little use.

He looked at his leg: the bone jutted out white from the torn skin. Open fracture, he noted without the slightest panic. He took a deep breath and then exhaled. He performed quick, pain-relieving mental exercises.

"Radio operator!" he tried to say, but his words turned into a raspy croak.

He focused, cleared his throat, and tried again: "Radio operator!" this time with more success. "To me!"

The severely injured soldier crawled toward him, leaving a broad trail of blood.

"Report to the Hammer what happened!" It wasn't an easy decision.

"Sir, our radio is inoperable," groaned the other.

Marl felt a kind of relief.

"Bring some sturdy branches; I'll splint my leg," he ordered. "Casualties?" he then inquired of the marine sergeant.

"Twelve in total, sir. Plus four seriously wounded."

"So, nine of us left."

"Including you, sir."

A few minutes later, they brought the branches. Marl tied one to each side of his leg and stood up. Walking caused considerable pain, but he managed. He gathered the men around him for a briefing.

"Soldiers!" he began. "Our situation is critical but not hopeless. Nine of us can still act. Remember, our mission is not over! Pain can be overcome: both physical and the grief for our lost comrades. We need to find another smuggler's ship. Be cautious: as you've experienced, the enemy is dangerous. I designate this square as our headquarters; return here. Stay in pairs, following the reconnaissance rules for enemy planets. Dismissed!"

The men dispersed, leaving Marl alone in the square. He fell deep in thought.

He saw danger in the future: their silence could cause panic on the Hammer's deck. The old man, who saw his successor in his first officer, would start to worry. And unable to comprehend the threat posed by Quaron III, when his concern peaked, he would turn to the governor for an explanation. The governor would refuse to help, seeing the whole thing as a bad trick aimed at his exposure. He would even have grounds for refusal, as the Hammer had broken the law by landing the shuttle illegally. Reeken would first demand, then threaten with the power of the Star Destroyer.

At this point, Marl had very dark premonitions. Could it be that the Hammer was facing some kind of threat?

The dispatched groups slowly returned, and the last brought good news.

"Sir, we've located the ship we were searching for. It's a rather beat-up, massive cargo ship.

Imagine, sir, they buried it under a giant haystack!"

Marl pondered.

"Did you check inside?"

"No, sir, the door was locked, and we didn't want to damage the spaceship."

"You did the right thing." He glanced around to make sure the unit's technician was still alive. Luckily, he was standing there among the soldiers. "Are your tools intact?" he asked him. The man nodded. "Then bring them with you; you've got some work to do." He looked around at the men again. "Prepare stretchers for the wounded: we leave in twenty minutes!"

Indeed, there was a huge haystack in the square. It was held together by tightly placed, strong straps. At this point, a rather bold plan began to take shape in the young officer's mind.

"Cut the straps!" he ordered. "Let's see what it really looks like."

Laser-sharpened infantry knives went to work, and the straps snapped one by one.

A flood of straw poured down from the covered spaceship, burying the busy soldiers up to their waists.

A worn, black vehicle emerged. Its body consisted of three rectangular metal boxes: a larger one in the middle and two smaller ones attached to the left and right. The surface was dotted with various protrusions, hemispheres, and additional boxes. It was much bulkier than the shuttle, but it looked completely harmless. The boarding ramp was lowered, waiting.

Marl signaled: two marines ran up and secured the area. Then, accompanied by the technician, he limped up to the sturdy-looking hexagonal door.

"Get to work!" he instructed the technician, then leaned exhaustedly against the railing. He had never thought walking with a broken leg could be so tiring. But it wasn't really the walking that exhausted him; it was the constant concentration required to keep the pain at bay.

Meanwhile, the technician connected the decoding unit to the door. The device started working.

Minutes passed, and everyone grew increasingly tense. The device indicated that its scanners had found the right wires. The computer-to-computer question-and-answer game began. The Imperial decoders were programmed by the best experts and could open any lock eventually. Still, more long minutes passed before the suggested unlocking code flashed on the small screen.

"Whoever programmed this door wasn't an amateur," the technician said as he typed in the numbers.

The door split into six triangles meeting at a point and retracted into the wall in as many directions. The marines swarmed into the ship with weapons ready. Muffled sounds and dull echoes of footsteps came from inside.

"You can come in, sir, the coast is clear," the sergeant reappeared. "Sorry for the darkness, only the emergency lights are on. The boys are looking for the main switch."

A few steps brought them to a transverse, circular corridor. "To the right, sir!"

On both sides of the wall, various control panels were tucked away. Three narrow side passages branched off to the left and right.

"They lead to concealed gun emplacements," the sergeant informed his superior. "The ship is heavily armed."

A few steps later, they arrived in a spacious room. In the center stood a wide, round table surrounded by about a dozen comfortable armchairs.

"That door over there," the sergeant pointed out, "leads to the cockpit, though it's big enough to be called a bridge. To the right of it is the control console for the onboard computer..." Marl signaled the technician to take over.

"... those small doors on the side walls conceal sleeping cabins, ten in total."

"Nice ship," Marl nodded, "though I get the impression much of it is jury-rigged." The technician, who heard everything, agreed:

"You might be right, sir, the base is an MR-7 intergalactic motorized barge. But I've never seen a ship modified this extensively. The owner was either a madman or a genius!"

"Great. Let's see the bridge!" suggested the Hammer's first officer.

They entered a room that occupied the entire front of the middle block.

Huge plastisteel windows stretched from waist height to the ceiling.

In front of them were instrument panels, control levers, throttle controls, joysticks, and three large pilot seats.

"It looks complicated," Marl noted. He sighed deeply and settled into the middle bucket seat. "I must say, it's comfortable," he remarked, satisfied.

Suddenly, lights came on, and the dormant instruments around them came to life.

"Sir!" the technician called out.

Marl hurried back to the main room. The man stood before glowing displays and yellowish screens.

"According to the onboard computer's data," he continued, "the ship's name is Star Rider, and the owner and captain are one and the same, a certain Caspar. I suspect, sir, this is an alias."

"Thank you. Update the computer with new information: as of today, the owner is the Imperial Navy, and the captain's name is Marl Davion."

The soldier quickly typed in the data.

"It's acknowledged, sir."

The young officer smiled with satisfaction.

"Good. Now ask about the ship's controls!"

After a short pause, he received an answer.

"It says, sir, that the vessel is quite automated, so a single pilot can operate it, but the optimal crew is three. Not counting the gunners, which can be from one to six."

"Soldiers, does anyone here know about spacecraft navigation?" Marl asked loudly.

The sergeant answered for everyone:

"There was one co-pilot in our unit, but he's dead now."

"And how about the onboard cannons?"

"I don't think handling them will be a problem, sir."

The further assessment was interrupted by the arrival of two marines.

They carried a barrel-shaped object, placing it on the floor with a loud thud.

"We found a deactivated R-1 type droid, sir. What should we do with it?" Marl shrugged.

"Well, turn it on!"

One of the guys flipped the main switch on the little thing's chest. A blinding light flashed, and a small projected hologram appeared in the air before the robot. It depicted a tall, mustached man with dark skin, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, who said only this:

"Get out of here, Captain Solo!"

Chapter Ten

The cockpit of the Falcon had a faint smell of smoke, and the temperature had risen slightly. People cast anxious glances at each other and the five blinking lights on the radar screen.

"Those must be the Governor's ships," one of the clan members said hopefully out loud. "They're coming from the direction of the capital."

"That doesn't mean squat," Han cooled his optimism. "The Hammer is hovering right over the capital, at the edge of the atmosphere. You can check it on the long-range radar. It can easily drop fighters into the atmosphere anytime it wants."

They waited, everyone straining their eyes. Finally, the truth came over the loudspeaker:

"This is the commander of the Governor's Alpha unit speaking to the starship trailing smoke. I am approaching you from west-northwest. I order you to continue your course towards the planet's capital! Do not increase your altitude, and proceed at a steady atmospheric cruising speed. I am following from a distance. Any deviation from my instructions will be considered a provocation, and I will open fire immediately. I will contact you again before you reach the capital: Out."

"Well, that settles that question," Solo finally spoke after a long silence. "But now we've got a new one: what the hell do we do now?"

"We can't just obey," Mielta protested.

"We've no choice," Han shrugged. "They'll blast us to pieces if we make a move. If the whole ship were operational..." He gestured dismissively. "But it's not."

He thought for a long time, then his face slowly brightened.

"Chewie, I got an idea! Come on, we don't have much time!"

They had a little over three hours to reach the capital at this speed. They spent the time in feverish activity. When the squad commander contacted them again at the city's outskirts, everyone was in position except for Han, who remained in the cockpit.

"Unidentified starship!" The voice of the Imperial fighter crackled. "I will now relay further instructions. Proceed towards the Governor's sector along the yellow seven military air corridor and land in dock B6. Over."

"One moment," Han objected. "There's a slight problem: one of my ship's three landing struts is broken. I can't land."

A brief silence.

"Alright," came the reply. "Keep all three legs retracted! You'll land on force-field cushions, and I'm already arranging their placement. For now, follow my previous instructions. I'll call you later. Over."

"Over," Han said as well.

He settled comfortably into the pilot's seat, watching the houses rush by below. People ran about their daily business in the streets, vehicles jostled, and public transport bustled along the lower-priority air corridors. It was strange to think that those down there had no inkling of the conspiracy unfolding right before their noses. They worked, slept, entertained themselves, unconcerned about who sat in the governor's chair. As long as they saw their petty desires fulfilled, they didn't care if their people were exploited and deceived. This was something Han Solo could never accept, which is why he never had the chance for a peaceful civilian life. Not to mention the thirst for adventure that drove him ever onward, barely allowing him a few resting days in one place. And look where it had brought him now: into mortal danger. But he had been in similar situations so many times that he had learned: never give up! Yes, he had come to understand the old sages' words: The purpose of life is the struggle itself! and not the other way around.

"Unidentified starship!" the radio crackled again. "I am changing the previous instructions: at the theta four point, switch from yellow seven to red two and land in the dock reserved for the governor's personal use. The code is A1."

After a brief pause, the pilot adopted a more personal tone:

"I'd give a lot to know who the hell you are!"

The Corellian smiled. He followed the orders, monitoring the Falcon's onboard computer data. The electronics, in continuous contact with the flight control's high-performance computer, handled the bulk of the position and route calculations, leaving the pilot only to operate the joystick. On some ships, even this was automated, but Han Solo believed that doing so took away the beauty of flying. That kind of luxury was for retards, he would say.

He made the course adjustment and found the A1 block. Below, only a slight refraction of light revealed that the force-field cushions were already in place. Along the wall, a corridor made of transparent, heat-resistant plastic circled around, like some kind of pipeline. Inside, dozens of stormtroopers waited.

"Quite the welcoming party," Han muttered to himself.

He carefully landed the Falcon on the cushions, turned off the instruments, and locked the computer. When he was finished, he quickly double-checked everything with a swift glance and then ran off to join his comrades in time.

Russ, the personal secretary and first deputy of the Governor of Quaron, observed the smuggler's ship with interest. It was still swayed slightly on the force-field cushions.

So this was the famous Millennium Falcon! He had expected more, much more. This was nothing more than a battered cargo freighter.

"Push a ramp next to it and bring the lifting spheres and forklifts!" he ordered. "I want those containers out in twenty minutes."

The soldiers swarmed into the hangar, and the technical staff brought the requested items. They connected a code-breaker to the spaceship's door, while the stormtroopers knelt and aimed their weapons. Tense moments passed until one of the technicians entered the opening code and quickly jumped out of the line of fire.

The door slid up, fingers tensed on triggers. But nothing happened.

A dark corridor lay empty before them. The soldiers rushed in, covering each other, advancing in pairs. A few minutes later, a lieutenant appeared at the door.

"The ship's completely empty, sir!" he said, spreading his arms in confusion. "Maybe with instrumental measurements..."

Russ waved impatiently.

"The containers, man! Are the containers there?" The other nodded.

"Then get them out of there immediately! Once they are safely out, you can tear this ship apart to find the crew if you want."

The stormtroopers left the deck, giving way to the loaders. Commands, curses, and suppressed grunts were heard from inside.

"This thing is damn heavy!" someone fumed.

Russ would have liked to go up himself to supervise and check the unloading, but it seemed a rather dangerous venture. That Han Solo and his giant friend were still hiding inside somewhere, and the personal safety of the Governor's secretary could not be risked irresponsibly. He was too valuable for such tasks; this was a job for the nobodies.

Finally, the first container appeared. Half a dozen spheres held it in the air, and as many workers pushed it. They shoved it through the cargo bay door, along the ramp, and placed it on a forklift with much shouting. By the time they finished, they had to hurry to get out of the way for the next load. Russ nodded in satisfaction.

"You have five minutes left of the twenty, people!" he shouted. "Hurry up unless you want to see my angry face!"

But the job was completed on time, and the forklifts left to transport the cargo to safety. Apart from Russ and a few of the Governor's trusted men, the others had little idea of what they were carrying.

Maybe even Russ didn't know exactly.

Radio conversations followed each other in the ether. They were encrypted, conducted over strictly confidential military channels, in the form of directed radio signals, which were mathematically precisely transmitted from the transmitting channel only to the receiving antenna.

The first conversation:

"Star Destroyer Hammer calling Quaron III Imperial Governorate, please respond."

"This is Quaron III Imperial Governorate, receiving you Hammer. What do you require?"

"The captain wishes to speak with the Governor."

"Understood, connecting you to the Secretariat." A brief silence. "Secretariat: Russ speaking."

"This is the captain of the Star Destroyer Hammer. Connect me to the Governor immediately!"

"Greetings, Captain Reeken. The Governor is currently out, not available..."

"I must speak with him, the matter is urgent."

"I'm sorry, sir, I am his personal secretary and deputy, perhaps I can assist?"

"You can! I demand an explanation for my missing marines."

"What marines are you talking about, sir? I don't understand!"

"Don't play innocent with me; I know you land rats. What did you do to my soldiers?!"

"We didn't..."

"Enough of this! You very well know that a few hours ago, we deployed a marine detachment to the surface, near a mountain town called Damio. Their objective was to arrest the crew of a smuggler's ship we detected."

"This is news to me, sir. But why do you think we..."

"What do you mean by what?! Look! When they last reported, they were in a firefight with a sniper team using Imperial infantry carbines. One of my men died, and another was injured. As far as I know, no one on your planet has firearms, except for the garrison. Well, what do you have to say to that!?"

"Sir, this is a misunderstanding. Those must have been stolen weapons, and bandits attacked you."

"Bandits?! And they just happened to rob a fully armed marine unit, huh!? Do you think I'm an idiot, Russ!?"

"Far from it, sir, I just..."

"And I hate being taken for an idiot! Furthermore, how do you explain that my nearby space shuttle reported that during the event, the Governor's atmospheric fighters were circling above the city, then escorted the escaping smuggler ship to the Governor's building? Listen, Russ: you won't get away with this. You have half an hour, then I'm reporting the incident to the admiral. Don't think I don't know what you're up to, Russ!"

With that, it ended.

The personal secretary stared grimly ahead. He immediately understood that this situation was more than embarrassing. And, of course, there was no trace of his boss when most of the work always fell on him.

"Major!" he shouted to the military commander waiting in the next room. The man entered, his face showing slight disgust, but his voice was polite: "Sir?"

"Send six fighters and two bombers to Damio immediately! There's a marine squad hiding there from the Hammer; wipe them out and their damn shuttle too!" He gestured. "And Major, wait! I don't want any survivors... on either side, understood?"

The man left, almost passing the lieutenant in charge of the Falcon's inspection at the door.

"What do you want?" Russ snapped angrily.

"Sir, we've searched the smuggler's ship."

"And? Spit it out!"

"It's empty, sir. Not a soul on board."

"What do the instrumental readings show?"

"We conducted them, sir," the lieutenant said, spreading his arms, "nothing. The ship is deserted."

The deputy governor shook his head.

"That's impossible. They must be there. Especially Han Solo, he spoke to our pilots, and someone brought the ship down."

"They're not on the ship, sir!" insisted the officer.

Russ stared at his desk for a long time. Files, documents, and reports lay in picturesque disarray. The fruits of the labor of many agents and anonymous informants. Russ liked paperwork; here, things depended not on chance but on experience and patience. He had worked for the intelligence service for many years, and the Empire would regret not satisfying his impatient ambitions.

Suddenly, he looked up, his eyes flashing with anger and hatred.

"I know how you did it!" he yelled. "You filthy, rotten Han Solo, you tricked me!"

His drawn-out shout echoed through the Secretariat's halls and corridors.

In the huge storage room, even the rather large containers seemed almost lost among the thousand unpacked instruments, training equipment, and office supplies.

They lay side by side on the ground, all eight of them. Silence reigned inside, with a guard only on the other side of the door.

One of the container lids moved, a soft hiss was heard. Weapons and armor accessories clattered to the floor, then a hand appeared in the gap.

It pushed the lid higher, gripping the outer edge of the container. A head followed, cautious eyes flashing right and left, then the whole body emerged—more items clattered to the floor. Han Solo stood there, waist-deep in the container, holding a laser pistol ready to fire.

He found everything in order. He went to the remaining containers, the seven marked with a small painted cross, and opened them. Everyone emerged safe and sound: Chewbacca, Scarpa, Mielta, and the girl's three men. They gathered the fallen items and threw them back in place.

They were a small, determined team, equipped with Imperial infantry carbines. Solo and Scarpa even donned stormtrooper armor to pass as locals if necessary. For the others, this would have been quite unnecessary, as they didn't speak the Imperial dialect, and considering the sizes of the girl and the Wookiee, they couldn't expect to find fitting armor. This way, at least two of them could walk ahead calmly, without any danger of being caught, to clear the way for the others if needed.

In the end, it was the Wookiee who asked the crucial question, wondering where they should go next.

Han reluctantly admitted that they still needed to follow the bounty hunter's plan, even though events hadn't unfolded as expected.

"Thing is," Han explained, "with the Falcon banged up like it is, the only way out I see is getting the Hammer involved and letting the Imperials —the real Imperials—take over the base. The bounty hunter'll arrange for our release somehow."

"Did he promise to do that?" Mielta inquired.

"No," Han confessed, "but he assured me of his sincere, friendly intentions."

"What does that mean exactly?"

"What does what mean?" the captain responded, puzzled.

"What does it mean we will do?"

"Oh, right! Well, we find the TIE fighters' hangar and steal a few ships. Can any of you fly a fighter?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"Not even you, Scarpa?" Han hoped.

"No, but I'm willing to try if you teach me first."

Han shook his head in disbelief; he had no illusions about the intelligence of the police officer, yet he was always surprised when the man spoke.

"Tell you what, Scarpa," Han finally said, "one day, I'll hold you to that... So, it looks like I'm going alone. Chewie, you can't fit into one of those matchboxes." The Wookiee nodded sorrowfully. A brief silence surrounded the group, broken by the captain.

"My plan is for Scarpa and I... No, no, no! Just me," he corrected himself, "to walk out the door disguised as a stormtrooper. I'll lure the guards, if there are any, and quickly shut the door behind them. You handle them, then I'll open the door again if it's clear outside. Everyone got it?"

"Solo," Mielta smiled, "considering our intelligence quotient, could you avoid generalizing?"

"Sorry," Han grinned.

"What's going on?" the newly appointed lieutenant asked cautiously.

"Forget about it," Han reassured him. "Everyone set? Alright, to your places! Scarpa, mind moving over there?" he pointed by the door. "Don't want you getting spotted."

When everyone was in position, Solo knocked. After a moment, the door slid aside, revealing two stormtroopers standing wide-legged with carbines aimed inward.

"Hey, fellas!" Han greeted them. "Everything alright out there?"

The two men glanced at each other, then back at the captain.

"What are you doing in there?" one of them snapped.

"What do you mean, what?" Han feigned confusion. "I'm the guard. You're here to relieve me, right?"

"Relieve you?"

"That's right! Can I go out? There's a chair outside..." He leaned out. "My legs are killing me!"

They let him out. He collapsed onto a bench. The control panel for the door mechanism was just above his head, within arm's reach. He saw no one else in the hallway.

"Damn it!" he shouted angrily. The two guards turned towards him, their rifle barrels pointing straight at his chest.

"I left my rifle inside," he finished.

The carbines lowered, and the guards sighed in frustration.

"I'm so comfy here; mind grabbing it for me? Thanks!"

One soldier went into the storage room, the other followed involuntarily by a step. That was all Han needed: he hit the control panel, the door slammed shut. From inside, muffled laser fire and a Wookiee roar could be heard through the thick door.

A few seconds later, Han opened the door. In the opening, a broad head appeared, cautiously looking around. Chewie stepped into the hallway, flashing a victory sign with his furry fingers. The others followed. Solo noticed something strange on Scarpa's armor as he marched past him.

"Lieutenant Scarpa, mind taking those lieutenant stars off your armor? We're dealing with two different enforcement groups here, and those police badges look kinda out of place."

Scarpa gave a wry smile and silently complied. They closed the door and set off down the corridor in a random direction. Before Solo moved a few steps ahead to scout the corners, Mielta made a quick comment:

"Captain Solo, I'm not trying to flatter you, but you are the cheekiest person I've ever seen."

They had only gone around two corners when Han almost bumped into a large group of stormtroopers. A few officers and a short red-haired man led them, the latter taking such large strides in his haste that it looked comical.

Han halted, stepped back to the far wall, and snapped to attention, signaling vigorously for the others to hide.

Mielta led them into the nearest door.

Solo's salute—thanks to his years at the space academy—was so flawless that when the group passed by, a lieutenant even returned the salute. The captain stood at attention the whole time, then simply joined the rear of the detachment. He marched with them to the door of the room where his comrades were hiding, then fell back. He didn't enter immediately but paused in the corridor, listening. He didn't have to wait long.

A distant door hissed open, followed by a hysterical shout:

"Han Solo, you filthy scum, I'll catch you anyway!"

It wasn't hard to guess that the voice belonged to the short man. Han couldn't wait any longer; he entered after his comrades and shut the door behind him before looking around.

"The situation is that..." he began but suddenly fell silent, finding the room suspiciously quiet.

He looked around.

It wasn't a room but a small hall with tables, chairs, and a bar counter—a canteen. His comrades stood beside him with their hands raised, facing eight off-duty soldiers with laser carbines and about a dozen dockworkers holding broken bottles and metal trays.

"Drop your weapon!" ordered one soldier, presumably the highest-ranking. "And raise your hands!"

The captain glanced around darkly but saw no other option and obeyed.

"Excellent," praised the other while his men picked up Han's weapon. "Bartender, notify security."

The bartender fiddled with the built-in communicator at the bar, then announced that oddly enough, security was already on their way.

At that moment, the door opened, and a bunch of white-armored stormtroopers, officers, and the short man poured in.

"Well, well!" Russ exclaimed. "Who caught them?"

The senior officer stepped forward.

"This will earn you an immediate promotion," he promised, looking the soldier up and down. "What's your rank?"

"Corporal, sir," came the reply.

"From now on, sergeant. Go handle the formalities! Everyone out, leave the room! Only security stays. Lieutenant, post guards at the doors; I want total isolation!"

He turned to Solo, circled him a few times, and stopped behind him.

"So you're the famous Han Solo! I imagined you taller."

"Look who's talking," Han interjected.

"Silence!" hissed the other. "You speak only when spoken to! Understood?"

Driven by his natural sense of justice, Chewbacca simply turned and kicked the small man in the stomach. Russ flew to the wall, landed with a thud, and lay there like a heap of rags.

A dozen weapons aimed directly at the Wookiee, who stared back unflinchingly.

"Filthy scum!" Russ yelled. "I'll break every bone in your bodies one by one! I'll tear every hair out of your body, you giant beast!"

"Wookiees are not beasts," Han corrected calmly. Such malicious dwarfs could never intimidate him.

"I don't have time for you little nobodies now!" Russ continued, still fuming. "But I promise I won't forget about you! Take them to the prison sector!" he suddenly switched to an official tone. "Move it!"

Silence returned to the storage room. The dead guards were taken away, and the door was properly closed. Nothing moved inside... except for the eighth container.

A man in black clothing emerged, with a hypermodern beam weapon at his side—he didn't need the dozens of piled-up carbines. He moved smoothly to the door, used a special Imperial code, and the wings parted. In a flash, he neutralized the two surprised guards.

A distant shout reached his ears—he recognized Russ's voice. He heard every word clearly. He headed in the opposite direction from Han Solo and his crew—he knew the layout of the base well.

Excerpt from the second radio conversation:

"Russ, the offered time has expired. Where are my men?"

"Everything is proceeding smoothly, Captain Reeken: I've already dispatched a unit to search for them."

"A unit consisting of six fighters and two bombers, Russ? I warned you not to take me for a fool! Order them back immediately! Or do you want me to send down a few ships to straighten things out?"

"You have no authority to do that, and you know it!"

"I don't give a damn about my authority. You treacherous scum are jeopardizing my crew's safety, and I won't tolerate it!"

"I take offense at..."

"Shut up! You and your governor are to report to my ship for a personal interrogation within two hours. If you fail to comply, I'll inform the Admiralty of all the details and dismantle your entire treasonous hive! Over and out!"

"Go to hell!" Russ shouted into the ether.

He sprang up from his chair and paced the room with long strides. He hated the navy: arrogant blowhards, all of them!

"Damn bastard, filthy scum!" he roared. He grabbed a paperweight from the desk and threw it against the wall. The metal plate dented, and the loud clang only made him angrier. He swept his precious dossiers to the floor.

The door opened, and a frightened admin girl stepped in. She looked around at the chaos in fear.

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked timidly. Russ unexpectedly leaped in front of her. He leaned in close to her face.

"Am I all right? What a question! I'm feeling awful, you hear me, awful! And who called you in here, huh?!" With that, he slapped her twice with surprising strength.

"Get out!" he shouted long and loud. "Get out!"

The girl backed out of the room, crying, and Russ slammed the door behind her. But it didn't stay closed for long, and when it reopened, a tall, dignified man stepped in, holding a mask in his hand.

"What are you raging about, Russ?" he asked coolly.

The secretary shrank, transforming from a raging beast to a docile creature.

"There's serious trouble, governor," he whined.

"The Hammer?" the other guessed immediately.

"They demand that we surrender, or they'll notify the Admiralty and open fire. They know everything, sir!"

"Use the observatory, Russ, and sometimes use your brain as well," advised the man. "And have that Han Solo killed; I've had enough of him. I have other matters to attend to now." With that, he left.

"The observatory," Russ repeated to himself. "That means open war."

The observatory's construction had been completed a few weeks ago. Those involved in the project who realized it wasn't for scientific purposes had met untimely deaths in "accidents" around the same time. The observatory, while appearing to serve the governor's astrophysical pursuits, actually housed an ion cannon smuggled in piece by piece. If anything could harm a Star Destroyer, it was this. The crew's training was still in its early stages, but at least it had begun.

"Major!" he called out to the governor's aide. "Get the crew to the observatory! Warm up the cannon as quickly as possible."

"Are we preparing for live fire, sir?"

"You'll find out soon enough! Now move it!"

"What the hell was that?" the marine sergeant wondered.

"Who is that man in the hat, and who is this Captain Solo the message was about?"

"We don't have enough information to determine that," Marl cautioned, then turned back to the technician and the onboard computer.

"Find out what the ship's last cargo was."

"Weapons, from Virgill to here," came the response after a while.

Marl didn't need much thought to piece together the whole story.

"Establish contact with the Hammer," he ordered.

He waited patiently for a few minutes while his men figured out the radio equipment. Then:

"This is First Officer Marl speaking, Hammer, respond!" After some static, the reply came through.

"This is Hammer, greetings, sir. Connecting you to the captain, he's been eagerly awaiting your call."

"Thank you."

"This is Reeken. What the hell is going on, son?" the old man's deep voice thundered.

"Everything is under control, sir. We got into a minor firefight, but we're through it. We've neutralized twelve threats, have four wounded, and captured a heavily armed smuggler ship."

"Bring it up to the deck. I've missed you, son," his voice softened. "What have you found out?"

"I understand the situation now, sir. I think it's enough to say that the smuggler ships were transporting weapons. Probably Imperial weapons."

"Damn, that's good news!" the captain exclaimed. "I've already reported the treason charges to the Admiralty. All evidence is useful now."

Marl's voice betrayed his fear: "You didn't do anything else, did you, sir?"

"I informed the rebels that I see through their charade and threatened to commence the siege shortly if they don't surrender."

"But you don't intend to, right, sir?" the young first officer worried.

"I have no intention," Reeken laughed, "but it's good if the rebels piss their pants, you know?"

But Marl didn't understand, his voice filled with anxiety: "Please leave the star system immediately, sir! Forget about us for now, the Hammer is in serious danger!"

"What could possibly threaten it?"

"I don't know, sir. But my instincts are warning me!"

The captain's response sounded condescending and foolishly proud: "No, Marl, this time I won't listen to you. Learn this: a Star Destroyer captain can afford many things based on vague instincts. But fleeing is not one of them! Never! Return to the ship; I'm waiting for you!"

The door slammed shut loudly behind the stormtroopers. Han Solo and his small crew were left in the intentionally poorly heated, metal-walled prison cell. Yellowish light filtered through the grated floor, and the control panels for the fold-out beds on the wall also glowed a similar color.

"Cold," Han Solo summed up the room's atmosphere in one word.

Chewbacca stated that what bothered him more was that it was impossible to escape from here.

"Tell me," Mielta snapped, "did you really think we could stroll around here freely?"

"Don't interrupt," Han advised, "just be happy with the free room and board unless you want that red runt to gut you!"

"Oh sure, you think he'll thank me and invite me to dinner?!" Mielta scoffed.

"Who knows, if you use your feminine charms," Solo teased. "Who knows?"

Mielta angrily slapped her knee and took a deep breath to calm her anger.

"You know what, Han Solo?! I'll respond to your spite with kindness and share a secret: I'd rather be imprisoned with you in a cold cell than have dinner with that short guy in the finest place."

"Are you satisfied now?"

Han looked deeply into her jet-black eyes.

"Is that true?" he asked, sounding rather dumb.

"It is!" the girl snapped, turning her back on him as usual.

"Turn around!" Solo pleaded.

"No!" she stomped.

"Please!"

"Fine," she shrugged and slowly turned back. They stood face to face, very close to each other.

"Well, what do you want?" Mielta asked coldly.

Solo, who had learned in spacefaring that sometimes it's better to dive right in than plan, didn't hesitate: he simply kissed her. For a long time, silence filled the cell. Everyone present began scrutinizing the walls intensely.

"Whew!" Mielta pulled away after a while.

Solo, who expected an angry slap and had already raised his hand defensively, was very surprised by what happened next: she kissed him back.

The others, who had already turned around by now, suddenly found the bed release mechanisms extraordinarily captivating. Several more minutes of silence passed.

Maybe an hour went by, marked by the group's somber mood. They couldn't expect anything good, especially not from the governor. Han pried up the grates from the floor, dismantled the beds from the walls, but beyond a handful of wires and electronic components, he found nothing.

It was around the time he finished this task that the cell's heavy metal door suddenly lifted—much to their surprise, no one stood behind it. They waited for long seconds, expecting someone to enter, but then Solo cautiously peered through the opening. He saw an empty corridor; the other cell doors remained closed. On the floor, right at his feet, their weapons were neatly stacked in a small pyramid, along with the stormtrooper armor pieces for Han and Scarpa.

For once, the captain felt grateful towards the bounty hunter.

"Who the heck is this guy?!" he muttered to himself. "He steals back our confiscated stuff, neutralizes the guards, opens our cell, and then just disappears...!"

The corridor, like all rooms in the prison sector, was illuminated by lights placed beneath the floor. At the end, a few steps led to a door that was also wide open. They picked up their weapons and proceeded cautiously in that direction. Upstairs, they found a small room resembling a guard post, with dozens of screens showing images from cameras placed throughout the prison sector. On the floor, two unconscious guards lay.

"Attention BS-3, respond!" Silence. "BS-3, what's going on? Respond!"

Han looked around: the voice was coming from the communicator built into the control panel. "BS-3, is everything alright? Report immediately!"

The captain had no choice; he quickly jumped to the device and picked up the microphone.

"This is BS-3! Everything is fine! Over and out!" he blurted out.

"Wait, BS-3! Where the hell have you been?" The captain was flustered.

"Uh... I was personally checking on the prisoner named Han Solo. He seems very dangerous and clever."

The words seemed to surprise the person on the other end, but after a short pause, the voice spoke again:

"That's exactly who we're talking about, BS-3. The deputy governor's orders are to execute them immediately. All of them, understand?!"

"I understand, I'll carry it out. Anything else?"

"Over," the voice replied angrily.

Solo put down the microphone, looking quite pale.

"If our bounty hunter friend had been just a little late... whew," he sighed heavily. "Let's get out of here!"

After a long wander, they left both the prison and a storage sector behind, not encountering a single soul. Han, still far ahead of the others, began to worry they would never reach the TIE fighter hangar when he spotted a lone stormtrooper. The man was guarding the door to what seemed like a more important storage room, looking utterly bored.

The captain signaled the others to stop and then approached the man. The stormtrooper noticed him immediately, turned, and dutifully pointed his rifle at Han.

"Hey, brother! Isn't it boring standing around here?" Han inquired.

"Why deny it?" the other man shrugged, letting go of his weapon. "And what are you doing here?"

"Don't ask," Han waved dismissively. "Do you know a TIE pilot named Gritt?"

The soldier thought for a moment.

"Never heard the name. Why do you ask?"

"He's friends with my commander and left an ID card with him. I need to return it. Any idea where I can find him?"

"Probably at the TIE hangar."

"Hey, buddy, can you tell me where that is? I'm a bit lost."

"A bit! That's a good one!" the other laughed heartily. "Are you a rookie or what?"

"Something like that," Solo nodded. "How did you guess?"

"Just because," the guy chuckled, "the hangar is on the opposite end of the base. You got on the tube rail the wrong way!"

"So there's a tube rail," the captain thought, but he hid his surprise well.

"The truth is, I don't think I could find my way back to the station. Could you help me?"

"Go that way!" the soldier pointed.

"And where should I get off?"

"At the hangars. Everything is labeled, just keep your eyes open!"

"Thanks, pal! Isn't that your relief coming?" he gestured behind the man.

The stormtrooper turned around, and that was all the captain needed: he knocked him out with the butt of his pistol where the back armor met the helmet, and the man collapsed without a sound.

He hurried back to the others and reported what had happened.

"The deal is," Han said, "we'd stick out like a sore thumb riding the tube rail like this. Can't even try the old prisoner trick; pretty sure they don't move prisoners on public transit here. No, I'll have to go alone on this one!"

"I could maybe accompany you," Scarpa offered, but Han quickly rejected it.

"No, no, Lieutenant Scarpa! You need to stay here; someone has to look after the others."

"Alright," the officer agreed, bursting with pride.

"And what should we do?" Mielta snapped. "Wait somewhere in fear until the great hero returns? Hide in a mouse hole?"

"No," Solo replied indifferently. "Why don't you try getting into the Falcon?"

"Oh sure," the girl spread her arms. "Why don't we just fly off with it?!"

Han shook his head.

That's not realistic; otherwise, I wouldn't be messing with this TIE fighter plan. Plus, you're the one who was complaining about sitting around."

"Okay, just explain one thing, Han Solo, because I can't follow you anymore: why is it good for us to sit inside the Falcon if we can't take off and still have to wait for the Hammer?"

"Did I forget to mention?" the captain acted surprised. "I don't plan on sitting around while the Empire shows up, putting all our lives and my ship's safety in the hands of that bounty hunter. I've come up with a plan."

"Let's hear it," Mielta inquired.

"It's too early to talk about it," Han Solo replied.

Meanwhile, Chewbacca roared in satisfaction until his friend shushed him for safety reasons.

Everyone was surprised when Scarpa asked a sensible, direct question: "Captain Solo, how will we find our way back to the ship?"

It was a tricky question, as they didn't even know where they were. Silence fell over the small group as everyone thought hard.

"Wait a minute," Solo started. "The soldier laughed because I got on the tube rail in the wrong direction. How did he know?"

"Of course!" Mielta shouted. "There's only one explanation: the station he directed you to is one of the end stops."

"Exactly," Han jumped in, "and he mentioned the hangar is on the opposite side. So, the tube rail must go through the center of the base—which makes sense. Plus, we saw the governor's residence during the landing. Makes sense the A1 dock would be near there, since the escort pilot said it's for the governor's personal use. So, we need to get to the center of the base, and the tube rail's our best and only shot. What do you think?"

"You're not as stupid as you look, Solo!" the girl conceded.

"Nice of you to notice," Han grinned.

"This is great," Scarpa rejoiced. "Then we're heading in the same direction, but we'll get off sooner than you, Captain Solo."

Han and Mielta exchanged significant glances.

"What happened to you, Scarpa?" the captain wondered.

"Why do you ask?" the other replied, worried.

"Because you're finally showing us the true depths of your detective intellect," Han replied.

The Wookiee, who often represented practicality on the Millennium Falcon, raised the annoying issue that except for Han and Scarpa, the others—especially himself—couldn't travel on the tube rail.

But Solo's good mood couldn't be dampened. "We'll figure it out somehow," he shrugged.

They agreed and continued in the direction the soldier had indicated.

As they approached the tube rail station, traffic in the corridors increased, and they had to hide more frequently from prying eyes. They realized this couldn't continue for long. The solution finally came from Chewbacca, who found a tiny, barely noticeable door leading to a low, narrow service corridor. Here, the Wookiee had to walk hunched over. Pipes and cables ran along the ceiling and walls. Someone from the small group always peeked out through the small doors that appeared periodically to see where they were.

They quickly reached the station, where the line made a sharp turn and continued into an escalator that activated upon their arrival, curving over the platform and tracks. Circular openings in the floor gave them a view of the waiting passengers and the arriving and departing trains. Thick, transparent plastic protected the service corridor from the air currents generated by the passing trains below. Although they assumed these windows appeared reflective from the station, they still moved cautiously, peering down carefully.

At that moment, a train arrived beneath them: it braked for a long time, stood for about a minute, and then smoothly accelerated away.

Han watched the scene silently, then glanced at the Wookiee.

"Chewie, are you thinking what I'm thinking?" His friend nodded his shaggy head affirmatively.

"Okay," said the captain. "I'll leave you now to go provoke a Star Destroyer. We'll meet on the Falcon. If I don't come back, Chewbacca knows everything." With that, he waved goodbye and headed back toward the nearest service entrance.

Mielta watched him for a long time until he disappeared at the bottom of the escalator. The next time they saw him was down at the station, walking to the platform in his white stormtrooper armor, waiting for the next train. He glanced up once, but they couldn't tell what he was thinking, as his face was hidden by the mask and helmet. Then he boarded the arriving train and vanished from their sight.

The tube train carried Han away.

Han felt uneasy as he glanced around the small car: there wasn't a single stormtrooper in sight. The passengers—officials, workers, and soldiers in civilian clothes—stared at him in surprise, and in some cases, outrage.

"Hello!" he greeted loudly, waving with his gloved hand.

They continued to sit silently, almost all of them watching him. The train sped up, and when Han looked out the window, trying to see the tunnel wall, all he could see were blurred streaks.

"If you don't mind," he tried to lighten the mood, "I'd like to sit down."

Some people moved aside, and he managed to find a seat at the very end of the car, near the wall. They traveled two stops in this frosty atmosphere when, immediately after the second stop, an officer in dress uniform addressed him:

"Stand up, soldier!"

Han jumped up, trying to stand as stiffly as possible at attention.

He felt heavy beads of sweat rolling down his forehead under the helmet.

"You're a rookie, right, soldier?" the older man asked.

"In a sense, yes, sir," Han replied, unable to suppress his overwhelming curiosity. "Why do you think so, sir?"

"There are several signs. First of all: regulation 134 prohibits soldiers in combat armor from using civilian transportation."

"Secondly, carrying your service weapon without permission outside military zones violates rule 8..."

"And how do you know I don't have permission?" Han interrupted indignantly.

"If you had, you would have shown it to me as soon as I approached."

They arrived at the third station. "Imperial Governorship" the signs read.

The others need to get off here, Han thought, but he quickly focused back on the officer listing his infractions.

"Thirdly: asking unnecessary questions to a superior violates rule 34. You must learn to speak only when asked or when you have an urgent report. Even then, you must first ask for permission. Do you follow, soldier?"

Han nodded.

"Fourthly: your disrespectful behavior violates rule 3, which covers a soldier's conduct towards superiors: it states that the utmost respect is always the primary guideline in such situations."

Fourth station: "Supply Sector, Food Storage."

The officer continued relentlessly, and Solo waited patiently and silently.

"Fifthly: according to rule 12, a soldier in uniform must not speak with civilians, initiate conversations, and must behave with the highest degree of public respect. Do you think waving and friendly greetings comply with these guidelines?"

"No, sir," Han admitted reluctantly.

"Sixthly," the officer continued, "if a soldier for some reason violates rule 134, then rule 135 states that they must not sit down on the vehicle but remain standing and behave politely and discreetly."

The train slowed down at the fifth stop. "Hangars: planetary guard, atmospheric units, private blocks."

"Sir!" Han interrupted, "requesting permission to report!"

"Permission granted, report, soldier!"

"Reporting: I will soon act in a manner fundamentally contrary to rules 3, 12, and at least a dozen others."

"Meaning?" the officer's voice rose in reproach. The train stopped, and the doors opened.

"Meaning I'll knock you out," Han said, and with his metal-gloved hand, he struck the man on the jaw so hard that he flew to the opposite wall of the car and lay there without a sound.

Solo managed to jump out just in time before the doors closed, and the train started moving. The passengers stared at him in astonishment through the windows as Han Solo, violating rule 12, waved at them with his gloved hand. The train disappeared into the tunnel.

The captain surveyed the area where he stood. It was a long, extended hall, with platforms on both long sides and tracks beyond them. The floor was covered with rough, white metal plates, and the walls had peculiar triangular pyramid decorations that also served as lighting. The ceiling featured the familiar round plastic mirrors. Colorful directional signs and painted lines on the floor helped with navigation. After careful study, he learned that he needed to follow the yellow line to reach the TIE fighter hangar.

His contemplation was interrupted by the arrival of the next train. Unlike the blue ones he had seen so far, this one was painted white, with large black letters on the side indicating it was for military use only. Through the opening doors, about half a dozen representatives of various branches of service poured out, filling the hall—among them were two groups and a few lone stormtroopers. This was how Han realized his mistake: he had boarded the wrong—civilian—train.

Now he could easily blend into the crowd, concealing his unfamiliarity with the base's customs. Watching the other colored lines alongside the yellow one and the occasional color guide signs, he quickly determined that his path led through the private docks.

He tried to figure out why there would be private spaceships on a military base, but then it struck him that this place was also a governorship and likely had significant political activity. Additionally, none of the signs specified that these were only space docks and not landing bays for atmospheric vehicles.

He had been walking for a good five minutes, his nose tickled by the familiar spaceship odors: special lubricants, fuel vapors, burnt seals, and overheated plastics. His thoughts quickly turned to the good old Millennium Falcon, and he nearly teared up at the memory of the ship's damage. He was grateful his stormtrooper helmet concealed his face.

Suddenly, he stopped and took two steps back. Peering through the open door of a private dock, he saw something that compelled him to act immediately. He jumped through the door, just behind a figure in a jet-black cloak. Inside, he immediately noticed that the dock had been out of use for some time, now serving as a makeshift storage area. Empty fuel tanks, spaceship parts, and huge metal plates lay scattered about. And in the middle stood the object that had caught the captain's attention: the bounty hunter's silver-gray ship.

He quickly jumped behind the nearest barrel and peeked toward the center of the hall. Behind him, the door slammed shut, and he nervously thought about how easily he could be trapped here.

He watched the black-cloaked figure: the movements were familiar—springy, almost panther-like. The figure walked straight to the spaceship, pressed a hidden button on one of the panels—it was clear they knew how to operate the ship—revealing a hand and a small object held within it from beneath the cloak.

It was a mask!

"The masked One!" Han exclaimed to himself. "The one who is also the governor, who's also... ah hell!" He could have banged his head against the wall. "How could I have been so stupid," he scolded himself. "I fell for the whole story about the First and the Second, and that he needed my help! He just wanted me to bring the weapons here! That damned liar!"

Meanwhile, the governor walked up the descending ramp and disappeared inside the ship.

"Just wait!" Solo vowed. "You thought you could send me to my death with that TIE fighter trick, but you were wrong! I'll take off and pit you against that Star Destroyer! We'll see who has the bigger firepower! You'll regret messing with me."

A hissing sound came from behind, and when Solo turned around, he saw four stormtroopers at the door. They immediately noticed him as well. The situation, with him hiding behind a barrel in a sealed dock, needed no explanation—the soldiers already had their weapons raised.

But Han Solo was quicker—one of the fastest in the galaxy—before they could pull the trigger, he had already taken down two of them, then rolled among the barrels to avoid the incoming blaster fire. The blasts tore up the floor, damaged the parts, but couldn't hurt the captain, as he took cover behind a thick, bent metal plate of a warship, and peeked out to return fire. He hit another stormtrooper, but reinforcement of about half a dozen arrived. They pushed closer, forcing the captain to abandon his excellent cover and continuously retreat.

By now, about two dozen soldiers were firing at him.

He was in a tight spot; returning to the exit seemed impossible, and he knew very well that sooner or later they would catch him inside—it was just a matter of time. One of the barrels exploded—perhaps there was still some fuel left in it—and the fire spread rapidly. To make matters worse, the dock's roof opened, and the wind carried the flames, scattering them all over the hall. Han realized he either had to surrender or become a victim of the blaze.

He was unwilling to do either. He noticed a service entrance high up on the wall behind him, almost at ceiling height. A narrow metal ladder led up to it. The only problem was, if he climbed up, the soldiers would shoot him, and he could do nothing about it. Or could he?

He worked at a frantic pace: throwing flammable items onto the fire, building a proper pyre. When he finished, he tossed a smuggled blaster rifle on top and retreated to the wall to wait. The weapon's energy cell soon exploded, showering the area with sparks. The piled-up junk caught fire, the flames licking the ceiling.

Then he made his move. The flames provided cover, completely hiding him from his attackers' sight, leaving them clueless about his actions.

He reached the top of the ladder and slipped into the steeply sloping service duct. When he turned to close the door and block out the smoke, he saw the stingray ship one last time: it gracefully flew out into the open sky through the hexagonal window that had opened in the dock roof.

"We'll meet again up there!" Han promised mentally.

Chapter Eleven

Chewbacca watched the trains come and go. He did some quick calculations in his head: would the one minute the train stopped at the station be enough? Then he realized it didn't matter—they had no other option. It was either try now or sit here forever.

"What's the plan, Chewie?" Mielta asked.

The Wookiee launched into an elaborate series of gestures, even acting out some parts with impressive theatrical flair.

"I get it," the girl nodded at the end of his performance. "It's risky, but we have to try. I'll explain it to the others."

Her three men and Scarpa listened intently to her words.

"This is madness," the official remarked. "Pure insanity."

"Listen, Lieutenant Scarpa," Mielta explained, "we have no other choice."

"Then you go, I'll stay behind!"

"Lieutenant, you promised Captain Solo you'd look after us. Now you're going to abandon us?"

The former investigator struggled internally, his doubts clearly reflected on his face.

"Alright, fine," he finally agreed. "But this is going to cost Han Solo dearly!"

They prepared themselves. Everything now depended on their speed, skill, and a bit of luck.

The next train approached—the slight tremor in the floor of the service corridor gave it away. It slowed down noisily, given the immense speed of the tube rail. At that moment, the Wookiee brought his massive fist down on the observation window, shattering it instantly. Mielta quickly removed the plastic shards from the frame, which wasn't a dangerous task as they weren't sharp. By then, the train had stopped, the roof just below them, barely an arm's length away.

Chewbacca went first. This was considered the most critical part of the plan, as if they didn't land softly enough on the train's roof, they could be heard inside and their cover would be blown. Fortunately, everything went smoothly. Scarpa followed—surprisingly nimble—then Mielta, followed by the three clan members. They all made it down in time, with enough time to settle. As the train picked up speed, they looped the straps of their weapons through small service handles on the roof, giving them something to hold on to.

Now they only had to worry about the tunnel not coming down too low in certain places, as that would spell disaster for their journey.

Mielta, being the most agile, was tasked with crawling forward to read the station names on the signs as early as possible so they could disembark in time before the train sped off again. They all watched tensely during deceleration, ready to act at the signal.

Twice, their readiness was unnecessary, but the third time, the girl read: Imperial Governorship. She signaled, and at the back of the train, a frantic scramble ensued as the others swiftly jumped off behind the train, into the cover of the tunnel. She began crawling back as fast as she could, feeling the car sway under the weight of passengers getting on and off. She still had a few meters to go when the movement stopped. She saw her companions waving in the dim light, urging her to hurry. Her muscles ached, her clothes were torn at the elbows and knees, and her skin was grazed. She realized she had crawled too far forward. She heard the doors slam shut, felt the tremor of the engine starting. Summoning her last bit of strength, she grabbed the rear edge of the car and pulled herself over. She slid down the roof and tumbled, helpless as a rag doll. She would have been badly hurt if not for the Wookiee, who jumped to catch her. Without setting her down, he ran back into the safety of the tunnel's darkness, holding her in his arms just in time, as the tube rail sped up, exposing the passage to the station's light and the eyes of waiting passengers.

Mielta was so exhausted from the shock, her wounds aching so badly, and it felt so good to be in the strong Wookiee's arms, which somehow were still connected to Han, that she struggled not to cry. Despite being a warrior, she was still a woman first and foremost. She was grateful for the big, furry hand patting her head while its owner mumbled incomprehensible but soothing words.

She knew Han hadn't left them behind just because they couldn't ride the tube rail, since they had managed it, nor because they couldn't fly. He left them because where he was going, the chances of return were slim to none.

She was filled with despair, feeling it slowly turn into defiance. The woman gave way to the warrior.

Han climbed down the shaft. The passage was hardly suitable for travel, and the thick dust covering everything revealed it was scarcely used. It ended in a narrow trapdoor like the entrance. The captain lifted it and looked through the opening.

He saw a main corridor, with the yellow line he had been following running along the floor. Unfortunately, it seemed impossible to get down there, as someone was always in sight. He waited, thinking up a trick.

Finally, luck was on his side: stormtroopers rushing from the burning dock distracted the passersby. Everyone was watching them, and Solo seized the moment, simply jumping down. His stormtrooper boots, however, slipped on the smooth metal floor, and he fell flat on his face. The crash made a high-ranking officer turn around and look disapprovingly at the stumbling captain.

"Watch your step, soldier!" the officer shook his head. Then he returned to his conversation.

Han sighed heavily. "I know, the 12th point," he muttered, hurrying along.

Following the yellow line, he reached his destination after a ten-minute walk. More and more men in overalls passed by, and once he even saw a group of pilots. Automated forklifts and courier robots zigzagged around, guards stood at strategically important points, but no one questioned him. He figured a lone stormtrooper was a common sight around here.

He reached the threshold of a spacious hall, separated from him by a single sturdy door. Beside it, huge steel-glass windows gave a view of the hangar, one wall of which was entirely open to the outside world. Inside, at least two dozen TIE fighters were parked on the ground, surrounded by maintenance vehicles and bustling droids. Each of these fighters required a support crew of at least five and a set of instruments nearly as valuable as the ship itself.

Han liked TIE fighters; he had flown one only three times in his life, back at the Corellian Academy. They had excellent flight characteristics and decent armament.

He thought that no matter how crazy this venture was, he wouldn't have any trouble provided he could finally sit in a fighter's cockpit. But between him and that cockpit, beyond all the other challenges, stood this sturdy door, which opened only with an access card. He thought hard about what to do next. If he waited for someone to open the door and slipped in beside them, it might attract attention. It would be foolish to get caught here, right at the threshold of success.

As he was pacing, a stormtrooper stepped up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Han held his breath. They stood there silently for a few seconds, then the other began to speak:

"Can't get in, Han Solo?"

The voice was very familiar. "You?!" he was surprised, trying to hide his emotions.

"I figured you might need some help; this is a serious obstacle."

"Look," the captain burst out, "cut the crap and make a decision—either arrest me here and now or let me get into a TIE fighter and die like a pilot."

"I don't understand what you're getting at," the bounty hunter feigned surprise.

The captain exhaled tiredly and shook off the other's hand. He turned to face him.

"I'm saying you're the governor and the masked man; I saw you board your ship, and the mask in your hand gave you away."

The bounty hunter's voice sounded tense this time.

"Me? Boarding the Storm?"

"Yeah, and don't think you can pull one over on me by being here. We both know your ship can fly on its own, and you could've slipped out without me noticing since I was busy with the firefight."

Go Rien mastered his anxiety and asked calmly, "Why do you think it was me?"

"Alright, if you wanna keep playing this game, fine by me: I recognized your walk, and you flew that ship with the kind of skill only its owner could have."

"Did you see my face, Solo?" Han hesitated.

"No, but does it matter?"

"It does, because let me point out a few things: the Storm is an Imperial design, made for bounty hunters, not a unique piece, though from a very limited series. Moreover, the governor is also a bounty hunter, trained the same way I was for two decades. Consequently, he moves like I do and knows how to handle a Storm-class ship just as well. So, what do you say to that, Agent Han Solo?"

The captain examined the other man through narrowed eyes. If only he could see his face, maybe he could discern some truth or deceit—but the helmet obscured it, just like it did his own.

Meanwhile, the bounty hunter summed up the facts: "So, the First has fled again. He must know by now that his empire on Quaron III has collapsed and that a confrontation with the real Empire is inevitable. He simply moved on. Moreover, he took my ship, which means I will need the Millennium Falcon to track him down and destroy him."

"Agent Solo, your temporary assignment is extended," the voice declared.

"No way!" Han shouted, attracting several stares.

"Keep your voice down, Solo!" the other warned. "Must I remind you of certain, shall we say, circumstances?"

"You mean you're gonna blackmail me?"

"Among other things."

"Spit it out! What else?"

"One word from me, and Gritt walks free, dodging twenty years of hard labor."

"You piece of scum!" Han interjected.

"Moreover, considering you've pissed off the Empire's top bounty hunter, the safest place for you is next to the Second."

"So, what's it going to be, Solo?"

Han shrugged. "You know I've got no choice."

"That's the resolve I like in you, Solo." A brief pause. "Now, let's get to work!"

"Hello, Reeken, Russ here."

"What do you want, Russ? You should be on your way."

"Think so, captain?"

"What's with you, Russ? Disrespect will only worsen your situation."

"Disrespect? Are you offended? Fire your damn cannons; we're not scared of you, Reeken!"

"Russ, I think you've lost your mind. Or are you pretending? The court won't excuse you, even if your lawyer pleads insanity. Russ, you're a traitor!"

"You idiot! What do you think the homeland is, captain? The galaxy? Your home planet where you first stuck your dirty nose into other people's business, your parents' lives? Or perhaps the Emperor? Stupid amateur! The Fleet? Bloated windbags! Your ship? Not for much longer! Just like you, you nobody!"

"Russ, you're provoking me. I don't know what your goal is, but I assure you, you won't achieve it."

"Listen, captain, I am Russ. Understand? RUSS! My intellect far surpasses that of nobodies, including yours. You thought you could beat me? Ha! You thought you could blackmail me? Force me? You thought you'd take me home, a prisoner on a leash like some beaten dog? YOU? RUSS! Captain, your stupidity will be your downfall; you'll become frozen interstellar dust!"

"Russ!?..."

"Silence! Now I'm talking! Hear the music of death? Have you heard it before? Maybe, but not this close!"

The first dreadful projectile struck the Star Destroyer at that moment. The massive ship, hovering at the stratosphere's edge, shuddered, secondary explosions rocking it. Captain Reeken stumbled on the bridge, barely grabbing a console to avoid falling.

The ship's bow was aflame—just one of those projectiles could wreak tremendous havoc. Reeken stared out through the towering durasteel windows, but the frosty mist and debris cloud around the bow obscured the damage. Damage reports flooded the bridge, and the planet's gravity slowly began pulling the Star Destroyer down.

Meanwhile, Russ's voice continued to boom over the alarms:

"Oh, what an apocalypse, what beautiful ecstasy! Death, Reeken, death is the ultimate ecstasy. Did you know that, captain? So few do! Let go, sink into your chair, stop fighting! It's pointless! What a tomb you'll have, I envy you: a Star Destroyer in the freezing void. Have you ever thought, Reeken, that this is the natural state? Existence, life, warmth, they are all fleeting consumers of energy. The starless, empty space, that is eternal. Why do we fight it? Reeken, you don't need to fight anymore!"

The Hammer's captain felt the hypnotic effect of the words. He knew well that Russ added some peculiar undertone to his words—perhaps another secret Imperial technique. Reeken hated this, knowing that the Emperor surrounded himself with people like Russ, who could somehow tap into the Dark Side's small fragments. Bounty hunters, charmers, intuitive geniuses—but he had only heard of one true disciple, named Darth Vader.

He wished Marl were here; the boy might withstand this strong subconscious pressure. But he was too old for this; he had not received the dark teachings. He was a real, old-fashioned navy officer, of noble lineage from an ancient family.

He slumped into his chair. He knew everyone awaited his orders, that they were helpless without him. Within minutes, chaos would reign, and then the Hammer would be lost. Perhaps it could still be saved. But he would not be the one to do it! He no longer had the strength; his only remaining task was to await death.

The second projectile struck. t hit the bridge squarely, causing the elegant structure to break away from the ship's body and spin, aflame, through space. By then, the captain and the entire command crew were dead.

Down on the planet, the crew in the governor's observatory were reloading the ion cannon. The cooling system buzzed at full capacity as a technician connected a new onergin element.

"Fire!" Russ bellowed.

Their safety goggles protected their eyesight from the blinding flash of the projectile. This time, they hit the Star Destroyer directly, as evidenced by the massive explosion slowly filling the sky.

Russ tore off his goggles, threw them to the ground, and stomped on them for good measure, crushing them under his boot. He raised both arms to the sky and let out a long, wild howl through the open roof of the observatory. These were the moments he lived for.

After a moment, he lowered his hands. "It is finished," he said and walked out the door.

The bounty hunter slid a small card into the slot of the door's electronic lock.

"Imperial special code," he informed Han. "It should open the lock."

And so it did: the door slid aside, revealing the path to the TIE fighter hangar. Inside, only a few stormtroopers were present, but they still needed to avoid attracting attention.

"What now?" Han whispered, a trace of sarcasm in his anger.

"There's an old saying among our kind: 'If the circumstances don't allow you to act unnoticed, change the circumstances before doing anything.' In other words, it's too orderly here; we're going to cause some chaos."

"What are you planning?"

"First, we get some technician uniforms. Look for a man roughly your size."

Han glanced around.

"Okay, there's one, eleven o'clock."

"I see him. Let's go strip him."

"What are you thinking?" Solo asked, nervous. "You're not going to kill him, are you?"

The bounty hunter chuckled softly.

"Disappointed, Solo? I'm not a brute. We'll just knock him out."

"Here, in plain sight?" Han couldn't believe it. The other shook his head.

"He'll head to the restroom in a few minutes. The urge is getting stronger."

"How do you know?" Han wondered. "Can you tell that easily?"

Go Rien laughed heartily, but quickly quieted down as several people gave them curious looks. He pulled Solo aside, behind a tool cart, while keeping an eye on their target.

"The truth is, Solo, I planted the desire in his mind," he explained. "He believes he needs the restroom. By the time he realizes otherwise, it'll be too late, and we'll be there."

"What are you, some kind of wizard?"

"Call it what you like. Have you heard of the Force?"

Han held up his hands, signaling his distance from such things.

"I've heard whispers," he replied. "But I've outgrown fairy tales. I'm thinking that was some kind of hypnosis."

"As I said, call it what you will," Go Rien replied enigmatically.

Han couldn't let it go.

"Tell me, can you make anyone do anything?"

The bounty hunter looked searchingly at him—even through the mask, Han could sense it.

"Solo, aren't you curious if it would work on you?"

Han admitted it.

"Well, rest easy: your will is too strong. You can't be controlled. Or at least, it's very difficult."

"Thanks, that's reassuring. But look, that guy's really heading to the restroom."

"Then let's follow him," Go Rien said. "Leave it to me!"

"Gladly," Han shrugged. They entered the restroom. The small room struck Han as the epitome of practicality.

The man stood at the wall, legs apart. Han leaned close to the bounty hunter to whisper into the helmet's audio grid:

"I'd appreciate it if you could make sure he doesn't soil his uniform—I'll need to wear it."

The other one was shaking with laughter, but didn't make a sound otherwise.

"Relax, I already told you he doesn't need to go!" he replied.

Then he lunged forward, his movement was impossibly fast even in the rigid stormtrooper armor. The technician collapsed into his arms without a sound.

"Woah!" exclaimed the captain. "You sure know how to get the job done!"

"Thank you," the bounty hunter replied courteously. "Change your clothes, I'll catch another one in the meantime," he said and left the room.

In a matter of minutes, he secured another set of clothes. The unconscious victims and discarded armor were hidden in a small closet used for storing cleaning supplies. As they were leaving, the bounty hunter remarked:

"Solo, pay attention to your facial expressions, we're not wearing helmets anymore!"

"How kind of you to call me an amateur..." Solo trailed off, a word triggering a curious memory. "Listen up, Go Rien," he continued.

"You said you wanted chaos?"

The other nodded.

"The bigger, the better!"

"Consider it done," Han promised. "It happened a long time ago, back at the Corellian Academy," he began. "We flew TIE fighters a few times, but mostly we just fixed them for practice. There was a computer genius in our class who I heard later joined the Rebel Alliance; his name wouldn't mean anything to you anyway..." The bounty hunter smiled.

"So this guy," Solo continued, "one day discovered a bug in the TIE fighters' onboard computer control program. Nothing world-shattering, just something that could occasionally cause big trouble. The gist was that the main engine could be disconnected from the onboard control system and controlled independently, automatically. The whole thing was just a tiny program of barely two dozen instructions. We didn't believe him until we goaded him into proving it. Two days later, in the middle of the night, one of the ships suddenly lifted off, hit the hangar ceiling, and exploded. Huge commotion: investigation, interrogations, the works, but they found nothing, and eventually blamed it on a technical glitch. It wouldn't have gone any further if another guy in the class hadn't demanded the activation program to try it himself. The trick worked a second time: another TIE fighter was lost. The real cause of the disaster remained secret for obvious reasons." He spread his arms.

"I told you all this because I happen to know the activation program, so we just need to get to a fighter, and at the appointed time, there will be chaos beyond your wildest dreams."

Go Rien nodded, adding just one comment: "You were that skeptic, weren't you, Solo?" Han didn't deny it.

"If this is true," the bounty hunter said, "then you've done the Empire a great service by revealing the truth to me."

The captain spread his arms helplessly:

"Life is full of sacrifices," he replied. "I think, in these outfits, it won't be too hard to meddle with one of the onboard computers."

"I'd like us to do it with two, just to be safe," suggested the other.

"Alright," he agreed. "I'll tell you the method. But I can't guarantee success; they might have modified the control program since then. When do we start?"

"In ten minutes, we don't have more time."

"Okay," the captain nodded, glancing at his watch, then explained step by step what to do and how.

They reached the TIEs without much difficulty. The feverish programming began: disconnect the main engine, assign it to the automatics, launch at the specified time, watch the clock!

"Hey you! What are you doing in there!?"

Han glanced out of the TIE fighter cockpit. He saw a mechanic peering in suspiciously.

"There's a computer error here!" he called out. "Come, take a look!"

"Who are you? Which ship's crew do you belong to? Because you sure aren't one of us!"

"The first one," he replied, figuring there must be such a number.

"And what are you doing in ours?" the other continued to grill him.

"Come on, techie! I found a general fault in ours and thought I'd check another one too. Just look! Come!"

The other continued more amicably, sticking his head in beside Han.

"You could have at least asked for permission. I nearly soiled myself in fright when I saw a stranger tampering with the computer," he said, his mouth dropping open when he saw the data streaming across the screen. He might have said something, maybe called for help, but Solo simply shoved the barrel of his blaster into his mouth.

"Do you still feel that way now?" he inquired. The technician nodded, his teeth clicking against the metal of the weapon.

"Then there's no problem. The toilet's over there: go ahead," he advised in a much firmer tone. "But don't do anything stupid, no shouting, no waving, or anything else, because I'll be watching you, and I mean it: I'll shoot you if you screw up!"

The man hurried away, not even daring to glance sideways, just stepping along like some primitive robot. He arrived just a few seconds before Go Rien, who had noticed the commotion. They entered the room one after the other, but only the latter emerged a short while later.

He signaled to Han that everything was fine.

When they withdrew to a corner of the hangar, Han made only one brief comment.

"From now on, let's be extra careful. The cleaning closet is full."

They had a few idle minutes, watching the bustle of the hangar. None of the reprogrammed fighters were in use, and the toilet continued to keep its secrets. No ships were taking off or landing, and the technicians seemed to have finished their work for the day. Then suddenly, there was a huge commotion:

Two fighters – almost simultaneously – began to rise.

Yet neither had a pilot. That was the biggest problem: it was clear they would soon crash into the hangar roof. Everyone was either watching the unusual, disastrous event or fleeing the scene.

Han and Go Rien acted then. They ran to the nearest TIE fighters and jumped into the tiny cockpits – no one spotted them, and the sound of the warming engines was drowned out by the roar of the two ascending ships' main thrusters. They both put on the pilot helmets placed on the seats and pushed the throttles forward.

The rise of the two new TIE fighters initially did not increase the confusion, as everyone thought the previous incident was repeating itself. Then they realized these were being piloted, and likely by thieves. At that point, the first two ships exploded, briefly diverting attention from the new ones until a clever technician thought to close the hangar door. The opening to the outside world became narrower and narrower, but the two fugitives shot out of the remaining gap, spinning. The officer began reopening the door to allow the pursuers through, but none had arrived yet.

Han set the radio to the agreed frequency.

"Hello Fugitive-1, do you copy?"

"I copy, Fugitive-2. I see the target on the radar. Follow me!" the bounty hunter replied.

"Roger, following you."

The two TIEs shot up at a steep angle towards the sky.

"Ten minutes to the target," Fugitive-1 reported. "No pursuers in sight."

"I'm willing to fly twice," Han pointed out, "if you want a third, you'll have to do it alone!"

This time, Go Rien was accommodating. "Deal," he replied.

They were at the edge of the stratosphere when Han spoke again:

"Fugitive-1, do you see it? They're not afraid of anything: they have four TIE fighters as cover! They're coming in like predators to the scent of blood. I'm breaking off; the rear two are mine."

He banked the ship, diving sharply towards the planet. Two Imperials were already on his tail, while the other two targeted the bounty hunter's ship.

The captain smiled to himself. He guessed what the pilots of the Hammer's four fighters thought of the planet's ground defense rats.

"Foreign intruders," his radio crackled. "This is the commander of the Star Destroyer Hammer's fighter cover. First warning: leave the Star Destroyer zone immediately, or I will open fire! Confirmation of receipt requested!"

"Received, commander," Han replied into the microphone. "Thank you for the warning, but I'm staying!"

"Foreign intruder, I think you misunderstood: if you don't leave, I'll shoot you," the Imperial pilot emphasized, perhaps thinking he was dealing with idiots.

"Thank you, I repeat: received. Unfortunately, I can't leave; I came to blow up the Star Destroyer."

Stunned silence on the other end, then:

"Repeat, please, I misheard." Solo dutifully complied.

"I came to blow up the Star Destroyer. If you stand in my way, I'm very sorry, but I will have to shoot you too."

"Foreign intruder, you're completely unhinged!" The captain couldn't resist quoting the bounty hunter's words, which applied to him as well:

"It's been said before," he said and pulled the control stick back almost into his lap. The TIE fighter's electronics screamed in protest against the maneuver, but the craft obeyed, performing a quick backward somersault. Meanwhile, Han manipulated the speed and braking thrusters to execute the maneuver as tightly as possible.

In a flash, the situation changed. Now he was pursuing the Hammer's fighters instead of them chasing him, as they couldn't match his tight turns.

He could almost see the stunned expressions on the pilots' faces.

Like trained aviators, they immediately split in two directions. Han stuck to one, completely ignoring the other, merely tracking its movement on the radar screen. He instructed the weapon control electronics to use low-energy projectiles.

Meanwhile, the pursued pilot threw everything into the fray, zigzagging madly in front of Han, trying every trick in the book to shake him off. All in vain. Han could almost hear the pilot screaming for help into his radio – but they both knew it was too late.

Han fired, aiming at the right stabilizer, and hit as expected. Within moments, the damaged TIE fighter was on the verge of exploding, leaving its pilot with only one option: he jettisoned both stabilizers and glided the now-useless, egg-shaped escape pod-like hull toward the Star Destroyer. He could only be grateful to fate – and Han Solo – for surviving.

His partner, however, was far less merciful. He closed in behind the captain and relentlessly pressed the fire button. High-energy laser bolts surrounded Solo's ship in a dazzling display, but Han wasn't impressed by the spectacle. The tiny fighter under his control danced wildly. The pursuing pilot knew it was impossible: the pursued ship shouldn't even exist. He lost his sanity, focused solely on shaking off the target in front. He kept his thumb pressed on the fire button even when there wasn't enough energy left in his fighter's reserves to return to the mothership.

At that point, Han, still unscathed, veered out of his path, and the pursuer could only drift through space like a piece of debris.

Han let out a deep breath, shaking his right hand tiredly from gripping the control stick. Finally, he had time to look around and see what was happening with the bounty hunter.

Go Rien had also dealt with one of his opponents, but – as if fate was repeating itself – the other was tightly glued to him, continuously bombarding him with laser fire. Han switched on his comms.

"Fugitive-1, hurry up! We're out of time! They could send another wave of fighters any moment; we need to attack!"

"Go to hell!" came the reply. "Wouldn't you rather help? It's getting hotter here by the second."

"Help? Why should I help?" Han asked, surprised.

"Solo, damn it, this isn't the best time to negotiate better terms in our deal."

"I think it's the perfect time," he retorted.

"What do you want, Solo? Spit it out."

"I want out!" he emphasized each word.

"I've told you before, it's too late. You're in it up to your neck, Solo. Hunter and prey in one person, that's the game. If you quit, you die."

"Alright, Go Rien, let's say you're right. But I'm done with the blackmail. If you need me, hand over the documents, release Gritt, and let's be partners. You help me, I help you. After all, we've got a common goal, don't we?"

A brief silence on the other end.

"Well, alright. We're partners until we catch the First."

"And what about the documents?"

"There are no documents, Solo. There never were. I was bluffing. You didn't think I'd waste my time on that, did you?"

"You're a son of a bitch!" Han shouted into the radio but then continued much more calmly: "But I admit, you're good at it."

"You know, Solo, sometimes you forget the details!"

"I'm on my way," sighed the Corellian, diving behind the fighter pursuing Go Rien. "Hang on, I'm accelerating," he explained.

"Solo!" the bounty hunter screamed. "Not like that! You're insane: if you miss even slightly, you'll hit me."

"I don't miss," Han assured him.

And indeed, he didn't: one high-energy beam blast finished off the pursuing TIE fighter.

"Woah!" echoed the bounty hunter, mimicking the captain."You're really good at this!"

At that moment, a bright light illuminated the darkness of space around them. The fighter ships trembled, and tiny debris particles clattered against their protective shields. Both of them immediately looked at the Star Destroyer:

The massive spaceship's pointed nose was nearly obliterated, with only the horrifically twisted giant support beams remaining. The whole thing resembled the skeleton of some ancient, colossal creature. The surrounding space was filled with wreckage.

"Ion cannon!" Han shouted excitedly. "They've got an ion cannon down there!"

"Damn them!" added the bounty hunter. Solo had never heard him so agitated and angry.

"Let's get out of here!" he advised at the same volume. "They're bound to fire more shots: the whole ship's going to blow. We have no business here."

But the other fighter ship continued speeding towards the Star Destroyer.

"There might be survivors," Go Rien muttered.

"You can't help them, man! You're in a TIE fighter! It's a single-seater, though my first mate would even question that. Let's get out of here, or we're dead too!"

The bounty hunter reluctantly obeyed. They turned their ships' noses towards the planet and began to zoom at full speed. The heat-resistant armor of the TIE fighters glowed cherry red.

They had been moving away for nearly five minutes when the Hammer exploded. Soon the shockwave caught up with them, further increasing their already perilous speed. The glow of their hulls slowly turned yellow, and the heat in the cockpit became almost unbearable. Both gritted their teeth and began the delicate, gradual process of pulling their ships out of the dive and reducing their speed to normal.

Han prayed that the stabilizers would withstand the strain. It was a long struggle – during which he repeatedly thought the entire tiny vehicle would disintegrate beneath him – but they finally succeeded.

The silence was broken by the bounty hunter:

"Look, Solo, I'm really sorry, but this didn't go as planned. It'll take some time for the Empire to get here."

"If you're suggesting we can't get my ship out before your buddies show up, let me inform you: I have no intention of sticking around for them."

"Call them my employers, Solo. Anyway, I meant that it would be pointless to return to the base prematurely. Let's land somewhere else and wait!"

"Listen up, Go Rien: you can go wherever you want, but my ship's in there, and so are my friends. I'm not risking their safety for another minute. And since I really need your help, you better not stray one inch off the course to the base, because I'm flying right behind you. If you do, I'll blast you to bits. You can count on it!"

"Do you think you're good enough to do that?" came the challenging voice over the radio.

"Yes," the captain replied firmly.

"Well, we'll see. But not now, maybe some other time. Right now, I'm going to help you, Han Solo."

Chapter Twelve

Marl had spent the last hour and a half mastering the art of piloting the Star Rider with the help of the technician and the onboard computer. He was eager to get to the Star Destroyer as soon as possible, hoping that a personal conversation might convince the old man to take the Hammer out of the system quickly. However, his instincts told him not to leave the smuggler ship behind, as he might still need it.

"Sir!" the technician shouted from the central area where he was seated at the computer terminal.

Marl rose from the central pilot seat – the simulation could wait – and walked back.

"Look, sir!" The technician pointed at the screen, specifically at the grid on the radar display.

"Couldn't you have turned it on in the cockpit?" Marl reprimanded.

"The truth is, sir, I still don't know exactly how to do that," he apologized. "But I'll figure it out eventually."

The Hammer's first officer nodded forgivingly. "Alright, what happened?"

"Aircraft are approaching, sir. According to the computer, it's likely six atmospheric fighters and seven bombers."

"From which direction?"

"From the Prefecture."

It wasn't hard to guess their intentions.

"Radio the shuttle and tell it to return to the Star Destroyer as quickly as possible! Then get ready: we're taking off!"

"Understood, sir."

Marl returned to the pilot seat. The simulated situation suddenly turned real: the computer-generated images on the plastisteel window vanished, revealing the open space, and the instruments switched back to real-time mode.

Marl flipped the internal communicator switch forward. From that moment on, his words could be heard throughout the ship:

"Soldiers! We will soon take off and return to the Star Destroyer. But first, we will engage in combat. Six atmospheric fighters and seven bombers, on the Prefect's orders, are trying to destroy us. I don't think they'll succeed, and I hope you don't either! Take your positions at the gun stations immediately and secure the wounded in the sleeping cabins! Tie them to the beds; it's unlikely we'll be able to activate the ship's internal gravity system. I will pilot the Star Rider with the assistance of the unit's technician. Thank you for your attention, soldiers. Now, act!"

He waited three minutes, then began the takeoff. There were no problems; he had thoroughly practiced the maneuver during the simulation. He was a good pilot, and the ship behaved obediently.

He systematically checked with the gun stations to ensure everyone was in position. Everything was in order, and the technician managed to activate the radar screen in the cockpit. He clearly saw the attackers catching up with the shuttle and then destroying it. He clenched his teeth but said nothing.

"Attention, two minutes to combat engagement," he said into the communicator after a while. Doubts gnawed at him: what could he achieve with this ship? It wasn't the capabilities of the Star Rider he doubted – they far exceeded his wildest expectations – but his own skills, especially since he barely knew the ship he was now piloting. He hoped the high level of automation would save them if necessary.

"Sir, the visual magnification reveals that they are MR-2 fighters and outdated Beta bombers," reported the technician.

"The bombers don't concern us for now," Marl stated. "Attention, left side! Enemy approaching head-on, fire at will!"

Marl rapidly increased speed, aiming to burst through the fighters head-on to scatter their formation.

"Right side! You might get some action too."

He decided that after the initial pass, he would continue to climb, and even if they didn't take down all six, the remainder would fall behind at the edge of the atmosphere. This was a form of retreat. Reeken would probably disapprove, but fortunately, Marl was the captain of this ship.

Combat engagement ensued. Marl clenched his teeth but didn't dare to spin the ship to evade the head-on shots, fearing his inexperienced gunners would miss, and they would have no chance of hitting the enemy.

They were lucky: the enemy aimed poorly.

The fighters scattered. It seemed they knew the Star Rider, as they were cautious not to get too close to its sides.

"Shoot!" Marl yelled into the communicator. "Shoot, they won't come any closer!"

The ship's guns roared on both sides. Even Marl was surprised by the Star Rider's firepower. The marines didn't shoot accurately, not even close, but the space around the ship filled with a cloud of high-energy explosions.

Three MR-2s simply vanished as if they had never existed, and the fourth trailed smoke as it plummeted towards the surface.

Marl couldn't help but shout: "Damn! What did they build into this ship? They must have stolen the turbo lasers from a Star Destroyer!"

Now he wasn't sure he wanted to flee. The power he felt was intoxicating. However, in the end, he had no choice but to retreat without further combat. Not that he had changed his mind – the previous attackers dared not approach again, and if he moved towards them, they immediately scattered, using their superior speed.

"We're returning to the Star Destroyer!" Marl announced after a while, giving up the futile attempt to force the enemy into battle.

It was then that the onboard computer delivered a report that Marl had it repeated several times because he simply couldn't believe it:

"The Hammer has been hit by an ion blast!"

A few minutes later, further checks were unnecessary, as a significant part of the sky turned into a sea of fire.

The technician's pale voice echoed dully in the new captain's ears: "The Hammer has exploded, sir."

Marl sat slumped, a single thought running through his mind, one that he voiced immediately, uncaring if his colleagues heard him or if it was inappropriate: "My ship is gone."

This was the explanation for his ominous feeling. He had expected many things but not this. Now he felt the weight of his intuition, the immense responsibility – because he had known, he had foreseen it! Maybe he could have done something to prevent it, maybe if he had tried harder, this wouldn't have happened...!

"Sir, a high-speed ship is approaching from the surface. It will pass a few kilometers from us," the technician reported. "The computer cannot identify it, even though it has a vast database of shapes and types. However, it estimates that the foreign object is likely preparing to leave the atmosphere."

"Visual magnification!" ordered the captain of the Star Rider.

Go Rien's once-captured stingray ship appeared on the screen.

"Do you see this ship?" Marl asked the technician unnecessarily. "It's responsible for everything – or rather, the one inside it. He's a very dangerous man, an Imperial bounty hunter."

"He had been the Prefect here, but even that power hadn't satisfied him; he walked his own path. Now he was fleeing because he knew the Empire would crush him. He was abandoning his people and equipment, taking only his damned hyper-modern ship! He thinks he can escape, but he's wrong! We'll follow him wherever he goes. Until we catch him!" He emphasized every word of the last sentence.

They had to get out of the tunnel quickly, as the next tube train could come at any moment. They couldn't head towards the station or show themselves in the corridor, as that would result in immediate capture, and they all agreed that it was best to avoid a firefight as long as possible. So they remained in the service passages. The only question was whether they would find a place in time.

Luckily, they stumbled upon a small door just before the stop, leading to a narrow corridor similar to the ones they had been in before. They had no idea where it led, but that didn't seem important at the moment. They all got inside just as the next train roared past, brakes squealing, heading for the station.

They quickly held a council in this world of dripping pipes and dark corners. They lined up behind one another, as there wasn't enough space for two people to stand side by side, let alone a whole group.

"The main problem," Mielta pointed out, "is that we don't know where the ship is from our current position, nor how to get there."

"Varks Mielta!" One of the clan members, known for his fiery temper and aggressive nature, chimed in. "You forget we are warriors!"

"I haven't forgotten," the girl countered, "but I know that combat spirit and good warriors alone won't be enough this time. We'll need cunning too."

"Maybe," Scarpa tried to sound smart, "we could get in the same way we got out."

"Scarpa," Mielta raised her voice to quickly silence the foolish officer, but then something occurred to her, and she finished her sentence more appreciatively: "You're not saying something stupid after all."

The Wookiee grumbled in displeasure, indicating he didn't see the brilliance in it.

"Listen, Chewie," the girl began, seeming to take over Han Solo's generally accepted leadership role. "The lieutenant highlighted that if we're going to disguise ourselves, we should do it well."

The official nodded in agreement, despite not having any idea what she was talking about.

"So, instead of disguising as stormtroopers, we should disguise as crates."

The Wookiee first burst out laughing, then abruptly stopped and started nodding vigorously, agreeing that it wasn't a bad idea.

He squatted down, stuck his finger into the thick dust covering everything, and began to draw. The others stepped back to let as much of the dim light as possible reach the makeshift drawing board of the large creature.

Gradually, a visual plan unfolded: stick figures representing the group members – one for each of them, with a larger one for the Wookiee. Then crates or containers appeared, with the stick figures inside, except for one. A roughly outlined forklift emerged, with the crates stacked on the loading platform and the leftover figure sitting in the driver's seat.

Chewbacca eagerly pointed at Scarpa.

Then, the forklift started moving and drove up the Falcon's loading ramp.

Chewbacca stood up, stretched his stiff limbs with satisfaction, and gazed at his creation in the dust below.

"Well, Chewbacca suggests," Mielta began, translating the comic, "that we find a forklift and some empty crates. We hide inside them, and Scarpa, dressed as a stormtrooper, drives the forklift. Then we all board the Falcon, and that's it."

Mielta hummed, much like Han usually did.

"Solo would probably say there are some minor difficulties here, like how we find an unattended forklift, get past the checkpoints, and get through the cordon around the ship. But Solo would also say, 'Whatever, I don't have a better idea, we'll figure it out somehow!' Which usually ends with a shootout, but oh well!"

Chewbacca listened intently to the girl's explanation, then burst into laughter, slapping his knees. When he finally calmed down, he started explaining through hand gestures that all they needed to do was walk down the service corridor and peek through every door and vent. Eventually, they would likely find a storage room with empty crates, maybe even a forklift. Both Chewbacca and Mielta, who took on the role of translator, sweated profusely during this exchange. The girl resolved that the first thing she would do once they got out of there was to learn Wookiee.

They set off to execute the first phase of their plan. They walked for about half an hour down the seemingly endless service corridor, cautiously peeking through every possible opening, until they finally spotted a suitable location.

It was a huge storage hall, filled with crates, containers, and barrels. There was even a forklift, but unfortunately, it was in use. Three workers were diligently working inside, watched by two stormtroopers standing with carbines at the ready on the near side of the closed door.

Chewbacca pondered what they might be guarding so strictly but found no reasonable explanation. Considering the earlier communication difficulties, he decided it was better not to ask the others. He looked questioningly at Mielta.

However, Scarpa answered, "No problem here: the door is closed, no other entrances or windows. We just drop down, tell them to surrender, take their weapons, and Chewbacca knocks them out. Okay?"

"Scarpa," Mielta muttered, feeling inspired.

The officer modestly shrugged, "It's my job."

Without waiting for more encouragement, Chewbacca started removing the vent grate that separated them from the hall. Positioned above the room's ceiling, the descent was the biggest challenge since they had no rope, and the iron ladders leading to the roof structure seemed quite far away. Chewbacca, with his practical sense, solved the problem: he selected a deactivated cable strong enough for the purpose, uncoiled it along a long section, and wound it into a bundle. He tightly looped one of the clan member's leather belts around the sticky plastic coating, then tied the end of the coil to one of the arched support beams in the service corridor. This created a sort of downward-working lift, as the friction between the leather and the coating significantly slowed the descent. The speed depended solely on weight.

Chewbacca, distrusting Scarpa's plan, modified it slightly to his own liking. The idea came from the fact that the now uncovered vent hole opened directly above the soldiers' heads, about ten to twelve meters high.

He carefully started lowering the cable, reaching roughly two-thirds of the distance. That was enough. Slinging his blaster over his shoulder, he double-checked the attachments, then grabbed the belt with one hand and jumped.

The improvised lift worked perfectly: it slowed his descent sufficiently and, crucially, operated silently. When the cable ended, Chewbacca let go and began a true fall with an ear-piercing Wookiee roar.

The two stormtroopers had noticed nothing of the impending disaster until the roar paralyzed them with fear. They only had time to look up.

They saw a giant, furry figure with outstretched arms plummeting towards them. In the next moment, it landed on them with all its two hundred kilos, knocking them out as if a Star Destroyer had fallen on them.

One of them lost consciousness and stayed down, while the other staggered to his feet like a habitual drunk. He searched for his carbine, but it had flown out of his hands at the start of the events.

Chewbacca leaped at him and punched him on the chin through his helmet's visor, sending him rolling to the feet of the dockworkers.

Meanwhile, Mielta climbed onto the metal beams of the ceiling structure, standing in a visible spot with legs apart, pointing her gun at the workers and shouting, "Nobody move! If you comply, you won't get hurt!"

They obeyed. Chewbacca knocked all three out gently while the others descended the ladders. Together, they carried the unconscious prisoners into a spacious, empty container marked LIVE ANIMALS.

The plan moved to its second phase: they searched for empty crates for everyone – except Scarpa – and modified them with the workers' tools to open from the inside. Each crate had small peepholes drilled in, so they wouldn't have to wait in the dark, guessing what was happening outside. They completed the task in twenty minutes: the crates were lined up on the forklift's platform.

Everyone participated in the work – except Scarpa, who was busy learning to operate the forklift from a manual found under the driver's seat. It was fairly easy – the manual was thin – since the vehicle was mostly automated; only the direction and speed needed to be set, the rest was handled automatically.

"Okay. Is everyone ready?" Mielta asked, standing in the middle of the hall with a laser carbine resting on her hip. Nods all around.

"Then everyone take your places! Scarpa, it's time to prove yourself: you'll need to be very clever!"

"Trust me," the man assured them.

They hid in the crates, the lieutenant opened the warehouse door, then walked back to the forklift and hopped into the driver's seat. He slipped the manual into the door's side pocket for safety. You never know: it might still be needed.

He drove out of the hall.

The plan worked brilliantly. People in the corridors politely stepped aside, and stormtroopers even shouted a few encouraging words to Scarpa, disguised as a stormtrooper, about how life could be harsh and a soldier could easily become a driver.

Luckily, the lieutenant easily navigated the Imperial signage system, quickly finding the right direction using the wall-painted colored guides.

The first problem arose right in front of Dock A-1, just when they began to hope they might get away with this easily. In the narrow hallway, they encountered two stormtrooper guards who ordered the approaching forklift to halt.

Scarpa stopped and quickly checked his blaster.

"What are you transporting?" barked the guard.

"Special shipment to Dock A-1," Scarpa replied.

"Show me the papers for inspection."

The driver hesitated, and the stormtrooper raised his weapon's barrel.

"The papers," he repeated firmly.

"I'm not sure you have the authority to see them," Scarpa tried to argue.

The soldier stepped closer menacingly. "Hand over the papers," he ordered angrily, then turned to his companion: "Open one of the crates!"

Scarpa panicked. "Alright, here are the papers," he stammered, pulling the manual from his side pocket and handing it over.

The stormtrooper turned his back to Scarpa to check the documents, following protocol to prevent the detainee from seeing what he was looking at. His mistake was not having his partner cover him, who was busy with the crates.

"Man! These crates are…" the stormtrooper started.

That's as far as he got. As soon as Scarpa handed over the manual, he reached for his blaster. He quickly checked that no one was watching, grabbed his rifle by the barrel, and struck the trooper on the back of the neck with such force that the plastic stock shattered.

The manual fell from the stormtrooper's hand as he dropped to his knees and collapsed to the ground without a word. His partner realized what was happening, grabbed his weapon, and fired. The laser bolt missed Scarpa by a few centimeters and hit the wall, causing a significant shrapnel effect. Scarpa's stormtrooper armor protected him from the sharp metal fragments.

He immediately threw himself to the ground and rolled away, just like he had practiced on the shooting range countless times. He rose to one knee behind the forklift and fired with deadly accuracy.

"Scarpa," Mielta's voice called from one of the crates, "that was a great trick!"

"Thanks," replied the lieutenant. "I learned it from Han Solo."

This prompted another crate to erupt in loud Wookiee laughter.

Their celebrations were cut short by the appearance of a squad of stormtroopers running towards them from behind. Laser bolts tore through the metal-plated floor and walls around them.

"Scarpa, let's go!" shouted the crate with the girl's voice.

The police investigator, now acting as a special agent, jumped into the driver's seat, floored the accelerator, and ducked as low as he could in the cab.

He heard – and understood – the sound of shots tearing through the back plate of the forklift. The small vehicle surged forward, its automatic systems protesting loudly at the insane speed. They might have tried to slow down if Scarpa hadn't simply disabled them. They sped ahead without any control, bouncing off the right and left walls of the corridor.

No one noticed the similar forklift that turned out of a side corridor, pulling trailers linked like train cars. It moved slowly, hauling dozens of fully loaded plastic barrels.

They sideswiped the train right at the entrance to Dock A-1. The train broke apart, sending barrels rolling everywhere, some of them breaking open. A sticky, yellow liquid spilled out, flooding the area and covering the dock floor.

Scarpa's forklift flipped over the trailers and crashed into the dock. The lieutenant was thrown from the driver's seat and, by sheer luck, didn't break his neck. The crates scattered in all directions, and the group's battered members painfully emerged from them.

They found themselves surrounded by stormtroopers, dozens of weapons aimed at them. Instinctively, they all raised their hands. This is the end, they thought.

Chewbacca looked sadly at the Millennium Falcon standing at the center of the domed hangar. So close to the goal, only to fail now? Would he ever see the Falcon again? Unlikely, as they had heard the deputy prefect's order: execute them! Would they do it here and now?

Mielta thought of Han. Where was he now, what was he doing? Was he still alive? She quickly banished that thought: Of course, he's alive! If anyone could survive what Han had undertaken, it was him. A true hero! But she wasn't so sure about her own survival. Maybe it was better this way: she wouldn't abandon her people and the cause she fought for, and Han wasn't the type to be tied down to this remote planet. They would have had to part ways anyway.

Scarpa was deeply upset about one thing: that Governor Virgill would never know how far his once-dismissed subordinate, Lieutenant Scarpa, the Imperial special agent, had come. Scarpa had planned to return and give him a piece of his mind after completing the BIG MISSION, not caring about their difference in rank anymore.

So they waited for the firing squad's command. But instead of gunfire, an anxious stormtrooper officer appeared, shouting angrily at the soldiers not to shoot under any circumstances. Chewbacca sniffed the air suspiciously, then broke into a jubilant Wookiee cheer. He dipped a finger into the substance coating the ground and showed it to his comrades, while pointing to the soldiers' weapons and shaking his head vigorously. Then, spreading his arms wide, he mimicked the sound of an explosion.

"I think he's saying they can't shoot because this stuff under us is explosive," Mielta guessed. The Wookiee nodded in agreement.

"So what now?" Scarpa worried. "Are we just going to stand here until they capture us?"

Chewbacca answered by throwing aside his crossbow-like blaster and charging at the enemy with fists raised and a roar. The clan members didn't hesitate: they drew their swords and followed him.

The stormtroopers recoiled in fear, intimidated by the giant Wookiee and the wild-eyed swordsmen. But at the officer's curses and threats, they discarded their useless carbines and drew their infantry daggers. Though their white blast-resistant armor hindered their movement, it provided excellent protection against punches and sword strikes.

Meanwhile, the damaged barrels continued to spill their volatile liquid, gradually flooding the dock floor as no one had time to attend to it.

The fight began.

Chewbacca was in his element. He roared loudly, his massive arms flailing like unstoppable threshing machines, beating, hitting, and crushing the enemy. A stormtrooper charged at him with a knife, but the Wookiee swatted it aside, grabbed the man's arm, and his enormous hand clamped around the soldier's wrist like a vise. He lifted his attacker with one arm, spun him around to knock down more soldiers, and then hurled him far away. He quickly earned a fearsome reputation, and those who could, avoided him.

Mielta used her delicate appearance to her advantage, but when stormtroopers with broken limbs and ribs fell around her like autumn leaves, they began to take her seriously. She was the most skilled fighter in the dock, second only to Chewbacca in effectiveness due to his superhuman strength.

She easily leapt over an overturned barrel and kicked it at her pursuers. Two soldiers tripped over it, but the third agilely jumped over. Mielta seized the moment when he was airborne and unable to change direction, stepped forward, and delivered a swift kick to his chin, knocking him out cold.

Then she was attacked from behind. She flipped one assailant over her back, landing on his face, which he felt even through his mask. She turned to face the other, but too late. The stormtrooper's dagger slashed her shoulder, spilling blood over her white skin.

The soldier raised his weapon to strike again, but Mielta, moving like a snake, dodged, grabbed his wrist, and snapped his arm with a knee strike. Two more stormtroopers took advantage of the moment, tackling her to the ground. They pinned her down, their armor bruising her bones. They twisted her arms painfully behind her back, forcing her to stand. They knew their job.

"Congratulations, gentlemen!" she hissed. "It only takes a dozen of you to subdue a weak woman so easily! The prefect would be proud if he saw this!"

A clan member rushed to her aid, ignoring chivalric rules, attacking the soldiers from behind. He killed one immediately, his sword piercing the stormtrooper's armor twice, once through the back and again through the chest. Blood trickled down the white armor.

The problem started when the blade became stuck. The swordsman struggled to free it, giving the other stormtrooper time to act. Without hesitation, he stabbed the swordsman in the gut with his dagger, leaving it in the wound, and knocked him out with a punch.

But Mielta was now free. She screamed and charged at the soldier, kicking his legs out from under him, then tearing off his helmet and raising her fist for a fatal blow. But she couldn't do it. Under the helmet, he was just a man, not an enemy machine.

She simply knocked him out.

Worried, she bent over the wounded swordsman, but he was already dying.

"The warrior's goal is a noble death," Mielta began reciting the farewell verse, seeing his smiling face. "You have achieved it, your name will be etched on the heroes' stone tablet. We will never forget you, warrior!"

The clan member closed his eyes.

No one noticed the small, red-haired figure sneaking into the hall, accompanied by unusually tall stormtroopers, barely visible among them. A satisfied grin played at the corners of his mouth: he knew they would come here eventually! Han Solo had already dug his own grave and lay in it willingly; these would do the same.

"Oh, how foolish people are," he said, stacking barrels to make an impromptu podium, then somersaulting up onto it. He relished these kinds of stunts, enjoying the surprise on people's faces. He knew they underestimated his physical strength, endurance, and agility. Well, you couldn't slack off in the secret police for years.

"Everyone stop what you're doing!" he shouted into the chaos of the hall. His voice brooked no argument, reaching their consciousness beyond just their ears. It was louder than a normal human voice.

Everyone fell silent and turned towards Russ as if they were obedient machines. Some showed slight limb tremors, a clear sign of strong individual will.

"Drop the weapons in your hands!" He adjusted his tone to clamp down even harder on any rebels.

The trembling stopped for everyone except the Wookiee.

"You hairy ape," he addressed directly, "lie down!"

These were glorious moments. Since the Hammer had exploded, he felt the Force more strongly within him. For the first time in his life, he truly felt it. Perhaps this was what Darth Vader had spoken of when they were alone together for a few minutes.

Such a powerful hypnotic command was simply impossible to resist – Russ thought.

Indeed, the Wookiee slowly dropped to his knees, then lay on the floor. He fought hard, but it was futile: Russ's mind held his captive.

"Roll over!" he commanded. He knew Wookiees hated getting things stuck in their fur. Well, there was plenty of that here.

The giant creature growled but complied, rolling like a gigantic teddy bear dropped into honey.

Russ laughed long and heartily. When he calmed down, he decided it was time to get serious.

"Stormtroopers!" he called, releasing them from their trance.

"Tie them up."

The soldiers got to work, ruthlessly binding everyone's hands behind their backs.

"Tie the Wookiee tighter," Russ instructed.

When they were done, he decided the new bonds were secure enough to release the old ones.

The Wookiee immediately started raging, and the other prisoners were far from calm. The deputy prefect felt lucky not to understand Wookiee – fortunate for the prisoner, of course.

"Now, hairy ape, I promised to break every bone in your body one by one. The time has come!" He walked past Mielta. "I'll decide later what to do with you."

He stopped by the two clan members and waved dismissively.

"We don't need these," he said. "Let them go. Now!"

He straightened up and spoke again in that commanding voice:

"Pick up your swords!"

They obeyed.

"Point them at each other's hearts!"

They did so.

"Kill each other!" he snapped. Limb tremors.

"I said, kill each other!" he emphasized.

They did.

"You vile rat!" Mielta shouted. "You evil little worm!"

He stepped back to her and slapped her hard.

"Don't make me angry, my pretty, or you'll regret it!" he hissed in her face. Chewbacca roared and shattered his bonds.

"Shut up!" Russ ordered. Silence fell, broken only by the girl's calm, quiet voice:

"Han Solo will kill you for this."

Russ winced. "Beat her!" he barked at the stormtrooper officer.

The officer hesitated.

"But sir, she's a woman..."

"Enough! You're demoted! Get out of here!" Russ pointed randomly at another soldier. "You're in charge now. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," the soldier replied nervously. "We'll beat her."

But the deputy prefect had already moved on.

"You must be the infamous Sergeant Scarpa. Governor Virgill reported your disappearance."

"Lieutenant, if you please," the officer interjected.

"Oh, promoted on the way here? Interesting. Shame you joined my enemies; you could have had a promising career under me. Want to keep your rank?"

Serapa couldn't think of anything clever, so he quoted: "Russ, you're a piece of scum!"

With that, he spat in the face of the small, red-haired man.

Meanwhile, the two descending TIE fighters exhibited the harsh realities of their recent ordeal. Their scorched, cracked armor reflected the harsh experiences they'd endured. Many valuable sensors had fused to the hull, rendering both ships practically blind. The pilots could now rely only on their eyes, ears, and possibly a sixth sense.

They reached the capital, flying low over winding streets and colorful houses. Then the scenery gave way to the metallic hues of the Prefect's base with its vast hangars and towers. The bounty hunter knew exactly where Dock A-1 was.

"Tell me, Go Rien," Han Solo asked, "are Imperial bases always this welcoming? No fighters to greet us, no anti-aircraft fire, not even a stray radio message!"

"I noticed that too," the bounty hunter replied. "We'll find out why soon enough."

"Not that I miss them," Solo said defensively, "it's just strange."

"That's Dock A-1 ahead, the one with the gray roof."

Han observed the slightly domed structure.

"Looks pretty old," he finally said. "Or rather, it's a weak design; they build stronger ones these days."

"Solo," reminded the bounty hunter, "there are no global storms or meteor showers on this planet. Why build stronger?"

"You'll find out," the captain said mysteriously. "But look, the roof seems half-open."

"I'd say it's a crack," Go Rien corrected.

"Doesn't matter, we can fit through."

"Are you crazy, Solo? Not even a micro-ship could fit through, let alone a TIE fighter!"

"Think so?" Solo mused. "We'll see."

"You're on your own for this one!" Go Rien insisted. "If you want to smash yourself up, go ahead, but it's too crazy for me."

"I don't expect you to," Han reassured him. "Stay outside and secure the airspace. I don't want any surprises."

They reached Dock A-1. Solo circled the massive hangar twice, then angled his ship and sped toward the gap.

Go Rien expected the smuggler to inch his way through the narrow opening, but Solo was clearly planning to go through at high speed.

"Solo!" he yelled into the comm. "Be sensible, not like this!"

The captain laughed in understanding. "I prefer getting it over with quickly. Hesitation only makes you unsure."

With that, he zipped through the gap. Go Rien could have sworn he saw sparks flying from both sides as the ship's wings scraped the edges of the opening.

Chapter Thirteen

Russ wiped the spit off his face and, surprisingly, responded to the officer in a quiet, icy tone:

"Scarpa, you're going to die too, just like the Wookiee: in agony."

He walked back to his barrels, climbed up, and stood tall.

"Let the fun begin! The guests will provide the music!" He laughed. "Let's hope they can scream loudly enough... Begin beating the Wookiee!"

Eight stormtroopers, in addition to the cuffs, held Chewbacca down. A nearly superhumanly large stormtrooper stepped forward, standing nose to nose with the Wookiee. With bear-like motions, he slowly removed his gloves and helmet. His face was flat and broad, with a broken nose, a protruding jaw, and an impossibly wide chin. Brutality gleamed in his eyes. He picked up a long, blunt metal rod from the floor, swung it, and jabbed the Wookiee in the stomach.

Chewbacca wanted to roar in pain but remembered Russ's words and clenched his teeth instead. Not a sound escaped his throat.

The large stormtrooper grew more frustrated. Encouraged by Russ and the mixed screams and sobs from the girl beside him, he hit the Wookiee harder and harder until every blow drew blood.

Chewbacca remained silent throughout, tears forming in his eyes from the effort.

"Enough!" Russ shouted. "Now, the girl."

The wide-jawed stormtrooper grew excited, rubbing his sweaty palms together, his jaw jutting out even more, eyes flashing. He stepped up to Mielta and delivered a heavy slap.

The only thing keeping the girl from falling were the two stormtroopers behind her.

At that moment, a growing roar was heard from above. It reached a crescendo as a TIE fighter roared into the hall through the slightly open roof hatch. It made several low passes, buzzing like a giant trapped mosquito, then rose and began circling near the roof.

Han Solo quickly assessed the dangers before him. He saw Russ, his captured friends, the bleeding wounds on Chewbacca, the brute with the rod, and dozens of stormtroopers – and the yellow liquid spread on the floor. He instantly recognized the danger to his friends from his ship's thrusters, which could easily ignite the entire place.

He ascended, knowing the surprise would soon wear off and it would be too late to act. He found the only safe landing spot in the vast hangar: the Falcon's roof. The old girl would lose a few sensors, but she had been through worse with Han Solo.

There was no time for a long approach or textbook landing maneuvers. Solo almost crashed onto the Falcon's roof, activating the braking thrusters at the last moment. Not bad, he thought.

Chewbacca knew it was his friend the moment the TIE fighter slipped through the narrow roof gap. Seeing the confident circling in the tight hangar confirmed it. He knew only one person who could do that: Han Solo. For the first time in long minutes, he let out a sound.

He laughed as Russ, craning his neck to watch the circling fighter, toppled backward off his barrels.

Feeling the captor's grip on his arms loosen, Chewbacca knew the suppressed rage had given him tremendous strength. The moment was now or never. With a thunderous Wookiee roar, he unleashed his pent-up energy. He shrugged off his captors, strained against the chain. The first cuff snapped, and the second didn't last long.

He was free.

First, he charged his massive tormentor. His weight slammed into the man like a flood over a weak dam. He grabbed the man's arms and wrenched them back until the wrists met behind his back. There was some cracking, but so what. Then, gripping both wrists in one hand and the man's neck in the other, he pulled the arms over the man's head until they touched his stomach. This produced louder cracks and screams, and the wide-jawed man's shoulders ended up at strange angles. The pain knocked him out, but he learned for life that a Wookiee is only weaker if shackled and held by eight men.

A dozen stormtroopers piled onto Chewbacca – only to be scattered – including Mielta's guards. The freed girl, although her hands were shackled, was still a formidable fighter with her legs. She leaped to Scarpa and kicked away the stormtrooper guarding him.

"Run to the Falcon!" she shouted, already sprinting towards it.

The surprised lieutenant followed as best he could, but his bound hands were a significant hindrance.

Han Solo jumped out of the ship. It felt indescribably good to be back on the Falcon, even if it was just on the roof armor. For the sake of his friends' safety, he was willing to do the otherwise unthinkable act of damaging his own ship.

He didn't even draw his weapon, knowing he couldn't use it. He leaped off the ship's hull and stood at the bottom of the ramp. Mielta rushed past him without stopping, only greeting him with a quick "Hello!"

"Hello," Han called back, waving to Serapa as he ran up the ramp.

"Chewie! Hurry up!" he urged his first mate, who was engrossed in the fight. "The shuttle's leaving!"

The Wookiee looked up, waved to his friend, threw the unconscious stormtrooper he was using as a weapon aside, and started running. His enormous strides gave him a significant advantage. "I hope you have a ticket, buddy!" Han shouted as he passed.

Before Han ran up the ramp, he properly greeted the two fastest stormtroopers. The first he floored with a signature Solo left hook, and the second he kicked into the arms of the charging soldiers behind.

He dashed into the Falcon, closed the door, and raised the ramp. Laughing, he embraced Chewbacca, and soon Mielta joined them.

Scarpa watched the trio hug, smiling contentedly.

Soon Han Solo walked over to him and simply said:

"Thank you for what you did for them, Lieutenant."

"I did what I could," he shrugged.

They all rushed to the cockpit. Han and Chewbacca took their seats and began warming up the engines. Through the steel-reinforced cockpit windows, they saw the soldiers swarming in the dock. They noticed Russ appear in front of the window.

He held a handheld transmitter to his mouth and pointed at the antenna.

Han tuned the Falcon's radio.

"Hello, Han Solo, can you hear me?" the small man's voice came through the speakers.

"I hear you, Russ. Go ahead."

"Listen to me," the red-haired man said in that certain tone.

Chewbacca slapped the off button.

Han's hands trembled slightly, but the voice continued in his head:

"Solo, you fight against the Empire for individual freedom."

Russ's face showed signs of strain, but Han Solo's hand stopped trembling.

"I fight for the same thing, Solo. So did the former prefect. Even animals band together when they share a common goal, driven by instinct. And reason, too, Solo. You're a smart man. Let's join forces! Why fight on the wrong side? The Empire wants you dead just like they want me dead! Like they wanted the prefect dead. It's time to forge a real alliance, the true Rebel Alliance. Because the other one is just a fantasy, nothing more!"

Everyone on the Millennium Falcon waited impatiently for the captain to lift the ship, as the engines were now sufficiently warmed up. But Han's hand remained still on the throttle, his glassy eyes locked with Russ's outside the ship.

They shook his shoulders and shouted in his ear, but he didn't respond. Meanwhile, everyone except the small red-haired man had fled the hangar, including the brute with the broken shoulder, knowing the spilled fuel would explode the moment the ship took off.

"You could have everything with us, Solo: perfect weapons for your ship, secret, miraculous instruments, even a new ship! Our connections are far-reaching, and our influence is vast. You could remain free with us, even have power behind you, an independent, unlimited master, a knight, like Darth Vader at the Emperor's side!"

Russ felt his strength waning.

"So, come on, Han Solo, join us! Stay with me!"

Han shrugged and turned the radio back on.

"You know, Russ, I think I'll just take off. And you can rot where you are!"

With that, he pushed the throttle forward. The Falcon surged ahead, hot exhaust blasting from the thrusters. The explosion only propelled them faster but couldn't harm the heavily armored ship. As they broke through the hangar's weak dome, the TIE fighter parked on the Falcon's roof shattered, falling back into the inferno below.

Russ contributed to the chaos, becoming part of the small flames flickering in the wreckage.

"Fugitive-1, report!" Han called into the radio.

"All good, Falcon, I'm here," Go Rien's voice came back, as his TIE fighter flew over them.

Han glanced at the radar screen.

"Go Rien, do you know why the base is so quiet? Your buddies are here. The sky's full of ships. Too many to count. Let's get out of here!"

In the valley surrounded by towering mountains, the residents of the lakeside town were oblivious to the brief siege and the subsequent takeover. Life carried on quietly, both above and below ground. Han and Mielta spent a week together, finally alone. They wandered through the forests, hiked the mountains, and swam in the lake.

The bounty hunter left them alone, returning to the prefectural base to discuss the events with the new, temporarily appointed prefect, Admiral Romer, who led the besieging fleet—and to secure permission for the Millennium Falcon to leave the planet. Before he departed, they had to settle one delicate matter: the fate of the weapons.

Solo had hidden nearly two hundred rifles in the secret compartment beneath the main corridor after emptying the containers to make room for everyone. The twice-smuggled weapons lay there, bound in hefty bales by strong straps. He planned to sell them to the rebel Qua clan for a good price—as compensation for the previous deal's failure.

"Tell me, Solo," asked the bounty hunter on the first morning, "what do you intend to do with that ton of weapons you pilfered from the containers?"

"What are you talking about, Go Rien? What weapons?" the Corellian feigned ignorance.

"I'm talking about the approximately one-tonne worth of Imperial-made infantry laser rifles stored in the secret compartment under the main corridor."

"Oh, those," Han said, feigning surprise. He rubbed his chin, pretending to ponder. "Well, I thought I'd sell them. They're just unnecessary weight otherwise, right?"

"Yes, Solo. But they belong to the Empire," Go Rien pointed out.

"Those!? But they're my crew's personal reserve weapons," Han protested with feigned outrage.

"Two hundred of them!? Solo, your ship can't even hold twenty people, let alone two hundred!" The bounty hunter barely suppressed his laughter but continued, "You stole those weapons."

"I? They've always been on the ship; you just didn't notice them!" Han retorted.

The bounty hunter persisted, "I'll tell you something, Solo: remember those eight containers you transported? Well, someone was hiding in the eighth one. How do you think they got there, and more importantly, when? The truth is, Solo, I traveled to the Prefecture on the Falcon: I was there and saw everything when you prepared the containers…"

"I don't want to hear any more!" Solo snapped. "Are we partners or not? I delivered the containers as per the order… or almost. The main thing is, the client received them and had no complaints about their contents. So don't bother; you can't prove anything!"

Go Rien waited patiently for Solo to finish his outburst, then quietly said, "I just wanted to mention that I took out about two dozen rifles from my container too—it would be worth selling those as well. They're in the lounge, behind the cabinet under the fire extinguisher."

"Thanks," Han muttered and sulkily walked away.

The week passed quickly. Despite enjoying Mielta's company immensely, the captain longed to return to space. That was his true home: the infinite expanse with its millions of planetary islands. He both awaited and dreaded the bounty hunter's return. The longer Go Rien took, the more precious time he had with Mielta, yet his longing for the stars grew stronger. He didn't try to persuade her to join him; he knew it would be futile. A Qua warrior never leaves their people or their cause—even if she happens to be a woman.

Go Rien arrived right on time, to the minute. A small Imperial shuttle brought him, as he had returned the TIE fighter to its rightful owner, the planetary garrison of Quaron III.

He greeted Chewbacca, Mielta, and Scarpa with a broad smile, then handed Han Solo a small box containing the exit permit data.

"When can you have the Falcon ready for space travel?" he inquired tactfully about the departure time.

"We can take off within an hour," Han promised. "First, we'll head back to Virgill, where you'll arrange Gritt's release and ensure we get our dock back to repair my ship." The bounty hunter nodded.

"With the four thousand credits from the weapons deal," Solo continued, "I think I can persuade the guy to fix everything up. It might actually cost three times that, but I did him a favor once, and since then..." Chewbacca's laughter interrupted his words.

"Shut up!" the Corellian snapped.

The Wookiee fell silent but continued to shake with stifled laughter. "And what's your plan?" Han asked.

The bounty hunter shrugged. "There are many leads. Let's start with Virgill. Remember the seals on the shipping manifests?"

"The governor?!" Solo exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yes, I believe Governor Virgill is involved too..."

"I always knew he was a scumbag!" Scarpa interjected, pointing his finger.

The bounty hunter paused momentarily, then continued undisturbed, "This is a broader rebellion than we thought. I believe it's a military coup orchestrated by some Imperial elite. However, I'm certain that the central figure is 'The First.' I won't reveal his name yet, but he's learned a lot from both the Emperor and Darth Vader. He's not a Dark Jedi yet, but he might become one soon. It's a shame he's turned against the Empire!"

"I can understand that," Solo chimed in.

"And there's one more thing: the Star Rider."

"I noticed it disappeared," Han quipped.

"I searched the base's and the admiral's archives: recorded transmissions show that someone named Marl, who was the Hammer's first officer, took it. I looked into him but only found out that he received some sort of secret Imperial training. He has a dozen marines with him, and if my sources are correct, the stolen ship isn't just a primitive vessel. That means this man could be dangerous! The base's radar measurements indicate that he's following my Storm. This means we have another player in the game. Until we know which side he's on, it's more of a nuisance than a joy."

He shrugged again.

"Then I'll be waiting on the Falcon," he said quietly and walked away.

Han turned to Mielta. He felt quite emotional, and he hated himself for it. "Well... I have to go," he said awkwardly. The girl nodded.

"I know," she replied.

"Then maybe..."

"Shh!" Mielta interrupted, pressing her hand against his lips. "Don't promise what you can't keep!"

She removed her hand and kissed him.

"Take this with you. This, and my memory!" she requested, her voice breaking, then she ran off.

Solo watched her for a long time until she disappeared down the street from which they had once spied on the besieged Millennium Falcon. Then he walked up to his battered ship.

Just over an hour later, the smuggler's ship rose from the center of the square, accelerating towards the sky.

Mielta watched its ascent from the edge of the square when the Markh spoke behind her:

"Maybe he'll come back someday."

But the girl shook her head.

"He won't come back. Never!" she declared firmly. "This isn't his world, it's not his life. He's a true, incorrigible adventurer. One day, perhaps, there will be a woman who can keep him, who he will stay with. But that woman isn't me!" she said and turned away to hide her tears from the Markh—because a warrior never cries, only the woman does.

Afterword

Dear Reader,

This story ends here, for now. But don't be disheartened! If you're eager to know more about the future of Han Solo and Go Rien Moss's mission, whether the First and the Second are truly different individuals, if Scarpa will ever meet Governor Virgill to give him a piece of his mind, if you want to find out who the brilliant Marl is, and what happened to Caspar, the real captain of the Star Rider—and last but not least, if you're curious whether Han Solo will return to being the well-known smuggler captain or continue as an Imperial agent… Well, I can tell you this: there will be a continuation.

I promise!

The Author