Han Solo and the Bounty Hunters, a star wars fanfic

217 Han Solo and the Bounty Hunters

Han Solo and the Bounty Hunters

Dale Avery

Han Solo and the Bounty Hunters

STAR WARS: HAN SOLO és a FEJVADÀSZOK

(original title: Han Solo and the Bounty Hunters)

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.

Chapter One

Han Solo admired the Millennium Falcon with pride. The ship looked more battered and worn than ever, but at least it was operational again. The recent adventure on Quaron III had taken a severe toll on the old girl! Han couldn't remember a time when they had come so close to having the Falcon fall apart beneath them. The engines' cooling system had failed, the shield generator was down, and there were countless other minor issues.

Chewbacca, his hulking Wookiee first mate, let out a low growl of contentment. They both recalled the tense moments when Imperial marines had attacked them. Every hit the ship took felt like a personal wound. Now, the Falcon stood before them, fully repaired. "Gritt's got magic hands," Han remarked, praising the stocky little man in the dirty yellow coveralls. "One of the best mechanics in the galaxy... definitely the best in this sector! He really patched her up, right, Chewie?"

That was an exaggeration, of course. Han and Chewbacca had done most of the work, with Gritt providing essential tools and expertise for the delicate repairs. Chewbacca nodded enthusiastically.

Gritt finished inspecting the thrusters and signaled that everything was fine: no micro-fractures. He pushed aside the tool cart loaded with the hypersensitive material tester and approached them.

"Well, Solo," he spread his arms, "the major repairs are done. Everything checks out, all systems go."

"Thanks," the captain nodded, pulling out a bundle of crumpled bills from his pocket. He handed it over. "I know it's not enough, buddy... but it's all I can muster right now. Just add it to my tab; I'll square things up eventually.

Gritt waved dismissively. "Come on, Solo, don't kid me! You saved me from twenty years of hard labor. They had already passed the sentence!"

Han shook his head. "No, Gritt. That sentence wouldn't have happened if I hadn't brought the Empire down on you."

"Forget it, Solo. I was the fool who brought them to you!"

The captain wisely kept to himself the fact that the man who once handed Gritt over to the authorities was the same person who had arranged his release just a month ago. That man was Go Rien Moss, an Imperial-trained bounty hunter, the second-best in his field—or so he claimed.

At this moment, Moss was somewhere in the governor's mansion, engaged in a delicate task: spying on a high-ranking official. In fact, he was investigating the governor himself, the supreme authority of the Virgill sector. Han bitterly reflected on how nice it would be to have disputes with cobblers or tailors instead of high-profile targets. Moss had accused the governor of treason. But it wasn't that simple...

It began—or so Han had heard—when the Empire's top bounty hunter had mysteriously killed several soldiers and high-ranking officials, then fled the imperial city. The brass had no choice but to send the Second, Go Rien Moss, after him. Moss tracked him to Quaron III, where, unfortunately for Han, he too was present. Moss, using a mix of threats and persuasion, convinced Han to play bait. By then, the First, traveling incognito, had become the planet's governor, and was using Imperial forces to fend off his pursuers. In the ensuing battle, Han and Moss only partially succeeded. They caught and killed the First's right-hand man, Russ, a dark side Force user. But the main enemy stole Moss's state-of-the-art ship, the Storm, and escaped. They hoped to track him down here on Virgill. The seal found on a traitorous document proved the governor was a rebel. Moss suspected a high-level internal military coup aiming to assassinate the Emperor and establish an even darker Empire.

Two things worried Han in this whole mess: One, why was he involved when he hated the Empire and always had? Why protect it? Two, he still wasn't sure if the story was true or if he was just the victim of a brilliant ruse: there might be no First or Second, just Go Rien Moss playing both roles, using Han for his own dark purposes.

Gritt's assistant's shout snapped Han from his thoughts: "Ship incoming at the dock! It radioed in: it's the brushhead!"

"Go Rien?" Solo was surprised. "He left on foot; what's he gotten into now?"

The others recognized the rhetorical nature of the question and wisely kept silent.

Soon, they heard a growing hum from above, raising Han's suspicion. "Listen, Gritt," he called to the mechanic, "hear that sick thruster sound? I don't know what kind of ship the brushhead's got now, but it's no luxury yacht, that's for sure!"

Reality exceeded their imaginations. A massive freighter—about ten times the size of the Falcon—floated over the dock. Rusty, with missing panels exposing dangling pipes and cables flapping in the wind like flags. Smoke trailed from several cracks.

"What is that?" Solo pointed up in confusion.

"I don't know," Gritt shook his head, "but I can tell you what it was: a B8 freighter. But that must've been a long time ago!"

"If that's a B8 series model, as I suspect," the Corellian said with a hint of skepticism, "then we've got a rare antique on our hands. Never figured Go Rien for someone who'd get into restoring old ships."

Chewbacca growled, suggesting something entirely different was at play; he feared the restoration wouldn't fall solely on the bounty hunter.

Further speculation was cut short by the deafening noise of the arriving freighter's landing. Solo hoped fervently this wouldn't be the moment the old bucket failed and crashed onto the refurbished Falcon.

When the dust settled and the rumbling stopped, no one would have believed that the B8 in the dock had flown within the last century. A blonde, bristle-haired man appeared at the top of the squeaky ramp.

"Greetings, Han Solo!" he shouted down. "What do you think of my new ship?"

Han shrugged. "Your call, Go Rien; the Storm seemed more modern to me!"

The newcomer walked down the ramp. "Just kidding, Solo; it's actually for you."

"Nice gift!" the captain acknowledged. "Hope you didn't spend much on it."

The other man waved dismissively. "It was practically free!"

"Couldn't have been cheap," the captain muttered under his breath but refrained from further comments to avoid offending the giver.

When they all gathered in the dock's small lounge around a worn plastic table, the bounty hunter provided more details.

"This B8 freighter is essential for my next plan"

"I'm glad to hear that," Solo interjected. "Who's going to fly it?"

"You!"

"No way!" Han shook his head adamantly. "I'll follow you in the Falcon... from a safe distance."

"The two suggestions are nearly identical," the bristle-haired man assured calmly.

"How's that possible?" the captain questioned, rightfully skeptical as the scenario Go Rien painted was beyond his wildest nightmares.

"By integrating the B8 with your ship."

"You mean the Falcon?" Han sought confirmation before lashing out.

The bristle-haired man nodded.

Everyone in the room expected an outburst from the captain, a fury turning his face red, but he spoke quietly instead. "You're crazy, Go Rien!"

The other man responded with words that had become a catchphrase between them. "Many have said that!"

The Corellian forced a smile, prompting the bounty hunter to feel pity.

"Look, Solo," he began, "let me explain. It's not as bad as you think. The key is we need to secure a state transport contract issued by the Virgill governor. If we show up in the Falcon, not only will we lose the job, but we'll also get arrested. Remember, the man's an ally of the First: he likely knows all about you and your ship."

"But this hunk of junk?" Han gestured out the window. "You couldn't have bought something more operational?"

The bristle-haired man spread his arms. "It's all the money I had," he replied. "The rest was on my ship; now it enriches the First."

The captain waved dismissively. "Alright, lay it on me. But don't get your hopes up—I'll probably turn you down."

The bounty hunter continued. "I've been snooping around the governor's mansion: The First was here, but he's moved on. Unfortunately, I couldn't find out where. However, I did discover that recently, a state shipment was robbed during a raid. The method, the timing, the high-powered weapons all support my suspicion."

"Which is?" Han prompted.

"My suspicion is that the robbery was carried out by Imperial stormtroopers in disguise."

The Corellian's eyes lit up with interest. "Now that's suspicious!" he agreed. "What were they hauling?"

"Building materials!" Go Rien declared as if he were talking about drugs.

Solo's enthusiasm waned. "I was expecting something more serious," he said.

"More serious?! Nothing could be more serious, Solo!" the other man snapped. "The whole point is in what you consider trivial! Think about it: why would stormtroopers in disguise steal something as worthless as building materials?"

"Obviously, they're building something," Solo suggested.

"Exactly! And secretly, otherwise, they'd purchase the supplies!"

"So?"

"So, we've found the First's trail; he's building a new base!"

"Yeah, makes sense," Han nodded. "But the minute we found it, we lost it again. No clue which planet he stashed the goods on."

"We don't know yet," Go Rien emphasized. "But we will! We'll set a trap for him!"

Han Solo's mind raced. "Wait!" he shouted. "I see what you're up to, Go Rien! We haul the next shipment with the Falcon in disguise. Let him rob us, then we just track where he takes the loot!"

"Exactly," the bounty hunter nodded approvingly. "And now be smart, Han Solo; do you know what we'll be transporting?"

The captain squinted, thinking hard. "Not building materials, or you wouldn't have asked. Let's see—what else is needed for construction?"

He paused, and the other man could almost see the gears turning in his head. "Got it!" Han finally exclaimed. "Labor! But we can't transport workers because they aren't shipped from planet to planet. He must be on a sparsely populated planet to keep his project secret."

He fell silent. "I know what we'll transport, Go Rien," he said after a pause. "Labor droids!"

"Congratulations, Han Solo!" grinned the bristle-haired man. "Not many would have figured that out!"

Han ignored the compliment, his forehead furrowed with concern.

"But tell me, where are we gonna find that many abandoned labor droids?" he pressed.

"From the shipment for which we need to secure the transport rights," the bounty hunter smiled.

Han nodded appreciatively.

"You're brilliant, Go Rien! Crazy, but brilliant!"

"Thank you," the other man nodded. "Where's Inspector Scarpa now? We'll need his help to get into the governor's computer system and add ourselves to the trusted transporters list."

"He's requested an audience with the governor," Solo replied. "As I recall, he has something to tell him."

Lieutenant Scarpa stepped through the massive faux-marble doors of the governor's palace. The expansive hall's floor was adorned with an intricate star map inlaid with stone sourced from across the sector. A doorman in a splendid uniform approached, and the black-armored guards on the steps turned their attention to him, weapons included.

"Your entry permit, please!" the uniformed man demanded.

Scarpa's eyes caught on the gold braids and decorations.

"Nice uniform," he complimented.

"I know," the man nodded. "Your permit, please!"

"Alright, alright!" the ex-sergeant huffed. "I wasn't trying to chat with you!" He handed over the stamped document. The doorman scanned the lines.

"A personal audience?!" he exclaimed. "I don't envy you," a hint of sympathy in his voice.

"I requested it myself," the inspector clarified.

"Then you're crazy," the doorman muttered under his breath, but Scarpa was already hurrying past and didn't hear him.

He wasn't surprised the governor saw him on the first request—given recent events, it was expected. He was prepared for cross-examinations, alternating threats, and promises. But he knew none of it would work, as he had already decided what to say—and what not to say!

He knew the layout, having been here once before on a similar occasion—this time, he relished how different it would be. The governor's office was separated from the corridor by a door of real wood, thickly upholstered on the inside. The carvings depicted the great deeds of great men, suggesting a similar authority worked within.

Scarpa nodded to the guards and knocked. "Yes, who is it?" barked a voice from the intercom. The lieutenant cleared his throat.

"Uh, Lieutenant Scarpa here!"

"Lieutenant?! Last time you were a sergeant!" the voice reprimanded.

"Since then, uh, I've been promoted, sir!"

"Really?! You don't say!" The inspector felt flustered.

"So, uh... sir, may I come in?"

"Come in, Sergeant!" the other man agreed, and the door opened with a soft hum.

Behind it was an opulently furnished office. Everywhere were solid gold statues and priceless furniture; such items always unsettled Scarpa.

"Well, Scarpa," spoke the imposing, obese man behind the desk, "what do you want?"

"I came to tell you something," the visitor began resolutely but then faltered: the few words he had walked here to say wouldn't come out. The governor leaned forward, sunlight glinting off his bald head.

"Let's hear it, Scarpa; spit it out already!"

No, he couldn't say it.

"Nothing," he stammered. "I just thought I should report, you know, since I was kidnapped!"

"I know," the other replied indifferently. "What do you wish to tell me about the case, Sergeant?"

"Well," the inspector faltered completely, "actually, I think, nothing special."

"I suspected as much," the governor nodded, leaning even further forward. "You know, Scarpa, I've told you before, and I'll repeat it: the problem with you is, you're a useless coward! Get out!"

The inspector felt crushed—he hadn't expected to hear those words again, especially from the governor. He might have tried to soften the blow with a few words, but the governor leaped from his seat—the heavy chair toppled—and started shouting.

"You're fired from the police, Scarpa! Get out! Out!" His finger pointed at the door. "Get out of here!"

The now ex-officer staggered from the room.

Melory Larso Rogow, the governor of Virgill, nearly fell over as he tried to sit back in the toppled chair. He cursed and rang for his secretary.

"Send Mort to me immediately!" he ordered when the assistant appeared at the door.

Mort, a small, thin, middle-aged man, was the governor's absolute confidant. Many called him simply an assassin. He didn't take long; within five minutes, he was stepping through the ornate door.

"Mort!" Melory Larso Rogow barked, skipping the greeting. "Why do I pay you?"

"To fulfill your special wishes, sir," replied the small, fox-faced man.

"And tell me, Mort, do I pay you well?"

"No complaints, sir."

"Then fulfill another wish: kill that idiot who just left!"

Mort smiled slyly. "The secretary, sir?"

The governor growled. "Don't play games with me, or I'll halve your pay on the spot! Of course, not the secretary; Scarpa, that moron cop!"

"Yes, sir!" the assassin nodded and left the room.

Melory Larso Rogow leaned back in his chair, satisfied, and twisted the wide, jeweled gold rings on his fingers.

Marl, the former first mate of the star destroyer Hammer, had been feeling increasingly uneasy for days. He leaned against the wall of a rundown bar in the outskirts of Virgill, waiting for a table to free up for him and his two hulking companions.

Weeks had passed since they lost track of the small, ray-shaped spaceship, and since then, with no better ideas, they had been scouring the city, hoping to find something or someone who could help. It was an exhausting task, and as the days went by with no results, the chances of ever finding the bounty hunter dwindled.

"I've had enough!" one of the giant marines growled, and stomped over to the nearest table. He grabbed a chair and yanked it out from under a burly thug lounging in it. The man crashed hard onto the metal floor.

"Get lost!" the marine suggested. "We want to sit!"

The thug's companion leaped up and reached for his weapon. But the marine was ready: his first kick knocked the pistol from the man's hand, and the second sent him flying across to the far table.

That ended the confrontation, as the two criminals grumbled and scurried away.

Marl and his men took the now vacant table. The young officer smiled at the ragtag clothes of his bear-like companions. Part of their attire was a comical mix of street clothes, the other part composed of tattered, camouflaged marine uniforms.

"Gentlemen," Marl began, ensuring there were no signs betraying their true identity as remnants of an Imperial unit, "I fear we've lost the bounty hunter. We need a new plan. The only contact we know he had is that smuggler captain. What's his name?"

"Han Solo," one of the marines provided.

"Han Solo, hmm... we need to find him. My instincts tell me he's nearby."

He pondered, closed his eyes, then added, "Very nearby."

A loud hiss signaled the opening of the front door, revealing a dozen rough-looking men. Their leader wore a tattered, floor-length brown leather coat; next to him was the overweight man who had been thrown from his chair. The group gathered in the center of the bar as the fat man animatedly pointed towards Marl's table.

One of the marines, as if yawning, brought his hand to his mouth and spoke softly into the communicator hidden in his palm: "Bear-1 to Bear-2 and Bear-3!" The other groups responded immediately.

"Get to the bar at the corner of B118 and B63. The place is called Elektrosokk. We've got a situation!"

The others assured him they loved a good fight and would be there in minutes.

The leather-clad man and his crew approached. The leader stopped right in front of Marl, while the others fanned out, half-surrounding the table.

"I don't like your face!" the leather-clad man snarled at Marl.

"Well, the feeling's mutual," the young officer replied.

The stranger leaned in close, right in Marl's disguised face. "You're not sober, kid! Looking for trouble? Now apologize and scram from our table!"

At that moment, his men, as if on cue, pulled out knives, laser cutters, and clubs from their clothes. But the disguised marines didn't miss the more serious weapons hidden under the fabric. Marl stood up, almost as tall as the thug.

"If you don't mind, I'll step aside," he said, gesturing to the bears. "Take your issues up with my men."

The thug stared at him, then, with surprising speed, punched Marl in the jaw. Marl fell back onto his chair, then to the floor, his head buzzing, a thin stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth—he tasted iron.

The bears sprang to their feet. One grabbed the heavy metal table and hurled it into the attackers. The other wielded a pair of plastic chairs, smashing them down on anyone who dared approach. But the favorable start quickly turned into a dire situation: the thugs all drew pistols and fired without hesitation at the marines, who expertly dove for cover.

Marl found himself standing in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by the enemy's gunfire, yet they didn't see him as a real threat, so no one targeted him.

By now, the two marines were returning fire, and with laser beams slicing through the smoky bar air, the other patrons joined the firefight—on the thugs' side. It seemed everyone around here had a blaster!

Things were looking grim. Despite the marines' deadly accuracy, the odds were overwhelming. They could barely move from their cramped cover.

Then the next pair of marines arrived. Seeing the firefight through the windows and hearing the pulse of blasters, they used a well-practiced ambush technique, entering straight through the windows.

Their appearance caused panic and confusion among the enemies. After all, they were not soldiers, just common gangsters. The high-powered infantry weapons took a heavy toll on them, especially when the next pair of bears arrived. Continuous laser beams shredded the furniture into small fragments, and the six marines formed a tight circle in the middle of the bar. Marl, standing in the center with a bleeding lip, felt reasonably safe among them.

Solo carefully stepped up the ramp of the rundown starship.

"You sure this thing won't collapse?" he asked the bounty hunter. "Go Rien, don't step on it until I get up there—safety first."

"Don't joke, Solo," the other replied. "This ship is still functional!"

"Opinions differ," the Corellian muttered under his breath, but since he reached the airlock safely, he made no further comments. At the top, he encountered a sturdy door with interlocking wings resembling comb teeth.

"What's this, Go Rien?" he asked as the man joined him. "B8 tugs don't come with this kind of equipment."

The other shrugged. "Maybe I didn't make such a bad purchase with this ship after all, Solo."

The captain shook his head vigorously. "Don't jump to conclusions! An airlock door is just the start—there's way more to a ship than that. Engines, thrusters, navigation systems, you name it."

"Thank you for the lesson," the bristle-haired man said with mock politeness. "But can we move inside?"

Han Solo nodded and opened the door with a single press of a button. Beyond it, they saw a long corridor dimly lit by weak light sources. The worn, dark metal walls, missing panels, and the gap-filled grating on the floor presented a dismal sight. The Corellian stopped in his tracks, startled.

"Look, Go Rien, I didn't have high hopes for the interior, but reality surpasses my imagination."

He gestured widely around. "This is definitely a ghost ship!"

The bounty hunter shook his head indignantly. He stepped to the corridor wall and tapped the metal with his finger. Large chunks of paint fell off like enamel from a rusted pot.

"I admit it's shabby," he confessed, sweeping the paint chips into the floor grates. "But what's so ghostly about it?"

"The fact that it's still flying," Solo shot back and continued toward the ship's control center.

They passed an engine room crammed with enormous, rusty engines. Through the open door, the captain glimpsed a control panel filled with green and red lights. The green lights indicated flawless operation, while the red lights signaled malfunctions. Except for one, the panel was bathed in an eerie, blood-red glow.

Driven by his insatiable curiosity, Han entered the room to determine which system was working perfectly.

It was the humidity control system!

"At least we won't sweat when we try to take off," he mused. "Though cold sweat is still sweat," he added.

But when he saw the cockpit, his humor vanished. His eyes swept over the broken displays, the inactive computer screens, and the torn upholstery of the pilot's seat. He summed up his thoughts in one sentence.

"Go Rien, considering you flew this ship here, I must admit, I underestimated your piloting skills."

The bounty hunter had no response, knowing that agreeing would acknowledge his poor purchasing skills. But Solo didn't wait for an answer and continued.

"Alright, let's start the repairs. This will be a massive job. But I insist on one thing..."

The bounty hunter waited with interest.

"...that I get to name the ship."

"And what's that?" asked Gritt, arriving in his perpetually dirty yellow coveralls.

"I'd like to call it Bedlam because anyone willing to travel on this ship has to be out of their mind."

Scarpa, the ex-cop, trudged through the streets of Virgill with his head hanging low. People occasionally bumped into him, and he would mutter an apology without even looking up, continuing his slow march. He mourned his beautiful uniform, which had been ripped off him back at the governor's palace and replaced with a cheap, plastic outfit welded together at the seams. All he had left from his old life were the two silver stars he now clutched in his hand—he had to fight to keep those, insisting they were his personal property and not government issue.

He was still brooding over the recent events when a short, fox-faced man bumped into him. The narrow, needle-sharp blade of a knife silently pierced the plastic coat.

Scarpa barely registered the pain stabbing into his side and looked at the short man. He saw satisfaction and a perverse joy on his face.

Mort grinned and pressed a tiny button built into the knife's handle. A miniature pump began its work, injecting the deadly poison from the ampoule into Scarpa's body...

When a tall man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a floor-length coat grabbed the assassin's wrist, yanking the blade from the wound. The deadly liquid sprayed from the weapon's tip in a long arc.

Recognizing the danger posed by the newcomer, Mort pulled free from the man's grip and fled, the knife still pulsing poison. The man in the hat let him go.

"I'm Caspar," he introduced himself, offering an arm to the staggering Scarpa. "You may have heard of me, I'm the former captain of the Star Rider."

The ex-cop muttered a greeting, trying to stay conscious despite his pale face.

Caspar used a device in his wristwatch to summon an automated air taxi. They got in, and Scarpa groaned loudly with each movement, only quieting down once inside the vehicle.

"You know where to find Han Solo, don't you?" Caspar asked. "Tell me the address, and I'll take us there."

The injured man stammered out the information, and the taxi lifted off.

"Thank you for your help," Scarpa said after a while. "I don't understand why this happened. I don't have any enemies, and I don't think I look wealthy enough to be worth attacking in broad daylight."

"That ugly man has been following you since the governor's palace," Caspar explained.

"How do you know that?" Scarpa was surprised.

"I've been trailing you since then, too."

The ex-cop shook his head, puzzled. "But why?"

"Because I knew you were connected to Han Solo."

Scarpa nodded, as if everything made sense. "Han Solo," he repeated, dejected. "He's the source of all my troubles!" He waved a hand. "Of course, you've known him for a long time; I don't need to introduce him."

Caspar nodded uncertainly.

A few minutes later, the small air vehicle descended onto the street next to the dock where the Millennium Falcon was hidden. Caspar paid the fare, then helped the desperately whining Scarpa out of the cab.

They entered the dock.

The first person they saw was Chewbacca, busy working around the Falcon. The massive, fur-covered creature balanced atop a shaky ladder, trying to clean the starship's steel-glass cockpit window.

"Greetings, First Mate Chewbacca!" Caspar called out.

The Wookiee's cleaning rag froze in his hand, and the ladder wobbled beneath him. The hairy creature quickly grabbed hold of an outcropping on the ship, but his attempt to steady the ladder with his legs failed. He hung there, legs flailing in the air, cursing loudly in Wookiee.

Then, with the ease of a giant ape, he dropped to the ground. He stared at the man in the hat and coat in shock, then let out a tremendous roar to call his friend.

When Han Solo, blaster in hand, appeared in the tug's airlock door, the Wookiee still stood there, staring motionless at the unexpected guest.

It took Han a moment to recognize who was waiting below on the dock's concrete floor.

"Caspar!" he finally shouted. "What the hell happened to you? We thought... well, you know... we had practically given up on you."

A moment of confusion crossed the man's face, then he also shouted, "Solo! Long time no see! You okay?"

Han hurried down the ominously creaking ramp.

"Fine! You know me, always hanging in there, at least as best as I can." The other man smiled.

"I was thinking," the captain continued, "maybe we can let bygones be bygones and be friends again."

"I... I never really held a grudge, Solo," Caspar hesitated.

"It didn't look that way from the outside!" Han laughed.

"Well, I was a bit angry, that's true," Caspar admitted, awkwardly rubbing his chin.

Han Solo studied the formerly fearsome, confident smuggler captain with curiosity. If he didn't see Caspar standing there with his own eyes, he might think it was an imposter. But such a resemblance was impossible: this was Caspar. If Caspar it was, then Caspar it is, he concluded.

Still, he wasn't cautious enough not to ask, "Tell me, Caspar: what happened to you?"

"Why do you ask?" the other man smiled foolishly.

"You seem... different."

Caspar's face darkened under the brim of his hat. "You know, Solo," he seemed ready for a sincere confession, "I can't remember things. My past is like a shattered mirror, always reflecting bits of myself in tiny fragments, but never the whole picture. I think they call it partial amnesia. Maybe it's the mind probe."

"They hooked you up to a mind probe?!" the Corellian exclaimed with undisguised outrage.

Caspar shrugged helplessly. "What else could have happened?"

Sympathy flickered across Han's face. "How can I help you? Do you remember your ship, the Star Rider?"

A firm nod.

"And Quaron III?"

"That's where I lost my ship!" Caspar exclaimed. "I remember the governor's secretary. He did this to me!" A brief pause, then an uncertain question, "Russ?"

"Yes, Russ. He was a vile little worm. He had certain special abilities. I didn't think they could affect you."

"Why not?" Caspar was surprised.

"Because he tried it on me, and it didn't end well for him." Han hinted at the circumstances of Russ's death.

Chewbacca burst into laughter, guffawing and stepping aside to not disturb the conversation. He vividly recalled the unforgettable moment when the Falcon's engine flames ignited the fuel spilled in the Governor's dock. Russ was incinerated in an instant—and rightfully so. Meanwhile, Solo and Caspar continued their discussion.

"Russ is dead," Han said. "And your ship was taken by an Imperial fleet officer with some marines."

"So, what should I do now, Solo? This man has been turned into a walking wreck," the captain observed.

"Come with us," Han suggested. "I have a feeling we'll run into the Star Rider again, maybe even soon..."

Chapter Two

The marine dressed in camouflaged rags lay prone on top of the dock's control roon. He saw and heard everything that transpired below. He knew he could expect a hefty reward from Captain Marl for finally tracking down Han Solo. What's more, the mystery of the man in the hat was now revealed.

He swiftly climbed down and dusted off his clothes.

"What were you doing up there, you hear?!" The voice behind him snapped, the slight electronic distortion giving away the speaker's identity.

The marine spun around.

"Important bi—" a shove from a metal-gloved hand cut him off, sending him sprawling against the wall.

"Shut up, punk!" ordered the distorted voice. "Don't move, don't even breathe!"

"But I..." a punch landed in his kidney. The bear started to get angry.

He closed his eyes, trying to visualize the positions of those behind him, just as Marl had taught. He felt he knew where each one was.

He spun around, knocking aside the gun barrel aimed at his waist. Grabbing the stormtrooper's arm, he twisted it, bringing the man in front of him like a human shield. He needed it, as the other trooper, following protocol, had waited further back and now opened fire. His shots hit his comrade.

The victim went limp instantly; the bear threw him at the shooter, who couldn't dodge the heavy body and fell backward, his weapon slipping from his grasp.

The marine was quicker; he snatched up the rifle and fired multiple shots into the stormtrooper's chest at point-blank range.

He hurried away from the scene. His massive size cleared a path even through the densest crowd. He passed by all sorts of strange creatures—some seemed like grotesque caricatures. Human imagination, as had been established many times, paled next to nature. The populace of galactic spaceports like Virgill gave the impression of a surrealist group portrait.

He didn't notice the small, fox-faced figure tailing him.

His winding route through narrow streets ended at a rundown corner dive. He found it in ruins, swarming with stormtroopers. He didn't understand what his companions had against the stormtroopers, but Captain Marl said they were now enemies—and what Captain Marl said, went.

He immediately suspected something had happened to his comrades. He didn't see them around, which meant either they'd been captured and taken away or had managed to escape in time. He hoped for the latter.

He trudged toward the Star Rider. The ship was docked in a distant, suburban dock—they couldn't afford anything better, as they had set out on a mission, not a shopping trip. They pooled what little they had and gave it to Captain Marl, who managed their funds and was very cautious about spending.

Only Chewbacca, blessed with a Wookiee's keen hearing, reacted to the sound of laser pistols whining from the street. Like a crazed, gigantic ape, he rushed toward the dock gate, expertly drawing his bowcaster from his shoulder.

Outside, he stumbled upon the corpses of stormtroopers—white bodies in pools of red. They lay in the street dust, their armor marred by scorch-edged holes.

Han Solo, the bounty hunter, and Caspar arrived, with Gritt trailing behind.

"They were both shot from the front," Go Rien observed. "And from very close range," he added after a brief inspection.

"So, it wasn't an ambush," Caspar summarized.

Solo watched the two men incredulously, then suddenly exploded in anger: "This is crazy! Two Imperial stormtroopers were shot at our dock gate, and you're worried about whether it was an ambush or not. Doesn't anyone care about what's gonna happen when the Empire finds the bodies? They'll claim them as their dead and might even arrange their funerals; okay! But don't you think they'll investigate?! Where will they start? Across town, or the neighboring dock? Great answer, gentlemen! Too bad this isn't a holo-quiz show, so no prize for you. Yes, they'll start at the dock! And what will they find inside? Who knows? That's right: a spaceship! Not just any ship: the wanted Millennium Falcon! Now, who do you think they'll suspect as the killers?!"

"Enough, Solo!" the bounty hunter said quietly.

"Enough of what, my friend?" Solo fumed. "Listing the facts? Isn't that like burying your head in the sand?"

"These aren't facts; facts don't annoy me. It's your antics that annoy me, Solo."

The Corellian shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll just board the Falcon and fly off somewhere safer with my first mate!"

With that, he turned on his heel and hurried back into the dock.

"Gritt!" Go Rien Moss's voice cracked sharply. "You're staying with me!" The small man tried to protest, but the bounty hunter didn't give him time.

"Captain Solo's ship is already operational; they don't need a mechanic. But the B8 does, so you're coming with me. Besides, we're heading the same way as the Millennium Falcon."

"Where's that?" the mechanic asked timidly. The other shrugged.

"No idea, ask Han Solo!"

Caspar, who had been staring at the speakers with a puzzled expression, finally spoke up. "I'll come with you, Go Rien. Looks like I've missed the last flight."

And indeed, the Millennium Falcon was slowly and majestically rising from the dock. "Let's go!" the bristle-haired man commanded. "Everyone on board!"

Han Solo, Chewbacca, and the ex-inspector Scarpa watched from the Falcon's cockpit as the stormtrooper units formed attack formations in the surrounding streets.

Chewbacca growled in Wookiee, expressing his fear that their companions wouldn't have enough time to take off in their decrepit ship.

"I know, Chewie. I'm not planning to sit by and watch them get captured," Solo reassured his giant partner.

With a single motion, the Falcon surged forward, zooming over the heads of the small group rushing toward the B8, then hurtling toward the Imperials.

Panic erupted among the troops. They dived into doorways, trying to return fire with their handguns against Chewbacca's deck gun, but with little success. Their low-energy carbines were ineffective against the ship's armor, and their heavy infantry weapons were useless against such a fast-moving target.

"Yee-haw!" Han shouted, his previous grumpiness forgotten. "I love an uneven fight! Too bad it doesn't happen often."

The Wookiee muttered something about how they had often been in similar situations but usually on the losing side, with the enemy having the upper hand.

"Scarpa, if you would," the captain said cheerfully. "Keep an eye on our friends! If the B8 lifts off, we'll get out of here; I don't want to wait for the TIE fighters."

Go Rien Moss understood the situation the moment the Millennium Falcon switched from a slow ascent to a rapid, horizontal flight.

"Imperial soldiers!" he shouted. "We have to hurry!"

Han Solo would have been surprised to see the ramp hold up under the three of them as they ran up.

"Gritt, head to the engine room control panel; Caspar, come with me to the cockpit! I've heard you're a great pilot!"

The man in the hat nodded uncertainly, seemingly unaffected by his comrades' excitement.

"I was once; what's left of those skills...?" He shrugged.

The bounty hunter sighed in resignation and continued running through the maze of dark, decrepit hallways toward the control cabin. He passed the engine room and then the spacious tractor beam generator chamber. On the right, about a dozen airtight crew room doors opened.

A sharp turn brought him to the door he sought. He opened it, stepped inside, and threw himself into the tattered pilot's seat.

"Gritt, can you hear me?" he spoke into the internal communicator.

"Loud and clear, boss," the mechanic's voice came through. "Are you sure this thing can still take off? There's not a single intact system on this ship."

"Don't exaggerate, Gritt," he admonished. "The internal humidity regulator works perfectly. Now let's try to get the engines fired up!"

"Start with a quarter power!" came the reply.

"Okay," the bounty hunter agreed. "Do it!"

A terrifying tremor began, making it seem like the ship would fall apart any second.

"That's too much!" the mechanic opined.

"Keep the power steady!" Go Rien commanded. "We don't have time to be cautious."

"Overheating, unacceptable resonance levels!" the small man shouted through the speakers. "On a normal ship, the onboard computer would shut it down by now!"

"Fortunately, that's not working either," the Bristle-haired man replied coolly.

Gritt had no more objections left and decided to tell the truth.

"Look, Go Rien, I acknowledge this is your ship, and you can do what you want; but my life's at stake here too!"

"It's too late to bail, mechanic! Do as I say, and you'll survive!"

The B8 shook more violently but showed no signs of lifting off. Go Rien knew they had to take more risks.

"Increase power by a quarter," he ordered.

"Half power? You're insane! We're all going to die!"

He detected the panic rising in the other man's voice. He recalled his studies on human psychology to choose the right tone. He decided that in their current situation, the best approach was to break the other's will and temporarily turn him into an extension of his own, a sort of flesh-and-blood robot.

"Silence!" he barked at the mechanic, using the Force to project his angry visage into the man's mind.

The unfortunate soul was terrified by the sudden vision and stared blankly into the air.

The Imperial bounty hunter continued.

"You will do exactly as I say!" his voice exuded immense authority. "If you deviate from my instructions, I'll crush you, Gritt!"

The simple mechanic couldn't resist such strong mental aggression.

"Half power," Go Rien said softly, and the other man immediately complied, as he would have with any order.

Surprisingly, the resonance decreased, and the loosened parts tightened under the increased pressure, while some already damaged units finally gave out, some catching fire. But the B8 began to lift off.

"They're airborne!" Scarpa shouted.

Han, who was deeply engrossed in the fight, sadly realized the fun was over.

"One last run for good measure! Okay, Chewie?" he suggested with a flushed face.

The Wookiee roared in agreement.

The Falcon swooped down again, true to its name. Its claws, the high-energy laser beams, cut through the enemy. They faced little resistance.

The stormtroopers hadn't moved an inch since the ship began circling overhead. Officers yelled at the terrified soldiers, firing their weapons among them—to no avail. Only one group, recruited and trained on Quaron III, advanced methodically toward the dock with minimal casualties. They had almost reached the gate when a massive, decrepit freighter rose from the dock's depths and slowly lumbered skyward, inching through the distance to the clouds above.

Mebry Larso Rogow's special transmitter crackled on his desk. Signals, encoded into secret codes and transmitted on frequencies inaccessible to regular devices, came through. The fat man immediately grabbed the receiver.

"This is Central! Go ahead!" he spoke into it.

"This is Agent," came the First's voice through the tiny speaker. "Your men botched the job, Central! I'm not happy about it!"

"Let's be clear," the governor advised. "They were your men, not mine!"

"They were under your command. That's where I see the failure."

"Interesting perspective. And how are things on your end?"

A brief silence.

"I'm with the Hawks. Our destination is currently unknown."

"What do you want me to do now?"

"Sit tight, Central, and maybe you won't screw things up! And don't send your entire planet's TIE fighters after us, because I intend to survive this little adventure!"

"You're violating code protocol, bounty hunter!"

"And you're an asshole, governor!"

With that, the transmission ended.

Rogow stared ahead angrily. It was outrageous how much that man dared—he fumed. For now, he needed him, but that wouldn't last forever—he reminded himself. And then—his hand clenched into a fist—then it's the end of the line. Mort wouldn't be enough for this, that was clear; but it was all just a matter of organization. Anyone could be eliminated—life had taught him that basic truth. It was all a matter of organization and money.

Once the local fleet was on his side, once the corrupt officials of the imperial capital were in his pocket, he'd pass the shipment of worker droids to the bounty hunter this time. After that, circumstances might suddenly change drastically!

The secretary entered. "Sir, Mort has returned," he reported. The governor waved to let him in.

"Well, Mort?" he turned with a menacing look to the short, fox-faced man. "Did you kill that idiot yet?"

The other shook his head.

"You're joking, Mort; you know I hate jokes." The assassin cleared his throat.

"Scarpa is still alive, sir. But I have more important news," he tried to divert attention from the delicate matter. Successfully, the obese man took the bait. "What are you talking about, Mort?" he asked curiously.

"Sir, beyond what we know, someone else is playing in your game. Someone whose existence we weren't even aware of."

The governor leaned forward over the desk with interest. "Who is it? Tell me!"

"I don't know, sir," the fox-faced man admitted. Melory Larso Rogow couldn't believe his ears.

"What did you say?"

"I don't know who the person is, sir," the assassin repeated slowly.

"You're an imbecile, Mort. Do you want to be out of a job?" the obese man shook his head after a long silence. "You won't get a penny from me! Without my money, you'll starve!"

"Look, sir: I don't know who it is, but I know which dock their ship is in, and even the ship's name."

The governor was surprised.

"Why didn't you start with that?"

This time, Mort lied: "I don't know, sir."

"Alright then," the big man's tone softened, "you can keep your job and your pay. I'll handle the rest. Give me the information!"

The fox-faced man smiled inwardly—he twisted the obese nobleman around his finger whenever he wanted. Lately, it had become a sport.

"Dock 315, the ship's name is Star Rider."

Marl listened intently to the marine's report. He was impressed by how proficiently the simple soldier had carried out his mission. Not only had he returned with information without falling into a trap, but he had also set a trap for the enemy. They were seated in the Star Rider's lounge around the long, nine-person table. The captain sat at one end, while the team's technician sat at the other. The seven marines sat on either side.

Marl pondered, weighing the options. The risk was significant, but it had to be taken. This Han Solo was the only lead to the man who had ruined his career—the one he intended to take vengeance on, with ruthless retribution.

Of course, it was possible this insignificant smuggler captain might also fall victim.

He made his decision.

"We're launching an attack! Prepare the Star Rider. We're landing in their dock and taking that entire cursed, rebellious gang on board!"

The bears' grins widened at the thought of combat. At their captain's dismissive gesture, they dispersed to check their weapons and equipment.

Marl stood up too—he was wearing the long, brown leather coat taken from their attacker at the bar. He hurried to the cockpit, the technician following close behind.

"I fixed the problem with the side gun emplacements' simulation program," the man reported. "Training can start as early as tomorrow. It's amazing that every unit on this ship can operate in simulation mode. I don't know who built this vessel, but even Imperial workshops could learn from it."

"Yes, indeed," Marl nodded. "I think so too."

With that, he threw himself into the center pilot's seat of the three available. He flipped on the internal communicator switch.

"We won't wait until tomorrow," he informed the technician. "We're starting practice immediately, but this time with live ammo. The Millennium Falcon is the target."

"Attention soldiers!" he spoke into the microphone. The mission we're about to undertake is dangerous. The threat isn't the enemy but the limited time we have. We must act swiftly and efficiently. This is what I expect from you as your commander and as the captain of the Star Rider, and it's what your injured comrades expect too. Here's the plan: we're docking in the enemy's hangar. You will fire from the ship's guns at the familiar, disc-shaped starship! Ensure you don't destroy it, just disable it. Then, form up and board the ship! Do not kill; take prisoners! Bring them aboard the Star Rider, and once we've reached a safe altitude, destroy the enemy ship with cannon fire! Prepare for your task! Thank you for your attention, and good luck, soldiers!" He turned off the communicator and turned to the technician. "Take your place at the computer terminal; we're taking off!"

A few minutes later, the heavily armed and thoroughly modified freighter named Star Rider shot into the sky.

In a deserted, remote part of the Virgill system, a small spacecraft emerged from hyperspace. It was a tiny vessel, no larger than a single-pilot fighter; a rebuilt X-wing, painted midnight black. Its elongated, pointed nose was aimed toward the planet by its pilot.

Inside the cockpit, surrounded by mysterious instruments, sat a man. His skin was noticeably brown, and a carefully groomed mustache adorned his upper lip. On his knees rested a device resembling an open briefcase, connected to the fighter's central antenna by a thick cable. Data lined up on its flat, greenish screen, reporting the current location of a carefully hidden, very specialized transmitter.

Reflected in the brown-skinned man's eyes were the lights of stars, and a small, enigmatic smile played at the corner of his mouth. He knew he was close to finding what he sought. It was almost within arm's reach compared to the vast distances he had already covered.

The X-wing hurtled through space at incredible speed—a capability even its designers hadn't envisioned. Yet here it was, thanks to the person who had modified it—someone who had rebuilt many ships, some of which had become renowned across the galaxy. This X-wing was one of his masterpieces, now piloted with careful, meticulous hands.

The planet loomed closer, growing larger, gradually filling the entire viewport, and the numbers on the screen grew smaller.

The smile on the man's brown face widened.

The Millennium Falcon flew protectively over the B8. Han Solo watched the bulky freighter with a surprised smile—it still seemed incredible that it could fly.

He adjusted the DRBC, the directed radio-beam communication unit, to the other ship's antenna. The tracking electronics went to work.

"Greetings, Go Rien. This is Han Solo. If you have a DRBC system on your ship, lock onto us!"

After a few moments of silence, the communicator crackled. "Greetings, Captain Solo. Can you hear me?"

Han responded.

"I only asked," came the reply, "because I wasn't sure this equipment actually worked."

"Well, Go Rien, you don't trust your own ship!"

"That's irrelevant now, Solo. I highly respect your Falcon, but if we don't get out of here somehow, it won't matter which of us is in what condition of ship."

The Corellian laughed.

"I'm trying to imagine you shaking off those TIE fighters with the B8. Isn't that plan a bit bold, Go Rien?"

"Solo," the tone was indignant, "I wasn't planning to outrun them, but to deceive them."

"Of course, I forgot what a trickster you are! Maybe you could use the Force to turn us into clouds or hypnotize the enemy pilots."

There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by calm, measured words.

"Captain Solo, you're being unfair."

The sudden change in tone—Han didn't know why—made him instinctively reflect on the bounty hunter's words. Perhaps it was another trick. The more he thought about it, the more valid the accusation seemed.

"Well, alright," he continued, less sarcastically, "I'm afraid there's only one solution."

"Don't hold back, Solo!" the other encouraged.

"I wasn't planning on it, Go Rien, trust me. I was thinking I'd slip away now, then come back when things have cooled off. I promise, I'll do everything to get you out!"

The bounty hunter chuckled briefly, with a peculiar defiance in his voice.

"I'm not worried about myself, Solo. They'll never catch me! I'm concerned for you and our comrades."

Scarpa, tending to his wounds, leaned closer to the microphone. Pain twisted his face, but he didn't utter a single complaint.

"That's very kind of you, Go Rien," he murmured. "I assure you, I'll never forget it! If you need any help, just say the word!"

"The time will come soon," promised the bristle-haired man over the communicator.

"It'd be nice if instead of being polite, we did something, or we'll have plenty of time to practice etiquette in some cozy, state-funded facility," worried the Corellian.

His words were followed by an approving Wookiee growl. The bounty hunter's matter-of-fact statement surprised them all.

"No need to run, we've disappeared from their radar."

After a moment of stunned silence, Han Solo voiced the question on everyone's mind.

"What?"

"I've made both ships vanish from Flight Control's radar screens. More precisely, I assigned different identification numbers to the blips representing us."

"But," the Falcon's captain objected, "they'll notice two runaway ships are missing."

He could almost see Go Rien shrugging.

"Come on, Solo, you think I'm an amateur? I reassigned our numbers to two outbound troop transports. There'll be a big surprise when their TIE fighters attack their own ships."

Chewbacca's booming laughter filled the Falcon's small cockpit, while Han continued to shake his head in disbelief.

"I just don't get it, Go Rien," he said, "if you can do this, why aren't you the Emperor; or at least, why aren't you a smuggler? You have no idea how much money you could make!"

The bounty hunter responded succinctly.

"Solo, you have no idea how much money I make already!"

"In that case, care to join forces?" Han suggested.

"We're already partners: I'm an Imperial bounty hunter, you're an Imperial agent. What could be a closer connection?"

Han snorted angrily, hating to be reminded of the shameful fact that he was currently working for the Empire, or at least towards common goals.

"You know what, Go Rien: go to hell!" he snapped.

"Alright, Captain, forgive me! I always forget you're not keen on cooperating with us."

"Go Rien, don't give me that. You never forget anything you don't want to. Your mind's like a damn computer. Now tell me, what can we do!? Can we land in some dock?"

"You do what you want, Solo," came the voice from the speaker.

Han pondered. The B8 needed rebuilding; for that, they'd need a dock equipped with tools and instruments. And that was expensive.

"Go Rien, tell me: do you have any money?"

"It's all gone," came the reply. The Corellian hummed. "Could you put Gritt on?"

"He's in the engine room, patching you through…" Then, after a short pause, he added, "I hope he can help."

After some clicking and crackling, the thin voice of the mechanic came through. "Yes, Solo, what do you want?"

The captain's response was succinct.

"Money."

The small man's voice grew even thinner.

"You know I don't deal with loans."

The Corellian wasn't fazed.

"I wasn't thinking of a loan, I hate usury. Just a small, interest-free lending of credits. A friendly favor, like the one I did for you last time when…"

A deep sigh from the other side interrupted him.

"Alright, Solo, you'll get it. How much do you need?"

"I like you, Gritt," Han exclaimed, his voice joined by Chewbacca's bass.

"The dock rental and the parts' price. How much do you think?"

The mechanic did a quick calculation.

"About four thousand," he finally said.

"That's great," the captain cheered. "We definitely have that much, as I just gave you that for the Falcon's overhaul."

There was a note of sadness in the other's voice.

"I didn't have it for long."

"But you will again!" the Corellian promised firmly. He had no idea how wrong he was.

The Star Rider hovered motionlessly above the empty dock. Disappointed, Marl could describe it in one very apt word: deserted. Down below, not a soul was in sight—just an out-of-service instrument cart and some scattered, useless spaceship parts.

"They're gone," he summarized aloud.

He activated the communicator and asked the soldier again if he was sure he had scouted this dock. After the soldier confirmed once more, Marl gave the order to land.

The heavily modified, heavily armed former intergalactic freighter slowly descended onto the dock's concrete floor. The six landing struts touched down simultaneously—a testament to Marl's piloting skills. The stabilization system had little work to do to level the hull.

"Gunners for batteries one and two, stay at your posts and cover the disembarkation! The rest of you, search the area!" he commanded.

In less than a minute, five marines jumped onto the concrete from the opening airlock, not waiting for the ramp to fully extend. Their weapons scanned the windows and other openings in the surrounding buildings as they spread out with practiced efficiency. Soon, they disappeared behind the entrances to various rooms in the dock.

"One is clear," came the report over the communications network's speaker. "Two is clear."

"Three is clear." A short pause.

"Five is clear."

The young officer frowned.

"Four?" he called into the microphone.

Silence, then a faint crackle. Marl began to feel uneasy.

"Four, what the hell is going on? Report!" If there was a reply, the newly minted captain of the Star Rider did not hear it. The network erupted into chaos. The soldiers were shouting, and the sound of weapons firing was audible through the helmet microphones.

"I demand someone tell me what's happening down there!" Marl shouted angrily.

"Imperials!" someone screamed back, but then the words again dissolved into a jumble of noise.

"Retreat! Fall back! Soldiers, return to the ship!" he ordered.

Long minutes passed, and nothing moved. Only the dark windows flickered wildly, indicating a fierce laser firefight inside.

"We're heavily outnumbered!" a clear sentence emerged. "Cover me! I'll try to break through…"

"Behind you…!"

Then the first soldier appeared. His armor was incomplete, his body covered in wounds. A look of wild determination was on his face. He spun, pressing against the wall, ready to cover his retreating comrades.

The next soldier carried a wounded man on his shoulder, whom Marl recognized as the missing four. He stumbled, barely able to stand, making his way to the ramp.

"Help him!" the captain ordered the technician waiting at the onboard computer console.

Two more followed, backing out one after the other. They moved with confidence, showing no sign of hesitation or fear.

The last one came running. He was shouting incoherently and firing continuously behind him. His comrades joined him, all rushing towards the Star Rider.

The portside battery began firing at this moment. The arm-thick energy beams wrought incredible destruction on the dock's service building. When all the soldiers had made it aboard and the ship took off, the cannon continued to unleash laser beams without pause.

"Stormtroopers," panted the sergeant, the last to arrive. "They were lying in wait inside, seemed like they expected us."

Marl nodded; his instincts told him he had received very valuable information.

In Dock 604, two spaceships rested side by side. One was a decrepit B8 tug, and the other was the Millennium Falcon, a smuggler's ship well-known in certain circles.

The crews of both ships gathered in the Falcon's lounge. Han Solo, Go Rien, and Chewbacca sat in chairs around the gaming table, while Caspar, Scarpa, and Gritt found spots wherever they could. Han Solo took the lead:

"We've got a lot to do," he began. "We need to secure a major government contract: transporting work droids."

"To where?" Scarpa interrupted, looking curious.

"It doesn't matter," Han replied. "The shipment's going to be hijacked halfway."

"I don't think so," the ex-cop shook his head. "If we stick together, no pirate could—"

"Scarpa," the captain snapped, "would you let me finish a sentence? We want that shipment to be stolen."

"I don't understand. Why take the job, then?"

The bounty hunter, tired of the chatter, cut in briefly:

"We're setting a trap, Agent Scarpa."

The captain nodded.

"We need your help with this," he added. "We need to get into the police database where they keep the list of government contractors. We have to get our names on that list with the right parameters so we get the job."

The ex-cop smiled, looking like he understood everything, and Han Solo continued.

"Also, we need to fix up the B8 and combine it with the Falcon in a way that they can be separated anytime."

"I have some personal matters to attend to," Scarpa said calmly.

Chewbacca's outburst was only contained because Caspar made a similar statement in his soft-spoken manner.

"Alright," the Corellian tried to summarize, "Scarpa and Caspar will handle their business. Go Rien, I assume you'll spy on the police, while Chewie, Gritt, and I work on the repairs. Any questions?"

"Yes," Scarpa shouted. "I want to ask the bounty hunter what uniform Imperial special agents wear. Since I'm supposed to be one, I want to look the part. They took my nice black police uniform, and I only kept the lieutenant's stars. I didn't give those up." He showed the two small silver stars resting in his palm as proof.

Go Rien hesitated. How could he explain that a special agent remains special precisely because they don't wear a uniform?

"They wear black, like the police," he reassured the ex-officer.

The group dispersed, each to attend to their tasks.

Chapter Three

Melory Larso Rogow, governor of the Virgill sector, looked up from his chair at the tall, lean man standing in front of his desk.

"Do you have news for me, bounty hunter?"

"For you?" The other man seemed to think. "More like for the forces you represent."

A smile flickered across the fat man's face.

"Those forces are under my command. Just like you."

"Like me?" he echoed. "I wouldn't wish for you to be as respected as I am."

"I don't need your respect, just your services. It's my money that makes your dreams come true."

The First's lips tightened into a thin line.

"There's money everywhere, governor. More than yours. If you want, I'll find someone else."

Fear flashed in the obese man's eyes. He never knew when the other was serious or just bluffing. He knew well that if he were left alone now, the Empire would deal with him swiftly. For now, he still needed the bounty hunter's experience and sharp mind. For now!

The other shook his head.

"Rogow, you seriously think you can have me killed when you no longer need me?"

The governor's face turned pale. He can't read my thoughts, he told himself.

He laughed.

"It's a matter of money!" he shouted. "Everything in this damned universe is a matter of money! And I have it; more than you! A lot more!"

The bounty hunter looked at him with pity.

"There's just one flaw in your logic. In this universe, I'm the most skilled killer. I don't know where you'll find a better one."

Melory Larso Rogow silently digested this for a few moments, then decided to change the subject. "What do you plan to do now?"

The First suppressed a smile.

"The Millennium Falcon is in Dock 604. They're merging it with a prehistoric B8 tug to get the contract for transporting the droid shipment. You'll give it to them!"

The overweight man nodded.

"They want to set a trap for me; well, now they'll fall into it themselves! I'll tamper with their masterpiece. They plan to detach their ship from the tug after we hit the shipment and secretly follow us. I'll make a few tweaks toward the end of the assembly, and the Falcon will be stuck to the B8 for days. I'll hide an explosive device on the tug. It's a shame really; Han Solo could've been a decent bounty hunter."

The governor smiled with satisfaction. He knew he'd never be able to follow the quick thinking of this brilliant man, but that fact didn't bother him as long as the target wasn't himself. They will get the transport contract—he promised.

Marl was beginning to seriously hope that Flight Control had lost track of the Star Rider. Since they had been undisturbed in their new dock for two days, he felt he had good reason to think so.

They had flown just a few meters off the ground all the way here, deep within the aerial corridors of urban traffic. The large spaceship caused numerous collisions and other incidents, but the young officer figured that military maneuvers in civilian areas inevitably resulted in some civilian casualties. The key point was that no radar system could follow them in such chaos.

He lounged in the pilot's seat, feet up on the control panel—clearly feeling the relaxation that comes from the lack of military discipline. He didn't mind. Now that he had tasted independence and had no superior, he was afraid he would struggle to readjust to the behavior required by fleet regulations.

He whistled an old sailor's tune. He was in a good mood. He thought things were going well. He had done a lot of thinking over the past two days and was filled with positive premonitions. Finding Han Solo wouldn't be hard; you just needed to know how—and he did! Simply lay out the known facts and draw the right conclusions. Let's see: from the soldier's story, it was clear they had two ships—the Falcon and some larger, rundown hulk. The intercepted conversation indicated they planned to merge these, which would take weeks, a long time. Furthermore, the two stormtroopers shot in front of the dock likely attracted Imperial patrols from around the area like moths to a flame. The ships in the dock must have been in a hurry to leave—a big mistake that he, Marl, hadn't realized sooner. (He dismissed the possibility that Han Solo and his gang were in league with the governor of Virgill—who was an ally of the bounty hunter—since the Millennium Falcon would have landed in a military dock from the start.) The fugitives needed peace and would now need to avoid prying eyes even more; the conclusion was obvious: they had to go to an automated dock. And not just any dock, since merging the ships required efficient, modern tools and instruments.

So that leaves the fifty or so docks that are fully equipped and also automated. That many could be checked out in a few weeks.

He leaned back with satisfaction.

"Technician!" he called out to the man sitting at the onboard computer console in the lounge.

The man soon entered the cockpit.

"Find out the numbers of the docks that meet these criteria!" and he handed him a handwritten note. "Dismissed".

Virgill—despite having three moons of varying sizes—was plunged into darkness that night. The stars hadn't shone on its rain-soaked surface for hours, as thick, black clouds covered the sky. Wind howled between the buildings.

Go Rien Moss peeked around the corner, eyeing the colossal, white plastacrete palace of the Security Police. The guards had retreated into the shelter of the gatehouse and were chatting listlessly.

"All clear," he reported, turning back. Han Solo, Chewbacca, Caspar, and Scarpa shuffled behind him.

"Why is it," Scarpa grumbled, "that I always end up in the puddle?" He pointed accusingly at the ground. He was dressed in a brand-new black secret agent uniform—lieutenant's stars glittering on his collar. The uniform was a recent commission.

"Because, Scarpa," Han soothed, "you always step in it while we avoid it."

"Captain Solo, you know I can't move, or the formation will fall apart."

The captain chuckled softly.

"Lieutenant, this isn't the police force. No need to march in formation here; stand wherever you want. If it's in a puddle, so be it!"

The bounty hunter decided it was time to steer the conversation into more meaningful waters.

"Come on, Solo, let's deal with the guards."

The two men stepped out from behind the corner, hiding their weapons under long raincoats. They looked like harmless pedestrians hurrying home in the storm.

The guards paid them no mind—shivering like wet sparrows in the ornate gateway. Go Rien glanced at the cameras mounted on the building's walls.

"We can do anything to them in the gatehouse; the cameras can't see," he planned. "But they will report if we enter."

The Corellian shrugged.

"Is that a problem? Leave it to me; I got an idea!"

Since the bounty hunter had learned to trust Han Solo's ideas, he didn't argue this time either.

They approached the guards. Within the cameras' field of view, the Corellian grinned broadly and bowed energetically, as if being overly polite with the guards. He looked like some bumbling country bumpkin asking for directions. But once they were out of sight, his long coat flared, and he drew his weapon, aiming it at the guards.

The guards wore chest and shoulder armor and helmets that protected only their tops and ears, reminding Han of the gear from popular Corellian gladiator games. Their expressions were similar to those of contestants eliminated in the first round of the tournaments.

"Gentlemen," the captain said amiably, "I'd like to ask a small favor: please take off your gear and weapons and—so you don't get wet—put on our raincoats."

Go Rien then understood the Corellian's plan. He smiled broadly and nodded appreciatively. Then he began to take off his raincoat. When he was done, they switched: he held the guards at bay while Han undressed.

"Gentlemen," the captain addressed the now raincoat-clad guards, "please walk to that corner!" He pointed to where their companions were hiding. "No solo acts, no crazy moves; my blaster's staying right on you."

The guards slouched off—Chewbacca's fist and the merciful darkness of unconsciousness awaited them.

Han and the bounty hunter donned the soldiers' jackets and armor.

"I feel like some kind of satyr," the Corellian quipped, "dressing and undressing in the street, in a doorway." Then he suddenly turned serious. "What now? We could manage without Chewie, but we need Scarpa."

The other man shrugged nonchalantly.

"Nothing to be done: we have to go in and deal with the camera crew. Any further tricks would just raise suspicion."

Solo nodded.

"Alright, take the lead!" Han said with a smirk. "After you. Maybe we should clue in our friends about the plan? Last thing we need is them stumbling after us by accident."

"Sure, why not," Han grumbled, annoyed at the jab at his plan, "I could've sent a written memo with the guards! In duplicate, signed! ...They'll catch on; I might not trust Scarpa's brains, but I've never doubted my partner!"

"Then let's go!" the bounty hunter grinned. He never denied how much Han Solo's sudden outbursts amused him. It was when his unique, cynical humor sparkled the most—he had noted on many occasions. His train of thought was interrupted by the crackling of a speaker in his headset.

"Gate guard, what did those two guys want?" Go Rien was not fazed—he never was! With Imperial training, he had no trouble formulating a proper response.

"Nothing special, Central, just a couple of guys asking about a street. I sent them packing."

"Okay. Anything else to report?"

"No," he replied succinctly. The speaker went silent.

Han and the bounty hunter slipped through the slightly open door. Before they could take a closer look at the huge, dimly lit hall before them, they heard a high-pitched, thin laughter erupt from their right.

A tiny booth made of glass-steel stood there, and inside sat a small, baby-faced man. He was laughing.

"What's up, boys?" he piped. "Cold out there?"

Han, realizing the guy was just a lowly guard, growled at him.

"Drop dead!"

The other laughed hysterically.

"Go on, back out into the rain! Or should I report this?"

That would have been unfortunate; as would smoking the guy out of his cage with a blaster. Solo looked at Go Rien in confusion. He shook his head.

"We have to comply," he whispered with enviable calm, though his face showed he had some harmful ideas for the guard's future. "I'm going to smash your face in," he promised in a much more conciliatory tone.

But the little guy just laughed. The intruders stepped out of the building, looking disappointed.

"I'll kill that little worm!" the captain raged. "I'll rip him apart! Good thing my first mate wasn't here; he'd have shredded him! The guy just bought himself some time... I'll tear him apart myself!"

The bounty hunter also looked rather grim.

"You'll get your chance, Solo, I promise!" Han quickly calmed down. He sighed.

"Let's go home," he suggested.

"We can't give up so easily," the other protested. "If it won't work peacefully, let's try force!"

The Corellian shook his head vehemently.

"No, no, Go Rien, I know exactly what you're thinking! You want to charge in there and play target practice with the guards. Hate to break it to you, but I can handle ten at best, and there are at least fifty in there. Count me out."

The bounty hunter smiled mysteriously.

"I scouted the guard shift. There are no more than forty. Reinforcements from the nearest garrison can't get here in less than ten minutes, so I don't understand you, Solo!"

The captain slapped his knee, almost disregarding caution.

"You just don't get it, do you? Look, Go Rien! Sooner or later, we're all gonna end up in the hands of the Security Police. I never got why we had to rush things from the start, but hey, I gave it a shot! It didn't work, so let's head home! Sometimes you gotta know when to fold 'em, Go Rien!"

"Captain," the bushy-haired man began in a calm, slow voice, "I was trained to accomplish these kinds of tasks..."

"And I was trained to survive them," Han interrupted. "My teacher was real strict and merciless; you might've heard of him. His name's Life!"

The bounty hunter shook his head sadly.

"We understood each other better when I was blackmailing you, Solo. Becoming partners was a mistake! You don't tolerate any opinions but your own, unless they happen to align with yours. I don't know why you don't trust me, but if you don't, you don't. If necessary, I'll go in alone. Those ten soldiers you can handle won't make much of a difference anyway."

The captain looked at the bushy-haired man—as if seeing himself. Neither of them had to look far for stubbornness. He remembered a thousand times when he stood there, desperate and alone, because his companions weren't as daring as he was. Only one could always be counted on: Chewbacca, and that felt incredibly comforting. "Well, alright," he sighed. "What's your plan?"

"Thank you, Han Solo," the other man bowed his head, and there was undisguised warmth in his voice. "With Scarpa's help, we can easily get into the Economic Police's computer room, and I can upload us to the transport list in minutes. The problem is that even if we do, the shooting and the ensuing commotion will arouse suspicion, and they'll check what we were up to inside."

"Say no more, I get it," Han cut in. "You want Chewie, Caspar, and me to create a diversion while you two handle the rest. No problem, Go Rien, leave it to us! The Wookiee and I are pros at causing a ruckus."

"See, Solo, you don't need to prove that. You can outdo anyone in this, even when the opposite is your goal. I can't imagine what will happen if you actually aim for chaos!"

Han simply ignored the irony and grinned triumphantly.

"Big chaos," he replied succinctly. They discussed the plan's details in perfect harmony, understanding each other with half-words.

The surveillance room was filled with monitors displaying feeds from cameras all around the facility. Five officers sat at the controls. One of them heard a crackle in his earpiece – he adjusted a switch on the console to amplify the guard's voice.

"Hello, Central, this is the gate guard!" the voice came through. The man leaned toward the microphone.

"Listening; what happened?"

"Suspicious movement to the northeast. I'm checking it out."

Excitement tinged the voice of the man in front of the screens:

"Be careful, gate guard, and leave one of you at your post!"

"Understood!" came the reply.

The monitoring officer leaned back, watching the screen intently. The figure of a soldier emerged from the gatehouse – the image was blurry in the pouring rain. With practiced movements, he remotely controlled the camera to follow the departing figure.

The men in the room glanced at each other; the question hung in the air: should they order a higher state of alert or not? They decided against it for the time being.

The soldier disappeared behind a street corner.

They waited for long minutes, and then...

...The man reappeared. He was running back, glancing fearfully over his shoulder and shouting frantically:

"Alert! Attack incoming!"

The slight change in his voice and the fact that he seemed to have shrunk a few centimeters went unnoticed. The officers quickly hit the switch to lock the outer door, but it was too late – the guard waiting in the gatehouse, perhaps out of camaraderie or simple fear, had already pushed the door open and stood in the doorway. The locking mechanism clicked uselessly.

Laser bolts struck the ground behind the fleeing soldier, but he was lucky; he avoided harm while in the cameras' view. However, some things are unavoidable, only delayed – soon, his death scream echoed. And shortly after, so did his comrade's.

The officers could only learn of their further fate from the screen showing the lobby. Both men tumbled into the room, and – forever still – lay motionless on the ground. They were dead – at least that's what the men in the control room believed.

The pursuers appeared. Two of them had scarves over their faces, while the third, a massive figure, didn't need such a disguise – he was covered in thick fur from head to toe.

"Alert!" the senior officer shouted and pressed the general first-degree alert button. Sirens wailed throughout the building, and red, pulsating lights flared. Soldiers woke from their sleep, and since they slept fully armed, they were combat-ready within seconds.

Thanks to the microphones placed in the lobby, those in the control room received not only visual but also audio information about the events.

"Chewie, get that guy out of there!" one of the intruders pointed to the glass-steel booth.

The large furry being moved to obey.

"Oh, and Chewie," the other stopped him for a moment, " no need to be gentle."

The giant laughed in a deep, growling tone. Then he dashed off at lightning speed toward the booth. He hurled himself at the makeshift structure, and with the momentum of his two-hundred-kilo body, he simply toppled it. The booth, cobbled together from panels, collapsed into pieces, and the massive attacker fell directly onto the slender guard inside.

Only a faint gasp could be heard.

The intruders then began methodically destroying the cameras and microphones – one by one, the screens in the control room went dark. The security system was now blind and deaf. The officer sitting at the affected console stood up in disappointment and stepped behind his nearest colleague.

"I wonder where they're headed?" he speculated. "What are they after?"

They soon got their answer when the intruders appeared in the corridor leading to the central data storage. Their path was marked by darkening screens.

The senior officer flipped the switch for the internal communication system.

"Attention: enemy intrusion; all units to the central data storage!"

In the foyer, now free of cameras and microphones, the two "dead" gate guards cautiously got to their feet. No one could see them.

"Which way?" one asked.

"This way!" the other pointed and started moving.

The flashing red lights only made their expressions look more determined. They carried blasters in their hands – but in the current chaos, that didn't draw any attention. Who would notice that these weren't standard-issue weapons, especially when one was clearly high-tech?

It was Scarpa and the bounty hunter. They moved quickly toward the offices of the Economic Division. They sidestepped an approaching squad and turned into the corridor they were looking for.

"Which one's the computer room?" Go Rien whispered into the ex-cop's ear, as using the radio was not advisable.

"I don't know," he shook his head. "I rarely came here before, and never inside that room."

"All the doors are probably locked. It's possible I can't open them. There's no guarantee they've placed the special, secret codes I know here."

"Wait a minute!" Scarpa thought aloud. "Once, I peeked at a superior's code; maybe it'll work."

"We have no time or options, try it quickly!"

The ex-cop approached the nearest door and entered the code. After a soft beep, a robotic voice prompted them.

"Retina scan required, please move closer to the sensor!"

"Damn it!" Scarpa yelled angrily, forgetting all caution, and threw his weapon to the ground. It clattered loudly on the plasteel floor.

"Calm down, Scarpa!" the bounty hunter warned. "We'll figure something out." But the ex-officer was not soothed.

"Finally, I can help, and something always goes wrong!" he complained, almost crying.

"Relax," the bushy-haired man consoled him, "you've already helped a lot. Look at this!" He unhooked a strange, lamp-shaped device from his belt.

"This is a special codebreaker," he explained. "It's designed specifically for these types of security systems. But keep it between us, it's not well-known!"

"Military secret?" Scarpa's eyes gleamed. The other man nodded.

"You can trust me," he promised with a proud smile.

The device – wonder of wonders – did indeed fool the retina scanner, and the door opened. Though it didn't lead to the computer room, but rather an ordinary office, the bounty hunter smiled with satisfaction. Seeing his companion's puzzled look, he explained his joy.

"There's a terminal," he pointed out. "That's enough for me. Let's go!"

He threw himself into the chair and immediately began activating the unit. The monitor lit up, and the keyboard backlight turned on.

Go Rien started typing, giving verbal commands to the computer at the same time. He delved deeper into the system, the right code words at the right times opening every door for him. The list he was searching for appeared; he entered the B8/M.F. name, as agreed with Han Solo. He even adjusted the last modification date to the previous day. Then, in the same order as he had entered, he logged out of the system. He stood up.

"I'm done," he announced, glancing at his watch. He was pleased to see the whole operation had taken less than a minute.

"Let's go!" he suggested. "We have three minutes to get out before reinforcements from the neighboring garrison arrive." They retreated according to plan and exited the building.

Meanwhile, Han Solo and his crew continued to push forward toward the central data archive hall.

"Watch out, Chewie!" the Corellian shouted desperately as soldiers jumped out from around the corner. There were six of them.

The Wookiee, who was leading, skillfully dove to the side, dodging the incoming laser blasts. The narrow space was filled with the whine of blaster fire.

The captain and Caspar quickly ducked into a narrow side corridor, while the Falcon's first mate took cover behind a console. Han worried about his friend's safety.

"Chewie," he yelled, "try camouflaging yourself as a carpet, maybe they'll buy it!"

The Wookiee growled indignantly, muttering something as he returned fire. He quickly realized he couldn't move from his cover. But staying there indefinitely wasn't an option either. His desperate gaze fell on the legs of the console before him: they weren't bolted to the floor! His natural instinct quickly led him to the solution.

Using his full two-hundred-kilo weight, he pushed against the robust piece of furniture—if he couldn't move from behind cover, he would move the cover! He started pushing it along the smooth metal floor toward his enemies. As a Wookiee, such a task was effortless. The heavy console nearly flew as it reached the soldiers. The desk barreled forward, pinning those who didn't jump aside against the opposite wall. Those who did were met with the Wookiee's massive fists.

A roar announced to Solo that his partner had handled the situation.

"Let's go," he grinned at Caspar, who this time had reluctantly removed his wide-brimmed hat.

They entered the spacious, well-lit central data archive – the sturdy plasteel door had been melted by Chewbacca. Much to the dismay of the officers monitoring through the cameras, they began destroying as many storage units as possible in the limited time they had. Laser shots turned the computer peripherals into showers of sparks.

"Hundreds of thousands of criminals and suspects will be grateful to us for this," Han thought aloud.

"And it doesn't hurt you either," Caspar noted. "Unlike those honest folks who like knowing robbers and murderers are behind bars."

"Wow, since when are you so law-abiding?" the Corellian wondered.

"Law-abiding?" the other replied, "I wouldn't say that! I just tend to accept that every coin has two sides."

"Well, be that as it may," the Falcon's captain shrugged. "I still prefer to look at the shiny side."

Chewbacca growled loudly, indicating that now wasn't the best time for a moral debate. He pointed a thick finger at the clock on the wall and babbled something in Wookiee.

Caspar shrugged and, with an expression of indifference, shot it to pieces.

"He didn't say shoot the clock," Han fumed, tapping his forehead for emphasis, "he said we need to hurry!"

"Doesn't matter," the culprit protested. "We won't need it anymore."

The Corellian sighed in resignation.

"Let's get out of here, time's up!"

But fate had other plans. A dozen soldiers appeared in the corridor.

They immediately opened fire.

"We've got a problem," Han Solo summarized.

No one disagreed. Despite their efforts to hold the entrance, the black-armored guards infiltrated the room. The small band was forced further into the aisles formed by the storage units.

"Reinforcements will be here any minute," Caspar predicted grimly, as the captain saw fit to give a more detailed assessment.

"We're in big trouble," he said.

Again, no one disagreed.

In the surveillance control room, the senior officer stared at his deputy in bewilderment.

"What do you mean, recall the guards?!" he exclaimed in disbelief.

"It's an order from higher up, sir."

"But these are common criminals: they broke in, destroyed equipment worth thousands of credits, and obliterated equally valuable data."

The subordinate had no answer, so he repeated, "It's an order from higher up, sir."

The senior officer spread his arms helplessly.

"Reason?"

"None, sir."

"I figured," he nodded, striding across the room. After a few seconds, he stopped right where he started, in front of his deputy.

"We follow orders, Commander. What choice do we have? Recall the troops!"

"I don't get it!" Han Solo exclaimed. "They're gone. They had a chance to catch us, even if it wasn't much."

Chewbacca chuckled.

"Maybe it's a trap," Caspar suggested. The Corellian shrugged.

"Right now, I don't see any other way out. We gotta try leaving through the door. If it's a trap, it's a trap." With that, they set off. Han led the way, blaster at the ready, followed by Caspar, with the Wookiee bringing up the rear, glancing back frequently. Death could be lurking around any corner, soldiers could be waiting in any corridor.

To Chewbacca, this reminded him of the hunts back on his distant homeworld – except here, he was the prey, not the hunter. This is just another kind of jungle, he thought, and it made him feel better. His partner's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"Something's not right! They've vanished like they fell through a trapdoor. Doesn't happen often."

They reached the entrance hall: not a soul in sight, except for the softly snoring unconscious guard.

Solo glanced at his watch.

"Reinforcements from the surrounding garrisons should have arrived by now!"

The Wookiee grunted that he certainly didn't miss them.

"I'm not saying I wouldn't be happy with just your company, Chewie, it's just odd."

They stepped outside. It was dark, the rain drizzling down – the plastacrete pavement glistened wetly. No guards, no stormtroopers. Only one camera remained intact, tracking them silently with its unblinking fisheye lens until Chewbacca shot it to pieces.

"I see, Solo," Caspar began, carefully adjusting his hat back on his head, "you're not ready to accept that there won't be any shooting this time."

The captain shook his head.

"Where do you get that nonsense?" The hat-wearing man laughed.

"Just from the way you're standing there rooted to the spot instead of moving out."

"Alright then!" Solo waved his hand and took off. His footsteps echoed dully on the pavement, and Chewbacca caught up to him with two long strides, jogging alongside.

Around the corner, they met up with their friends.

"Well?" the Corellian inquired. The bounty hunter, removing the guard's ridiculous helmet, smiled with satisfaction.

"Everything's fine," he said. "Since yesterday, you're listed as the most reliable and skilled transporter in the Galaxy on the governor's official record."

The captain acknowledged the statement with a slight, offended smile. "That was never in doubt," he remarked.

Chapter Four

The fox-faced man had been watching on Dock 604 for hours. He was hidden on the roof of a building opposite the domed entrance. Occasionally, he would caress the black, plasteel weapon lying in front of him with affectionate fingers. A true sniper rifle – every assassin's dream. Metal detectors couldn't detect it, and its shooting accuracy was the finest ever made.

The man pondered. He had botched the first attempt, giving in to the temptation – indescribable pleasure to of killing with bare hands. This time, efficiency would take precedence over enjoyment! He couldn't afford to fail again!

He didn't really care how the governor had learned the victim's location – he merely found it odd. It seemed Rogow employed other people in similar professions. It intrigued him that he hadn't known about this. It suggested certain possibilities.

Approaching footsteps jolted him from his thoughts. He activated the infra-scope and raised the weapon. It fit his arm as if it were a living lover. The man couldn't deny that after his knife, this weapon had given him the most pleasure in his life. Down below, a small group of men appeared – among them, the target. He aimed, his finger curling around the trigger. He waited; he loved playing the role of Death, only finding the scythe somewhat outdated. But no! He had devised something better, a little fun for himself, a bit of enjoyment, a little game!

He moved the crosshairs off the ex-cop, slightly right, to sweep across a huge, furry creature, savoring the thought that he could kill this one too – any of them. Their fate rested in his hands!

He switched again, the crosshairs settling on a man with a chiseled face, wearing military pants and a khaki vest. Confidence and determination were reflected in his features – the fox-faced man hated this type. Oh, how he wanted to shoot him!

But time was pressing. He slid the barrel and the crosshairs further, onto a tall, lean, bristle-haired guy. Incredibly, the guy lifted his gaze and looked straight at him. Into the crosshairs. The assassin didn't understand how this was possible; such a thing couldn't be detected.

They locked eyes for long seconds, then he pulled the trigger. But the other – as if sensing it – dodged at the last moment. The infra-scope clearly showed the tiny geyser of debris the beam kicked up from the street's cobblestones.

The figures below dove into doorways, and laser beams immediately scanned the air. The fox-faced man knew he had messed up again, but at least the governor would never find out. He quickly realized there was no point in further firefights concerning the mission. Besides, it was dangerous – and he hated danger. He was scared. You only live once!

He jumped into the small, anti-gravity hopper waiting on the roof and whoosh, flew away.

"I think, Scarpa, that was your friend," Go Rien Moss stated.

The ex-cop looked down in shame. "I'm sorry, I..."

"Don't joke, Scarpa!" Solo interrupted. "You definitely can't take the heat for this one!"

The other shook his head.

"I shouldn't have gone to the governor. He must want to kill me."

"You, why?"

"Because he's a bastard!" the poor guy burst out. The Corellian narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"I hope you told him that?!"

"Well..." the questioned one hesitated – not entirely.

"Scarpa!" he cried. "Not again, right? The same thing as last time?"

The ex-cop nodded dejectedly.

"Such... a big man," he sniffled. "So distinguished. I didn't have the nerve."

The captain shook his head in disbelief when suddenly something clicked in his mind. Something that made him quite excited. "Wait a minute!" he shouted. "Hang on a second!"

He paused for dramatic effect.

"How did they know we landed here?" He immediately answered his own question. "Someone tipped them off. Someone among us."

His gaze slid to the bounty hunter. "And how did you know a sniper was hiding on the rooftop?"

Go Rien found himself in the crossfire of accusatory glances. As usual, a slight smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"Bravo Han Solo, your reasoning is brilliant!" he remarked. "But I must point out a few logical flaws."

"Go ahead!" the Corellian encouraged. "We are all dying to know."

"First of all, if I wanted to kill any of you, why wouldn't I do it myself, instead of hiring an assassin?"

Solo took a deep breath to respond.

"No, no," the bounty hunter cut him off, "I know what you're going to say. That I don't want to arouse suspicion."

"Exactly!" Han agreed.

"Fine, let's accept that. But then why would I prevent the assassination?"

"So you stay off the suspect list and keep doing whatever shady stuff you're up to," he shot back.

"I see," Go Rien nodded indifferently, as if it wasn't his fate being discussed. His fate, because by then all the accusers – without exception – had drawn their weapons on him.

"Why did my own man shoot at me?" he asked the next question. "He aimed precisely, if I hadn't moved in time, I'd be dead. No matter how precisely we synchronize our watches, don't you think, Solo, that it would be a bit of a risky game?"

The captain stared into the bounty hunter's eyes for a while...

"You're capable of anything," he finally said darkly, lowering his weapon.

The Millennium Falcon had been idling at Dock 604 for two weeks now. The modification work was progressing well.

"The ship won't be too fancy," Gritt had stated at the beginning of the repairs, "but it will seem that way. Considering the fact that the client and the pirate are the same company, I'm sure they'd rather hire a tug than a freighter. With the former, they just need to unhook the cargo."

Solo was examining the blueprints spread out on the game table in the Falcon's lounge. The old girl had been built into the right side of the B8, with only the steel-glass cockpit visible. A powerful servo-motor system was designed to rotate the Falcon into launch position if needed. Although they lost the onboard cannons this way, the chance of anyone recognizing the Corellian smuggling ship in the structure was zero. Fortunately, they were able to control the entire monstrosity from the Falcon.

"Take a look, Chewie!" Han called his friend over. "The tractor beam generator isn't original; someone replaced it with a stronger one. I'm not saying it's as powerful as a Star Destroyer's, but it's not bad!"

The Wookiee growled in agreement.

It's a shame it's so big, it would be great to have it in the Falcon too.

"There's no room for a cooler, let alone an entire tractor beam system," his partner reminded him.

"Captain Solo, can I ask you something?" Scarpa suddenly inquired.

The Corellian nodded.

"What exactly is a tug? What does it tow?"

"Tugs, unlike cargo ships, don't have cargo holds," he started. "They use tractor beams to latch onto loads way bigger than themselves. Their engines are built for that kind of work. If you check out our B8, Scarpa, you'll notice most of its insides are just the engine room and the tractor beam generator."

Caspar, who had just entered, clapped his hands in surprise.

"Solo, you missed your calling as a teacher!" he exclaimed.

The person in question made a rather sour face. Then he sighed tiredly and announced that he was going to rest.

He hurried to his small cabin and sprawled out on the narrow bed. He didn't even kick off his boots. He stared at the ceiling for a while, then closed his eyes. But sleep eluded him. Worries gnawed at him.

There was a traitor on board!

There's no worse thought than knowing that someone you've let close to you is plotting against you.

Who could it be?

He could rule out Chewbacca immediately. The Wookiee had been his partner for years and was also his best friend. Besides, he hated the Empire and anything remotely connected to it. Han knew well how much it troubled his first mate that they had momentarily aligned with the Empire in this strange and confusing game.

Gritt? A much harder question. He wasn't exactly a strong character, and – let's not forget – he had spent weeks recently in the clutches of ruthless Imperial doctors and executioners. He could be blackmailed, threatened, or even brainwashed like a malfunctioning droid. He couldn't be ruled out as a suspect!

Caspar? Similar in many ways. Who knows what happened to him in the past months? Even he doesn't know! Back in the day, he was as independent, rootless, and fearless an adventurer as Han Solo, but where is that now? He's suspicious too!

Scarpa? The most impressionable person Han had ever met. He recently visited the governor's office – they could have persuaded him of many things. The assassination attempts could also be a clever and perfect alibi – besides, for some reason, they always remained just attempts! Scarpa couldn't be cleared either! Go Rien? Now, he's the most suspicious of the whole bunch! There's no need to ponder him separately!

And as he thought through all these things, Han Solo slowly fell asleep.

Marl gently smiled – he didn't hide his delight, nor did the soldier who brought the good news.

"Dock 604," the young officer savored the words. "This time we'll catch them!"

He stepped up to the communication console and activated the microphone.

"Soldiers, prepare for deployment! Follow the last briefing's instructions!"

He slammed his fist into his open palm with satisfaction.

"I knew we'd get them!" he shouted.

He threw himself into the pilot's seat, feeling like he was bursting with energy, and began preparing the ship for flight. He ran through the pre-flight checks, activating the systems in the required order. They quickly arrived above Dock 604.

"The dock's roof is closed," the technician noted unnecessarily, as Marl could see it just as well.

"Right-side turret one, target the dome cover. Fire!" the officer ordered in an emotionless tone.

Immense energies struck the roof, which was designed to withstand much smaller and purely static loads. It immediately collapsed, crashing onto the B8 inside.

"Widen the hole," Marl commanded.

The beam swept across the structure, creating an ever-widening gap.

The captain of the Star Rider used the computer to determine if the ship would fit through. When the machine confirmed with safety margins considered, Marl ordered the ceasefire. He boldly tilted the freighter forward and guided it through the narrow opening with such confidence that even the original captain would have been proud. And yet, the young officer had only been at the helm of the Star Rider for a few months.

"Activate the jamming field!" he called over to the technician.

As a result, the electronic targeting and firing analysis units of the ship below became so inaccurate that even at such close range, successful cannon fire was unlikely.

True, this also affected the Star Rider's systems, but Marl had no intention of firing further. He had other plans. He landed the ship rather roughly on the concrete, dwarfing the tug beside it.

"Marines! Breach in diablo formation!" he ordered. He opened the ship's airlock, and the soldiers jumped onto the dock's concrete. In a disciplined formation, they advanced toward the Millennium Falcon-integrated B8.

Han Solo woke to the blaring of the Falcon's alarm. His first thought was that they must be in deep space and had been struck by a meteor. However, several facts contradicted this. First, he didn't feel the vibrations of the engines or other systems. Second, there was no thudding or shaking from a meteor impact. Third, and most importantly, the external microphones were transmitting sounds of shouting and footsteps. Such noises were very unusual in space.

By now, the Corellian clearly understood the situation.

"Chewie," he shouted, "emergency launch!" and he ran toward the cockpit.

In response, he received a string of thick Wookiee curses, rare even from his first mate. He only understood why when he glanced out the cockpit's steel-glass windows and saw not the usual starscape but the bulk of the B8 towering over them.

"Damn it, I forgot," he muttered dejectedly. He eyed the heavily armored marines.

"I've seen those somewhere before!" he narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

At that moment, the Falcon's radio crackled.

"Open the door, or we'll blast it open!" commanded a firm voice. "If you don't comply, you'll only buy a few seconds, otherwise, you gain a door."

That sounded convincing – considering the cannon-sized infantry weapons some of them carried on their shoulders.

"Well, look at that!" the Corellian remarked in surprise. "They came with your ship, Caspar! Maybe they just brought it back," he tried to hope.

The troops outside fired warning shots at the tug's door.

Han activated the external speakers.

"I'm opening it, don't be so impatient!" And he did. He had little choice; the merged ship was still non-operational, lacking external deck guns. They could blast the door to pieces whenever they wanted. Gritt arrived, asking anxiously.

"Are we really surrendering, Solo? Just like that?"

The captain spread his arms.

"We don't have a choice here. Sure, we could fight or hide – wouldn't be our first time – but they'd just turn us into space dust with those cannons. Gritt, I know what the Star Rider can do! If you don't trust me, ask Caspar."

The man in the hat nodded in agreement. Scarpa, who had been sitting quietly, sighed.

"It's just as well the bounty hunter isn't here, at least he's not getting involved, if you know what I mean?"

But Han Solo didn't understand.

"What? Go Rien isn't here?" he exclaimed excitedly.

"As you say," Caspar confirmed coolly. "Another highly suspicious sign." The captain just waved it off.

"These two things aren't related, but at least we've got a glimmer of hope. If things go south, he can still bail us out. Now, let's go greet our guests!" he suggested.

The two groups met in front of the B8's engine room. Han Solo and his crew seemed much calmer than the intruders, though it should have been the other way around.

The marine sergeant leading the group pointed his weapon directly at the captain.

"Don't move! Take your hands off your weapons!" he shouted.

The Corellian calmly replied.

"Don't shout at me!"

The soldier stared at him, stunned. He had imagined what the first words of the captured ship's captain might be, but this – or anything like it – wasn't among them. He couldn't help but feel respect for the man. He admired his courage.

In a much quieter voice, he continued:

"Consider yourself our prisoner… sir," he added.

The Corellian raised an eyebrow.

"Your what?" he asked sharply.

"Your prisoner," the marine repeated.

Caspar stepped out from behind Solo, but this time there was no trace of his usual indifference; his face showed irritation.

"And tell me… sergeant," he snapped, "are you acting as a private individual, or in an official capacity? Because to my knowledge, only the Imperial Police or the governor's stormtrooper units have jurisdiction on the surface of Virgill. Not fleet marine units!

The sergeant hesitated.

The man in the hat knew to strike while the iron was hot. He continued.

"I'd simply like to know why an Imperial soldier is acting illegally on Imperial territory?"

"Are you an officer?" the other asked cautiously.

"Lawyer," he lied.

"Sir, our captain wishes to speak with you."

Caspar nodded.

"Why didn't you start with that? We're happy to host your captain." Solo turned to the man in the hat with a mix of surprise and admiration.

"I see you haven't forgotten everything," he whispered. "I'm impressed!"

At that moment, a young but firm voice rang out from the direction of the B8's airlock. "I liked your smooth talk! Quite convincing!"

A boyish-faced man approached. He wore a long, brown coat made from the hide of some unknown animal, if it was an animal at all. His tone left no doubt that he was the new captain of the Star Rider.

"Welcome aboard," Han murmured. "Feel free to come in, you can even skip knocking!"

"You can skip the jokes, Han Solo! I think you'll soon lose your taste for it!"

He looked around at the prisoners.

"Where is the Imperial bounty hunter?"

"Bounty hunter?" the Corellian feigned surprise. "We don't have any bounty hunter, we're peaceful traders!"

"Sure," the young man nodded. "But I'm not, so you'd better start trembling in fear!"

A smile flashed across Solo's face.

"Me? You're not enough to scare me… Marl."

"How the hell do you know my name!?" he blanched. Han grinned mysteriously.

"Well, fine," the newcomer said more conciliatory and signaled the soldiers to lower their weapons.

"I have an offer for you, which – since you're just a money-hungry smuggler – is ten thousand galactic credits."

He expected wide-eyed greed and a quick agreement. Instead, he got another blank stare.

"Twenty thousand," he doubled.

The Corellian smelled a deal – this man needed something badly, something he seemed to recognize he couldn't take by force. But most importantly: he was willing to pay for it. A lot of money!

Casually, he shrugged.

"Twenty-five," the other said.

Han wore an expression like a coy maiden on her wedding night.

"Thirty!" the young man shot back.

No sense for business, thought the Falcon's captain. Not a disadvantage, though – quite the opposite!

Marl sighed.

"Look, Han Solo, I can't offer more."

"Then tell me what this is about. I'm listening."

Hope seemed to flicker in the other's eyes.

"Is it a deal?" he sought confirmation.

Han shook his head. "I still don't know what you want for the money."

"A person! I have business with him," his gaze darkened. "He owes me a reckoning."

"And who is it?" Han inquired, feeling quite in control.

"The bounty hunter," came the answer, dripping with hatred. He frowned.

"I'm not a slave trader," he said coldly, "to sell people for money."

Marl shouted angrily.

"I just need information and help to catch him!"

"Why do you hate him so much?"

"Do you really want to know?" the former Imperial officer asked unnecessarily. "Because he destroyed the ship I served on."

"The Hammer?" Han asked. Marl nodded.

"What makes you think it was him?"

The young man was first taken aback, then smiled mockingly.

"He couldn't fool me as easily as he did you!"

"Is that so?" Solo asked back just as mockingly, growing genuinely curious about what the other was hinting at.

"I know, Solo, I know! I don't just think!" he replied, looking triumphant.

"You've always believed he was just some nameless nobody, but I know he was the governor of Quaron III. He wanted to destroy you just like he did with the Hammer."

"The two people aren't the same," the Corellian began to explain. "There are two bounty hunters…"

Marl interrupted.

"Is that what he told you? I can't believe you fell for such a transparent lie!"

"Prove otherwise!" Solo challenged, momentarily losing his earlier calm.

"To you, those wouldn't be proofs. You don't know the Empire well enough…" he suddenly fell silent. His facial expression revealed that he was listening to a tiny earpiece. When the transmission ended, he involuntarily nodded.

He turned his gaze back to Solo, looking uneasy.

"Captain, I'm afraid we must leave now. In the hope of future fruitful cooperation, I'll spare your life and your ship this time. Whether things will continue to go this well for you depends solely on you. Goodbye!" With that, he spun around – the hem of his floor-length leather coat flaring – and hurried off. The marines, suspicious and never turning their backs, immediately followed.

"Pleasure meeting you, Marl!" Solo shouted cheekily after them.

"What got into them?" Scarpa asked, puzzled.

"They probably know something we're only guessing at," Caspar replied.

"Like what?" the Corellian raised an eyebrow. The man in the hat spread his hands.

"Let's say that Imperial troops are approaching the dock."

"Really?"

"I'm just assuming because no other explanation comes to mind."

"Well, let's get ready to welcome them," the captain suggested. "I don't want to be caught off guard again."

The jet-black X-wing was parked in a completely nondescript dock. One of hundreds in the busy spaceport of Virgill. Its weathered-faced pilot walked around it, examining the fuselage with a worried look – checking for any damage from the journey.

Everything seemed fine.

He sat down on the ground, leaning his back against the worn wall of the tiny dock. He opened the lid of a device that looked like a briefcase – on the screen, the beacon's light aligned perfectly with the crosshairs. The man adjusted the resolution – the dot immediately jumped further away.

He reflected on his past, the hundreds of thousands of light-years he had traveled. They had shaped him: turned him into a suspicious, bitter, and taciturn person. The scars on his face, the marks on his body, all testified to many difficult situations. Space – although it appears so peaceful – hides a thousand dangers. Once, perhaps, it was no more than the challenges nature offered, but then the "intelligent" species populated it, bringing competition, hatred, and greed.

The man felt that he had overcome these for some time now. He had shed them, like others shed their clothes at nightfall. What he had become without them, he did not know exactly. He certainly hadn't been left without goals, but he had received new ones in place of the old.

What these were, he hesitated to articulate. It would sound so foolish!

The man in the black uniform stepped into the dock. His blade-thin face was adorned with an equally narrow and long nose. His watery blue eyes radiated a detached sternness.

The stormtroopers accompanying him had thus far surrounded him protectively; now they stepped aside, forming a corridor leading to the tug's airlock.

Han Solo and Caspar, standing in for the conspicuous Chewbacca, appeared at the top of the ramp.

"I am Serlic Molor, chief logistics officer, in the service of His Majesty," the uniformed man introduced himself in a monotone voice.

"Captain Han Solo, at your service, and this is my first mate, Cesper," the Corellian twisted their names. Serlic Molor nodded grimly.

"So, this here," he pointed at the spaceship, "is the B8/M.F. designated freighter tug."

His words sounded more like a statement than a question.

Solo's turn to nod.

The logistics officer scrutinized the red-painted barge with a hawk-like gaze.

"Well," he said after a long pause, "the records we have are, to put it mildly, somewhat flattering to you."

"What do you mean by that?" Solo played the fool. But the uniformed man was not easily fazed.

"The technical condition of your barge," he replied indifferently. "Only the paint appears to be from this century. However, I do not wish to question the expertise of our data collectors, so I acknowledge that the technical specifications probably far exceed my imagination."

He faintly smiled, though it was more implied than visible.

"Nevertheless, you will receive the order," he paused briefly, "provided you explain that," he pointed at the collapsed dome. "We cannot employ individuals with dubious backgrounds for significant state contracts!" his voice finally betrayed a hint of emotion.

Han feigned outrage, though he felt more like laughing. "Dubious background? Me?" he shouted, feigning indignation. He started making broad gestures.

"This is all on you! Our competitors came here to threaten us; obviously, they wanted us to withdraw from the job. It's scary to think what could've happened if you hadn't shown up in time!"

The logistics officer remained calm.

"Can you prove this?"

"Of course," he spread his arms energetically, "I took pictures of them aiming their blasters at me! You can see the barrels up close. But here's the kicker. Why do you think they ran off so fast? Because they didn't want you to spot them! Or do you really think they were scared of a handful of stormtroopers? There were at least five times as many of them!" he lied.

"I need the captain's name and the ship's name!"

Han Solo felt it his civic duty to provide the requested information:

"The ship's name is Star Rider, and the captain's name is Marl," he said obligingly.

The uniformed man acknowledged this silently.

"According to Galactic time, you can collect the cargo exactly at 12 PM three days from now aboard the Inferno, an Imperial Star Destroyer on SST-16 stationary orbit. Here are the precise orbital data and the entry and exit permits," he chanted, handing over a small plasteel box.

He waited for the captain and his first mate to say their goodbyes, then left the dock under the protection of his stormtroopers.

As soon as he was gone, Han Solo exclaimed irritably.

"Straight onto a Star Destroyer's deck! This is madness! I feel like a fool, and I'm never wrong about this!"

Marl drilled his gaze into the technician's eyes.

"Are you sure you hid the beacon well?"

The man nodded eagerly.

"In the commotion, I easily slipped into the ship's engine room, sir. I hid it so well that even during a major service, they wouldn't find it."

The young officer grinned.

"Well, then let's see if it works!" he suggested.

He began activating the appropriate instruments. He felt a sense of satisfaction at how well he had familiarized himself with his new ship's equipment.

"We'll track them wherever they go," he started to explain. He was surprised at his own openness, as it wasn't his habit to share his plans with subordinates. He mentally shrugged – he could make an exception this time.

"I'm convinced," he continued, "that they will lead us to the bounty hunter. This Han Solo, despite trying to hide it, gave himself away – he's still in contact with him."

"I understand," nodded the technician, though he didn't understand at all.

"Of course you don't!" Marl waved dismissively. "Now get back to your work!"

He was left alone. Alone with his thirst for revenge. He missed the company of educated, intelligent people. He had no issues with the marines, he got along well with them, even liked them in his own way – but they were undeniably foolish. Even this technician was the best among them!

He closed his eyes and remembered: yes, this Han Solo was no fool! Engaging him in conversation was genuinely refreshing. Marl enjoyed such verbal duels. There was only one flaw he found in the captain – he wasn't adequately trained! Not like that Caspar! He played his role damn well, always staying in the background, only stepping into the spotlight when Han Solo alone wasn't enough. Even Marl couldn't see behind the mask, but he knew for certain that a mask existed!

If this man had designed the Star Rider – which he had – then everything made sense!

The fox-faced man followed the bristle-haired one from Dock 604 to the governor's palace and back again.

He had forgotten about that wretched little ex-sergeant; this was about more than that: it was about professional honor! This guy had to be killed! The mere thought filled him with pleasure and satisfaction.

He agonized over how to eliminate him. He would have preferred the dagger if it weren't so risky.

Using a firearm had already failed him once.

He didn't care what Rogow would think of this little side job. That was his concern... this was his – everyone should mind their own business! As far as he was concerned, he was focusing on his own!

He had reached this point in his thoughts when something interrupted him. It happened in a narrow alley where there were hardly any people besides them. The bristle-haired man stood before him.

"Why are you following me?" he snapped.

"I'll kill you!" Mort hissed, drawing his dagger.

The other man didn't appear to have a weapon and didn't reach for one. He stepped closer with lightning speed and struck the fox-faced man's nose with his closed fist, causing him to reel in pain. He dropped his weapon.

"We're tired of you, kid!" the attacker said in a chillingly firm voice. "Disappear, or you'll regret it!"

"I'll kill you!" Mort repeated, and poisoned-tipped needles sprang from under his fingernails.

The bounty hunter shook his head regretfully.

"A professional never gives in to his passions, remember that!" he admonished.

"What do you know about it?" Mort retorted. "More than you," the bristle-haired man replied coolly. The assassin considered this.

"We'll see about that!" he said.

"If you attack me again, I'll kill you!" the bounty hunter promised. "If you're fast enough!" Mort sneered.

"I am fast enough."

The fox-faced man moved with lightning speed. He feinted and then aimed straight for the neck. The other man didn't bother to defend or dodge; he once again pre-empted the attack. In a manner eerily similar to before, he struck Mort's nose again. The assassin staggered against the wall, blood pouring from his nose.

"You bastard..." he started to say, but was cut off by another blow to the same spot.

He could barely stand. The bounty hunter grabbed his wrist with irresistible force and twisted his arm, stabbing the fox-faced man in the stomach with his own poisoned steel claws. Then he threw him to the ground like a rag doll.

He left.

The assassin lay on the deserted street's pavement. His agony lasted for several excruciating minutes.

Melory Larso Rogow's special receiver crackled to life again on his desk.

"Hello, Central! Can you hear me?"

"Perfectly," the governor replied.

"We're departing shortly. I've completed the necessary... adjustments."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Deploy the special unit in two 'Vulture' ships and send them to the Regil system!" The irritation in the governor's voice was palpable.

"I know my job, Agent!"

"That's surprising to hear." – "You're getting on my nerves," he admitted frankly.

"That doesn't bother me," came the reply.

"I'm just worried that if we stop being friends, we'll become enemies!"

"If I were you, I'd worry about that too," the other agreed.

"I'm more concerned for you."

"That shows poor judgment."

"You think so?"

"I know so! By the way, your miserable little assassin has kicked the bucket! Did you know that?"

"You killed him, didn't you?"

Laughter echoed from the other end. "No comment."

"If it was you, we'll settle that score separately!"

"Words, empty words..." The line went dead.

After this, Melory Larso Rogow engaged in an activity quite unusual for him: thinking. He had enough of the bounty hunter. Moreover, last night a personal courier brought a message from Imperial City: everything is fine! Things are finally on track, the train is unstoppable. And it's not the driver who matters, who brought the locomotive this far, but the passenger who will step out of the car and into the world's spotlight! Yes, only one person matters: Melory Larso Rogow – everyone else must step aside or perish. The bounty hunter had earned the right to not choose freely.

History books don't mention those who planned or started something, but those who completed it. More precisely, those who act as if the achievement was theirs while the real heroes were eliminated in time.

The fight for power entered this phase today!

"Secretary!" he spoke into the desk communicator. "Prepare my shuttle and arrange a meeting with the captain of the Star Destroyer Inferno."

"Yes, sir," crackled the speaker.

We'll have to smoke out the wasp nest, their new base – the governor mused further. Unfortunately, even he didn't know which planet it was on. The bounty hunter – damned cunningly – kept it a secret even from him.

So the foolish game must continue – because he couldn't leave a vengeful enemy behind – just with slightly changed rules from now on.

Of course, the freighter carrying the droids must reach the Regil system, so the two Vultures can snatch the cargo and take it to the wasp nest. Only this way can the new base's location be discovered. But needing the freighter doesn't mean needing its crew. The equation is simple!

The ship must be disabled while still on the Star Destroyer. The crew, including the bounty hunter, will be put on ice – very cold ice! – while the freighter, now with a new crew, continues on its way.

"Sir!" the communicator crackled. "Your ship is ready, the meeting is arranged."

"I'm on my way," he promised.

Chapter Five

The last three days had been spent in a whirlwind of work to get the repairs done in time. Han Solo sat in the Falcon's cockpit, barely having the strength to reach for the control lever. Yet, without it, there was no chance of taking off.

"Chewie?" he tried. "Feel like giving it a go?"

A weary Wookiee growl cut off his words – the meaning was clear.

With a groan, the Corellian leaned forward and grabbed the handle that nobody else wanted.

"Maybe I could give it a shot," offered a voice from the back seats.

Han perked up immediately.

"No, no, Scarpa... stay put! I think it's best if I do it."

Several heads nodded vigorously.

"Well," the captain began, "This marks the first and, I promise, the last voyage of the B8/M.F. tug."

He realized this sounded somewhat ominous.

"Don't get me wrong," he quickly corrected, "the chances of us exploding are pretty slim." Someone onboard, however, knew the odds were actually quite high. They had personally hidden the bomb.

Solo sent the signal for the dock's automated system to open the dome. The damaged plas-steel hemisphere slowly parted.

The captain increased the power and gently pulled the lever. He felt the immense vibrations from the powerful engines beneath his feet. At the same time, he felt the unusual heaviness of the load. Gravity was no joke.

He carefully lifted the tug off the concrete. It was a strange sensation to control the sluggishly moving ship, which then began to drift with increasing inertia.

Chewbacca inquired about the situation with worried barks. The captain summarized briefly: "We've got this."

They exited the dock. The horizon suddenly opened up.

"I never want to come back to this planet again," he declared.

His passengers nodded in unison: neither did they.

He slid the data storage containing the exit permits into the reader. It transmitted the necessary information to Flight Control's computer. The codes for the suggested air corridor and flight path appeared on one of the Falcon's monitors.

Han accepted them for simplicity's sake.

"It's rare we leave a planet this peacefully," he grinned.

But Chewbacca's grim expression reminded him of their destination.

Ah, the Star Destroyer! He hoped they could leave there just as peacefully. He had no idea that the well-known type of Imperial shuttle, currently ahead of them on the course to the Star Destroyer, and a tiny light blinking on the Millennium Falcon's radar screen, was there to ensure that didn't happen.

The mentioned vessel – thanks to its high speed – reached the destination long before the sluggish tug. It landed in the protocol dock of the massive space fortress. Stormtroopers in white armor stood in ceremonial guard for the disembarking high-ranking guest.

The governor acknowledged the respect with satisfaction. It was time to get used to it because soon it would be a daily occurrence. Initially, he would be a senator, later a councilor... and perhaps someday... Best not to think about it – walls have ears. The captain himself came to greet him. "Welcome aboard, sir. Your visit is a pleasant surprise, though I don't know what I owe it to?"

He was a middle-aged man with tall, commanding features.

"I'd like to have a chat with you," Rogow crooned as charmingly as he could. He knew what a great favor he was doing.

"Please come with me," the captain said cordially. "My name is Mobert, and I serve in the fleet with the rank of major."

"Nice to meet you, Major Mobert," he said as they passed the honor guard. They exited the hangar and entered a lift.

"Captain's quarters," the major told the automaton.

The lift began its ascent, carrying its passengers through dozens of shafts. They were alone.

"It's about the droid shipment," the governor began.

The captain pondered.

"The two thousand work droids?"

The obese man didn't reply, just nodded.

"I brought them," continued Mobert. "I understand a freighter will pick them up later today." He glanced at his watch. "When exactly?"

The semi-intelligent personal unit found the requested data and displayed it on the small screen.

"In a few minutes," the captain read. Rogow rubbed his chin, watching the lift's information display.

"The thing is, that must not happen. Or at least not without some adjustments."

The other passenger raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I want to replace the freighter's crew." He was pleased with this phrasing.

"What could prevent you from doing that, sir? As far as I know, it's within your authority to determine the crew."

"Well, yes," he smiled. "However, let's say there could be some difficulties."

The captain didn't ask the obvious question, he just waited. He didn't have to wait long.

"For example, the crew might not agree with me."

Major Mobert spread his hands.

"Use my men, sir!"

The governor responded with a broad smile.

"Thank you, captain. I won't forget this." The lift arrived.

The electronics beeped loudly, indicating that the sensors had detected a change in the beacon's position.

Marl was relaxing in the spacious lounge of the Star Rider, feet up on the long table. He leapt up as if stung by a bee.

"Alert!" he shouted into the silence of the ship as he sprinted to the cockpit. He practically threw himself at the display.

"They're taking off!" he recognized the situation immediately. After days of idleness, he was brimming with pent-up energy, eager for action.

"Let's go, slackers!" he quipped. "Everyone to your stations!" He was in high spirits.

The Star Rider's engines roared as it lifted off the ground and set off on its long journey. They were speeding so recklessly that Flight Control had to order them to reduce speed!

The young officer complied, not wanting any trouble. Minutes passed in silence after they left the atmosphere, with only the hum of the instruments and the thrum of the engines breaking it.

"I need an analysis of the tracked ship's trajectory! I'm interested in the possible destination, not the numbers!"

The technician and the onboard computer got to work following his instructions. The result probably would have surprised them both if electronic minds could feel such things, but it was only the technician who exclaimed:

"Sir, their destination is an Imperial Star Destroyer!"

"What?" Marl was stunned. He deemed it the most unlikely statement of the past years.

"Repeat the calculation!" he ordered irritably.

"The result is unchanged," came the response after a while.

"Well, after all," the young officer shrugged, "anything is possible. Even this."

He began to consider how to adapt their strategy to the new circumstances.

"Raise the cloaking shields!" he commanded. Unexpected excitement – he thought with a not entirely unpleasant feeling. He activated the internal communicator.

"Soldiers!" he began his usual speech. "Fate has played a strange trick on us, as we're heading towards an Imperial Star Destroyer. However, don't think of it as a potential new home, but as an enemy warship. I know I'm asking a lot, but perhaps no more than before. And you've always completed your tasks because you're good soldiers. Keep it up! We're moving under the cover of cloaking shields, remember that. I don't know what our current mission will entail; the secret is still shrouded in time, but we may have to infiltrate the Star Destroyer. I'm counting on you, soldiers. Thank you for your attention!"

The next few minutes passed in tense silence, broken only occasionally by the technician's voice.

"We're entering the fighter zone."

"We're within firing range."

"We're within tractor beam range."

"The tracked vehicle has landed in cargo dock 3."

Marl quickly navigated behind the bridge. They stayed hidden.

"Technician! You mentioned last time that you'd never encountered such an efficient computer unit as the one installed in this ship. Is that true?"

"Yes, sir."

"If, hypothetically, you connected it to the Star Destroyer's computer system, could it filter information on a specific topic?"

"I see no obstacle, sir."

"And do you think the connection is possible?"

"Of course, sir. Someone would have to go out onto the surface of the Destroyer and breach an external cable's casing."

"Can it be done without those inside noticing?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"The area near the bridge is suitable for this, right?"

"The most suitable, sir."

"That's what I thought. Now, tell me, who among us is capable of this task?"

"Only me, sir. I was a technician on a Star Destroyer."

"Well, that's excellent. You'll find the spacesuits in place. Good luck!"

The B8/M.F. tug carrying the hidden Millennium Falcon slowly floated into the massive opening on the belly of the Star Destroyer, turning immediately in the designated direction. Various service and supply ships, along with dozens of TIE fighters, swarmed around it.

"I feel awful," Han reported. "This situation is a nightmare." The bounty hunter merely smiled.

"There aren't many places where you'd be safer."

"Maybe," the Corellian shrugged helplessly. "But I've got a bad feeling about this."

"There's no turning back now," Go Rien stated, and Han could have sworn he heard a note of schadenfreude in his voice.

"Thanks for the reassurance," he replied sarcastically.

The bounty hunter observed him for a moment.

"No problem," he said slowly.

Han Solo skillfully landed the cumbersome ship on the metal floor of the dock.

"We're here," he announced unnecessarily. Then he smiled tiredly, that typical Han Solo I'm-always-right grin.

"Tell me, Go Rien, is it common practice on Star Destroyers to greet guests with heavily armed stormtroopers? And in such numbers?"

But the bristle-haired man remained unperturbed.

"If it is, they must have introduced it after I stopped getting news from home," he replied.

"So we're screwed," the Corellian summarized the situation.

Everyone agreed.

Chewbacca growled painfully and eyed the bounty hunter, wondering if this was the right time to tear him apart. The man seemed to read his mind.

"Not a good idea, Chewie!" he raised his hand.

The Wookiee heeded the advice. The external microphones picked up a voice booming through a megaphone.

"Exit the ship with your hands up! It's useless to resist!"

They didn't need the warning to know that. Han was so frustrated he felt the need to vent.

He stepped up to the external speakers' microphone, cranked the volume to maximum – an ear-splitting screech of feedback cut through the hangar's silence outside – and shouted into the microphone.

"Kiss my ass!"

Several soldiers reached for their helmet's noise suppressors too late. The words echoed through the hangar for a long time. Scarpa shook Han's hand.

"Nice job, captain," he grinned. "You sure told them!"

An emotionless voice issued a command from outside.

"If you don't come out immediately, we'll destroy your ship!"

Only one person aboard the Falcon could confidently deduce that this was probably an empty threat, but he deemed it wiser to keep quiet.

"I don't think they're kidding," Han noted. "We'd better play along."

Their exit looked like a funeral procession. Only his face didn't match the scene, because – as he always did in hopeless situations – he was grinning broadly.

The soldiers immediately surrounded them, confiscating their weapons. An officer approached them, stepping directly in front of the Corellian.

"You're Han Solo, aren't you?" he asked. This gave the captain something to ponder, as he couldn't figure out how they knew his real name when he had been so careful not to reveal it. He saw only one possibility.

The traitor!

They were brought before an extremely obese, smug-looking man. Expensive rings gleamed on each of his fingers.

"Who the hell is this?" Han asked loudly as they halted before him.

Scarpa provided the answer:

"Melory Larso Rogow, governor of Virgill," he said softly, then suddenly closed his eyes, straining.

"Come on!" Han urged. Scarpa pulled himself together.

"A real piece of shit!" he shouted clearly into the hangar's silence.

The soldiers exchanged glances, and the dignitary paled.

The ex-sergeant opened his eyes. He was grinning... just like Han.

The offended man searched for the right words, clearly struggling to find them. After a long silence, he finally spoke – showing a lack of imagination.

"You'll all die!" he promised fervently. Solo looked him deeply in the eye and shrugged.

"If only you knew how many have already said that..."

"No one else will," the other assured him.

They were led to the prison block. It was evident they were watching every step of the way, always looking for a chance to escape. In vain – they were well guarded! They were transported in a spacious lift to their destination – to make room for a large number of armed guards. The Corellian once again marveled at the sheer size of such a luxury liner.

Of course, space was saved on the cells. He ended up with Chewbacca and Go Rien.

"Nice job!" Han commended the bounty hunter once they were alone. "Great plan, did I say that? Because I hate repeating myself. But around you, I have to do it a lot."

"Why are you so worked up? We can escape anytime."

"Sure! We've had about a dozen chances already, but you know, I've never been imprisoned on an Imperial Star Destroyer before," Han switched to a conversational tone. "Gotta check it out from the inside. They say some famous interior designer worked on it."

"That's right, as you say." The captain was surprised.

"About the designer?" The other grinned innocently.

"No, about the escape."

"Come on, Go Rien, this isn't the time for jokes!"

The other man grew serious.

"I'm not joking."

"Are you saying you saw a way to escape, but we didn't take it?"

He nodded.

Han Solo rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but quickly gave up.

"Why?"

"It wouldn't have made sense, Solo."

The captain was utterly confused.

"The escape?" he tried to clarify.

"We have no plan, we don't know what the enemy is up to, and we haven't coordinated with each other," he listed. "We'll escape when we've sorted all that out." His audience's eyes widened.

"Listen," Han said, trying to explain, "prisons are designed so you can't just walk out whenever you feel like it."

"Prisons, yes," he agreed, "but this is a Star Destroyer!"

"The prison block of a Star Destroyer!" the captain amended.

The bounty hunter smiled again, this time more broadly. "That's a big difference!" he raised his index finger.

The technician slipped out of the spacesuit – a soldier took it away – and returned to the console of the ship's onboard computer.

"I'm done, sir. It looks like it's working," he said tiredly, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "What do you want to know?"

"First, the name of the ship and the captain," Marl replied without hesitation.

The technician fiddled with some switches. "Inferno," he answered, "and the captain is some Major Mobert."

"Mobert?" the young officer tasted the name. "Never heard of him, but that's no surprise. What do you find under the name Han Solo?"

A brief pause.

"Cell block 34."

"Cellmates?"

"A Chewbacca... what kind of name is that?... and a Go Rien Moss."

"The first is his first mate, the second is the bounty hunter."

"Why are they locked up?" he asked, but then a better idea struck him. "What are they even doing on a Star Destroyer?"

It took a while, but he got all the answers he needed. He had a lot to think about.

"State cargo? Higher orders?" he thought out loud. He added a few more facts: "Combined cargo ships, governor of Virgill."

The famous Marl intuition and logic kicked in – within ten minutes, he had it all figured out. "We have to free them because they'll kill the bounty hunter!" he shouted. The technician didn't quite understand this.

"Why is that bad for us, sir?" he ventured after a while.

Marl snapped out of his thoughts and stared hard into the other's eyes.

"Because I want to kill him!" he replied darkly.

He switched to the all-ship communication system.

"Soldiers! Assemble at the airlock! We're infiltrating the enemy –" he emphasized the word "– Star Destroyer. Don't worry, we're going to use a trick. Put on your service uniforms and cover the Hammer insignia with something. I don't care if it's a gun strap or a shoulder bag. See you at the airlock, soldiers!"

He changed into his own uniform – at the meeting, he sported a high-collared black officer's uniform. His service pistol hung at his side, with its shoulder strap – what a coincidence – perfectly covering the ship's insignia. He would pass for an officer on any Star Destroyer.

He knew exactly where to find everything and how to behave on such a ship. So did his soldiers!

"Technician, you stay here!" he ordered. He pulled out a pair of communicators.

"These are two synchronized, coded communication devices. One stays with you," he handed it over, "the other stays with me. We'll keep in constant contact."

"They might trace the transmission, sir!" the other protested.

The young officer shrugged. "So what? At least a dozen people use these on a Star Destroyer."

"As you wish, sir," the technician agreed respectfully.

Marl looked over his men, tall and hard-faced – and they had learned a lot from him over the past two months. If anyone could carry out this plan, it was them.

"Suit up!" he commanded. "Don't use the built-in mics; I'm ordering complete radio silence!"

They stepped out into open space. The warship's gravitational field immediately pulled them in. The young officer remembered exactly where to find the nearest entry airlock at the base of the bridge. They headed in that direction.

"Technician? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, sir?" came the reply.

Marl leaned close to the door and wiped a patch of interstellar dust with his gloved hand.

"Check if anyone is present behind airlock VZ-1-12."

He could almost see the man huddled over the console, trying to extract the requested information from the warship's video system.

"It looks clear, sir."

"Also, the unlock code, please."

He recited it.

The young officer entered it on the dirty control panel, and the door opened. They entered a tiny airlock – so cramped they couldn't all fit at once. Beyond it, the corridor was indeed empty; the layer of dust on the floor indicated that even the cleaning robots rarely ventured there.

He pondered, trying to recall where this side passage led.

"I know where we are," he reassured his soldiers, who quickly shed their cumbersome spacesuits. He followed suit. He reflected that the riskiest part of the operation would be when seven heavily armed men tried to slip from an obscure side passage into a busy main corridor. All it would take is one overzealous fool, and they'd be caught. Only now did he fully appreciate how insanely dangerous this mission was. He felt a surprising mixture of awe and wonder at how much the desire for revenge could drive a person. It would be interesting to ponder this more deeply in a calmer moment.

They were lucky, and managed to merge seamlessly into the flow of traffic on the main A3 corridor leading from the bridge. From there, it would be simple to reach the prison block, as they only needed to take an inter-sector lift. However, Marl knew well that doing so could easily blow their cover. The ship's computer system monitored lift traffic and subjected every trip to a so-called improbability filter. News of seven armed marines heading from the bridge to the prison block would certainly raise flags. He had to find a way to avoid triggering the filter!

If the system was overloaded, it would simply skip excessive security checks. Monitoring the lifts was one of these. Now he just needed to figure out how to overload the central brain of the Star Destroyer. He ducked into a secluded corner. "Technician? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Do you remember that simulation of attacking Y-wings you played for me on Quaron III?"

"Of course, sir."

"Can you upload it into the Star Destroyer's electronic system?"

A brief silence on the other end.

"I see no obstacle, sir. But they won't believe it."

Marl smiled.

"Let's be clear. Who won't believe it?"

"The crew, sir."

"And the central brain?" A slight pause.

"It'll buy it."

The young officer was satisfied.

"Then do it!"

"Understood, sir!"

It took less than a minute for the warship's alarms to blare.

"Bravo!" the former first officer of the Hammer shouted inwardly. Then he turned to his men:

"Head for the nearest lift! We don't have much time."

The captain's quarters aboard the Inferno provided every amenity for its occupant – currently Melory Larso Rogow, governor of Virgill. The corpulent man reclined – almost lying down – in the plush armchair. He played with the expensive rings on his fingers, twisting them, sliding them on and off, his favorite way to pass the time.

Behind the slightly ajar, ornately decorated door appeared Major Mobert. His tall, dashing figure irritated the governor – he preferred to surround himself with less attractive people.

"You summoned me, sir?" the entrant asked politely.

"Yes, I did. First, I wish to reward you. I thought that you, as a fleet officer, might appreciate such trinkets," he said, reaching behind the chair for a heavy, solid gold model of a Star Destroyer.

The captain appeared grateful.

"In addition, I need your continued assistance. Naturally, with similar compensation. This here," he gestured to the gift, "is worth approximately six thousand credits. You can count on receiving the same amount again."

The man shook his head in protest.

"But sir, I didn't do it for the money... I did it for the fleet and the Emp..."

"Of course, of course," Rogow interrupted. "But I am well aware of how insufficient a captain's salary can be. Heroes like you deserve more!"

"Thank you very much for your kindness, sir."

The governor waved dismissively: a trifle! Then he got to the point.

"The cargo ship that came for the droid shipment is, in some ways, quite special," he explained. "In fact, it's not one, but two ships. They've been joined together. Now, the smaller one can detach from the larger if necessary. How this works, I have no idea; I'm not an engineer."

He expected some sort of acknowledgment, perhaps a "Clearly not, sir," or something similar, but the captain remained silent, so he continued.

"Due to a sabotage action, this mechanism was damaged. I want your mechanics to fix it!"

"Of course, sir!" the major bowed compliantly. "I'll see to it immediately."

"You're doing the right thing," the obese man assured him.

Around the same time, concealed within the shadows of space and under the protection of cloaking shields, two small spacecraft took up surveillance positions around the Star Destroyer.

They were unaware of each other's presence.

Both were mysterious crafts, serving even more enigmatic masters.

One was a black, modified X-wing fighter that had arrived moments earlier. Its pilot, perhaps unsure of what to do or maybe too wise to venture closer to a Star Destroyer, remained idle for the time being. What he had been following was now inside. He needed to wait until it came out to resume his pursuit or finally capture it.

The other was a steel-gray ship, resembling the shape of a stingray. An Imperial bounty hunter ship – one of the most successful military products ever created. No one sat behind its black windows – it was piloted by electronics. An exceedingly sophisticated artificial intelligence. Without orders to approach a potentially hostile Star Destroyer, it waited and remained hidden.

Solo jerked his head up.

"Alert? Did you hear that, Go Rien? They've sounded the alarm on the Star Destroyer!"

The bounty hunter listened – the sound was distant.

"Indeed," he nodded.

"We have to escape now!" the Corellian asserted.

Chewbacca roared in agreement.

"Go Rien, if you could snap out of your apathy, maybe you could actually help!"

"I'm fine," he replied. "I'm just listening... or at least trying to."

Han noted this with a wry expression. He was getting tired of all this secrecy – he decided it was time to speak up.

"We're either partners or we're not!" he burst out. "If we are, then I demand you explain your suspicious behavior! If not, then it's not worth explaining, because I'll shoot you!... If I had a weapon!"

The Bounty Hunter watched the smuggler captain's outburst with mild surprise.

"Do you think," he asked calmly after a while, "that listening is suspicious behavior?"

The Falcon's captain spread his arms helplessly.

"Chewie!" he called. "Do me a favor and tear him apart, will you?"

The Wookiee growled obligingly. The bounty hunter raised both open hands in a placating gesture.

"I'd rather not fight a Wookiee," he explained. Han laughed.

"I get that. Too bad understanding like that is so rare around here."

Go Rien responded with his usual faint smile.

"I think you misunderstood, Captain Solo. I meant that I'd regret harming your kind and amiable first mate. It would be a real shame, don't you think?"

Chewbacca growled that he would certainly have something to say about that and preferred that bets not be made at his expense.

"Chewie!" Han exclaimed indignantly. "I didn't bet, it would be unfair, you'd win anyway!"

The Wookiee agreed but suggested that peace might be better served by stopping the bickering.

However, it seemed that Go Rien was too caught up in the moment. He lowered his center of gravity slightly, standing in a wide stance and – what a surprise – hurled eloquent Wookiee curses at his opponent.

The Falcon's first mate – at least compared to Han Solo – was a calm, peaceful creature, but the bounty hunter's expertise in the Wookiee language quickly exhausted his patience. The massive being lunged at the comparatively short and skinny human – the result seemed inevitable.

Yet it wasn't! The bounty hunter dodged with incredible agility – just enough to keep safe.

This only infuriated the Wookiee more. His colossal fists pounded the cell walls, each time just where the bounty hunter had been a moment before. The room filled with deafening thuds and Wookiee roars.

The commotion quickly attracted the attention of the prison guards. They shouted curses and warnings at the two prisoners, demanding they cease their disruptive activities. Then came the unpleasant moment when they had to follow through on their threats since they had been ignored.

Four guards entered the cell – armed with sonic staves – intending to lock the door behind them. They didn't get the chance: the bounty hunter dodged another of Chewbacca's attacks and leaped at them. With one hand, he swept aside the weapons of the two front guards, then kicked one and elbowed the other.

The two behind hadn't even had time to react before he was upon them. His fist lashed out like a whip, striking one behind the ear, while his heel connected with the other's temple.

Go Rien didn't hesitate, he tore open the door and leaped into the corridor. Moving with steps reminiscent of a strange dance, he dodged the oncoming laser beams. At the end of the hallway, he aimed a sonic stunner – no one saw when he took it – and pulled the trigger. The stormtroopers collapsed like a house of cards.

Meanwhile, Chewbacca lowered his mighty right arm, which had been poised for a crushing blow. He stared at the grinning bounty hunter standing in the doorway.

"Apologies for the insults, First Mate Chewbacca, I didn't mean them seriously. We just needed to escape somehow."

The Wookiee grumbled something about not being really angry, to which Han Solo couldn't resist commenting.

"Chewie, I didn't know you were such a good actor!"

Their first task was to open the door of the neighboring cell. Scarpa, Gritt, and Caspar's surprised faces appeared behind it. They immediately joined the escape party.

Scarpa loudly complained.

"As a cop, I never thought I'd end up on the inside of one of these unfriendly doors!"

"Well, you can't say you were in there long," Solo consoled.

They quickly headed for the elevators – no more guards barred their way. The bounty hunter keyed in the appropriate code, hoping that his special knowledge would prove useful on the Star Destroyer's deck.

"Well, what do you know!" the ex-cop suddenly exclaimed. "We're lucky, here comes an elevator!"

The rest of the group froze in fear.

"What?!" yelled the Corellian. "How do you know?" Scarpa smiled smugly.

"I'm not an idiot," he replied teasingly.

"Spit it out already!" shouted Caspar, while Chewbacca roared loudly.

The official stood meekly among them.

"All right, no need to..."

"How do you know?" the Falcon's captain interrupted, now clearly irritated.

"From that display," he sniffled, pointing to a distant elevator.

They all looked: and indeed...

"It'll be here soon," fumed Han, while their own elevator was still far away.

"Take cover!" ordered Go Rien, though he knew there wasn't much available. Despite that, they did their best, just in time.

The other elevator arrived, and to Han Solo's shock, Marl and the familiar marines emerged, weapons ready to fire.

"Ah, Han Solo!" the young officer feigned surprise. "What a coincidence!"

This time, the Corellian didn't need to display any acting skills.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he burst out.

The black-uniformed Imperial officer scanned him from head to toe, disapproval evident in his eyes.

"You need to show more respect, Han Solo. Judging by the odds, it's your only chance to stay alive!"

Han raised an eyebrow.

"You want to kill me? What's in it for you?"

Marl laughed and nodded approvingly.

"You're a true trader, Han Solo. Fine, let's bargain for your life."

"Let's bargain," Han agreed, having no better idea.

The officer pondered, looking first at Solo, then at his companions, and finally at the approaching elevator display.

"We agree," he began slowly, "that I set the terms."

The captain, with no other choice, nodded.

"So," Marl continued, "where's the bounty hunter? Go Rien Moss!"

Solo tried to think of something, but the target stepped forward from the shadows.

"What do you want, soldier?" His voice was thick with disdain and an implied command for submission, catching Marl off guard. He struggled to resist the psychic pressure of Go Rien's presence.

"Ugh!" Marl grunted. "Cut the tricks, bounty hunter, or I'll have you shot!"

But Go Rien just grinned – a frighteningly sinister and mocking smile. Seizing the moment of confusion, he sprang forward, knocking the officer's arm aside, spinning him around, and stepping behind him. A thin, snake-like steel wire glinted in his hands. The exact nature of the weapon became clear only when the action ceased, revealing the new, precarious situation.

Marl groaned in pain, his words turning to gasps. The bounty hunter stood behind him, using him as a human shield against the marines' guns – a narrow plasteel wire tight around the officer's neck, its ends wrapped around Go Rien's fists.

"One wrong move," he warned the marines, "and your commander dies! Lower your weapons." They complied. Meanwhile, the elevator Go Rien had called arrived.

"Let's get out of here!" Solo suggested. Everyone agreed.

They backed into the lift – Go Rien and the captive Marl entering last. Once inside, Han realized the bounty hunter's intention.

"Don't do it, Go Rien!" he pleaded. "I owe him a life, let me repay it."

The bounty hunter shrugged indifferently and, just before the doors closed, pushed the barely conscious officer out – straight into his soldiers' arms.

The lift began its journey to the Star Destroyer's cargo docks.

"Get down!" ordered Go Rien, though he knew there wasn't much available. Despite that, they did their best, just in time.

The other elevator arrived, and to Han Solo's shock, Marl and the familiar marines emerged, weapons ready to fire.

"Ah, Han Solo!" the young officer feigned surprise. "What a coincidence!"

This time, the Corellian didn't need to display any acting skills.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he burst out.

The black-uniformed Imperial officer looked him over with a disapproving gaze.

"You need to show more respect, Han Solo. Judging by the odds, it's your only chance to stay alive!"

Han raised an eyebrow.

"You want to kill me? What's in it for you?"

Marl laughed and nodded approvingly.

"You're a true merchant, Han Solo. Fine, let's bargain for your life."

"Let's bargain," Han agreed, having no better idea.

The officer pondered, looking first at Solo, then at his companions, and finally at the approaching elevator display.

"We agree," he began slowly, "that I set the terms."

The captain, with no other choice, nodded.

"So," Marl continued, "where's the bounty hunter? Go Rien Moss!"

Solo tried to think of something, but the target stepped forward from the shadows.

"What do you want, soldier?" His voice was thick with disdain and an implied command for submission, catching Marl off guard. He struggled to resist the psychic pressure of Go Rien's presence.

"Ugh!" Marl grunted. "Cut the tricks, bounty hunter, or I'll have you shot!"

"One wrong move," he warned the marines, "and your commander dies! Lower your weapons." They complied. Meanwhile, the elevator Go Rien had called arrived.

"Let's get out of here!" Solo suggested. Everyone agreed.

They backed into the lift – Go Rien and the captive Marl entering last. Once inside, Han realized the bounty hunter's intention.

"Don't do it, Go Rien!" he pleaded. "I owe him a life, let me repay it."

The bounty hunter shrugged indifferently and, just before the doors closed, pushed the barely conscious officer out – straight into his soldiers' arms.

The lift began its journey to the Star Destroyer's cargo docks.

Chapter Six

The First seethed with rage at the governor.

"Is that how it is?" he mentally challenged fate. The thought of a multi-front war exhilarated him. Han Solo's crew, the Empire, and now the rebel governor of Virgill – he tallied his list of enemies. A true warrior is always alone – he recalled the words of his famed master, Darth Vader. The Dark Lord of the Sith was not a social being; yet no one dared to question his greatness. They wouldn't dare!

What a pity that his master's soul was shackled by loyalty to the Emperor. Had he joined the rebellion, the dark ruler's reign would have ended swiftly. Companions like the master were scarce. Rumor had it he had a son and a daughter; perhaps they should be sought out. The flame of the Force must burn within them. So few like them exist!

The Emperor was to blame for everything, exterminating them to the last. Yet they could have been turned! Just like the master. Now the universe was empty, populated only by – humans!

He spat the word with contempt.

Not to mention the other vile, filthy species. He grimaced with disgust at the thought of the long time spent in close proximity to a Wookiee.

Those should be exterminated too! The Emperor had failed!

But the time will come when he himself will be Emperor – then he will bring order! It was inevitable that he would face the master – he would regret it, but he could not be merciful. Those on the wrong side must perish!

Oh, how different everything would have been if his plan, more than a year ago, had succeeded. The Emperor would be dead! Instead, three of his apprentices were lost. Three little scorpions!

It was infinitely painful to think that it was the master who thwarted the fulfillment of a great dream. If he had not intervened then and there, he could be Emperor now: Darth Vader – who else? Because the First intended to place him on the throne.

Temporarily.

Because then he himself would take his place.

Han Solo stared sadly at the empty dock.

"Where's my ship?" he asked, utterly despondent.

Only one person in the group had a clue, but they remained silent.

Chewbacca howled mournfully, like a ship's horn, then began pounding the wall of the lift cabin with his massive fist, causing it to reverberate.

"Who the hell stole my ship?" the Corellian asked again, purely rhetorically.

"We don't know, Solo, but we'll find it," Go Rien promised reassuringly.

"How the hell are we supposed to find it!" the captain burst out. "It's like searching for a needle in a haystack. Do you have any clue, Go Rien, just how massive the galaxy really is?"

"Actually, I do."

Solo looked up into the bounty hunter's strange, sky-blue eyes. He saw both coolness and warmth in them at once. Confidence surged through him. He suspected it was some kind of trick, but this time he didn't resist it. "We'll find it," he said firmly.

"But now we need to get out of here as quickly as possible!"

He glanced at his Wookiee partner.

"Chewie, quit your roaring! We've got bigger problems to handle right now. We need to snag a ship. Got any ideas, Go Rien?"

The other shook his head.

"That's tough," he muttered.

"The Star Rider?" Scarpa suggested, surprising everyone.

Han glanced at him approvingly, which probably made the ex-cop's pride swell.

"Not a bad idea," he raised his finger. "But we've no idea where it is right now."

"The biggest problem," Gritt interjected, wiping his sweaty palms on his dirty yellow coveralls, "is that we don't know where any ship is docked."

"I have a good lead," Go Rien stated calmly and deliberately. He didn't wait for encouragement to continue.

"The governor is staying on the star destroyer. His ship can only dock in the protocol dock. It's a rather small hangar one level above us."

Interest sparked in the Corellian's eyes.

"Sounds like a plan. Let's grab some weapons!" he suggested. "Go Rien, I've noticed you're a pro at this. Can you get us some blasters?"

The bounty hunter grinned.

"Will do," he promised. "Just a moment," and he disappeared around the first corner.

However, the ones left behind had little hope for a peaceful wait. No sooner had the bounty hunter left than a squad of stormtroopers approached. The small group had no choice but to retreat into the lift.

"They'll spot us," Scarpa worried.

"That's very likely," Han agreed, "if we just sit here twiddling our thumbs."

"What else can we do, we can't leave the bounty hunter behind!"

Since being promoted to special agent through Go Rien and pocketing his lieutenant's stars, the officer seemed quite concerned about his benefactor's safety.

"He'll find us," the Corellian said and randomly slapped one of the station buttons. The door closed, and the cabin began its journey into the unknown.

None of them noticed that Caspar had been left behind.

Marl struggled to his feet, gasping. He could imagine how he looked with his bulging eyes and purple face.

"Don't just stand there gawking!" he snapped at the soldiers. "Call a lift instead!"

It was done.

"And don't for a moment think I'm in a good mood," he said to the air.

"We're returning to the Star Rider."

They boarded the arriving cabin, and the young officer programmed the destination. The journey took minutes – during which Marl tried to analyze the cause of the failure. He had made the usual blunder: underestimating the enemy.

They arrived at the A3 main corridor. As a precaution, they split into three groups to blend more easily into the traffic heading towards the bridge. Marl took two soldiers with him. They were close to the small hatch marked VZ-1-12. Perhaps it was the thought of nearing safety, or perhaps the disappointment, but their vigilance dulled. That's how they missed the officer watching them suspiciously and then following them.

The middle-aged man called four or five stormtroopers to his side and marched straight towards them through the crowd. Only then did they notice him.

"Commander!" he called out to Marl from behind.

"What are heavily armed marines doing here? You have no business on the bridge."

The young officer snapped to attention since his current rank, used as a disguise, was much lower than the questioner's.

"We're heading to an exercise in the A3/2 sector, sir," he replied very convincingly.

The officer pondered.

"Alright then," he said. "We'll check on that."

He pulled out a palm-sized portable communicator from his pocket.

"This is Major Mobert," he spoke into it. "Check if there's a special open-field marine exercise in the A3/2-CS sector right now!"

"Yes, sir," came the response.

The soldiers exchanged nervous glances. Finally, the answer came.

"We have no knowledge of such an exercise, sir!" The major looked at Marl disapprovingly.

"Detain them until we can clarify this matter!" he ordered the stormtroopers.

They surrounded the young officer and his two soldiers.

"Drop your weapons!" their leader commanded.

The marines hesitated, understandably so. And this hesitation saved them. The white-armored troopers were poised to pounce, completely forgetting their surroundings. Thus, they didn't notice the two incoming squads of reinforcements. They only realized when the weapons aimed at them clattered loudly behind them.

"Hands up!" growled one of the newcomers.

The stormtroopers, having no choice, obeyed reluctantly. Marl stepped up to the high-ranking fleet officer and, with a surprisingly precise but weak punch, struck him on the chin.

"So much for the special exercise!" he taunted the dizzy Mobert.

Meanwhile, the marines disarmed the stormtroopers and retreated down the narrow corridor leading to the airlock door, away from the growing crowd of onlookers.

"Technician, open the airlock!" the young officer commanded through the communicator.

From that point, no one stood in their way; they boarded the Star Rider easily and, most importantly, safely. The young officer, driven by a dark suspicion, aimed his first question straight at the technician.

"Is the cargo ship still in the dock?"

"It launched and jumped to hyperspace, sir," the man replied. "But I tracked its trajectory."

"Then follow it!" Marl's voice snapped.

"But sir, the computer system indicates..." he was cut off irritably.

"I don't want to hear your excuses, soldier, do your job!"

The technician shrugged indifferently.

"What about the connector cable?" Marl waved dismissively. "Ah, discard it!"

"Understood, sir," the technician nodded.

Moments later, the Star Rider shot out from the cover of the star destroyer's bridge and pointed its nose towards a designated point in deep space. Shortly after, it jumped to hyperspace, pursuing the freighter and Han Solo in the Regil system.

To Han's great regret, the Corellian was not aboard said ship.

The lift jolted slightly before coming to a stop. Han Solo tried to determine their location before the doors opened but couldn't make sense of the heavily encrypted display. However, the mystery didn't last long – though he wished it had.

The sight of the starry sky initially reassured the space travelers, until they realized that what they were looking through was the massive steel-glass window of a star destroyer's expansive command bridge.

"This can't be happening!" Han grumbled. "Chewie, tell me I'm seeing things." But no. They stood under the scrutinizing gazes of officers, technicians, and stormtrooper guards.

"Hello," the Corellian greeted them. "Sorry, wrong address."

He tried to imagine how they must look: himself with his dirty shirt, worn boots, and disheveled hair, pointing his finger at the astonished audience out of habit, despite the lack of a blaster. Then Chewie: a huge, scruffy creature with a determined snarl. Scarpa: in an unfamiliar black uniform with lieutenant's stars on his collar, wearing the universe's most foolish grin. Gritt: in his usual yellow coveralls, looking plump and small, with an "I just got mixed up in this!" expression. And finally, Caspar: who wasn't even there!

But there was no time to worry about his whereabouts now. Han wanted to slam the lift's control panel to escape quickly but realized it was futile. The laser carbines aimed at them helped him make a quick decision. "Step out of there!" a senior officer ordered. They complied.

"Hands on your heads!"

"What for?" Solo protested. "You can see we're unarmed!"

The response caught the officer off guard.

"This isn't a debate!" he barked. "Hands up!"

They did as told.

"Now, what are you doing here?"

The Corellian replied as naturally as if discussing the weather:

"Looking for the captain of the barge."

"Man," his interrogator exclaimed, "this isn't a barge, it's a star destroyer!"

"A ship is a ship," Han shrugged, suddenly struck by an audacious plan that had eluded him due to its sheer boldness.

He grinned at Chewbacca, who instantly understood.

"Look!" he began explaining to the officer. "We just got here on a cargo ship. We've got an important state shipment to deliver, a bunch of droids. You must've heard about it."

"That rings a bell," the man admitted truthfully.

"See!" Han praised him loudly. The stormtroopers' attention seemed to wane. "I need to talk to your captain about this. Is this how you welcome guests? Fellow sailors?"

The officer hesitated, signaling the soldiers to lower their weapons slightly.

"Take a seat over there," he said, relenting. "The captain is on his way. Until then, if you don't mind, you'll be under protective custody."

The group sat on benches along the wall. Solo watched the bustling activity of the massive warship's bridge with interest. Senior officers ordered junior officers, who in turn directed technicians. The latter did most of the actual work, with a few exceptions. There was a constant buzz, endless shouting, people coming and going, like a café or, more accurately, a busy office.

For now, it was relatively calm, but it wouldn't last long.

The First quickly discarded the props of his ridiculous disguise. He no longer wished to hide or act. Walking with a straight back, he navigated the star destroyer's labyrinthine decks towards his destination. He was a striking figure, yet the ship's crew seemed oblivious to his presence. The Force was at work!

He headed for the captain's quarters, knowing that the governor was housed there. The moment of reckoning had come! If those oblivious nobodies who couldn't see him through the Force had glimpsed his face, they would have fallen to their knees, trembling in terror. For his visage had been reshaped by the dark side. Unlike the Emperor, he didn't use his power for cheap tricks; he killed and destroyed with it. Nobodies and grotesque beings (as he called non-human species). He was trained for this, taught for this. But they didn't dare walk the path; they feared the consequences – they tried to merge with the Force, not drain it. They were fools!

Unlike him.

And unlike the dozen stormtroopers who stood in his way at the suite's door.

He tore them apart. Not beat them or kill them: tore them apart. In the most literal sense, he ripped them to pieces. He reveled in the sight of the blood – death, when he dealt it, always drew him closer to his ultimate goal. Like a drifting barge in a flood.

But he never resisted, never rowed against the current – quite the opposite!

He entered the room.

"What's going on?!" Rogow's smug voice snapped.

"Greetings, governor," he said, his voice as icy as the breath of Hoth's ice deserts, as cold as deep space.

The obese man sprang to his feet with agility belying his size. His eyes, like those of an animal terrified of death, and his smile – oh, so clumsily – fake.

"Ah, the bounty hunter," he stammered. "Glad to see you."

He avoided the other's gaze, lacking the courage to look into eyes borrowed from death.

"You deviated from our agreement," the bounty hunter accused. Each word was emphasized.

Rogow raised his hands defensively.

"Surely, there has been a misunderstanding. I didn't..."

"Indeed," he interrupted. "You didn't! You DIDN'T make the right decision, and you WON'T live much longer!"

"You know I never! I couldn't without you..."

"Neither with nor without me," he corrected.

The other man nearly whimpered. He fell to his knees.

"Give me another chance?" he pleaded.

He pretended to consider.

"I'll give you one more," he finally said. "Let's go to the bridge!"

On the command bridge of the Inferno, Major Mobert – rubbing his bruised chin – had just taken command of the ship when they stepped out of the lift. The bounty hunter now held not a blaster, but something else, a far more elegant and, in skilled hands, dangerous weapon: a lightsaber hilt.

Mobert turned around in surprise as one of the guards overseeing the lifts formally announced the arrival of the distinguished guest.

"Governor Virgill on the bridge!" he bellowed.

"Sir," he bowed, "what an honor. Please, come in!"

He invited them unnecessarily, as Rogow and the very peculiar man accompanying him, who seemed like a bodyguard, didn't wait for permission.

The governor tried to signal in every possible way that the situation wasn't as it appeared, but the captain ignored him, perhaps too preoccupied with his courtesies.

The bodyguard took over.

"At the governor's request, follow my instructions!"

Mobert looked at him curiously, but the big man's vigorous nodding dispelled his suspicion.

"How can we assist you?" he asked, a hint of mockery in his voice. The other ignored it.

"Tune a transmitter to the alpha-33 wave band!"

They complied. The governor fidgeted restlessly.

The First then felt a gaze boring into the back of his head. Since it didn't signal immediate danger, he turned slowly. His eyes met Han Solo's.

They stared at each other for a long time.

"So, you're the First," the Corellian said.

The other nodded, then, for dramatic effect, revealed his true face. The one reshaped by the dark Force; the one that, except for the Falcon's captain, was still hidden from everyone else. The First expected fear, a face paling with terror, narrowing eyes, trembling knees.

Instead, nothing happened. The vested man held his gaze.

The bounty hunter sensed for the first time that he wasn't dealing with an ordinary man. The probing questions were cut short by the captain of the Inferno.

"It's ready, as you requested. Please proceed to that device!" he gestured.

The First stepped over, inputting the call code for his ship orbiting outside, then turned to the major.

"Captain, I'm calling my ship. Which is the nearest airlock?" The man hesitated.

"One level down," he replied uncertainly. The cold eyes regarded him with contempt.

"You're lying," the bounty hunter declared. "I know the layout of star destroyers down to the smallest detail. I was testing you. You failed!"

With that, the lightsaber hilt in his hand hummed to life, and the red blade ignited. The First moved with blinding speed. The result was the captain sliced in two, dead before he hit the ground. The weapon's searing heat ensured not a drop of blood was spilled.

A stunned silence filled the room. Officers and technicians fell silent, only the beeping of instruments breaking the quiet. Then suddenly, chaos erupted. Laser beams cut through the air, all targeting the bounty hunter standing over the captain's body.

With superhuman speed and precision, he wielded the glowing blade, deflecting the shots. The deflected beams struck people and valuable equipment. Screams and showers of sparks filled the long room. The lights went out, leaving only the glow of the weapons, the saber, the short-circuiting instruments, and the twinkling stars outside providing any illumination.

In the center stood the bounty hunter, swaying, dancing – like a reed in a strange whirlwind. Only he heard the music he danced to. Then he grew bored and revealed his true face, drawing in the Force. His attackers felt it – they had to, for a significant part of what the First gathered flowed out of them. They weakened, physically and mentally. The sight of his grotesque, mask-like visage only heightened the effect. The laser rifles' barrels turned away from him; some looked away in disgust, others in fear. Amidst the confusion, no one noticed Han Solo and Chewbacca each grabbing a fallen, ownerless weapon.

The First laughed – coldly and chillingly – then mercilessly slaughtered the nearest officers and stormtroopers.

The realization dawned on many, but it was the senior officer who had previously negotiated with the Falcon's crew who voiced it.

"A dark Jedi," he uttered in a grave voice. His words were picked up by the crowd, repeated louder and louder.

More and more fell to their knees, bowing their heads before such a blatant display of power.

"Spare us, lord!" the senior officer pleaded. "We will fulfill your every wish!"

The Empire's foremost bounty hunter noticed they addressed him as they would Darth Vader. Perhaps this softened his heart.

"Behold, proof of progress!" he muttered to himself, then turned to the kneeling man before him.

"Who are you?"

"Major Dorcier, the ship's first officer, my lord," he groaned.

"From now on, you are the captain! Stand up!"

Pale as a ghost, he scrambled to his feet.

"Thank you, my lord," he stammered.

He nodded graciously – this role was still foreign to him. So, they called him a Jedi! Was he truly one – or just in the eyes of mortals? What did it matter! – he realized.

"My ship will dock at the secret airlock to the bridge within minutes," he announced loudly. "Prepare the door!"

The new captain's voice held a note of hope.

"Are you leaving us, my lord?" He stared into his eyes.

"Yes," he replied. "But I will return later!" he promised. "Assume orbit around Virgill and await further instructions!"

The other nodded vigorously – he was very afraid.

"It will be done, my lord!"

The First's gaze shifted to Han Solo. The notorious adventurer and his companions were not kneeling. In fact, the Corellian was aiming a weapon at him.

He stared unflinchingly down the barrel of the blaster. He knew he could kill the man despite the weapon – nothing would be easier! The thought was tempting, as Han Solo was an enemy and could become quite dangerous. It would be a simple solution, too simple! As obvious as it was unacceptable. If he did so, he would question the legitimacy of his own rebellion. He would be doing exactly what the Emperor had done, the very thing he condemned and despised the Emperor for. Yes: the Emperor had chosen the easy path – he didn't dare take risks. Could it be – the thought struck him – that the Emperor was a coward!? Afraid of the danger posed by those like him? Doubtful of his ability to overcome his rivals? Yes! Here was proof that the Emperor was flawed! He must tell his master this, it might open his eyes! So, here and now, he would not make the same mistake. He wouldn't kill Han Solo because the Corellian smuggler captain was too valuable for that! So he simply nodded – slowly and as a farewell – then turned his back on him.

Han Solo was not the type to shoot someone in the back – even if that someone happened to be his sworn enemy. Besides, he doubted it would work.

The bridge crew – either kneeling with their foreheads pressed to the floor or completely engrossed in proving their diligence – didn't notice the brief interlude.

"Get up and get back to work!" the bounty hunter commanded. "We might crash into something."

They obeyed swiftly. Order was gradually restored, fires were extinguished, the lights came back on, and damaged units were replaced with functional ones.

"Your ship has arrived, my lord," a trembling technician reported.

"Well, then, farewell!" the First said and disappeared into the small airlock.

He left behind stunned silence. Someone – despite being a seasoned naval officer – sobbed loudly once the shock wore off. The people were at a loss.

"Course 8/11! We will orbit the planet!" the new captain ordered. The technicians hurried to execute the command. Only one man protested.

A man in brown military trousers, a khaki shirt, and a vest. Some remembered he claimed to have arrived with the tug that was directed to cargo dock 3.

"No!" he shouted tersely. Naturally, he reinforced his words – otherwise, he wouldn't have much authority – specifically with a blaster, which he pressed against the governor's flabby belly.

The star destroyer captain assessed the situation thoroughly, and seeing no safe way to free the esteemed individual, signaled the eager stormtroopers to stand down.

"What do you mean, no?" he asked calmly.

"We're not going into orbit," the man with the blaster replied.

"Why should I obey you?" the major inquired.

The man shrugged.

"Tell you what," he suggested. "I won't waste my breath, let the governor convince you, okay?" and he nudged the fat man with his weapon.

The governor demonstrated considerable enthusiasm.

"Captain!" he shouted. "I order you to obey this man! Need I remind you that I am the military commander of this sector and your superior as such!" The other man's features showed uncertainty.

"But the Jedi knight..." he began, but Rogow interrupted:

"Jedi knight?" he laughed. "Come now! He was a common killer with limited skills and boundless ambition. Until now, he served me, but it seems madness has overtaken him."

The captain was completely unsure, and the governor quickly continued.

"Captain?" his voice carried mockery. "Do you think a real dark Jedi would be occupied with slaughtering the crew of an Imperial star destroyer?"

The other man wanted to believe – because he wanted to believe. Rogow skillfully exploited this.

"It's utterly unbelievable, isn't it?" he posed the question.

The major nodded hesitantly.

"There you go. Now do as I say!"

Solo kicked him in the ankle.

"Or rather, as he says," he corrected, nodding toward the Corellian beside him.

"Finally!" Solo grinned. "We're back to square one. So, we're not going into orbit; instead, we're heading to the Regil system! Prepare for the hyperspace jump!"

The captain repeated the order, and the technicians resumed their work.

The Corellian turned to his Wookiee partner – without neglecting to keep the hostage under control.

"Well, Chewie, we hijacked a star destroyer! I never thought I'd see the day."

Chapter Seven

In the usually quiet Regil star system, the traffic was unusually heavy on this day. The first settlers had recently arrived on the only habitable planet, along with some representatives of the Empire. Flight Control – manned by a single poorly-trained technician – expected only one ship that day, carrying the long-awaited shipment of labor droids. Yet, one after another, six ships emerged from hyperspace.

The first two were Imperial destroyer-hunters from the LAAS 14 series, commonly known as Vultures. They slowly orbited a specific point in space, as if waiting for prey. They refused to identify themselves to Flight Control.

Soon after, the expected B8 tug arrived with the much-anticipated cargo. The Vultures immediately pounced on it. They would have quickly dealt with it if not for the arrival of two more ships.

One was a modified intergalactic barge, and the other a heavily customized X-wing fighter. The technician was no longer surprised that they didn't identify themselves. From this point on, he had no idea what was happening in the system he was supposed to control. The Vultures attacked the barge as well, prompting the X-wing to rush to its aid – not that it needed protection, as it boasted enough firepower to shame a battleship.

But the real excitement was yet to come.

An unidentified, small, manta ray-shaped spacecraft entered the system and immediately joined the battle – on the side of the LAAS 14s. It was an incredibly effective machine, piloted by an incredibly skilled pilot.

The technician accepted with a resigned wave of his hand that a star destroyer also chose this moment to visit the remote system.

"The show's already started," Solo observed from the command bridge of the Inferno. "We missed the opening act!"

"Only the finale matters," Scarpa replied, demonstrating his sharp insight.

Their casual conversation was abruptly interrupted by Han's furious shout. "They're firing on my ship! Damn them!"

He turned to the major:

"Captain, get your barge over there and take out those two damn Vultures! And hurry, because if the Falcon gets damaged, I'll... you'll regret it!" he trailed off, unable to find the right threat.

"This is not a barge; it's a star destroyer!" the man emphasized again.

"I don't care, just do it," Han urged.

They drifted slowly and majestically through space toward their target.

"Is this the top speed?" Solo asked.

"It is!" the warship's captain snapped irritably. Han pondered for a moment.

"Now I understand why your colleagues never catch up," he remarked.

The other man shook his head.

"Man! This isn't some junky little tub! This ship has sensitive instruments, regulated gravity, hangars full of spacecraft, thousands of crew! You can't just recklessly zoom around space like you do with your piece of junk!"

Han furiously stepped up and before the stormtroopers could react, pressed his blaster barrel under the captain's chin.

"Did you just call the Falcon a piece of junk?" he hissed, wounded pride evident.

The other man smirked.

"What else would I be talking about? You've messed up, pirate! You can threaten or shoot me, I don't care. But you left the governor unguarded!" he pointed out smugly.

Han realized his mistake – too late. Indeed, he had lost his hostage, and Chewbacca was somewhere else, completely absorbed by the star destroyer's control systems. This was a blunder, he admitted to himself, but no one insults the Falcon in front of him.

"Seize him!" the major ordered the nearby stormtroopers. They surrounded Han, aiming their blasters.

"Hand over your weapon!" the captain demanded, reaching out.

Solo reluctantly complied.

"Give it back to him!" a commanding voice called out from somewhere. The source quickly became clear as the soldiers parted.

Next to the governor stood a stormtrooper, pressing his blaster barrel into the obese man's belly, just as Han had done earlier. Rogow nodded vigorously, indicating his agreement with the suggestion.

"Who the hell are you?" the major burst out. Han Solo patted him on the back, grinning.

"See, a lot of people want to know that!"

He took back his blaster.

"How long have you been here, Go Rien?" he asked.

The spiky-haired man removed his helmet, grinning as always.

"I arrived a few minutes ago," he said. "It wasn't easy finding you, Solo! If I were thinking logically, this would be the last place I'd look."

"Luckily, you usually don't think logically," Han observed.

"Only when it comes to you," he replied, shaking his head.

"That makes sense, since you always come up with the most impossible plans when you need me to play a key role."

Their banter was interrupted by the metallic chime of the targeting system.

"Targets in range!"

"Go ahead, fire!" Solo suggested. But the Inferno's captain refused to budge.

"Do whatever you want, but I will not fire on an Imperial ship!" he declared firmly.

"Not even if I shoot the governor?" Han threatened.

"No!" he shook his head.

"Too bad," Han sighed, and didn't pull the trigger.

He turned to the bounty hunter.

"Have you seen the First, Go Rien? He was here!"

The other man grew visibly excited and shook his head.

Solo continued his questioning:

"And it wasn't you, was it?"

The usual smile returned. He answered with a question:

"Are you still suspicious, Solo?"

"Hard to see you as innocent, Go Rien. First time, sure, maybe a coincidence you weren't there when the other guy acted. Second time, could be. But every single time? Come on, admit it, it's highly suspicious!"

The other man, as always, was ready with a response.

"Did it never occur to you, Solo, that the First might intentionally act in my absence? Don't you think that makes logical sense?"

Han spread his arms helplessly.

"I'm not thinking anything anymore. I'm just waiting for you to provide proof once and for all. As you can see, I'm very patient."

"I'll give you that," he nodded.

At that moment, Chewbacca let out a painful howl and wildly pointed out the star destroyer bridge's steel-glass window into space.

"What are you saying?!" Han Solo exclaimed and rushed to the window.

Go Rien, of course, didn't make the mistake of leaving his position beside the governor.

The Corellian turned back to the room, his face pale.

"My ship's on fire," he muttered. The spiky-haired man knew Solo well enough to understand the gravity of the statement.

"What do you mean, on fire?" he asked urgently.

"More precisely, the tug is on fire, but the Falcon is docked with it!"

"Don't worry," Go Rien tried to reassure him. "The pilots surely know there's a problem and how to escape in time with your ship."

Han Solo shook his head gloomily.

"That won't work. I installed a hidden safety lock. If they don't deactivate it, they'll never detach from the B8. Now I regret it, but it seemed like a good idea at the time."

The Wookiee continued pounding the bridge's plasteel floor in anguish. Han Solo's face showed determination.

"Get ready, Go Rien!" he shouted. "We're going there!"

He called over the major.

"Captain! Get the governor's shuttle ready! We're getting off this ship. Move it! And hold on!" Han shouted back. "No sudden moves. We're taking the fat man with us!" He pointed at Rogow.

"Scarpa, Gritt, come on!"

He approached the highest-ranking stormtrooper nearby.

"Don't even think about rescue missions because I'll tell you now, that spiky-haired guy is a top-notch bounty hunter! One move, and he'll put the whole clip into the governor! Pass that on to your superiors! If we see anything suspicious on the way to the protocol dock, the lard ball's toast! Got it?"

The soldier nodded stiffly.

"Fat man, fatty, lard ball?!" Rogow wailed. "You'll regret this, Han Solo!"

"Shut up!" Go Rien said amicably.

Then the Falcon's crew surrounded Governor Virgill and headed towards the ready shuttle. Han Solo's constant urging made them move quickly.

Marl was almost entirely focused on piloting the ship through the barrage of laser beams. The Star Rider's shields held up better than expected, but the LAAS 14 destroyer-hunter was still a formidable adversary, even for the modified barge. Its firepower couldn't match the six heavy laser cannons on Marl's ship, but its gunners were more skilled and precise.

Still, Marl had enough mental capacity to try to deduce who might be piloting the X-wing coming to his aid. Despite racking his brain, he couldn't figure it out this time. He mentally shelved the problem for later due to a lack of information.

He refocused his attention on questioning the technician.

"So, you're saying Han Solo and his criminal associates aren't on the tug?"

"Exactly, sir," came the reply through the communicator. Despite being only a few meters apart in adjacent rooms, the noise of the shield impacts made direct communication impossible, no matter how loudly they shouted.

"How do you know that?" was the next question.

"I got it from the star destroyer's computer network, sir."

Marl shook his head in frustration.

"And you couldn't have told me sooner?" he asked sarcastically.

"I tried, sir, but you wouldn't let me speak. You were very agitated!"

That was true. Marl could only blame himself. He wasn't the type to look for scapegoats. He quickly reassured the technician.

"I'm not angry at you," he said slowly. "It's not your fault this happened."

"Thank you, sir," crackled the voice over the speaker, and the young officer heard gratitude and respect in the tone.

Yes, Marl thought to himself, commanding and leading people was something he was trained by the best to do.

Now, however, it was wise to focus on piloting the ship. One of the Vultures was almost glued to the Star Rider, continuously whipping it with laser blasts. Marl quickly checked the rear shield status display – he wasn't pleased with what he saw. He tried to maneuver the modified barge into daring turns, but it was clearly not suited for such maneuvers. It moved sluggishly compared to the nimble LAAS 14, which easily followed Marl's movements.

Meanwhile, the tug carrying the droids had clearly surrendered to the other destroyer-hunter – if nothing else, this was indisputable proof that Han Solo wasn't flying it. The cargo barge drifted in space with its thrusters off, like a prey animal that had given up the fight, lying on the ground and exposing its belly to the opponent. The Vulture navigated alongside and docked at the main airlock.

It was pretty clear what was happening inside.

However, Marl's attention was suddenly drawn to a new, crucial discovery. A ship emerged from hyperspace and immediately attacked the LAAS 14 pursuing the Star Rider. It was the steel-gray bounty hunter ship. Its precise, high-energy shots quickly forced the unknown black fighter to veer off its pursuit path and start erratic evasive maneuvers.

Marl's radio crackled.

"Star Rider! This is the black X-wing pilot speaking, respond!" He quickly pressed the microphone button.

"This is Star Rider! Who are you?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves!" the deep, resonant voice replied. "For now, my interests align with protecting you. That's all you need to know."

Defiance flared up in the young officer.

"Do you think we need your help? Against two Vultures?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But I can't take that risk. Besides, you wouldn't stand a chance against the gray ship alone."

He chuckled softly in response.

"From what I see, neither can you," he remarked.

"Just because it caught me off guard and got behind me. If it breaks off, the situation changes. I'll fly past your right side, give it covering fire from the side batteries!"

"Alright," the pilot agreed. "Right now, it's in my best interest to protect you."

He then instructed his gunners on what to do.

Moments later, the black fighter zoomed past them, with the gray bounty hunter ship following closely, almost as if it were tethered. The Star Rider's cannons roared to life, turning the space in front of the gray ship into a blazing inferno. To avoid collision and explosion, it had to swerve away at lightning speed. And it did.

The X-wing, seizing the opportunity of the slight course correction, immediately slipped behind it. The tables turned, putting the bounty hunter in a tight spot. The finely crafted ship danced madly under the pilot's hands, but the unknown pilot was even better, staying locked on without a moment's break.

Marl could now refocus on the destroyer-hunter pursuing him. It was a serious threat, showcasing the stark difference in fire accuracy between the navy marines and the trained marksmen.

Han surveyed the state-of-the-art instruments with dissatisfaction. He didn't know what half of them did, and he couldn't figure out how the rest of them worked.

"What kind of amateur setup is this?" he asked disdainfully.

The Imperial pilot – barely more than a kid – recited as if he were reciting a learned poem.

"This shuttle is the latest model. Its controls are eighty percent automated, and it includes all the comfort and infrastructure services an Imperial officer might need."

"Hold it!" Solo interrupted. "Say that again."

The pilot repeated.

"Great!" the Corellian said. "Now tell me, kid, can all this be turned off?" The pilot stared at him in disbelief.

"Well," he said slowly, "technically, yes."

"Then do it!" Han ordered. "Turn it off!"

The young pilot began working on it. One by one, the lights dimmed, and the screens on the control panel went dark until only about a tenth of the original instruments remained active.

"This is the minimum needed for manual control," the young man commented. Han examined the setup again.

"Much friendlier," he said. "But still damn complicated!" He looked thoughtful.

"Tell me, kid, do you really think the automatic seat heater is necessary?" he pointed to one of the displays.

"Well, if you like it simple, fine," the pilot shrugged, remaining unflappable. He turned off another half-dozen units.

"Are you done?" Solo asked impatiently.

The pilot nodded.

"Then get out!" Han pointed to the door.

"Excuse me?" the pilot asked, puzzled.

"I'm advising you to get off the deck while you can, because we're taking off shortly."

"And?"

"And there's a space battle outside, and we're going to join it."

"This isn't a combat ship, sir!" the pilot pointed out.

Han gave a dark smile.

"That's why I suggested you leave while you still can."

This time the kid took the advice.

The Falcon's captain and his Wookiee first mate settled into the pilot seats, while the others took their places in the luxury cabin.

Chewbacca growled in annoyance, noting that Imperial designers clearly had no idea what a truly comfortable pilot seat was like. This one was several sizes too small. As a positive example, he cited the co-pilot seat of the Millennium Falcon.

"Well, Chewie," Han called out, "let's see if we can still fly a ship." Scarpa quickly reassured him.

"Captain Solo, don't worry, one never forgets how to fly."

"Thanks, Scarpa," Han replied. "You've restored my confidence."

The ex-sergeant grinned proudly and made himself comfortable on one of the luxury sofas.

"Let's get going!" Han proposed. He carefully lifted the shuttle from the hangar floor and slowly pointed its nose toward the force field-sealed exit. When everything was lined up, he suddenly pushed the throttle forward. The shuttle – though not designed for such wild maneuvers – responded superbly. It shot forward, roaring engines propelling it through the narrow opening. The passengers in the cabin tumbled over each other, expressing their displeasure with angry shouts.

"We're in a hurry, aren't we?" Solo yelled back, opening the shuttle's wings.

The spacecraft soared toward its target, like a massive bird thriving even in the vacuum of space.

It wasn't alone for long. The gray, manta ray-like ship immediately turned its nose toward them.

"Go Rien!" the Corellian shouted back. "Your colleague's approaching; want to meet him?"

"I suppose I have to," came the reply.

"Don't play the martyr!" Han snapped. "You chased him across half the galaxy; why're you surprised he finally caught up?"

Scarpa chuckled softly, and then the bounty hunter spoke up.

"The truth is, Solo, I would've preferred to face him when I could shoot back!"

Han paled.

"Are you saying this ship isn't armed?"

"Exactly."

"Why didn't you mention that sooner?"

"I usually know what I'm doing. I assumed that was part of the plan."

Han's voice rose in anger.

"I never thought it'd have seat warmers but no laser cannons!"

Go Rien laughed.

"You know, Solo, normal people don't consider laser cannons a basic necessity!"

"Alright, everyone hold on!" Han advised. "We're the prey in this hunt!"

He pushed the throttle to full power.

"Chewie, engage the reserves if you know how!"

Solo achieved his goal; at this speed, the attacker couldn't circle them but had to fall back into a chase to attack effectively.

"Chewie, focus all power on the rear shields! Our lives depend on it."

He began maneuvering the ship: spinning, weaving, and diving in every direction. It was an old pilot tactic: keep your enemy busy following you, and they might not have time to shoot!

But this one had time!

Chewbacca grumbled ominously that the rear shields were critically low.

"They'll hold!" the captain encouraged everyone, mostly himself.

"If we were in the Falcon, I'd show him!" he fantasized. Now it was all a matter of time. Go Rien then shared an interesting tidbit.

"Solo, did you know the First came with us to the star destroyer?"

Han was so shocked he almost got them shot. The shield alarm blared.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Simple deduction," the other replied. "I thought it appropriate to mention before we explode."

"Spare me no details!" the Corellian urged, performing more evasive maneuvers.

The bounty hunter started explaining.

"The star destroyer was expecting us; they knew we were coming. That's only possible if they had a spy among us since the governor knew your real name. Following?"

"Of course," came the reply from the cockpit.

"Then I'll continue. The spy wasn't exposed. This is possible in two cases: if it's me or someone better than me. There's only one like that – the First. Since I'm not the spy, the First must be!"

Solo shook his head in disbelief.

"You're saying it's Caspar?"

"Most likely. Remember, Go Rien? He couldn't recall any of our past dealings! What a transparent excuse, that amnesia! How did we not see through it?"

"That's why he's the First," the bounty hunter pointed out.

"That's why I'm gonna gut him," Han promised. "I hate being played for a fool!"

Go Rien Moss, the Empire's number two bounty hunter, grinned. "Isn't it more that you hate it when someone actually succeeds in fooling you?" he taunted.

"You know what, Go Rien? I don't have time for this!" the Corellian snapped, ending the discussion.

In the cramped cockpit of the Storm, the First made an astute observation.

"Han Solo is an exceptionally good pilot!" he muttered. It was obvious that Solo was flying the shuttle – he had enough logical sense to figure that out. He might not be the most analytical mind in the Empire, but even an idiot could see this.

"The most infuriating part," he continued his train of thought, "is that if I weren't flying a perfectly designed bounty hunter ship, I probably couldn't even keep up with that slow, clumsy shuttle." He prided himself on being a great pilot – and with good reason.

In fact, he was no longer sure that, if he had the chance, he wouldn't just blow that zigzagging ship to pieces. It was so easy to fall into the Emperor's mistake of eliminating rivals. The thought was even more tempting because, if his logic held, the bloodhound Go Rien Moss was also aboard that shuttle. Not to mention that pompous governor!

He had never thought much of the Second. Fundamentally unsuitable for the role that fate – and Imperial oversight – had assigned him. The man was full of pity and compassion for the weak and incapable, prone to irrational acts of affection and other such foolish and unnecessary emotions. Such a person shouldn't be an Imperial bounty hunter!

The First considered his successor weak. He would never become a dark Jedi – he was convinced of that.

Reality pulled him from his thoughts for a moment.

"Vulture-1, hurry up with the unloading, we'll have company soon!"

He glanced at his watch. Moreover, he thought, the bomb placed on the tug was about to explode, and they desperately needed the droid shipment. They needed to build the new base, train soldiers, and establish a space fleet with the money extorted from Rogow. As enjoyable as solitary combat was, it wouldn't yield results! Losing the perfect base and Russ on Quaron III was a mistake – he had been excellent at organizing.

Yes, he should have realized back then that Han Solo wasn't just a nobody – he had defeated Russ! And Russ had been a skilled and experienced former secret police officer. He should try to recruit Solo to his side – he'd make an excellent soldier under his banner. On the other hand, Go Rien Moss had to die, and the governor – what a clown! – simply knew too much!

There was only one way to kill them all while ensuring the smuggler captain remained unharmed: he had to board the tug himself and handle the dirty work personally.

The shuttle finally reached the B8 tug attached to the Millennium Falcon. Han Solo maneuvered next to it, not too carefully, near one of the secluded airlocks. Even though things were currently calm – with the gray bounty hunter ship and the second Vulture mysteriously leaving them alone – the Corellian wasn't too concerned about their disappearance.

He connected the two vessels, programmed a few timed commands, and called back to his crew.

"We're boarding. Get your weapons ready!" He stood and walked to the back.

"We're leaving the governor here!" he ordered. "He'd only be a burden. Go Rien, tie him to the chair."

The bounty hunter obliged.

They lined up by the airlock, holding the laser rifles they had seized from the star destroyer. Chewbacca let out a frustrated growl, missing his own special bowcaster. Several in the group shared similar frustrations.

They knew for sure that stormtroopers from the Vulture had already boarded the other ship and were waiting for them. Han, Chewbacca, and Go Rien were at the front, with the relatively useless Gritt and Scarpa behind them.

"Okay. Everyone ready?" the Corellian asked.

They nodded.

"I'll count to three," he continued. "On three, I'll open the airlock, and we'll charge in."

"Shooting blindly isn't usually advisable, but this time I want everyone to do just that. Shoot anything that moves – anyone over there isn't a friend!" He paused, then began.

"One, two..."

"Captain?" Scarpa interrupted.

"What is it?" Solo exhaled heavily.

"I think we should take the governor with us. He may be a scumbag, but it'd be inhumane to leave him tied to a chair when the tug – and the attached shuttle – will explode. We're not planning to fly away in it, but in the Falcon." Han looked at the ex-cop appreciatively.

"Bravo Scarpa, saying all that in one breath is impressive."

"Thank you, sir, but what about Rogow?"

"Trust me, Scarpa, I've ensured he won't come to harm. The shuttle will fly away."

"Oh, thank you for reassuring me," the former officer sighed. "The thought of it was horrible..."

He couldn't continue, as Solo impatiently resumed counting:

"One, two, thr..."

"But Captain Solo!"

"Yes, Scarpa?"

Chewbacca, to calm himself, banged his head against the wall a few times, while Go Rien's hands clenched into fists for the same reason.

"How will the governor fly the shuttle if he's tied to the chair?" the special agent inquired.

The Corellian was proud of his patience.

"He won't. The autopilot will."

The other smiled.

"Ah, clever, very clever!" he said, raising a finger.

This time, the captain wanted to be sure.

"No more questions, Scarpa?"

"None, none," he shook his head. He was annoyingly cheerful – unlike the others.

"Then, if you'll allow me, I'll count again."

"Go ahead!" Scarpa spread his arms.

The Corellian began:

"One, two..."

"But I do have one!" Scarpa interrupted again.

"Out with it!" Solo snapped. The other hesitated a bit.

"Well, the autopilot was turned off by the original pilot."

"I watched how he did it, and I turned it back on," Han grumbled.

"Oh, I see!" Scarpa said genuinely surprised.

"One," Han Solo said darkly, "two, three!" he shouted and pressed the button.

No one but Gritt and the ex-sergeant noticed Gritt pressing his rifle into Scarpa's back and whispering ominously in his ear.

"Shut up!"

Marl breathed a sigh of relief as the destroyer-hunter finally disengaged from him and pursued the X-wing. It wasn't hard to figure out that the Vultures were following the bounty hunter's orders. The mysterious pilot of the X-wing had spoken the truth – he could indeed cause trouble for the bounty hunter, evidenced by the fact that he called the LAAS 14 for assistance.

The young officer wasn't noble enough to attempt to save his previous rescuer this time. Instead, he chose to be a passive observer of the unfolding events.

The Vulture, though not fast enough to shoot down the black fighter, managed to capture its attention. Moments later, the roles reversed – the hunter became the hunted, and the gray bounty hunter ship was free to go about its business.

Marl feared he might be the next target, but luck was on his side. The bounty hunter had set his sights on the shuttle launched from the star destroyer. It soon became clear why. The deft maneuvers with which the luxury vehicle evaded its pursuer betrayed that its pilot could only be Han Solo!

"So, they've become enemies!" he made a crucial observation. This was the role he loved to play most: sitting like a spider at the center of its web, watching and piecing together the mosaic.

"Let's analyze," he began. Han Solo left the star destroyer in an expensive protocol vehicle. Conclusion: he stole it! Yet he wasn't being chased or shot at. Conclusion: he has something – or someone – valuable to the Starfire. A person, Marl decided, as he couldn't imagine an object that would hold an entire star destroyer at bay.

"Now," he continued thinking, "the shuttle's destination is clear: the burning tug with the smuggler's ship integrated into it. Solo aims to save it! However, a Vulture has already docked with the B8, likely filled with stormtroopers loyal to the bounty hunter from Quaron III. Conclusion: there will be a firefight inside!"

And there was a high chance the bounty hunter would head there too.

He called out to the technician:

"Calculate the endpoint of the gray ship's trajectory."

The result didn't surprise him.

"The tug, sir," the man replied after a moment.

"Then we're heading there too!" Marl muttered to himself, as grand plans began to take shape in his mind.

Small fires flickered along the corridor, the result of their own blaster shots. No one else had fired – no one else was even moving, because they were alone.

"What's going on?" Solo grumbled. "Where are the stormtroopers?" The Wookiee growled that he didn't miss them.

"I still don't like unexpected twists," the captain stated, even though he was the one who usually brought such chaos into others' well-planned lives.

Chewbacca gestured wildly, speaking in his native Wookiee language.

It seemed only Han Solo understood him.

"What's he saying?" Go Rien asked.

"Don't joke with me," the Corellian snapped. "You spoke this language back in prison!"

The bounty hunter smirked slyly.

"Only for certain topics. So, what did he say?"

The captain threw up his hands in surrender.

"He said he's got a strange feeling. Thinks someone's messing with the tractor beam generator, turning it on and off. Wookiee senses are crazy sharp."

"That means they're unloading. Looks like they're not taking the whole shipment at once."

"Let's move!" Han urged impatiently. "My ship's still in danger!"

They continued to sneak forward. It was a stark transition from the overly luxurious interior of the shuttle to the purely functional, battered tug with just a few short steps. If he had the time, Solo might have pondered the blatant unfairness of the universe. They certainly hadn't had time for interior renovations back in the day. The sight of the wide, then narrow hallways was disheartening. They moved from corner to corner, from turn to turn, with nerves on edge, laser rifles in hand. Any enemy could be hiding in the deep recesses of the blackened walls or behind various protruding components, ready to shoot them.

Naturally, none of them relished the idea of dying or – at best – being maimed here. Let the first stone be cast by anyone who'd run through such a dangerous area without hesitation. For courage is a wide gap away from foolish recklessness – something well known to those who risk their lives daily. The three men at the front could rightly count themselves among such people.

Maybe it was luck, or perhaps Go Rien's sharp sixth sense that saved them from imminent danger – who could say afterward?

"Wait a moment," the bounty hunter suddenly whispered into Solo's ear, pulling him back by the shoulder. This saved the Corellian's life.

Laser beams shot from a narrow side corridor, targeting the spot where Solo would have stepped. The group members immediately sought cover. Some hid behind tanks, others behind pipes, while Scarpa – rather recklessly – dove straight through the nearest door. This saved him from the fate awaiting his companions.

A dozen stormtroopers appeared before Solo, as if they had sprung from the ground. Later, the captain could have sworn under oath that's exactly what happened. It was certain that several of them dropped down from the pipes running along the ceiling. The attackers wielded glowing swords instead of laser rifles, making it clear where they came from.

Had Solo not been in such a grim mood, he might have laughed at the sight of stormtroopers in white armor fighting with swords. Instead, he could only grimace in anger. There was little chance to defend himself; the first attacker kicked the blaster from his hand. The idea of boxing against sword fighters didn't appeal to him.

Not so for Go Rien. He knocked out two Quar, played two more against each other – they stabbed each other as he spun out from between them – then vaulted over the stunned attackers and vanished into a side passage. The three soldiers who pursued him never returned.

Chewbacca, bleeding from a hundred wounds, took down five opponents before being subdued. Gritt was much easier to handle.

A mournful procession began toward the Falcon integrated into the tug. Solo noted with interest that one of the stormtroopers had his blaster at his side, along with the Wookiee's unique bowcaster and Go Rien's hyper-modern weapon. He couldn't know which Imperial officer had the odd sense to bring the captured weapons onto the captured ship, but Han Solo blessed his name. Even if the items were momentarily someone else's property.

Their path ended in the Falcon's lounge. In the corner opposite the door, shrouded in dim light, a figure awaited them. He stood tall, clad in black clothing and an enormous night-black cloak. His face, now devoid of the Force's enchanting glow, was exposed in its true form to those entering. It was furrowed with a thousand deep wrinkles, covered in scars; the jaw was elongated, the forehead protruded above the brows. Malevolence and cruelty radiated from him, and yet the most terrifying feature was his eyes: cold and watery, like those of a deep-sea creature.

However, Han Solo was not affected by the hideous appearance.

"Welcome aboard my ship," he said with no small amount of malice.

The other man continued to stare rigidly – not even a shadow of a smile crossed his face.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," he suggested. "We have more important matters to attend to."

"I'm listening," the Corellian replied, dropping into the nearest chair and leaning back. The monstrous figure scrutinized the captain from head to toe and back again.

"It's commendable that you're not afraid of me," he noted.

Han clasped his hands behind his head.

"It's not hard – you look ridiculous!" he said.

The other man simply ignored the insult.

"You're a buffoon," he stated quietly, calmly. "Where are your companions? I need the Second and the governor!"

Solo laughed, putting his feet up on the game table. He looked directly into the horrifying fish eyes.

"Proud of yourself for figuring out who I brought as hostages?"

The First shook his head dismissively.

"It's unfortunate if you think such a simple deduction is something to be proud of."

The captain's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Bounty hunter! You really wanna have a verbal duel on a soon-to-explode spaceship?"

"Are you afraid for your skin, Solo? Are you really that cowardly?"

Solo laughed again:

"Oh, First! Isn't it embarrassing that the thought of an explosion can rattle me but you can't? What happens to your professional pride then!?"

For the first time, a flicker of emotion crossed the other man's eyes. Han Solo continued.

"So, what's the plan? You gonna execute me yourself or have your lackeys do it? I see you managed to save a few from Quaron III! Or are you hoping I'll just keel over from fright? Come on, what's your next move?"

The man, who fancied himself a Jedi, stepped closer.

"Why bury yourself so soon, Captain Solo? You may be just a petty smuggler for now, but you have great potential!"

The Corellian was so surprised he forgot to control his expression: his face showed pure astonishment.

"Why are you so surprised?" the hard voice was now soft, almost flattering. It might have worked if it didn't remind him so much of Russ's charm.

"You have the ability to become someone significant if you have a patron who guides you, tells you when and what to do. As a lone beggar, you won't get far! You know this! The era of lone heroes is over, everyone must belong somewhere! That's the world we live in today!"

"Once, maybe even yesterday, I thought like you, but I realized: the chosen ones must unite! We can't let the world be run by upstart cobblers or exhibitionist barbarians. Power exists for its own sake! Yes, that's what they believe, but we are no longer animals; the weak need not perish, only the imperfect! The chosen must destroy this imperfect world to build a new, perfect one, just as a rotten tree is cut down to make room for a new sapling!"

"The Emperor is unfit for his role. Look around, Solo: the universe has rotted under his rule! The perfect beings, the Jedi, are gone! What remains is the rabble, the nobodies who put their petty goals above all else! You know, Solo: they can't be changed, the rotten branch is dead, it only appears to be alive! They must perish, but not the perfect ones, who are a threat to the power-mad maniacs still ruling the Galaxy. You are also a threat: they will kill you!"

"You must feel and know, Solo, that this must change. You must feel and know that you cannot wait idly while others act because there are few who can act in your place!"

"Sure, there's the Rebel Alliance! But they're the cobblers I mentioned. They've never held power, they can't help but abuse it! We need someone who can resist temptation, who is used to it and has lived with it. I've searched long for such a person and finally, through the strange whims of fate, I found him in myself. Han Solo, become my soldier!"

He fell silent.

The Corellian, who had leaned forward in his chair with interest, now leaned back again.

"This is nonsense," he said. "Full of logical fallacies and completely inaccurate. It's the same drivel Russ tried to sell me on Quaron III, only you're better at it and you mean it seriously. But that doesn't change my answer much. Do you want to hear it?"

The black-cloaked man nodded.

"Well then," Han began, "Russ failed miserably with this speech on Quaron III." Chewbacca chuckled softly. "And if it's up to me, you will too!"

A flicker of anger passed through the watery eyes, but then it gave way to a faint smile, a triumph of self-control.

"Alright. I see you're not an idealist. You're a businessman. Let's talk business! If you serve me, you'll command a fabulous salary. An amount you've never dreamed of!"

The Corellian didn't like his dreams being underestimated, but he kept quiet.

"I'll pay you monthly," continued the Empire's former top bounty hunter. "The first payment can be today!"

But Han Solo just shook his head.

"Man, if I can still call you a man, I'm a smuggler, an adventurer, a businessman if you will, but never a mercenary! If I wanted to serve, dance to someone else's tune, follow orders, don't you think I'd have had a thousand chances to become a hired hand by now!? And let me tell you something else: yeah, there's less and less room for guys like me in this galaxy, I'm hunted, threatened, there are laws against me, but there are still places where I can hide, where I can live. In your brave new universe, there wouldn't be! Forget about me now and forever. If you think it'll make you happy, then have me killed—you've got the power!"

The renegade bounty hunter stared at him for a long time before answering.

"Maybe I will, Han Solo, I don't know yet. But first, I'll deal with your companions because their deaths are necessary. Let's see!" he thought aloud.

"Gritt," he looked at the man in the yellow mechanic's suit, "a typical cobbler!" he sneered. "His death is not only necessary but will be enjoyable."

"This one," he nodded towards the Wookiee, "a monstrous creature! A species should decide if it wants to become human or remain an animal. These in-between solutions are disgusting and unnecessary. I'll execute him myself!"

"Go Rien Moss," he pronounced the name with definite hatred, "has always been the shame of our profession. A sentimental fool! A nobody! And he's trying to kill me, I see no reason why I shouldn't kill him."

The captain interjected.

"You'll have to catch him first!"

A dismissive wave.

"Pointless, he'll come here to fight me. He's that foolish! He knows very well that I'm a superior warrior, I will defeat him!"

"We'll see!" Solo replied darkly. The other didn't dwell on the question further.

"You left the governor on the shuttle, didn't you?" he inquired.

The captain saw no point in denying it – he hadn't exactly warmed to the obese man. He wouldn't be the one shedding tears at his funeral.

The bounty hunter sent a few stormtroopers for Rogow, then stepped even closer.

"I'll start with Gritt," he announced. "I want to kill the Wookiee in combat, it'll be more interesting that way."

Chewbacca growled irritably, while the man in the yellow suit stood meekly, casting his eyes downward in fear as the black-cloaked figure loomed over him.

Han's vision blurred with anger.

"Are you really going to kill this harmless guy?" he asked desperately.

"Didn't I make myself clear?" the black-cloaked figure retorted.

"I just can't believe you're such a rat!"

"Come on, Solo, insults will get you nowhere!" With that, he activated his lightsaber. The red blade hummed to life, glowing fiercely.

Chewbacca bared his teeth in a snarl. Han's hands clenched into fists. Of course, the bounty hunter noticed. He turned to them again.

"Are you really so foolish as to face me unarmed?" he sneered, shaking his head mockingly. He received no answer.

"Sir?" Gritt spoke up. "I'm not a hero like you all. I'm scared, and I want to live, if that's possible. So, if you don't absolutely need to kill me, I'm begging you, spare my life! I'm just a simple mechanic who got caught up in all this. I don't have a problem with you; in fact, when you were Caspar, I even liked you. Remember how well we got along?"

"And?" the black-cloaked figure asked.

The mechanic looked confused, then quickly looked away.

"Gritt, the issue isn't that I dislike you, it's that your stupidity makes you unworthy of life," he explained patiently.

The man in the yellow suit remained silent, but the bounty hunter continued.

"Very well! Prove yourself! I'll ask you a question; if you answer correctly, you live."

Hope sparkled in the mechanic's eyes, but Han Solo had no illusions about the situation.

The First asked without hesitation, his face devoid of any human expression, impossible to read. Many would have liked to know what was going through his mind.

"Gritt, tell me – who is currently on the freighter?"

Panic! The small man was stunned: how could he know? He should have paid attention to the radar, the airlocks – but no one did. Especially not him, since he had just arrived. He looked at Han Solo with pleading eyes.

The Corellian's heart broke: he thought he could deduce who else boarded the freighter besides them, but he was sure the mechanic couldn't.

"If you whisper, I'll kill the man instantly," the black-cloaked figure warned. He stood there like the embodiment of Death itself, lightsaber poised to strike.

Gritt, sweating profusely, began his list.

"Well, first there's you – though I wish you weren't," he added silently, "then there's us, plus the governor..." he faltered, "and... and..."

The bounty hunter spread his arms.

"See, Solo: he doesn't know!"

"You're crazy!" the captain shouted angrily. "Gritt is a mechanic, not a strategist. Of course, he doesn't know. But I bet he could fix a six-phase fusion generator faster than you!"

"That's grunt work," the bounty hunter shook his head. "Anyone can learn that."

Han looked him deep in the eyes.

"Tell me, in your new galaxy, will Jedi be fixing starships too?"

A faint, fleeting smile.

"No, but intelligent people will, not fools!"

As he said this, he acted swiftly. He spun the lightsaber – the blade traced a perfect arc – and as the hilt settled back into his palm, he struck.

Gritt didn't suffer; death took him instantly. It was, if one could ignore the murder itself, a clean and humane way to kill: it caused no pain, not a drop of blood was shed.

Han Solo moved to prevent the inevitable, but immediately found himself staring down a mass of blaster barrels. He realized he could do nothing. He closed his eyes, his hands clenched into fists – his nails dug into his palms. Helpless rage washed over him, and a single, fat tear escaped his eye.

Han couldn't comprehend why things had to turn out this way, why the innocent had to suffer. He hated fate more than ever before. He remained silent—knowing well that nothing he could say would improve their dire situation.

Chewbacca, on the other hand, couldn't stay calm—the Wookiee blood drove him. He roared—a sound Han remembered hearing only in moments of the greatest pain and fury—and lunged at their guards. Despite their laser carbines, the enraged Wookiee scattered them across the Falcon's lounge. They crashed into chairs, tables, each other, and even the walls. Chewbacca, still bellowing nonstop, didn't hold back. His powerful, enormous paws, as effective as threshing machines, pummeled the stormtroopers.

Then, with his guards dispatched, Chewbacca charged at the bounty hunter. The hunter dodged with the agility of a snake, singeing the Wookiee's fur in multiple spots with his lightsaber. It seemed he wasn't intending to inflict serious harm just yet.

"I'll kill the Wookiee in combat!" he echoed his earlier words, looking immensely satisfied.

But this fight held serious dangers for him—a furious Wookiee was a deadly opponent! One solid hit, and the slender bounty hunter would be done for.

However, it seemed the man either didn't realize this or simply didn't care.

Han Solo watched helplessly. His fists were nowhere near as hard as his Wookiee partner's, and his strength was incomparable! He might take down one or two stormtroopers, but the rest would quickly neutralize him. They might even knock him out, and then he wouldn't be able to help his friend at all. So he stayed back, frustrated.

The First had begun a bloodier game. His slashes left only small but painful wounds for now. Chewbacca roared—still more in anger than pain.

When Han realized the bounty hunter was torturing his partner, he fought a tremendous internal battle to remain calm. A glimmer of hope appeared when the black-cloaked figure disengaged and stepped back.

Chewbacca stood panting, locked in a stare with his foe.

The man turned to Han. "Your partner fights well, Captain Solo. He will be honored: I'll kill him with a famous traditional cut developed by a Jedi Knight named Obi-Wan Kenobi, though he never used it, claiming it belonged to the dark side. As you know, I have no such reservations! Please, Solo, warn the Wookiee not to disturb my preparation—it's in his best interest too!"

"I doubt he sees it as in his best interest to be perfectly slaughtered. Besides, he understands every word you say!" Han's eyes darkened. "If you touch my friend again, I'll kill you!"

The deformed man laughed. "You really scared me, Solo! Want to play a similar game?"

Han shook his head. "Get off your high horse. Just because you can mercilessly kill defenseless people or wave around a lightsaber doesn't make you the center of the universe. Even if you think you're a Jedi!"

The other merely waved dismissively and refocused on Chewbacca. Outwardly, he didn't change much, but his face and eye movements revealed something significant happening inside him. The red of the lightsaber seemed to deepen. His hypnotic gaze put the massive Wookiee in a trance. Slowly, like a puppet, Chewbacca moved as the bounty hunter willed, preparing to be struck down at the crucial moment. But for some reason, it never happened.

Chapter Eight

The pilot of the black X-wing smirked as he noticed the vulture that had been chasing the Star Rider was now on his tail. Locked in fierce pursuit of the desperate gray starship ahead, he quickly deduced the same as Marl: the vultures were commanded by the pilot of the leading ship. A LAAS-14 destroyer-fighter might not be the nimblest craft, but it was a formidable opponent, especially when it got behind you. Its firepower was immense, and it wasn't exactly sluggish. The X-wing pilot knew he couldn't let it line up for a successful tailing trajectory. The gray ship's pilot probably knew this too, which is why he called in the destroyer-fighter for help. The black craft began maneuvering with tight turns. It was obvious the bulkier LAAS-14 wouldn't be able to follow, and eventually, it would overshoot and come into view.

That was exactly what happened. Soon, the high-tailed vulture was licked by laser beams. The fact that it did not immediately flee to the protective fire of the nearby Star Destroyer's anti-aircraft guns clearly indicated that, despite both bearing Imperial insignia, they weren't allies. The man with the long, curled mustache noted the other vulture attaching to the tow, the luxury skiff, and even the two other approaching ships: the Star Rider and the gray ray-ship. It was clear he had business there too, but first, he had to deal with the destroyer-fighter that could cause trouble during docking.

He noticed something else. The Universe was vast, with many good pilots, some exceptional, but only one he knew who could outmaneuver a super-ship attack in a skiff like that gray ship. And since that person was in the vicinity, it was highly likely he was piloting the luxury craft! Han Solo! And if so, then Chewbacca was at his side. This discovery could be very useful!

As he thought this through, he kept firing at the vulture—each shot hit its mark. His instruments indicated the LAAS-14's shields were down, making the following laser beams lethal.

He swiftly finished what he started and left the debris-filled space, steering his ship's nose towards the tow.

Scarpa, the ex-sergeant, was left alone in the massive engine bay. At least, that's what he thought. Fear was his only motivator now. It would be an overstatement to say he was proud of himself for it. He tried to convince himself he was just gathering his courage and would soon rejoin the firefight. However, it ended abruptly, and silence fell over the corridor beyond the door. With no laser weapons firing, he could even hear his own accelerated heartbeat.

He was reaching for the switches to open the door when the sounds of movement behind him broke the silence of the bay. He spun around, gripping his rifle tightly. A man in green combat armor towered over him. Then another, and another, and another. There were eight in total.

He recognized them. They had once roamed the ship under the command of a young man named Marl, even back on the Virgillen. Their commander was here too, in the Imperial Fleet uniform. Stars on his collar—Scarpa paled as he read them—indicated a major's rank.

The ex-police officer snapped to attention.

"Sir," he clicked his heels, "Lieutenant Scarpa reporting!" The kid sized him up from head to toe.

"What branch of service, Lieutenant?" he asked disdainfully.

Scarpa swallowed. "It's classified, sir."

"So, an agent," the other nodded. "Fine. You got your rank from the bounty hunter, right?"

Now he turned pale.

"How do you know, sir? Could it be you also..." he trailed off. The young man nodded slowly.

"I'm an agent," he finished the sentence. "Special?" he inquired. The answer was a faint smile.

"Very much so!" he replied.

Scarpa was filled with zealous enthusiasm. Yes, this was the world he had always longed for. He felt he belonged among these people. He had no real issues with the police, but with his abilities...! And how unjustly they had treated him, unable to recognize his talents. But now, that was over forever! he thought with satisfaction.

"How can I serve you, sir?" he asked, ready for action.

The young major didn't hesitate for a second.

"Who did you bring as a hostage from the Star Destroyer?"

He couldn't understand how he knew this.

"Some scumbag, sir," he blurted out without thinking.

"Name?" The major raised an eyebrow.

"Melory Larso Rogow, the governor of Virgill."

Marl whistled.

"Wow!" he exclaimed. "They didn't mess around!"

Scarpa grinned proudly, standing even taller.

The major's face showed he was thinking furiously. Finally, he smiled broadly.

"You know, Scarpa," he began, "I should kill you because you know too much about me, and you're a colossal asshole! But," he raised a finger, "you've given me such good news that I'll spare your life. You can join us, and we'll see what happens to you!"

Marl didn't realize what a grave mistake he made, deeply offending ex-sergeant Scarpa. "The governor is left on the skiff, right?" he continued questioning.

"Yes," Scarpa replied sullenly. In his thoughts, ravenous rancors were tearing the young officer to pieces.

"Well, then let's go!" he suggested in the manner of a good-natured commander. "If my instincts and logic don't deceive me, and they rarely do, Han Solo has programmed the skiff for automatic departure. So we need to hurry!"

On the bridge of the Inferno, Major Dorcier, the newly appointed captain, watched the ongoing skirmish outside in astonishment. In truth, even under torture, he couldn't accurately count the number of participating groups. He didn't consider himself a fool, but he found no logic in the events unfolding.

After some clashes, all the ships gathered around the transport towing the cargo. It now looked like a giant flypaper covered with various insects. The major toyed with the idea of firing the turbo-lasers to obliterate the lot of traitors, swindlers, and pirates. Too bad the sector governor was also there, otherwise, it would rid the Galaxy of many scoundrels in one strike. Enough would still remain!

Thus, he stood behind the massive transparent steel window and continued to observe the events.

The marines noticed the stormtroopers turning into the narrow corridor before the stormtroopers spotted them. Luckily for the marines, as the stormtroopers outnumbered them. However, the element of surprise and the advantage of being the first to fire balanced the odds—and the number of combatants. From then on, it was the stronger weapons and combat armor that mattered. The bears were better equipped in this regard. By the time they routed the white-armored troopers, the stormtroopers had lost four men, while the marines had not lost a single one.

Marl didn't hold back his praise and promoted the entire team by one rank.

They swiftly entered the skiff. The young officer dashed past the overweight man tied to a chair and hurried to the cockpit. With quick movements, he disengaged the automation and canceled the launch program. Just in time, as only seconds remained.

"Your Excellency?" Marl stepped in front of Rogow. "Major Marl at your service!"

The obese man nodded.

"Release me!" he commanded, but this time there was a hint of pleading in his voice.

The young officer turned to the bears with mock disapproval.

"What are you waiting for, fools! Can't you do it yourselves?" Then, he addressed the governor again.

"Forgive their clumsiness, Your Excellency, but they're still inattentive. We had to fight through enemy lines to free you. They're probably still shaken from the battle."

The obese man stretched his numb limbs.

"Never mind. Who are you?"

Marl bowed ceremoniously, in a manner that even a bureaucrat from the Imperial City couldn't fault.

"First officer of a destroyed Star Destroyer, Your Excellency. I am pursuing Han Solo, who took you hostage, in a captured spaceship."

He knew the person before him was deeply involved in the rebellion, so he spoke cautiously, avoiding mentioning any traitor names.

He felt he was in the home stretch. "How did you know to find me here?" the governor inquired.

"I captured this man," Marl pointed at Scarpa. "From him."

Rogow pondered.

"Take me back to the Star Destroyer!" he ordered. "I hope it's still around here?"

Marl approached the fire.

"Your captain wouldn't be foolish enough to leave without you, Your Excellency."

The governor narrowed his eyes suspiciously but didn't notice the cleverly placed time bomb in the words.

"I certainly hope not!" he snapped. "I already find it strange that you had to rescue me whilst they did nothing!"

The young officer—only in spirit—smiled contentedly.

"Surely, they don't have as well-trained marines as I do, Your Excellency. Such an operation carries significant risk and could easily cost many lives."

This was stronger, but Rogow still missed it and understood only as much as Marl allowed.

The governor of Virgill wasn't very smart—Marl concluded. He was now hooked and, although he might still struggle, he would swim in the direction Marl desired. The young officer knew exactly where he would steer him!

"Few dare to take such a great risk," he added the final touch.

Then, he pretended to be about to leave. The obese man asked the prompted question perfectly.

"What will you do now, Major?"

Bursting with pride, Marl replied.

"I will return to the captured freighter and continue my pursuit of Han Solo. With your abduction, Your Excellency, another grave crime has been added to his record!"

Rogow pretended to consider further, though the proposal he was about to make was already formed in his mind.

"So, you were a first officer on a Star Destroyer, son?" he asked in a friendly tone.

Marl already knew what was coming. He nodded.

"What would you say," the governor continued, "if I used my personal power and influence to promote you to captain?"

The young officer knew which answer would grant him command of the Inferno.

"I would be infinitely grateful and obedient to you alone, Your Excellency!"

"Very well. The Inferno currently lacks a real captain, I will appoint you! You're not going anywhere, but you'll take me back to the Star Destroyer, or rather, your Star Destroyer!"

A wolfish smile flashed across the new captain's face, but then he reverted to his previous grateful and devoted expression. He foresaw that this foolish, overweight man would try to rule over him, dictate his every move, surround him with prohibitions, but it didn't bother him. He had proven he could manipulate him at any time. He could wrap him around his finger!

In the Falcon's lounge, nerves were stretched to the breaking point. The next moment could easily become the most excruciating of Han Solo's life. The bounty hunter's raised sword trembled, ready to deliver a fatal blow, when—out of nowhere—a shadowy figure burst into the room. At the apex of its dizzying leap stood the Empire's top bounty hunter.

Like a bullet, the figure slammed shoulder-first into the gut of the black-cloaked hunter, sending him crashing like a flood breaching a dam. They flew all the way to the gaming table, overturning it despite its significant weight and securing bolts.

They landed right in front of Han Solo—both momentarily dazed from the massive chair's impact. The Corellian used this fleeting moment. He bent down, his fingers wrapping around the First's neck, only a miracle could save him now... But what happened was not a miracle—though it was something very similar.

The eyelids covering the bulging fish eyes snapped open, and the horrifying gaze fixed directly on the captain. At the same time, Han felt searing pain as if a thousand needles pierced his palms. The man's neck burned like molten steel.

Solo cried out in fright and instantly let go. He leaped back, more in astonishment than pain, staring at his smoking hands.

The First, the mysterious attacker, kicked Go Rien away and sprang to his feet.

"Solo, stay out of this; it's not your fight!" advised the brush-haired man.

The Corellian shared this sentiment entirely. He stepped back and watched. He knew he was in for a rare sight—two of the Empire's top bounty hunters, one nearly a dark Jedi, the other... only had his friends, he realized. He and Chewbacca! No matter what, they wouldn't stand by idly while Go Rien fought alone! For their sake too!

The two men locked eyes. Circling each other like proud roosters, their posture, facial expressions, every tiny, subtle movement revealed their intense focus on each other, ready to leap into action. The brush-haired man was unarmed, while the First still held the glowing ruby lightsaber.

The higher-ranked one spoke first.

"So, you've come, Go Rien Moss?!" he enunciated his rival's name.

Go Rien only nodded in response.

"Sent by the Emperor, or Lord Vader?"

"The Emperor," Go Rien answered.

"Did I offend him that much?" he laughed.

"You killed three of his apprentices!"

"Apprentices?" he laughed. "They had as much to do with the Force as the Emperor has with the light side! I used the Force to kill them, and they couldn't do anything about it!"

"You were far more experienced than they were!"

The black-cloaked one shook his head.

"Far more talented! I'm fit to be a Jedi, they weren't even fit to be shadows!"

"The Emperor sees it differently."

"Did he underestimate me?" his eyes gleamed curiously.

"No, he valued them more than you. They might have become Jedi one day. The real Jedi are extinct, their successors exterminated. Finding new apprentices will be nearly impossible. That's why he's so furious!"

Another long laugh.

"Then why didn't he come himself? Or my master? They're the only ones who can defeat me! You...," he gestured dismissively, "you're just a bounty hunter! A miserable little killer!"

Go Rien shook his head regretfully. Solo barely recognized the man he had spent two months investigating and sweating with, who sometimes made jokes, other times laughed at others' jokes. Now he looked completely different, his features revealing dark cruelty, destructive evil, making him eerily similar to the First!

"Insult me all you want, traitor, I won't stoop to self-praise. That's for the weak!"

"You call me weak? You, who can't even grasp my power?! Let's see how much you remember of what we learned together, what I sometimes taught you! Let's start with a little trick!"

A contemptuous, cruel sneer crossed his face, his gripping fingers whitened on the lightsaber hilt—a sign of intense concentration.

Go Rien involuntarily clutched his head, his features twisted in agony.

The First laughed in satisfaction.

"Come on, bounty hunter, fight it!" he taunted. "You have the skills! Find the right mental exercise and you can break free! If not, you die!"

The brush-haired man dropped to his knees, but—despite his suffering—not a sound escaped his lips.

The First suddenly released him, shaking his head regretfully.

"See how weak you are!" he said. "I could have killed you, it wasn't up to you! I don't blame you; you were sent here, you didn't come on your own! You've learned a lesson about what I am, what I've become, now you know. You can choose freely: leave, or stay and fight by your own will? In that case, I'll kill you!"

Solo, who had been standing idly in the stormtroopers' circle, spoke up.

"Go Rien, leave! At least he'll let you go!"

The brush-haired man stood pale, the shadow of cruelty and evil gone from his face. He clenched his teeth and shook his head stubbornly. The black-cloaked one turned to the Corellian.

"You can go as well, Han Solo, if you wish," he gestured to the door. "But the Wookiee stays. I'll kill him, now that I've started. He stays!"

"You make me sick!" Han spat. "The only thing stopping me is I don't want to mess up my own ship's floor!"

The Empire's top bounty hunter spread his arms in a gesture of as-you-wish—the lightsaber buzzing idly in his hand.

"Your effort to appear brave is pathetic!" he declared. "If you wish to die, so be it; I won't stand in your way! Which one of you do I start with?"

"Me!" hissed the Second.

And he charged again. Using his bare hands as weapons—deadly weapons!

The First sensed the hatred driving the other man's movements. He knew that the other had finally given in to the dark side's temptation—something he had never done during training. For the first time in his life, he might feel what the Force truly is. Until now, he had only toyed with it, never letting it fill his body and soul. Too bad this was his last chance!

He barely dodged the first attack. The other bounty hunter's steel-claw-like fingers tore his clothes, even his dry, gray skin, and dug into his flesh.

He couldn't hesitate any longer—his opponent was now a serious threat. He too gave himself to the dark side—malevolent emotions surged through him: hatred, rage, a desire for destruction. He let them fill his being, driving his limbs. His rational judgment vanished, the logical part of his mind receded. He became a raging beast: a rabid dog, a rampaging bull—it was an intoxicating feeling!

It was easy for a person to become addicted, like some foolish drug. But unlike the latter, this addiction wasn't harmful; on the contrary, it was beneficial, at least that's what the First believed.

After the first clash between the two bounty hunters, Han Solo became obsessed with staying away from them. The only tool he saw fit for intervention was a blaster.

However, he was a prisoner, surrounded by half a dozen ready stormtroopers.

The situation hadn't changed!

But the Corellian's determination had: it grew. He drew on his professional experience—gained from bar fights in various spaceport taverns—and spun around, landing a punch to a soldier's midsection. The hit was perfect in every way—except he forgot his target was wearing blast-resistant armor.

His already wounded hand throbbed with pain.

But the man—luckily—still fell back and dropped his blaster rifle.

That was all the captain needed: he bent down to grab the abandoned weapon, and it seemed luck hadn't deserted him—the stormtroopers opening fire ended up cutting each other down. Solo—feeling a bit ashamed—grinned widely. With the rifle's stock, he delivered a powerful upward strike between the legs of the last standing guard. Some things even blast-resistant armor can't protect against. The man collapsed, whining.

Inspired by the events, Chewbacca didn't remain idle. His famous—and feared—swings sent stormtroopers flying. The harvest he wrought among them was something even a farm droid would envy. Only the finest compasses had as many gradations as the directions in which the troopers flew.

As expected, a firefight broke out in moments. Han regretted the damage to the Falcon's precious furnishings but didn't let that stop his trigger finger. He dove behind the overturned gaming table—where he met up with Chewbacca. Soon, few stormtroopers remained alive in the room. Their attention then turned back to the fiercely battling bounty hunters.

Both were covered in bloody wounds. Go Rien bore a hideous burn on his face, proving his opponent hadn't forgotten how to use a lightsaber. Solo had never seen anyone in such a battered state as these two, and he hadn't exactly spent his life in a monastery.

"Let's blast that scum, Chewie!" he gently suggested to his first mate.

They got to work. It wasn't easy, as the two men constantly moved, spun, locked together, or leaped apart. It would have been a disaster if they hit Go Rien—he had enough troubles without that.

Solo braced the rifle's grip against the table's edge, trying to follow the First's movements with the sights. When he felt sure of the shot—and thought a sudden move wouldn't endanger the Brush-Haired—he pulled the trigger.

He wasn't even surprised when the black-cloaked figure—though such a feat should be impossible—managed to bring the vibrating lightsaber blade in front of the blast just in time.

"Fire, Chewie!" he rasped. Go Rien jumped back, and they flooded the First with a continuous laser barrage. The lightsaber danced madly in the air, deflecting beams that tore into the Falcon's floor and walls.

The Empire's second-best bounty hunter attacked with the skill befitting his rank whenever Solo and Chewbacca's fire faltered. His actions so disrupted his opponent that he defended more and more clumsily. Several shots came so close they caused superficial injuries to his shoulder and thigh.

The First was in trouble—that was clear. The realization only spurred his attackers' fighting spirit.

Soon, he was forced to retreat, inching toward the door with small steps. Despite their efforts to stop him, he was still good enough to avoid being taken down or seriously injured.

But they tried!

"He's getting away!" Han shouted in frustration.

"But I'll be back," promised the bloodied man darkly.

"I'll be waiting!" the Corellian hissed after him.

By then, the man—who fancied himself a dark Jedi—had already leaped through the door. Though they pursued him immediately, he vanished!

Chapter Nine

"Your Excellency, I will program the skiff to take you close to the Star Destroyer, and from there, they can send a pilot to pick you up. I must return to the captured freighter to direct it to the Inferno!" Marl suggested to the governor.

The overweight man shook his head vigorously.

"No!" he shouted. "We need to get out of here immediately; there's a bomb on the tug, and it could explode any moment!"

The young officer turned pale.

"Understood!" he replied in a dry tone. "We're leaving now."

Perhaps it's better this way, he thought to himself, the Star Rider will explode with the tug, and at least it won't fall into enemy hands. He regretted losing such a fine ship, but the risk was indeed too great.

Scarpa, however, was more terrified than anyone else. This meant Captain Solo and his companions were doomed, unaware of the imminent danger, so they wouldn't even try to escape in time. Only one person could help them: Lieutenant Scarpa! This was a task worthy of a special agent!

He glanced around; no one was paying attention to him. Slowly—casually—he headed toward the airlock. Most of the marines were clustered around the governor and Marl; only one guard stood at the skiff's door, the only one who could thwart the ex-sergeant's plan. Scarpa walked straight up to him.

The guard didn't consider the harmless-looking prisoner a threat and didn't even point his weapon at him. From nearly two meters above, the bear-like man looked down at him with a lopsided grin.

"What do you want?" he growled.

This was a tricky question. The special agent decided he could only answer it with force, opting for a fight!

Using the techniques taught in the police force, he grabbed the unsuspecting giant's arm, spun underneath, and tried to throw the man over his shoulder. He was most surprised when he succeeded, though his back almost broke under the enormous weight, and his new uniform ripped. The marine, however, landed at his feet like a sack.

Scarpa figured he had proven himself as the better fighter and saw no need to wait for the next round. He quickly spun and dashed through the airlock, while the soldier, more astonished than angry, struggled to his feet.

Good thing, thought the fleeing ex-cop, that I spent weeks wandering the tug's deck, otherwise I'd surely get lost in the maze of corridors and passages. But now, I can head straight to my destination, the embedded freighter.

Meanwhile, the mysterious X-wing pilot wandered for a long time. That it didn't take hours to find what he was looking for was due solely to his spacecraft designer's intuition and decades of experience.

It always filled him with sadness and bitterness to see a ship in such a dilapidated state as this B8.

He stopped with a faint smile at the airlock of the Star Rider.

"At last, I found you!" he whispered lovingly.

He entered a special code on the door control panel. The six triangles immediately slid apart and retracted into the wall, opening the way into the modified barge. He stepped inside, passing the narrow corridors leading to the gun stations. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he felt as if the spaceship was happy to see him.

He glanced around the lounge, straightened two tilted chairs by the conference table. In the cockpit, he sat in the captain's seat for a moment, sighed deeply, and ran his hand lovingly across the control panel, as if caressing it. Then he sprang up again and hurried out. He wanted to find the Falcon, specifically Han Solo and Chewbacca. He needed their help—it was no coincidence he was pleased to find them on the tug. At the end of the main corridor, he found the makeshift passage leading to the embedded freighter. He acknowledged with admiration that, while not perfect, the work done by the Corellian and his crew deserved praise.

They watched the fleeing First for a long time. Standing side by side were Go Rien, Chewbacca, and Solo.

"Captain, take me to the nearest Imperial hospital," requested the brush-haired man, then collapsed unconscious.

The Wookiee effortlessly picked up the limp body and carried it to the lounge. They laid him on a hastily spread blanket. Han knelt beside him and began to examine his injuries.

There was a lot to assess! In truth, it was more accurate to say that the man's body was one continuous wound. Solo could only marvel at the bounty hunter's ability to stand, let alone fight, in such a state.

"We need to get out of here, and fast!" Han said sharply. "It's what's best for everyone."

But Chewbacca responded with a protesting growl and was about to throw harsh words at his friend when Han cut him off pre-emptively.

"Of course, we'll find Scarpa first! You didn't really think I'd leave him behind did you?"

At that moment, something happened that distracted them from the ex-sergeant: the skiff drifted slowly past the Falcon's steel-glass cockpit windows, heading towards the Star Destroyer.

"Stop!" the captain shouted irritably. "I didn't program it to pass in front of us, it should be going around from behind! Something's wrong here!"

He didn't explain why this provoked such a strong reaction, as both of them knew very well. If a pilot was controlling the luxury barge instead of the autopilot, it meant the governor had freed himself and was giving orders to the Star Destroyer via radio. This meant that soon, everyone breathing the musty air of the tug would be in serious trouble!

"Chewie, jam his radio transmission!" he ordered his first mate, but he feared it was already too late.

Meanwhile, Han snapped off the cover plate of the shield generator control unit and began frantically rewiring. The schematic diagram of the shield field on the technical monitor changed shape. It grew larger, losing its resemblance to the Falcon's hull and starting to look more like the tug.

"I'm extending the Falcon's shield to cover the B8," he explained to his partner. "This wreck doesn't have its own!"

The Wookiee growled worriedly as he started hauling out the bodies of the fallen stormtroopers.

"I know it weakens the shield!" the Corellian snapped. "But we can't activate it at all while we're conjoined with this monstrosity. You know that without a shield, even one hit on the tug will blow us all up."

He finished the rewiring, assigned directional controls—front, right, left, rear—then powered up the shield. Just in time, as the first shots began to rain down on them.

"Good thing their turbo-lasers need time to warm up," Han commented. "Otherwise, we'd be in big trouble."

Both knew their time was still limited. "Where in the galaxy is that crazy Scarpa?!" he fumed.

The ex-sergeant chose that moment to burst into the lounge, as if he'd been waiting for a dramatic entrance. He took in the damage to the room with wide eyes... and the sight of two blaster barrels pointed directly at him.

"Sorry," he stammered, seeing the Falcon's crew of two sigh with relief, "I forgot to knock!"

"Where the hell have you been?!" the captain barked. The ex-cop straightened up.

"I was gathering intel on the enemy's plans," he said proudly.

Solo was so surprised that he momentarily forgot about the looming danger. That's why he encouraged the newcomer to speak.

"And what did you find out?" he asked, somewhat unwisely.

"Oh, it's a long story," Scarpa waved a hand. "It started when..."

"Make it short, if you can!" Han cut in.

"Well, I got myself captured by the enemy, and..."

"Even shorter!" Solo warned.

"I overheard them on the skiff's deck, where..."

"Very briefly, Scarpa!" the Corellian pleaded.

Fear took over the face of the former cop-turned-secret agent.

"We'll blow up in seconds, Captain Solo!" he screamed desperately.

Han merely shrugged indifferently.

"We knew that already. But my calculations say the shield should hold for a few more minutes."

Scarpa shook his head in despair, struggling with the terror choking him. His eyes narrowed to slits.

"Not because of that!" he waved his arms wildly. "There's a bomb on board!"

For a breathless moment, there was stunned silence. Then Chewbacca's roar and Han's rapid-fire questions filled the room.

Scarpa clapped his hands over his ears and screamed at the top of his lungs. The captain quickly collected himself, signaled for silence, and slowly, clearly, asked the first question again.

"Where exactly is the bomb?"

The ex-cop shook his head sadly.

"I don't know, sir, just that it's on the tug."

"When will it explode?"

"Any second now!" he screamed again.

"Quiet!" Solo yelled. "Who told you this?"

"The governor told Marl."

That sounded incredibly unlikely, but Han didn't doubt Scarpa's word.

"So, Marl freed him and took the skiff," he concluded aloud.

Scarpa nodded affirmatively.

Han Solo was about to give the order to leave when they heard footsteps pounding down the main corridor again. They quickly took cover, the captain and his first mate flanking the door, Scarpa across from them behind the gaming table.

They waited.

They didn't have to wait long; a lone man entered. He wore a long, deep red cloak and a matching wide-brimmed hat. A dashing mustache curled under his finely shaped nose. He swept his warm brown eyes around the room. He didn't have time for much else before a warning shout rang out, and he found himself staring down three blaster barrels.

"Hello," he greeted in a quiet, calm manner.

"What do you mean, hello!" Han erupted, his temper flaring. "How can someone be so bold to pull the same trick twice? And how dare you show your face after what happened?" He took a deep breath, ready to keep going.

"I usually don't shoot unarmed people," he pointed out, "but this time, I might make an exception."

The man in the hat stared at him in shock.

"What's gotten into you, Captain Solo? Is this about that incident with the three tons of milta alloy?"

Now it was Solo's turn to be surprised.

"Well, I'll be damned!" His eyes widened. "You remember that?"

"Of course I remember!" The man spread his arms wide.

The captain leaned forward suspiciously.

"What was the client's name?"

The other man immediately understood.

"Sangor, the governor of the Ruggel Sector! Yes, I am Caspar, go ahead and ask if you need more proof, Solo."

Han no longer felt suspicious, but he asked another question just to be sure.

"How many bounty hunters did the governor send after me?"

The mustachioed man smiled.

"Six, Solo, but you shook them off, even though they were top-notch! You cost Sangor a lot of money; he paid them for two years."

The Corellian lowered his weapon, and his two companions did the same, then he warmly shook Caspar's hand.

"Welcome aboard! You flew that modified X-wing, didn't you, you scoundrel?"

The man in the hat nodded.

"Is my style that distinctive?" he asked curiously.

"That good!" Solo shot back. He got a wide grin in response.

"I had no doubts about who was piloting the luxury skiff either," Caspar said.

The captain shuddered at the thought.

"Don't even mention it!" he exclaimed. "That thing is a nightmare!"

Then he rubbed his chin.

"But now, if you'll excuse me, sit down and strap in! We're taking off! This tug could blow any second!" He announced. Caspar placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait, Solo, I came to ask a favor. I've finally got the Star Rider back, but I can't leave the X-wing either. I need a pilot!"

Han looked him in the eye, then glanced at the Wookiee. Chewbacca nodded.

"Alright," the Corellian said, "but hurry up, because if we blow up, I'll be really ticked off in the afterlife! We'll meet on Tatooine, at my favorite table!"

They all knew that Solo had to stay until the others detached from the tug; without the Falcon, they'd be shieldless and easy prey for the Star Destroyer.

They hurried off. Han was left alone with Scarpa. He settled into the pilot's seat and remotely sealed the Falcon's airlock.

"Scarpa," he called back to the ex-cop, "sit here next to me, in Chewbacca's seat, and tell me everything that happened on the skiff."

The man came forward, almost disappearing in the giant seat designed for the Wookiee. His detailed recounting helped to ease the tension of the wait.

The Empire's top bounty hunter limped through the dimly lit corridors of the tug, dragging himself toward the Storm. He could hardly move his left leg. He wouldn't be surprised if he had to replace it with a mechanical limb at the first opportunity.

It took him a long time to reach his ship. When he finally settled into the comfortable pilot's seat, the pain caused him to black out for a few seconds.

Now that he had tapped into the dark side's power, the Second had proven far more dangerous than he ever anticipated. He would have been a formidable opponent on his own, and then there was Han Solo and that mutant creature of a partner. Things could have gone much worse!

"To hell with principles!" he resolved. "I'm going to kill them all, without exception!"

He activated the systems of the Storm. The priceless, unique ship came to life.

"Good move acquiring this," he said aloud, not realizing he was talking to himself out of exhaustion.

"Great loot!" he referred to the fact that the ship had once belonged to Go Rien until he, with bounty hunter cunning, stole it.

"Now it's mine, and it will stay that way!"

He glanced at his watch.

"Six minutes to the explosion. Goodbye, miserable enemies!" he shouted, and with a single button press, detached his ship from the tug.

Han Solo's eyes darted between the locator and the airlock displays. The three ships disengaged from B8 almost simultaneously: the Star Rider, the X-Wing, and the Storm. There was no doubt that the latter was piloted by the First. It was time for him to make his move.

As his hand reached for the servomotor switch to rotate the Falcon into launch position, a devious yet brilliant plan formed in his mind. He cast dark glances at the glowing dot representing the bounty hunter's ship on the radar. He watched for a moment, then made his decision.

"If you insist on coming back, as you promised, so be it!" he said aloud. "I'll even help you!"

He sprang into action. First, he deactivated the continuously running tractor beam. Then, he set the hauler in motion one last time, not to go far, just to move away from the slowly drifting container. The short, flexible plasteel corridor that had linked the ship to the droid-laden container automatically retracted into the B8 as the electronics detected that the cargo was no longer connected to the hauler. The cargo, worth thousands of credits, was now ownerless in every sense.

Once done, Han aimed the tractor beam at the rapidly fleeing bounty hunter's ship, redirecting all available energy from the B8's systems into the tractor beam generator. He could almost see the First's face stretching in surprise as instead of moving away, he was being pulled closer to the hauler. The gray ship's thrusters flared, indicating the pilot's desperate efforts to break free.

In vain, as the bulky B8's fully powered generator outmatched the tiny bounty hunter ship's hyper-modern engine. It could only slow its approach, not stop it.

Han Solo, satisfied with his work on the hauler, decided it was time to bid farewell to the old machine. He disconnected the control cable linking the two ships, then instructed the servomotors to rotate the Falcon. Cover plates, used solely for concealment, hissed off the hauler's hull and spun into space. The launch pad for the freighter was revealed, slowly turning towards deep space.

The moment of separation arrived. The coupling clamps released, and the Millennium Falcon was free. Wasting no time, it blasted away from its decades-older sibling with ignited thrusters.

Han Solo waved a quick goodbye to the decrepit barge, filled with indescribable joy that his nimble ship was finally free from the burdensome weight.

"I hope you forgive me, buddy," he glanced at the unconscious Go Rien, "for wrecking your super-ship for the greater good." He then spoke into the radio.

"Caspar, Chewie, everything okay?

The Wookiee's loud roar echoed with overwhelming cheer.

"Yeah, Chewie," Han laughed, "I know I'm a genius!"

Meanwhile, the Storm was drifting uncontrollably towards the verge of explosion, B8. It turned, accelerated, attempting to break out of the tractor beam's hold with a burst of speed. But it was futile; the targeting electronics didn't lose track, and the restraining forces held firm.

In the cockpit, the sweating First glanced desperately at his watch. He knew that no matter what he did, he would reach the hauler before it exploded. And so it happened: the gray armor crashed into the battered cover plates, denting them, almost sticking to them. The bounty hunter ship embedded itself. The built-in artificial intelligence indifferently warned the pilot of the escaping air from the damaged hull. Yet it was intelligent enough to recognize that it no longer mattered.

Then came the explosion, obliterating the possibly oldest and most modern spacecraft and the most cunningly duped bounty hunter of all time. No one ever knew that the Empire's top bounty hunter's last thought was not of hatred, anger, or revenge, but of regret. He pitied not himself but the Universe, which was deprived of the chance for renewal.

Chapter Ten

Marl and Melory Larso Rogow stood side by side, gazing through the command bridge window of the Inferno at the dying throes and destruction of the tugboat, but most importantly, the bounty hunter's ship. They both smirked at the cheap trick. It was clearly a ruse, they were convinced, because you couldn't get rid of such a dangerous opponent so easily!

However, their perspectives on the events and what came next were completely different.

Fear dominated the governor's thoughts. He had set a trap for the Empire's top bounty hunter—betraying him and himself—and the fearsome man had walked right into it. But there was one problem: he escaped! Rogow had every reason to fear for his life, knowing the bounty hunter would seek revenge.

From the beginning, he dreaded becoming the enemy of such a terrifying man. He remembered their first encounter vividly: about six months ago, when he woke in his heavily guarded bedroom, protected by stormtroopers and state-of-the-art electronics, to find a dagger at his throat. At that moment, he made the intruder an irresistibly tempting offer, which was later sealed with a handshake in one of the opulently decorated rooms of the governor's palace. A coveted senatorial rank was on one side of the scale, and he only had to put some money on the other side. Specifically, on the table, so the bounty hunter could buy and bribe everything and everyone necessary to realize his grand dreams.

Rogow's main interest was to ensure that Marl, who appeared to be a resourceful soldier, continued to follow the Millennium Falcon and, he believed, Han Solo. Of course, the old freighter was no longer piloted by the Corellian smuggler-captain, but by the First—who else? Of the three escaping ships, this was the only one from which this foolish charade could be directed with the bounty hunter ship. It would be unnecessary, even reckless, to let young Marl know he was actually chasing someone other than who he intended. He proudly and contentedly bowed to his own logical sense. The main thing was that, for now, he had the boy perfectly under control!

Marl thought the same thing—but naturally in reverse. He also believed he was fooling the other. After all, he wasn't chasing Han Solo—why would he chase that small-time smuggler across the galaxy? He was after the bounty hunter, though he didn't know he was dealing with the Empire's best. He was very cautious not to reveal his true objectives to the person he believed to be his enemy's chief accomplice.

He wondered with a small smile what his father would think of everything he had accomplished in this matter. He had stolen a ship, slaughtered stormtroopers, knocked out a star destroyer captain, and deceived a bunch of officials, including a sector governor. What would his father say? He would laugh. After all, he always said during their few meetings: "Son, the end justifies the means!"

Of course, his real father, because his stepfather would express his strong disapproval. Marl wouldn't care about his opinion anyway. It wasn't that he despised or hated the famous Senator Davion; he was just indifferent to him and sometimes found him as annoying as foolish people generally were.

Senator Davion, one of the much-talked-about traitor senators of the former Galactic Republic, couldn't keep up with the Emperor Palpatine's relentless pace for long. Shortly after the Empire was declared, he resigned his rank and retreated to his few star systems, rarely attending to minor tasks. Perhaps his most significant act was raising—or rather having Marl raised. The best teachers taught him, many of whom came from the Empire's top ranks.

This didn't mean Marl was born an orphan. Quite the opposite, he was the product of a carefully—genetically—planned marriage. He was born for great purposes, but the flaw occurred right from the start. He lacked something he should have inherently possessed. Marl perfectly understood his father—the real one, because he never called his stepfather that—for killing his mother in infinite desperation and anger, and then disowning him. Thus, the child ended up with Senator Davion, where his father—though he had cast him aside—occasionally visited him and used his high rank to smooth the boy's path.

Marl never took advantage of his heritage. His stepfather's name alone gave him enough advantage. If he revealed his true identity, he could have achieved much more; a captain's commission on any star destroyer would have been handed to him on a silver platter, which he had to work so hard to finally achieve.

But he did it all himself, by his own merit!

And Marl, perhaps because of his noble heritage, was brimming with the desire to prove himself!

He now wondered why these memories had suddenly surfaced at the sight of an Imperial bounty hunter's feigned death. He finally classified the matter among his mysterious intuitions, which had always played a decisive role in shaping his life. He had always been proud of his intuition!

"You should confirm my commission to the ship's crew, Your Excellency!" he turned to Rogow. He could have sworn that wrinkles appeared on the obese man's face that hadn't been there before.

Rogow nodded and patted his shoulder encouragingly.

"Come on, son, let's get it over with!" he suggested and forced a laugh.

From his laugh, Marl sensed fear, though he couldn't immediately understand why. He didn't know what this powerful man was so terrified of, since it was obviously not him. Although, if he knew the truth, he would certainly have every reason to be.

The young officer despised and loathed those who were never satisfied with their power, but most of all: he detested the rebels! Those like this overweight pig, or the bounty hunter. When he swore allegiance to the Emperor, he seriously considered what he was doing. But once it was done, there was no going back, a loyalty oath is for life!

Rogow summoned the star destroyer's senior officers—including Major Dorcier, whom the bounty hunter had appointed as captain.

"Tell me, son, what is your full name?" he asked, looking at Marl.

"Marl Davion, Your Excellency."

"Ah!" the overweight figure exclaimed in surprise. "Your father is the famous senator?"

The young officer pondered for a moment:

"I don't like to flaunt my father's name," he finally replied evasively.

"That's a very commendable trait," the governor said warmly, and Marl noticed the greedy glint in his eyes at the mention of senatorial power.

So, this is what drives him! he realized.

The governor began speaking to the gathered officers:

"Gentlemen! I don't believe there is anyone here who doesn't know me. I am Melory Larso Rogow, the Sector Governor. I have gathered you to exercise my authority given by the Imperial Decree for appointments. You have likely heard that an upstart, who dared to call himself a Jedi Knight, murdered your beloved captain and appointed Major Dorcier in his place. Well, I do not agree with this. Since the individual is a common criminal, we cannot consider the events valid. Therefore, your ship currently has no captain. However, this unfortunate situation cannot last, and it is my duty to rectify it. Here is your new captain: Major Marl Davion, the son of the renowned senator!"

He turned to the young officer.

"Speak to them, son! And be sharp about it!" he added.

The young officer knew well the significance of his first speech and formulated his words accordingly.

"Gentlemen! Officers and soldiers! It may be unusual and perhaps uncomfortable for you to have a completely unknown captain above you. But you are mistaken: I know you, and you know me. Let me explain. Until now, I served as the first officer of a star destroyer. I am no different from other officers in similar positions, and you are no different from the crew of other ships of this class. Perhaps you are somewhat superior, but you will have to prove that to me!"

"I will now outline our first task, which will be our mutual test. I hope I will not fail, but I hope you won't either! We need to capture a dangerous smuggler who, in front of several of us, squandered a valuable state droid shipment. The individual's name is Han Solo. The ship he escaped on is registered as the Millennium Falcon, if it's registered at all!" he concluded with a subtly witty remark. "Thank you for your attention!"

They gave him a long, seemingly heartfelt round of applause.

With a happy smile, Marl surveyed the bridge's control panels.

"Behold: my star destroyer!" he sighed so softly that only he could hear. Then he turned to Major Dorcier.

"I'm sorry, sir! Of course, I'm pleased to accept the position of first officer!"

The other man nodded crisply.

"You are far more suited to command a star destroyer, sir! And I am happy to accept your offer."

It was Marl's turn to be courteous.

"Just call me Marl, Major!"

"Thank you, Marl!" he bowed. The young captain then turned his attention to official matters.

"Send a message to all systems within fifty light-years, stating that we are searching for a beacon operating on the Alpha-8 frequency band at Theta-91 rhythm. Have them report back if they detect it!"

Marl hadn't forgotten to use the old trick: if you fear your ship might be stolen and want to find it afterward, hide a special beacon on it and activate it every time you leave the ship! The Star Rider had such a unit running now—unless it had been found and disabled, which was highly unlikely. And the young officer had a strange, unexplainable feeling that the tug and the Falcon were still together.

Of course, it might take weeks to locate the Star Rider, but since he had no better idea for now, he would have to be patient!

Tatooine was a world of scorching heat and suffocating sand, and despite its central location, it was still uninteresting. Its surface was burned by two suns, so it was no wonder it couldn't boast billions of residents or sprawling cities. However, among the few notable places, there was the far-famed Mos Eisley. It wasn't the peripheral district living off trade with local farmers or its dusty spaceport that made the city notorious, but its central areas, where a significant portion of the galaxy's scum found a home. Taverns, brothels, illegal docks, and warehouses, not to mention thriving fences, all packed closely together.

Among them was the home of a smuggler who had slowly clawed his way out of poverty, someone Han Solo had been working for more and more frequently. His name was Jabba. The Corellian was visiting him to collect some overdue pay.

His path led straight to a popular bar for freighter pilots. He wove through the crowded room, full of at least two dozen different species, and settled at his favorite corner table. He easily found a seat, given that a large Wookiee was already sitting there, scaring off anyone else.

"Hey, Chewie!" the captain called out joyfully. He received an enthusiastic roar in return. Years spent with his friend had made him cautious, so he added, "It might be best if you skip the back-patting."

The huge, furry Wookiee's paw stopped mid-air, and its owner burst into a hearty laugh. Solo waited for him to finish. "Caspar?" he asked. He got a long update made of growls and barks.

"Of course, we'll wait," he agreed. "Scarpa went to get a new uniform, the last one tore!"

He leaned back comfortably. "Ah, this peaceful life is just right for me! Sitting in a tavern, sipping my drink, and watching the crowd. Humans, Rodians, Jawas, stormtroopers..." he listed, then suddenly realized, "Stormtroopers?! What the hell are stormtroopers doing here, Chewie?"

The Wookiee had a few guesses. Solo spread his arms in confusion. "But we haven't done anything wrong..." then he stopped, realizing they were alone, so there was no point in pretending.

"Let's get out of here!" he suggested.

They jumped up from their seats, Han tossed some coins on the table to cover their drinks, and they quickly headed for the back exit. They couldn't move too fast as the crowd constantly blocked their path.

"Chewie, if you could lead the way!" the Corellian said politely, though it was more calculation than politeness.

The huge Wookiee cleared a path, and people and other species quickly made way. They ran up the narrow stairs, out of the cool tavern into Mos Eisley's scorching hot air.

"What's the rush, Han Solo?" a mocking voice rang out.

The man who spoke wore a black, high-collared fleet officer's uniform. Despite his young face, he bore the rank of captain. He clearly wasn't expecting an answer.

"Follow me!" he commanded and started walking.

His invitation was made irresistible by eight giant marines and their blaster rifles.

Han glanced at Chewie, but the Wookiee's eyes showed nothing but confusion.

"Marl, wait!" he shouted after the departing officer. "What do you want from us now?" The officer turned back.

"I don't know how you survived, Han Solo," he began, changing the subject, "but you'll regret it a thousand times over. My patience has run out. I want to know your connection to the bounty hunter, and where he's hiding now. I have the means to extract all the answers during a real Imperial interrogation. Let's see if you can resist the mind probe! Move!" And with that, he ended the conversation.

They walked to the nearest dock, where a landing craft awaited them with engines running. The open airlock door yawned invitingly.

The Corellian and his partner exchanged desperate looks, searching for an escape route. The burly marines watched their every move with hawk-like eyes, and the constantly aimed blaster barrels made it clear what fate awaited them if they tried to escape.

Before stepping into the craft, Han Solo took one last deep breath of Tatooine's hot and dusty air, because no matter how awful it was, it meant freedom. Who knew when they would experience it again, if ever?

The man in the cloak and hat immediately noticed that something was wrong around the tavern. Suspiciously many stormtroopers were gathered in the square in front of the entrance, ostentatiously dealing with various minor matters. They were checking the IDs of passersby, radio-checking the identification numbers of parked speeders, or simply chatting with each other.

Caspar was too much of an old fox in the smuggling business to ignore so many warning signs. Unlike Han Solo, he hated this city and these seedy joints but knew them well.

He had been to this one too and knew which was the Corellian's favorite table—where they had arranged to meet—and he also knew there was a back exit. He started to circle the sand-colored, domed building. Tatooine's architecture was among the ugliest and most unimaginative in the galaxy.

He had barely taken a few steps when he ran into Scarpa coming the other way. The man wore a brand-new uniform—this time dark blue—and lieutenant's bars shone on his collar.

"Greetings, Caspar! Imagine, I'm pleased with this planet's public safety," he reported enthusiastically. "Stormtroopers are everywhere. Have you noticed?"

The hatted man, who didn't know his conversation partner well, was initially surprised but then dismissed the remark as an awkward joke. "That's why I didn't go into the tavern," he said, smiling. "Come with me, let's find the back exit."

"Sounds exciting!" the ex-cop's eyes lit up.

They quickly found what they were looking for, a courtyard-like indentation at the back of the building. Inside, they spotted several soldiers, but these weren't clad in the white, blast-proof armor of stormtroopers. Instead, they wore the camouflaged armor of marines. A young fleet officer in a black uniform commanded their formation.

"Hey, I know that guy!" Scarpa blurted out carelessly.

"Quiet!" Caspar hissed, shaking his head for a long time. "I know who he is too. He's the one who stole my ship!"

The ex-cop furrowed his brow suspiciously. "Could they be waiting for Captain Solo too?"

"It's not possible, it's certain," the hatted man affirmed.

"We need to do something," the other said, fidgeting with excitement. But it was his presence that kept the smuggler from intervening. If he had anyone else, anyone useful at his side, he might have dared to risk a firefight with eight heavily armed marines. But as it was... he was practically alone.

With no other options, they waited. From the cover of some empty barrels, they listened to every word spoken when the captain and his first officer finally appeared. They followed the procession to the dock and watched the shuttle take off.

"Oh no!" Scarpa lamented. "Poor Captain Solo is in big trouble!"

Caspar might have accepted the events with much cooler composure if the possibility of a mind probe hadn't come up in the overheard conversation. He had once—long ago—endured a similar interrogation, and the fact that his mind remained intact was due only to sheer luck. Right then and there—while the departing shuttle was still visible in the sky—he resolved to rescue Han Solo from the star destroyer before the disgraceful procedure could take place. His determination only deepened when he found the Star Rider gone from the dock where Chewbacca had left it.

"Scarpa!" the former Imperial official turned darkly to his companion. "Lead us to the Millennium Falcon. We're taking that! Can you fly a ship, handle a gun, or anything like that?"

The man shook his head regretfully.

"You see, I was just a simple beat cop," he apologized. "But Han Solo promised to teach me those things one day."

"Fine," the hatted man nodded. "We'll start with the gun handling, it's simpler. Are you a good shot, Scarpa?"

"Excellent!" Scarpa replied modestly.

The smuggler reassuringly patted his shoulder.

"Then it will go quickly," he promised.

The landing shuttle's struts clanged loudly against the plasteel floor of the star destroyer's dock.

"What a lousy pilot!" the Corellian thought to himself.

His young captor noticed the slight shake of his head.

"You smugglers make a big deal out of fancy flying, huh?" he asked.

"We Corellians!" Han corrected him. "We grow up with a pilot's yoke in our hands! Where I'm from, that guy wouldn't even graduate kindergarten!"

Marl sat quietly, contemplating for a moment.

"Tell me, Solo," he turned back to the Falcon's captain. "Have you ever thought about going legit?"

Han just waved it off.

"Yeah, I started out legit. Went to the Corellian Flight Academy, won a bunch of races and scholarships. Then one day, I noticed Imperial agents trying to recruit me, spies watching my every move. They didn't see my last move coming—I bolted!"

"But Solo, you could earn a lot more with the Fleet than you do now!"

Han laughed out loud.

"But at what cost!?" he pointed out.

"At no cost, Solo! If you want, I can prove it to you: join me on the star destroyer! You'll get a high salary and respect!"

"And betray Go Rien's location, right?" Han cut him off, getting agitated. "Don't try to sweet-talk me. I always hated sweets! You're not getting anything out of me. Go ahead, bring your damn probe, finish me off. Then enjoy your sleepless nights, if you even have a conscience left!"

Marl raised his hands.

"No, Solo, don't think I want that! I hate that damned probe as much as you do, but if you force me, I'll use it."

"Poor martyr, I feel so sorry for you!" the Corellian mocked.

Their conversation was cut short as the shuttle's airlock doors opened. Outside, at least four dozen stormtroopers waited—all aiming their weapons at Han Solo.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed with mock horror. "I must be really dangerous!"

"Here, you're Public Enemy Number One," the young captain informed him. "Every crew member knows your name, face, and history, even your favorite tricks! You won't escape easily from here, Solo!"

That certainly sounded ominous.

"At least let my first mate go free!" Han tried.

"That would be the last thing I'd do!" Marl protested. "Besides, don't worry about him; he's in no danger like you are. The Wookiee's head is so big we don't have a probe large enough on board!"

The prison cell was all too familiar, even if it wasn't the same one they'd been in before, it looked very similar.

"Feels like home," Solo commented on the situation.

The Wookiee had a very different opinion.

As Han looked around, he couldn't find any truth in Go Rien's previous claim that there were significant differences between a star destroyer's prison block and a real prison. At first glance, this looked very real!

Chewbacca let out a reproachful Wookiee howl, reminding Han of the reckless things he'd said to Marl during their first encounter on the tugboat.

"Calm down, Chewie," he snapped irritably, "I regret it too. I promise, I'll never tell him I'm glad to meet him again!"

Then followed a long silence, and in the ensuing quiet, Solo had time to mull things over. He soon had to admit to himself that this time, he was out of ideas.

Chapter Eleven

Caspar settled into the pilot's seat of the Millennium Falcon. He ran his eyes over the instruments and displays.

"This is one fine ship!" he remarked to Scarpa, sitting next to him.

Scarpa fidgeted restlessly in his seat, finally asking with a worried expression, "How much time do we have?"

The hatted man glanced at him. "Relax, Scarpa. At worst, we have at least two or three days. They need to calibrate the probe to the captain's brainwaves, and that takes time."

The ex-cop didn't look any less anxious. He began drumming his fingers on the control panel. "Do you have a plan, sir?" he inquired.

Caspar answered thoughtfully, "First, we'll head to the X-Wing and grab my computer unit, droid, and tools. Then we'll follow the star destroyer, wherever it's headed."

"Why don't we just go straight there?" the official asked, puzzled. "Break in and rescue the captain. I think that's what he would do!"

"Because, Scarpa, Han Solo's pace is, I must admit, sometimes too fast even for me. I can't attack a star destroyer and live to tell the tale. You're seriously mistaken if you judge everyone by the Corellian!"

Scarpa thought about this. Meanwhile, the hatted man slowly lifted the ship off the ground, soon leaving the dock behind. For a few minutes, they sped over the dusty streets of Mos Eisley, then descended under another dome housing the black fighter.

Caspar handled the Falcon with extreme caution—a bit of courtesy was necessary when flying someone else's ship! Yet he could feel the immense power in the engines, the smoothness of the entire craft, the perfect synchronization of the systems. If anyone, he could judge what this rugged-looking vessel was capable of. He already had a high opinion of Han Solo's shipbuilding skills, but now he ranked the Corellian even higher on his personal scale. The Empire's arrogant engineers could certainly take some lessons from him.

After flying numerous ships, from galactic cruisers to jet-pack suits—including his own designs—Caspar wasn't sure the Falcon wasn't better than all of them, maybe even a touch better than the Star Rider!

He left the ship but soon returned with a briefcase-like instrument, a titanium-alloy tool case, and a rather peculiar droid in tow.

"What is that... thing?" Scarpa asked, showing no tact.

"MOR, my droid," the hatted man replied, adding nonchalantly, as if it were natural, "I built it."

Scarpa stared in disbelief at the chrome, six-legged lens-shaped machine. It looked like it had stepped out of the nightmare of a techie with arachnophobia. Its body wasn't much larger than a familiar R2 unit, but its lanky legs made it seem twice as big.

"What can it do?" he asked, cautiously stepping aside as the machine purposefully moved past.

"Everything," replied its proud owner.

"Wow!" the official exclaimed enthusiastically. He felt an irresistible urge to test the machine. Leaning closer, he asked, "Can you talk?"

The droid paused for a moment. "asshole!" it responded with perfect enunciation and a disdainful tone before moving on. Scarpa straightened up in shock.

"It can," he summarized the encounter. Caspar laughed dryly and added, "Scarpa, my droid likes you."

"Yeah, right," the other replied, disheartened.

"But, but," he nodded, "it doesn't talk to just anyone!"

The ex-cop grumbled. "What an honor—or something like that," he muttered, then slunk away. The hatted man smiled after him, then hurried off to his tasks, of which plenty awaited!

He was certain the Star Destroyer, with Captain Solo aboard, would leave the Tatooine system. He had no idea where it might be headed, but he wasn't particularly worried about tracking its movements since the stolen Star Rider's beacon was still operational. He had no doubt that the tug was currently idling in one of the Inferno's remote docks.

He connected the briefcase-shaped instrument to the Falcon's antenna system. The greenish-lit screen immediately lit up with a dot marking the ship he was tracking. The man relaxed: it was still in the system.

Next, he inspected the freighter's cargo hold, measured, calculated, and was pleased with the results. He activated a powerful motorized winch and hoisted the X-Wing, which had been sitting on the dock's concrete, onto the deck, just in case it was needed. He spent a good fifteen minutes properly securing the fighter. Despite never having been on the Falcon before, he navigated the haphazardly modified and often fundamentally altered instruments with ease.

Because he was Caspar, one of the galaxy's most exceptional engineers!

A small, nimble rescue spaceship shot up into the sky from the courtyard of the Central Hospital on Tatooine. It continuously broadcasted distinctive radio signals on multiple frequencies in all directions.

Flight Control cleared the desired air corridors ahead of it and gave it priority clearance out of the airspace. Out in interplanetary space, it aimed its blunt nose at its distant destination star and jumped to hyperspace.

Officially, it was transporting something quite insignificant—medicine for another hospital or something like that—but in reality, a man was aboard.

Of course, it would be an extreme stretch of reality to use the term "man," as the passenger was not only unconscious but was also hovering between life and death in a bubbling, thick liquid. The transparent-walled, cylindrical tank provided an ideal environment—perfect temperature, regenerative substances—though anyone who ended up here had undoubtedly been through hell before.

Just like this blond, crew-cut man. His nearly naked body was covered in countless scars and bruises, and his bones didn't seem entirely intact either. The RX-7 medical droid observing the tank faced a difficult question in its emotionless electronic brain.

Would the patient survive or not?

The robot and its even less human assistants would do everything possible to ensure the former. They didn't care why the man's life was so important to the Empire's top brass, nor why some of them might have an interest in the opposite. Perhaps that's why they were chosen for the task.

After a few hours, the rescue ship exited hyperspace directly over Imperial City. Here, its signals alone wouldn't have sufficed to penetrate the tightly controlled air corridors or the enormous, partially built Death Star, but there were enough powerful individuals to ensure the task posed no difficulty.

The gravely injured human body fell into hands—whether good or bad ones, he couldn't know.

In a spacious conference and reception room on the star destroyer, stormtrooper units had lined up in advance along the inward-sloping walls. Their white armor harmonized perfectly with the white decor.

The soldiers whispered among themselves. Partly excited by the chance to see the Governor of the Virgill Sector—such high-ranking figures were rarely seen—but even more eager to meet Han Solo. That was the promise they left the briefing with.

Melory Larso Rogow arrived first. He wore a gold-threaded purple cloak and enormous gemstone rings. The stormtroopers had never seen anyone dressed with such pomp and such ridiculousness. Their helmet-mounted masks were a great service, hiding their smiles.

Just as they hid the disdainful sneer on the Corellian's face. They had expected someone who looked heroic, not a scruffy freighter pilot. But the huge, reddish-brown fur-covered creature accompanying him—now that was impressive! Oh, the great Han Solo! The governor sneered from behind the white table. The dangerous fortune hunter looks so harmless and pathetic!

He pressed one of the buttons built into the tabletop, and from that moment, the stormtroopers only heard various noises through their helmet speakers, not a word of the conversation.

"What do you want from me?" the captain asked darkly. The obese man laughed, his barrel-like belly shaking.

"You have no idea, do you?" he asked in return. Han shook his head.

"I've told you so many times. I told Marl, your goons, that amateur executioner with his stupid needles, and fine, I'll tell you too: you won't get anything out of me!"

"The Empire..."

The Corellian interrupted.

"I don't give a damn about the Empire, just as much as I do about traitors like you! That man was my friend! He saved my life multiple times, I owe him that much!" Rogow was taken aback.

"Your friend?" he repeated. "He hated you! He thirsted for your blood!" The interrogated man sighed wearily.

"The man you're asking about is dead. The one I'm silent about is another person. There are two bounty hunters! But I won't explain it again, not to Marl because he wouldn't believe it, and not to you because you wouldn't understand it with that fat head of yours!"

The governor lost his temper completely. He leaned over the table and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Han Solo, you can't be made to act sensibly! Fine, I'll make sure you never can again!" He roared with laughter at his own joke, falling back into his chair. Then he continued.

"As soon as we're done with the setup, we'll connect you to the mind probe. There won't be enough left of that tricky mind of yours to fill a rancor's brain! You'll be as dumb as a beast, indistinguishable from your half-witted friend!" he sneered, glancing at Chewbacca. "And before that happens, we'll strip him of his precious fur right before your eyes, so I can have a coat made from it!"

Solo stared at the raging man for a long moment, sweating. Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was calm but resolute.

"I'm not afraid of you, Rogow, or your threats! I've already made peace with the idea that if you want, you can turn me into an idiot. I'll manage somehow! You're wrong if you think the universe is only full of spineless, weak-willed people like the ones you surround yourself with. Bootlickers who kneel at your command just because you reach into your pocket. I love money, no point in denying that, but I see clear lines that I won't cross, even if the other side holds all the treasures of the galaxy.

"So, Rogow, cut the grandstanding and get off my back! I've had enough of your dirty talk. Bring on your probe; I want to get acquainted with it already!"

There was a peculiar fire in his eyes as he spoke, burning the last bridge behind him.

The star destroyer whisked them away into the distant unknown—toward a foggy, ominous future. Blue-purple plumes burst from its thrusters, propelling the massive ship at an ever-dizzying speed. The stars became bright streaks of light.

A faint glimmer of hope lay in the tiny freighter, carrying a few friends on board, attempting to follow them based on rough course calculations.

The two giant burning suns of the Tatooine system gazed indifferently after them—perhaps sensing that they might see them again one day...

To be concluded...