Han Solo's War, a star wars fanfic

199 Han Solo's War

Han Solo's War

Dale Avery

Han Solo's War

STAR WARS: HAN SOLO HÁBORÚJA

(original title: The War of Han Solo)

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.

The translation is based on the following edition:

Dale Avery

Han Solo's War

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 39 5

VP-SF-210593-54.15.23

Exclusive distributor of the volume is TóthÁgas Könyvterjesztő Kft.

1047 BUDAPEST, Perényi Zsigmond u. 15.

Published by Valhalla Páholy. Responsible publisher: Csanád Novák, managing director. Responsible editor: Ferenc Halmos. Artistic director: Csaba Marjai. Proofreader: NWAI system. Typesetting and layout: Valhalla Páholy Kft. Printing done by Alföldi Nyomda. Printing order number: 8800.66-14-2. Responsible leader: Géza György.

Extent: 19 sheets.

Made in Debrecen, in the year 1993.

To Count Alex

and the fearless

commander, Nogren,

for their invaluable assistance

Chapter One

The Star Destroyer emerged from hyperspace. The sparkling light of the nearby sun glinted off the thousands of facets on its nearly two-kilometer-long hull. Its prow turned toward the system's only inhabited planet.

Virgill gleamed like a jewel against the black velvet of space. From this distance, it appeared to be a pristine world.

Imagination would populate its surface with vast, untouched forests, shimmering blue lakes, and a plethora of terrestrial, aquatic, and aerial species – though in reality, the planet was a critical transit station for the Empire, boasting a massive spaceport, warehouse complexes, and administrative and control centers. Few would call its true surface picturesque.

As always, the space around Virgill was crowded with arriving, departing, or simply waiting vessels. Freighters, space barges, intergalactic tugs, yachts, patrol boats, and occasionally a warship or two.

The arriving Star Destroyer, presumably the largest and most powerful among them, sent out impatient radio messages, demanding identification from the surrounding ships. The coded reports came in one by one until the behemoth was satisfied: it was indeed the most formidable.

Han Solo paced his cell like a caged beast. Back and forth, wall to wall, over and over again. His Wookiee partner huddled motionless in the corner, unmoving for the past six hours. Occasionally, he let out a painful roar, then fell silent for a long time.

"We've dropped out of hyperspace," Solo noted.

Such a sixth sense naturally develops in a restless space traveler after a decade. A slight pressure at the temples, a fleeting tingling at the nape: unmistakable signs.

"Did you hear that, Chewie? We've dropped out of hyperspace!" he repeated, seeing his friend's indifferent expression.

The Wookiee looked up.

And so what? was all that could be read from his gaze.

The captain shook his head disapprovingly.

"Don't give up, buddy! If you give up, you lose hope, and then we have nothing left!"

The creature merely waved his massive, hairy paw. He expressed his not-so-flattering opinion about the situation in a lengthy series of growls.

"What do you mean, 'you have to know how to lose'?" the owner of the Millennium Falcon snapped. He made no effort to hide his anger. "We haven't lost yet," he emphasized the word. "We're in bad shape, that's all."

He acknowledged his own wit with a wry smile. How delicately he had phrased the dangers lurking around them. For what hope could they have, locked in a Star Destroyer's prison, just hours away from a mind probe interrogation? Moreover, they wouldn't find anything in his memories that could lessen the expected death sentence. Which, of course, would be a relief since few survive the mind probe with their minds intact. Most end up drooling, helpless madmen, their intelligence only comparable to that of some cow-buffaloes. Solo saw no reason why he should be the exception.

That's what happens when you meddle in the Empire's dark affairs, he thought. In his previous "peaceful" smuggling life, mercy didn't exist, but somehow the rules were more humane. This time, forces far greater than he could comprehend clashed around him. They used him, manipulated him, controlled him from afar like a puppet. And discarded him just as quickly. The only question was: could he survive? Right now, it seemed unlikely.

It would be an exaggeration to say he hated Go Rien, the Empire's hired bounty hunter, for dragging him into this. Especially since he harbored friendly feelings towards him. He had always liked the bounty hunter, and now that it was proven the man had not betrayed him, but rather helped whenever he could… well, Han Solo admitted honestly: he considered him a friend, even though he happened to be an agent of the hated Empire. Friendships can form among enemies, this wasn't the first case.

On the command bridge of the Star Destroyer named Inferno, the young Marl Davion carefully reviewed the list of nearby spacecraft. When he finished, he erased the data from the screen with a single button press.

He was far from reassured. His refined sixth sense warned him that he was still overlooking something. He requested another list, this time of small cargo ships. Dozens of names lit up on the screen – any one of them could be fake. Pirate and smuggler vessels often hide behind aliases and false codes, making them nearly impossible to uncover.

"Conduct signal strength measurements and trajectory calculations!" he ordered a technician. "I need to know if anyone has been following us..." The man saluted and left.

The young captain waited patiently for the results. He recalled the ancient wisdom: "Just because the fish is already in the net, don't get overconfident!" Of course, this time he cast Han Solo in the role of the fish. There are always other fishermen, not to mention that even a fish can have friends. And this was a big fish, a very big one!

"Captain, sir," the technician returned, "we have completed the task"

"That's obvious. Tell me the results, don't waste time with unnecessary chatter!" Marl reprimanded.

The man stood at attention again in embarrassment.

"Understood, sir!" he shouted.

"Don't yell in my ear!" the young man snapped.

"Yes, sir," the technician said quietly.

"So? Is there any way I can know the results today?"

"We found a suspicious ship, sir," the man blurted out, avoiding any further beating around the bush.

The captain nodded.

"Magnify the image!"

Above the central holoprojector, the air sparkled, and the three-dimensional image of a lens-shaped spaceship appeared. Gun turrets were visible on the top and bottom, and a protruding cockpit broke the symmetry of the hull on the right side.

It resembled a customized Corellian light freighter, the YT-1300 model.

"The Millennium Falcon!" came a booming voice from the direction of the lift shafts.

Marl spun around swiftly to scold the disrespectful interjector, but when he saw the obese man standing at one of the lift doors, he bit his lip and remained silent.

The corpulent man stepped onto the bridge. He wore a long red cloak, a symbol of his gubernatorial rank. His movements attempted to lend royal dignity to his ungainly figure, unsuccessfully. Pointing accusatorily at the hologram with his finger, he repeated, "That's the Millennium Falcon!"

Marl stepped in front of the dignitary and bowed.

"Undoubtedly, it is, Your Excellency."

"And how did it get here?" the other roared, beside himself.

The young captain maintained his composure.

"Presumably, it followed us."

"...Your Excellency," the obese man added irritably.

"Your Excellency," Marl nodded with commendable self-discipline.

"What is stopping us from blasting it to pieces?" the fat man inquired further.

"Nothing, Your Excellency," the young captain replied. He simply had no appetite to explain to this man that they had only just identified the infamous smuggling ship.

"Then do it!" the other urged.

"I know my duty, Your Excellency," Marl replied ambiguously.

Meanwhile, he thought that he wouldn't tolerate this pompous blowhard's interference in his work for much longer. After all, he was a conspirator, a filthy traitor, or something! He had rebelled against the Emperor. The hour of justice would soon strike – his instincts whispered.

"Shoot that cargo ship down," he gestured toward the hologram with his head.

In the pilot seat of the Millennium Falcon sat a middle-aged man with a jaunty mustache and brown skin. He wore a wide-brimmed dark hat. Next to him was a man in a dark blue uniform, looking every bit the bureaucrat. His collar bore the rank insignia of a police lieutenant, although his uniform didn't resemble that of law enforcement.

"We've been spotted," the man with the hat announced.

The uniformed man covered his mouth in shock, then composed himself.

"Why do you think so?" he asked.

"Because of that," Caspar, perhaps the galaxy's finest engineer, pointed to a flash of light outside the window. For his companion's benefit, he added, "They're firing at us."

"I thought it was lightning," the former sergeant exclaimed in disappointment.

"There's rarely lightning in space," the older man explained. "Those are turbo lasers, set to maximum power!"

"But why…?"

"Why what?"

"Why do the flashes…," the ex-cop began, but Caspar cut him off with a swift hand gesture.

"If it's alright with you, Scarpa, I'll explain it at a more convenient time."

"Agreed," Scarpa nodded nervously. "Let's get out of here!"

At that moment, another laser blast struck, close enough to trigger the shield alarm and shake the Falcon like a ship in a stormy sea.

The man with the hat intently worked the control panel's instruments. The hum of the ship's interior changed as some systems fell silent while others buzzed to life.

"Hold on, MOR!" he called back with concern.

Behind him, a peculiar metallic creature huddled. Its lens-shaped body was attached to six articulated legs. With two of them, it gripped the nearest pipes and spoke in a pleasant, non-mechanical voice:

"All set, boss! I've got four limbs free: just say the word!"

Further discussion was cut short by another laser blast. The ship shook even more violently, and the shield's alarm indicated a direct hit.

"This isn't working," Caspar remarked. "I can't get us out of a Star Destroyer's range without damage. Only one person in the galaxy can do that…"

"Han Solo," Scarpa nodded.

"That's right," the other agreed. "But I have an idea. However, you'll have to take the controls, Scarpa!"

The bureaucrat stared at him, stunned.

"Me?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes, you. Look, just do what I do! This here is the joystick, and you've got one in front of you too. Push it forward to go down, pull it back to go up, right and left are obvious. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Jerk it around randomly! The point is to confuse the enemy's targeting systems so they can't predict our trajectory. Ready, Scarpa? Start now, I'm switching over!"

The Falcon immediately began an erratic dance – as can be imagined. The automatics tried to stabilize the wild turns, but Caspar simply turned them off. Scarpa thoroughly enjoyed it. With a determined expression, he yanked the stick, maneuvering the ship. The instrument lights reflected in his eyes, and he completely lost himself in the task. He instinctively chose the directions for the Falcon – and he couldn't have done better. The hull suffered only surface hits, no serious damage; largely thanks to the former sergeant.

Meanwhile, Caspar was deeply engrossed in studying the short-range radar. He mentally plotted course lines and calculated approach angles. He was searching for something and found it. An unmissable opportunity.

When he finally looked up, his first glance fell on the rear shield's energy level indicator.

"The rear shield is down," he noted grimly. But then he shrugged and waved it off. "Doesn't matter. We won't need it anyway. Scarpa, I'm taking back control! Set the front shields to maximum! The first blue lever on the right – push it all the way up!"

With that, he turned the Falcon to face the Star Destroyer.

They sped towards the Imperial ship at a mad pace. The warship grew from a tiny speck to a massive behemoth in an instant.

"We're going to hit them," the man with the hat said confidently. "They feel completely safe: they haven't even raised their shields! 'What harm could a little ship like that do to us?' they're thinking. They'll see just how much! There's a small room near the outer hull at the base of the command bridge – the targeting analysis center. If we hit that directly, all their onboard weapon accuracy drops by thirty percent. The base of the command bridge is a weak spot of Star Destroyers, though few know it. We'll use a proton torpedo; it's not easy to hit the target with it…"

"Why aren't they shooting at us?" Scarpa asked in amazement.

Caspar laughed.

"We've confused them," he explained. "They didn't expect an attack: they need some time to analyze the situation. That's the big flaw of these massive warships with thousands of crew members: their reaction time is incredibly slow!"

"They're turning towards us! They're attacking!" a stunned technician shouted on the command bridge of the Star Destroyer.

"Computer! I need a trajectory analysis!" Marl shouted.

That small cargo ship shouldn't pose any threat to them, but… his instincts told him otherwise.

"What the hell do they want?" he wondered aloud. "Raise the front shields for safety!" he ordered.

But moments later, he saw it was too late. By the time the command ran through the chain, the generators reached the necessary output, and the shield field extended in front of the ship, it would be far too late! The cargo ship would have already gotten through, maybe even flown away by then…

"Proton torpedo!" a desperate officer screamed.

"Vacuum alert!" the young captain tried to outshout the bridge crew. "Isolate the sections!"

The ship was rocked by an explosion. Several people fell, the lights flickered for a moment. Some instruments screeched in protest, others went silent forever. People shouted, panic took over, even though no one was hurt.

"Silence! Crew to your stations!" the captain's commanding voice cut through.

A strong leader can always save the situation: order was quickly restored. Apart from the flashing red alert, nothing indicated that the warship had just been hit.

"Damage report!" Marl demanded with enviable calm.

"The targeting analysis center was hit, sir. It's inoperative. Weapon systems' firing accuracy reduced to thirty percent," someone reported.

"The bastards had damn good luck!" an officer remarked.

"Are you sure it was just luck, Major?" Marl snapped angrily. "Because I'm not. Take a look at the targeting monitor if it's not too much trouble!" His voice dripped with contempt. "They're heading straight for an Imperial troop transport, carefully ensuring they stay precisely between us and it. They know very well that with thirty percent firing accuracy, I can't risk a firing order… If we accidentally hit the troop transport, it would be incredibly hard to explain to the court-martial!" His hand clenched into a fist. "They're getting away this time, there's nothing we can do.

But they'll be back, that's for sure. They're after Han Solo."

Chapter Two

"I think, sir, that besides Han Solo, we can add one more person to the list of those who can bring the Falcon out of a Star Destroyer's close proximity without a scratch: you," Scarpa declared.

Caspar smiled.

"We were lucky. Besides… well, we couldn't have done it without you."

The ex-cop blushed at the praise.

"Oh, come on," he said awkwardly.

"No, no, Scarpa," insisted the man in the hat. "I'm serious. I haven't had the chance to tell you before; you did a fantastic job. I believe you have a natural talent for flying."

The uniformed man pondered the idea.

"You think I could be a pilot?" he asked eagerly.

"Without a doubt," Caspar replied. "You'd just need to learn a lot, but you have the talent."

The other hesitated.

"Would you be willing to teach me?" he finally blurted out.

The man with the hat laughed.

"I've been doing that for a while now, haven't you noticed?"

The ex-cop stared at him with wide eyes.

"Now that you mention it…" he squinted.

Meanwhile, the Falcon circled the planet, crossed the busiest space traffic junctions, and changed its name and code.

"They won't be able to track us now," Caspar declared.

"But we don't know where they are either," Scarpa noted.

The man with the hat smiled again.

"Yes, we do! That's exactly why I did all this."

Scarpa gave up trying to follow his mentor's quick thinking and spread his hands helplessly.

"Care to explain?" he pleaded.

The other nodded.

"I know exactly where they're headed," he began willingly. "A Star Destroyer with thirty percent firing accuracy is practically combat-ineffective. Their first stop will be a repair base. Since Virgil is the sector's central planet, there must be one in the system. We just need to find it!"

"You…" Scarpa was speechless with amazement. "You're a genius!" he finally exclaimed.

"Just experience and logic," Caspar deflected the praise. "MOR!" he turned to the droid. "Connect to the onboard computer and locate the space station we're looking for!" The robot obediently hurried off.

Marl gazed out the bridge windows at the massive space station. The repair base floated seemingly motionless in space – but in reality, it orbited the system's star at a consistent speed. According to galactic time, it completed a full orbit in eight hundred and twelve days. The Star Destroyer had carefully matched its speed and direction to maintain the appearance of stillness.

"Forty-eight hours of repair time," the young captain mused aloud. A damn long time, but there was no other choice. In this condition, continuing would risk the lives of twenty thousand people. And they weren't in a rush. For now, they needed information, because without it, they couldn't plan or move forward.

"How's the mind probe calibration coming along?" he questioned the responsible officer.

"We'll be done within an hour, sir," the officer promised.

But Marl had already moved on.

"Communications, connect me to the prisoner!" he ordered.

Moments later, the order was fulfilled.

"You have direct audio communication with the cell, sir," a technician reported. "Visual contact is not possible due to your security protocols."

"Not necessary," Marl reassured him. He leaned into the microphone. "Can you hear me, Han Solo?"

"Much to my regret, yes," came the reply.

"The mind probe is ready."

"Congratulations."

"Don't be witty, Solo! This concerns your life."

"Thanks for the reminder; I nearly forgot."

"Solo, you know I hate the mind probe. Talk voluntarily, or you won't avoid it! This is your last chance!"

"Go to hell! At least spare me your so-called kindness!" the prisoner snapped angrily.

"As you wish, Solo," the captain shrugged and turned off the microphone.

But from the speaker, he heard one last message:

"Listen carefully, Marl. If I get out of this with my mind intact, and you don't kill me in time, I'll kill you myself! Consider that a promise!"

The young captain turned to his first officer.

"Major, dock with the repair station! The bridge is yours!" And with that, he hurried off.

The last hour passed in torment. Who could blame the Corellian smuggler captain for feeling despondent in his cell? Who in his place would find any reason for cheerfulness?

"I think we're in big trouble, Chewie," he finally spoke. "You're about to have a pretty messed-up buddy."

The Wookiee let out a painful roar.

Han Solo began to hum a sorrowful Corellian tune about the deep space and the thousands of pilots it had swallowed forever. The droning notes reverberated, fading slowly in the confined space. Seconds and minutes ticked by.

Chewbacca eventually couldn't hold back: tears rolled down the fearless warrior's cheeks. He snarled irritably at Solo.

"Why shouldn't I sing?" the Corellian shrugged. "Soon I'll be half-crazy; at least let me finish this last song!"

And he kept singing.

Trying to hatch a plan or attempt an escape was futile. This Star Destroyer crew had learned how to guard them. Guards stood at every corner; no one could approach the cell door. Whatever happened inside, they ignored it. When they took Han, dozens would come, armed to the teeth. He'd be rendered helpless by force-field restraints, unable to move, perhaps even to walk. They'd place him on an anti-gravity pallet – pushing him rather than risking anything.

Only a ghost could escape under such circumstances.

Suddenly, the built-in speaker crackled.

"Han Solo, step to the door! Wookiee, move to the far corner!"

The voice was indifferent, rough, accustomed to command. It probably belonged to a high-ranking officer, Solo thought. He felt somewhat honored to receive such high-level attention.

Of course, they obeyed immediately – what else could they do? Chewbacca grumbled and seemed to prepare for something, but Han gestured for calm. The last thing he needed was for the Wookiee to be shot dead. Solo wouldn't have been able to bear seeing his old friend fall.

Everything happened as expected. Soldiers armed to the teeth, restraints, pallet. Han didn't care about any of it anymore. He focused all his attention on the one thing that might save him: trying to survive with his mind intact.

The cell door closed behind him, and the desperate wail of the Wookiee faded slowly into the distance. But Han Solo was already oblivious to it all.

Caspar turned his gaze away from the stars scattered across deep space.

"Scarpa," he began, "I think I've found a way to get us into the base."

The ex-inspector lookup up with interest. The past half hour had been spent desperately trying to devise a trick or scheme to get inside the walls. Once on the repair station, they could easily slip onto the Star Destroyer. Idea after idea had been proposed and then discarded. For the last ten minutes, they'd sat in silence, unable to think of anything new. Caspar had been staring intently out of the Falcon's cockpit window, while Scarpa had buried his face in his hands.

"Didn't you say you managed to get the Falcon listed as an official transporter for the Virgill government?" Caspar continued.

The former official nodded.

"Well, my plan is a bit complicated and will take some time, but I hope we won't be too late if we execute it. A day has passed, and according to my calculations, they need at least three days to calibrate the probe. That gives us two days to pull off the plan I've devised."

Scarpa nodded eagerly at each statement as his partner laid out the plan step by step.

"Repair bases regularly receive food and other supplies from the nearest planet. Usually, fleet ships don't handle these transports, as they are needed elsewhere for more important tasks. That's why the Empire employs reliable contractors. Each planetary government has its own list of such people. As I understand it, the Falcon is at the top of Virgill's list – albeit under a different name. And I, or rather someone using my name, has been registered as the Falcon's first officer. So, I have the right to accept a transport mission from Virgill to the space station."

"Really!" Scarpa was stunned. "Why didn't I think of that? What should we do first?"

"We go to Virgill and apply for the next transport mission. We should easily get a small supply run..." And that's exactly what happened.

The Millennium Falcon turned towards Virgill, planning to return in two days to rescue Han Solo from the mind probe. The crew didn't even suspect that they would be delayed by a good two days.

What Han Solo saw was purely a product of his imagination. But these weren't baseless illusions; they were a surreal projection of reality. A hallucination.

He visualized his mind as a vast, multi-story mansion. Countless rooms, each filled with numerous cabinets.

The mind probe appeared as a soldier clad in heavy armor. It invaded every room, looked into every cabinet, and even peered under the beds. If it found a door locked, it broke it down; if a cabinet wouldn't open, it smashed it to pieces.

At first, Han Solo put obstacles in its way. He imagined thick, locked doors and placed imaginary soldiers to oppose it. But the invader was stronger than anything the Corellian could muster. It bulldozed through everything – and Han quickly realized that what his adversary destroyed could never be rebuilt.

Suddenly, he understood what was happening: the mind probe was destroying his mind. If this continued, he would indeed become half-mad...

He immediately changed his strategy. He threw open every door for the invader. He voluntarily let it enter every space, allowing it to search as it pleased. Moreover, he reimagined his soldiers as servants who helped the intruder in every way.

The result was immediate. The mind probe no longer destroyed anything. It read everything the interrogators wanted from the Corellian's mind, but it did not leave him mentally impaired. At least, not for now.

The Imperial courier shuttle landed flawlessly in the protocol dock of the Star Destroyer. The lights reflected off its pristine white hull and black windows. With its wings folded alongside its body, it resembled a massive, slumbering bird. The emblem painted on its side revealed that it had come directly from Coruscant, the Imperial City, indicating its significance to the warship's crew.

The elite stormtrooper squad lined up between the shuttle's airlock and the hangar entrance, forming a double row of armored figures. Behind their white helmets, curiosity sparkled in their eyes. On the way, they had eagerly speculated about the shuttle's passenger, but once they formed the honor guard, not a single word escaped their lips. They stood silently and disciplined, staring straight ahead in rigid attention.

They did not turn their heads even when the shuttle door hissed open. A solitary figure appeared and descended the steps slowly. Unaccompanied. Clad in full grey armor, with optical lenses in place of eyes and a breathing mask over the mouth, the figure would have resembled a new type of droid if not for the armor. Despite their ingrained discipline, the soldiers instinctively stepped back as the figure approached.

It was a bioborg, a human kept alive by machines.

"I have a message for General Marl Davion," it announced in a slightly distorted voice to the approaching senior officer.

"Yes, um... sir," he replied, stepping back.

Everyone feared the 'borgs.

They were known to be nearly indestructible and notoriously ruthless. It seemed highly unlikely that this one would be an exception.

"I will take you to the captain immediately, sir," assured the officer, involuntarily raising his hand as if already anticipating a blow from the intimidating visitor.

Eight soldiers joined them. They entered the lift, and the senior officer dictated their destination. The cabin moved. The bioborg stood motionless, like a deactivated droid. Not so the escort.

The soldiers fidgeted uneasily, while the senior officer retreated to the farthest corner.

"You were human once, right?" he tried to ease the tension.

"Yes," the bioborg replied.

"And... what happened to you?"

"I died."

The officer felt a chill in the cabin. He checked the air conditioning and temperature controls but found nothing amiss. "Biologically?" he continued.

"Brain death."

"From an injury?"

A nod.

"So you were mortally wounded?"

"With eighteen wounds," the 'borg replied in a monotone.

The officer hummed for a while.

"Considering that... you look pretty good," he finally said.

"Thank you."

No more words were exchanged between them.

Marl received his guest in his suite. He hadn't informed Governor Rogow of the matter, as the shuttle's passenger had explicitly instructed him not to over the radio.

"Welcome," Marl greeted the envoy.

"Greetings, General Davion."

"Major," Marl corrected.

"I've brought your commission," the bioborg handed over an exquisitely crafted box.

Marl took the package, astonished.

"Grand Moff Heriess, head of the Security Bureau, is the sender," the monotone voice announced.

"The ISB? The young captain's shock deepened. "I've never had any connection with the ISB" He spread his arms in bewilderment.

"Grand Moff Heriess believes it's time for that to change. The box also contains your special agent assignment and the request to temporarily assume the governorship of the Virgill Sector."

"What?"

Marl's eyes widened.

The bioborg continued unfazed:

"Grand Moff Heriess hereby strips Melory Larso Rogow of his gubernatorial rank, additionally sentencing him to complete confiscation of his property and death. I will carry out the execution. That property will temporarily be at your disposal." Marl swallowed hard. "Furthermore, as a special agent, you are tasked with leading the investigation into the rogue bounty hunter. Your mission is to find and execute the Empire's top bounty hunter who betrayed the Emperor and fled; as well as to silence anyone involved or possessing undesirable information. I have been assigned as your assassin and bounty hunter." He handed over a palm-sized device. "This control unit allows you to manage the loyalty conditioning and security lock built into me. Awaiting your further orders."

"What is that box you're holding in your other hand?" the newly appointed general asked.

"A data storage device. It contains the complete documentation of the case's developments, from the First's escape to my departure. It also includes a report on the previous lead investigator, the Empire's second-best bounty hunter, Go Rien Moss."

Marl raised an eyebrow in interest.

So, there were two bounty hunters after all, he thought, disappointed.

"Tell me more about this Go Rien Moss!" he ordered the bioborg. "Who is this man?"

"I am, sir."

Marl dropped the data storage device, which landed with a loud clatter. This was a twist he had not expected.

"So," the young man mused, "we've met before. On the Hammer's deck, back in the day."

The bioborg nodded.

"Indeed, sir," he replied in his monotonous voice.

The newly minted general-governor – not to mention his other titles – silently reflected for several moments. Then he requested the bioborg to accompany him to Rogow's suite.

Melory Larso Rogow dreamt of the future. Senatorial rank, wealth, and even more wealth. Power. He was inherently a greedy man.

Sometimes he suspected that his greed showed in his physical size. He didn't deny this trait; in fact, he was proud of it. "Gluttony is the hallmark of great men," he often quipped.

Stretched out on the couch, he raised a golden chalice to his lips, taking long gulps. The door beeped, signaling that someone sought entry. Rogow granted permission.

In the doorway stood Captain Marl, accompanied by a nightmare-like figure clad in grey armor.

Rogow instantly jumped up. If the universe's beings were divided into two groups: killers and victims, the large man was the latter. He immediately recognized his eternal enemy – the killer – in the grey-armored figure.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice perhaps sharper than necessary.

The stranger answered:

"The Imperial Senate has sentenced you to death for treason against the Emperor, Melory Larso Rogow. Your property is confiscated, your rank revoked. I urge you to not resist the executioner!"

The obese man initially stared at them in bewilderment. Then he turned pale, his eyes reflecting the desperate fear of prey cornered by a predator. He finally understood the meaning of the words.

"Guards!" he screamed desperately. "Help! Assassination!"

Stormtroopers burst from hidden compartments. They didn't understand the situation, only seeing that apart from their captain and the governor, there was a single figure in the room. It had to be the assassin.

But firing was futile, the 'borg moved with incredible agility.

He used a dodging technique based on the improbability principle.

Untrained stormtroopers couldn't predict his movements, missing him every time.

When he was within arm's reach, laser-edged blades sprang from his forearm guards. They sliced through the soldiers' white armor like a hot knife through butter.

Meanwhile, Marl desperately shouted, trying to stop the chaos and bloodshed. By the time he succeeded, five soldiers lay dead on the floor.

"Stop!" Marl shouted. "I command you to cease immediately!"

Silence fell.

"This is my governor's badge," he held up the metal plate from the box. "The color and grain of the alloy prove it was made in Imperial City. Soldiers, come closer and see for yourselves! I am the governor of this sector. The man you protect has been dismissed by the Imperial Senate and sentenced to death for treason. This man here is the appointed executioner," he pointed to the 'borg. "Leave! Vacate the premises and admit no one!"

Reluctantly, one by one, the soldiers obeyed.

They were alone again.

"You've gone mad!" Rogow retreated. "You can't do this!"

"The sentence is final," Marl stated. "I will leave you; I don't wish to witness what comes next…"

"Wait!" the obese man screamed in desperation. "Remember, I made you captain!"

The young man turned back.

"Oh, come on," he scoffed. "You were a fool! You always did exactly what I suggested."

And with that, he left the room.

Chapter Three

Barely an hour later, Marl was in his quarters. He had retreated to reflect, believing he needed time and solitude to process the events of the past hour. His door was guarded by the bioborg and two marines.

It didn't take long for him to understand why the Grand Moff had chosen him for this task. His lineage—his true lineage—made his loyalty to the Empire and the Emperor clear. His upbringing, courtesy of his father, had prepared him well. Now it was up to him to prove himself. Finally, here was a chance to show that even if he was flawed by his father's standards, he wasn't useless!

Two data disks lay on the table before him. One was brought by the bioborg, the other contained the results of Han Solo's mind probe. Comparing the two would allow him to accurately determine what had actually happened. The most important fact: the First was dead. His only remaining task was to eliminate those who knew too much about the matter.

The first such person, Melory Larso Rogow, was already dead. Marl was not a fan of massacres, but if this path led to greatness, he wouldn't hesitate. Great causes always demanded sacrifices.

At first glance, solving the problem seemed straightforward. However, Marl's sixth sense told him there was an unusual secret lurking in the background. So strange that perhaps even his superiors weren't aware of it, and maybe not even the Emperor himself.

The secret revolved around Han Solo. But how could a mere smuggler become such a crucial factor?

Marl knew that common sense and simple logic wouldn't suffice here. This mystery was like a dark, deep well. No matter how he peered from above, shining lights down, he could only see the bottom if he descended.

There were various ways to get down: a fool might simply throw himself into the depths. Well… he knew a rather unusual method...

Intuitive thinking in a trance state was a trait reserved for the greatest minds in the Empire's leadership. Perhaps it was the other way around: only those who could think in this alien way were considered truly great minds. Achieving intuitive trance required serious preparation and long-term practice. It was a kind of meditative state where logical, argument-based thinking took a back seat, and intuition, the mere feeling of truth and reality, came to the fore.

Marl was familiar with the breathing, body, and mind exercises needed to reach a meditative state, but he had never managed to enter an intuitive trance. Some sort of barrier always stood in his way, one he couldn't scale or demolish. Now he resolved to try again. He would begin a forty-eight-hour fasting period, preparing to start the meditative rituals on the forty-eighth hour. He would need two full days of complete solitude and isolation. If disturbed even once, he would have to start over.

"Guard!" he called into his personal communicator. One of the marines entered. "I need the strictest solitude," Marl began. "No one can disturb me; no one can enter. Only those with Alpha 1 priority codes are exceptions. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," the marine nodded formally.

"Dismissed," the young general said, then took his seat, closed his eyes, and waited.

The Millennium Falcon, carrying eighty tons of supplies in its cargo hold, entered the subspace of Imperial Repair Station 80. Instantly, two short-range, older-model TIE fighters flanked it, guiding it to the station's central cargo dock.

From the cockpit of the freighter, Caspar and Scarpa could only see the wedge-shaped prow of the nearby Star Destroyer. Approaching from this angle was deliberate, ensuring they remained hidden from the warship's sensors—a necessity given that the uniquely decorated YT-1300 was well-known on the other side.

"Is everything clear?" Caspar asked for the first and last time.

"Of course," replied the spider-like droid, while the ex-policeman—uncharacteristically—nodded silently.

As the Falcon glided into the massive hangar bay, the two TIE fighters peeled off to return to deep space. The freighter's landing legs gently touched the plasteel floor, and the hydraulic joints bowed under the weight as Caspar deactivated the repulsorlift thrusters.

"We've landed," he announced. "Everyone to their positions!"

Scarpa met the dark-blue uniformed fleet soldiers who hurried aboard. Introducing himself as the ship's captain, he handed over the cargo manifests.

The entire company moved to the cargo hold to verify the crates and containers, then paid the freighter captain and began unloading. Scarpa watched from the cockpit window. He had kept from Caspar that the idea of hiding in the containers came from Han Solo.

The ex-cop had learned this trick from the crafty Corellian back on Quaron III.

The hardest part was yet to come: Scarpa had to pilot the Falcon out of there.

He suspected that if Han Solo knew, he would be very worried about his ship's safety. Not without reason, the sergeant conceded—he had never flown a starship before. No matter how much Caspar had automated the controls in the short time available, a human pilot was still needed.

The engineer had painstakingly explained to Scarpa what to do, what not to touch, but the task still seemed daunting. Scarpa was the only choice simply because there was no other option.

When the Imperials finished unloading and the Falcon received clearance for takeoff, Scarpa took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. There was no avoiding the inevitable any longer.

With a sweaty forehead and clammy hands, he gripped the control stick. His instructor's words echoed in his ears:

"You've got talent, Scarpa! You can do it, just like those evasive maneuvers last time!"

The ex-sergeant fervently hoped he was right.

He activated the repulsorlift thrusters, and the ship rose sluggishly. The autopilot held the altitude with minor adjustments. The main thrusters came next—Scarpa increased power cautiously. The Falcon lurched forward. The former officer clung desperately to the stick, trying to keep the ship straight with little success. The ship's hull swayed left and right, as if tossed by ocean waves. Scarpa quickly reduced speed, causing the Falcon to pitch forward, its stern nearly striking the upper edge of the hangar door.

Those watching from below probably thought the pilot was drunk by now. But he was completely sober—nor was he intoxicated by the prospect of glory.

He was busy stabilizing the ship. Deactivating the repulsorlifts, he increased the thrust. As a result, the Falcon shot out and sped away from the base at a speed far exceeding the permitted limit. According to the plan, he was to wait at specified coordinates, as landing anywhere was deemed too risky. The ex-sergeant now did everything he could to find those coordinates.

The container had not moved for over fifteen minutes. Caspar and MOR, hiding deep within it, decided it was their time to act.

Caspar flipped open the lock cover and short-circuited the circuit by connecting the two appropriate wires. The lid sprang open.

The droid was the first to emerge. In place of its photo-optics, it now had a weapon barrel and a complex targeting system. It carefully scanned the entire room.

It was a small storage room. Containers and crates appeared to be in a haphazard arrangement, though in reality, they were organized according to some complex logic. However, Caspar and MOR had no idea what that organizing principle was.

"Okay, the coast is clear," the droid announced, perhaps a bit too dramatically.

Both climbed out from behind the high edge.

"Let's find a computer terminal," Caspar whispered. "I'd like to take a look at the station's information network." He thought for a moment. "Storage rooms are usually divided into blocks," he explained. "We'll likely find a terminal at the center of a block."

MOR moved to the door and pressed the open button with one of its eight, arm-like legs. The panel slid aside with a soft scraping sound.

They found themselves in a wide, high corridor. Magnetic strips on the ceiling guided the automatic anti-gravity forklifts, while colorful stripes on the floor provided the same information for human drivers. Complex signs and labels at the turns aided in navigation.

They quickly reached the block center. The glass-steel room was situated at the intersection of eight corridors. Inside, a single guard was on duty, quite negligently: head tilted back, mouth wide open, asleep. The two intruders were lucky. From the center, the guard had a perfect view of all corridors, including theirs. Approaching the transparent-walled room without being seen would have been nearly impossible. But as it was, their task was easy. Caspar knocked the guard out with a well-placed blow to the neck.

A ninth, much thinner arm emerged from MOR's lens-shaped body, ending in a four-pronged plug that fit perfectly into the corresponding socket. The droid became part of the station's information network.

An extremely curious, all-knowing part.

"Okay, boss, ask away!" it told its creator.

Caspar didn't hesitate.

"How long will the Star Destroyer stay, and how are the repairs going?"

For a moment, only a soft humming was heard.

"The repairs are finished, but the Star Destroyer will remain for another three hours for unknown reasons."

"Okay," the hat-wearing man nodded. "Have those newcomers requisitioned supplies yet?"

A hum.

"Not yet. But why is that important?"

"Just keep working, MOR; I'll do the thinking!" Caspar admonished. "Check if they plan to replenish their stocks!"

A rapid clicking sound.

"Yes. They will start the transfer shortly."

"That's what I hoped for," the engineer nodded with satisfaction. "Can you program it so that the container we arrived in is also transferred?"

"Of course," the droid replied indignantly. "Even an R1 unit could do that. If I had a nose, I'd be turning it up right now..."

"Just do what I asked!"

"I've been done for a while, boss. Droids are the fastest creatures in the universe. Mentally, at least."

"Glad to hear it. Now let's get back to the container!"

Marl had abstained from food and human contact for forty-eight hours, striving to forge a deeper connection with his inner self. The first step was to detach from the needs and issues of flesh and blood, focusing solely on the spirit. Some consciously clear their thoughts, presenting an unadorned mind for intuitive thinking. Others fill their consciousness with images and fantasies. The first method is more challenging but also more effective, while the second yields quicker, though often cryptic and mysterious, answers.

Marl chose the first method. He was almost certain it would succeed. By the forty-eighth hour, he felt sufficiently purified both physically and mentally. He strapped on the electro-field devices that aided meditation and took the chemicals needed for optimal mental acuity.

His breathing gradually slowed, and his heartbeat became faint. He had to use a minimal amount of hexanitrogen substances, as he couldn't achieve the required depth of consciousness on his own. He endured the harmful and unpleasant side effects helplessly but resignedly.

After a while, it no longer mattered whether he succeeded or not. The concerns that surrounded and preoccupied him, both physically and mentally, suddenly faded. The process of entering a trance now existed for its own sake. The goals were forgotten; the arguments and counterarguments, the logic seemed absurdly ridiculous. Visions followed one another, strange, unexplained intuitions. Marl was startled by the alien world he found himself in; a tiny fragment of his rational mind weakly demanded a return to reality. For a few fleeting moments, Marl realized the quagmire he had wandered into, understanding there was no way out for those who ventured too deep. He grasped many things now, among which the issue he had sought to resolve seemed insignificant.

Desperately, he tried to find his way back to the starting point, as his mind was threatened by the silent storm raging within...

Three hours later, they found him—his self-imposed grace period had ended. The marines on guard obediently rushed in—the young general lay on the floor of his suite, unconscious.

Chewbacca had not closed his eyes for two full days. He kept a vigilant watch over his unconscious friend, going without food or water. Solo's calm features revealed nothing of what he had endured. He had been brought back to the cell in this state and had not regained consciousness since. The Wookiee had no idea if Solo had lost his mind or if he had somehow survived the interrogation with his sanity intact. Worry and love kept him awake.

Sometimes he let out a mournful howl, other times he pounded the metal walls with his enormous fists. But it brought no relief. The guards seemed to be deaf, as they did not respond, even though they must have heard the Wookiee's desperate rage.

Then something strange happened: the cell door opened. Chewbacca immediately resolved that, come what may, he would not let them take his friend away again. Whether they used neural whips or blasters, he was ready to die to spare his helpless friend further suffering. Let them come!

But nothing of the sort happened. No one appeared in the opening. The Wookiee listened, but his keen ears heard no sound, no breath from outside.

Cautiously, he crept closer and peered out.

He saw an empty corridor. In the light streaming from below, his shadow loomed large on the ceiling.

He returned to the cell and lifted his captain's body. He started down the corridor towards what he guessed was the exit of the prison block. One of the monitoring screens on the wall flickered to life. In the center, a few words shone:

GREETING, CAPTAIN SOLO! SORRY I'M LATE, BUT I LEARNED YOU'RE HERE. I'M GETTING YOU OUT! CASPAR.

Chewbacca stared at the screen in shock. This all seemed very unbelievable. It could easily be a trap.

He couldn't understand who would set it or why. He shrugged and continued on. He found no one in the control room, just flickering screens and unattended automatons.

He didn't really understand the situation.

Where had the personnel gone?

Then the image on one of the monitors, showing an unknown part of the block, vanished, and a new message appeared:

I'VE REMOVED THE GUARDS! FIRE ALARM – AN OLD TRICK! HEAD FOR THE LIFTS! HURRY!

The Wookiee started running. He was close to the place where they had met Marl and the marines during their previous escape. The lifts were just beyond.

Maybe it was the jostling, maybe it was Chewbacca's worry, but Han Solo stirred on his shoulder. The Wookiee immediately stopped and gently laid his friend on the ground.

The Corellian's eyes remained closed, but his hands and feet twitched, like someone awakening from a nightmare. And he had certainly had plenty of those.

His friend shook him relentlessly, but impatience momentarily overcame worry. He called Solo by name, shouting in his ear.

He forgot all caution.

"What the hell is going on?" Solo asked after a long while.

The Wookiee let out a roaring cheer. He stood up and expressed his joy in his people's booming language.

"Have you lost your mind?" Han asked as he got to his feet. "Why are you yelling? And where the hell are we, anyway?"

The Falcon's first mate excitedly explained what had happened.

"Caspar?" the captain said in surprise. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Chewbacca expressed his suspicion that it might be a trap.

"That's ridiculous!" Solo waved it off. "The fact that you think it's fishy just proves it's really Caspar. No one else could crack a Star Destroyer's system enough to send messages through the internal monitors. Plus, barely anyone knows Caspar's got those skills. He's got some dark spots in his past he keeps under wraps. I'm letting you in on this because it's crucial for our confidence. The key takeaway? Our buddy knows the ins and outs of these Star Destroyers like the back of his hand. If anyone can get us out of here, it's him!"

Meanwhile, they reached the elevator shafts. All the indicators were lifelessly dark, except for one waiting cab. Its illuminated interior cast a beam of light into the dim corridor. And if there were any doubts about what this cab was waiting for, the display quickly dispelled them:

PRIVATE TAXI – HAN SOLO.

"Let's go!" the Corellian shouted enthusiastically. "I'm starting to enjoy this."

Inside, another message awaited them:

HEADING TO 3/B TIE HANGAR. EXPECT A SHOOTOUT!

Chewbacca rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation, only to have Han remind him of the minor detail that they had no weapons, while their enemies probably had plenty.

The Wookiee's excitement quickly turned to gloom. Solo, too, felt a surge of insecurity without his modified blaster strapped to his thigh. He realized they wouldn't find any weapons in the cab unless he settled for a piece of railing as a club. Then, a bold idea struck him. The familiar Han Solo grin spread across his face.

"Chewie!" he began. "Could you rip me off a piece of railing about arm's length?" he pointed to the railing running along the cab's wall.

The Wookiee readily complied. No lift railing was ever made to withstand the brute strength of his muscular arms. Bolts and washers tore out from the metal wall. The Falcon's first mate handed the rod to his captain. Solo took it, turned it over, and examined it. Finally, he grasped it by the two brackets that had been torn out, holding it like a blaster rifle. The only problem was, it didn't look like one at all.

Chewbacca quickly pointed this out.

"Just wait," the Corellian said, urging patience, then asked for more, increasingly shorter, pieces of railing. He tied these together with his belt, making the contraption look more like the blaster rifles used by stormtroopers.

The Wookiee watched his efforts with mild interest, much like one humors the insane. Occasionally, he shook his head disapprovingly and even asked once if the captain felt increased pressure in his head.

Even while working, Han Solo found time to provide the Wookiee with a list of suggestions for various activities spanning several galactic years.

Finally, the "creation" was finished. The Corellian examined it with satisfied glances. He aimed it a few times, pretending to pull an imaginary trigger, even mimicking the whistling sound of a shot with his mouth.

"Pretty good, huh?" he asked enthusiastically.

Chewbacca, what else could he do, nodded. But his expression clearly reflected his true opinion.

Solo then shrugged off his vest and wrapped it around the improvised weapon with meticulous care. The result was impressive: the contraption looked convincingly like a real blaster rifle covered with a piece of clothing.

"Hands up!" Han shouted, pointing his masterpiece directly at his friend's chest.

The Wookiee stared at the mock weapon in wide-eyed surprise. With mock fright, he raised his hands high, then broke into a grin. His booming laughter filled the confined space, and soon, the Corellian was laughing with him.

Caspar and his droid were hiding in a service booth in the 3/B TIE hangar. Caspar peered out through a small plasteel window while MOR connected to the ship's information network with its interface arm, awaiting its creator's instructions.

After stowing away in a food container to get aboard the Star Destroyer, their task became easier. MOR interrogated the warship's computer, quickly uncovering what they needed to know. They found out where Han Solo was being held, if the mind probe had been used on him, and with what result. Most importantly, they discovered where the Star Rider was parked.

With this information, they quickly devised a plan. Navigating through seldom-used, narrow maintenance passages, they reached a tiny booth on the side of 3/B without incident. MOR reconnected, and they set about freeing the Corellian. Everything had gone smoothly so far.

Now they just had to wait for the elevator to arrive. Doing anything else before then would have been foolish. The hangar was swarming with at least a dozen stormtroopers and twice as many technicians. Any sane person wouldn't start a firefight against such odds—except perhaps for Han Solo.

During the wait, Caspar admired the beauty of the Star Rider. The behemoth space barge sat on the hangar's keramite-coated floor, flanked by three hyper-modern TIE Interceptors. Next to the gleaming white wonders, the Star Rider looked like a ragged black crow among dazzlingly beautiful parrots. But Caspar knew that despite the crow's ungainly appearance, the Interceptors wouldn't stand a chance against it in a firefight. No matter how nimble they were.

The Star Rider's firepower would simply wipe them out. If all went well, he would soon have a chance to prove it.

"Hey boss! The elevator's here!" MOR announced.

Indeed, the elevator had just arrived. Soon, its doors would open, Solo and the Wookiee would step out, and then...

Then there would definitely be a firefight.

Caspar hated firefights; he preferred cunning, wit, and strategy. These were rarely possible with Han Solo around. So, the hat-wearing man readied his weapon and placed his finger on the door's open button.

What happened next was beyond his expectations.

Han Solo burst out of the lift, pointing his cloth-wrapped blaster rifle at the nearest officer and shouting, "Hands up! Nobody move! Anyone who disobeys gets blasted!"

A stunned silence fell over the room, broken only by the beeping of instruments and the faint hum of the force-field gate leading to space. The people stared in confusion at the two determined figures brandishing a single weapon. They didn't understand why they couldn't just shoot them without further ado. Yet, the confidence exuding from the intruders planted a seed of doubt: maybe these two had another card up their sleeves?

So, for now, the crew waited.

"Aren't we going?" MOR asked impatiently behind Caspar.

"Stay calm!" Caspar replied. "It's better if we remain still for now. Let's see how this plays out. If things go wrong, they'll benefit more from us staying hidden. If you're bored, initiate a full vacuum alert! I don't want any surprise guests."

A vacuum alert was declared on spaceships when air was leaking from a section, indicating a breach. In such cases, the affected section was isolated to prevent total catastrophe. During a full vacuum alert, isolation extended to the entire ship: elevators stopped, heavy security doors sealed corridors, and internal movement was completely paralyzed.

"At least five minutes before it's canceled," Caspar estimated. "That's our time to resolve this down here."

He refocused on the events unfolding in the hangar.

Solo lined up the people, keeping his weapon trained on the highest-ranking one among them. He was issuing orders to disconnect the Star Rider from the power cables that tethered it to the charging station.

Chewbacca felt he didn't need a weapon. As he walked along the line of prisoners, the terrified glances that followed his movements revealed that his mere presence was threatening enough to deter any rash actions.

However, it was clear that the situation couldn't last long. The men began to whisper among themselves, passing along the information that their attacker was none other than Han Solo, the captain's personal prisoner, who had been pointed out to the entire ship's crew. The rumor, of course, bolstered the Corellian's authority, but there were always daring careerists willing to do something foolish for a reward.

"Caspar!" Solo shouted. "Where the hell are you? Should we stand here until doomsday? Get moving! You organized this joyride, don't miss out!"

Such an invitation was hard to resist. The hat-wearing man turned to his droid:

"MOR, get ready! Before we leave, initiate a level five storm protection, but block the B/3 gate in the open position!"

"Okay, boss," the spider-like droid confirmed.

It is rare for a ship to encounter a magnetic storm in space, but designers must account for this danger. A magnetic storm can ruin a ship's instruments, rendering it blind and sometimes uncontrollable. So in the event of a storm, all docks and rooms open to space are sealed with thick insulating gates. These gates remain closed until the storm alert ends. This would provide the Star Rider a five-minute head start against the pursuing TIE fighters—except for the three Interceptors parked in B/3!

"Ready, we can go," the droid announced.

Caspar pressed the door release button and stepped into the hangar. Surprised glances turned toward him from both sides.

"Hey!" Solo called out. "Is that tall, creepy thing behind you yours?"

For a moment, the hat-wearing man didn't know what or who he was talking about, so he turned around. When he looked back at Han, a small smile played at the corner of his mouth. He knew Solo hated droids.

"It's my robot. Without it, you'd still be sitting in your cell," he said with smug satisfaction.

The Falcon's captain ignored the remark and addressed the prisoners:

"As you can see, our numbers are growing, and we are all armed. It would be foolish to throw your lives away for imagined rewards!" He hardened his tone: "Anyone who moves gets shot!"

No one dared to be a hero.

"Get on the ship!" Han took charge. "Caspar, you fly, Chewie and I will man the guns, and the droid should try not to get in the way!"

They all hurried to the Star Rider, with Han dragging the captive officer along. He let the others go up the ramp first, and once they were all safe, he shoved the black-clad officer among the helpless stormtroopers. He ran to the airlock door and turned back only when he reached it. With quick movements, he unwound the vest from his fake weapon, then tossed the makeshift blaster—belt and all—towards the soldiers.

"Here! Have fun shooting this!" he shouted loudly.

Then he dived into the safety of the ship's corridor, dodging the barrage of blaster bolts.

"Let's go!" he yelled towards the cockpit.

Chapter Four

The medical droid revived Marl within seconds.

The young commander sat up with a troubled expression—his mind now clear, he saw through the mystery surrounding Han Solo. His intuition, his unique sixth sense, hadn't failed him this time. What had been a suspicion became a certainty during his intuitive trance: Han Solo posed a threat to the Empire and the Emperor! Marl had glimpsed a potential future: in this version, the Emperor was slain by none other than Darth Vader. The Empire would fall, overthrown by a foolish, rebellious group—the Rebel Alliance.

And Han Solo played a significant role in all this chaos!

Marl didn't know how he could change the present to alter the future, as it seemed like trying to divert a river from its course. But he felt destined to achieve such goals. He was bound by his name to do everything possible. Not his adopted name—Marl Davion was an empty, meaningless moniker. His true name spoke volumes.

Marl Palpatine—the Emperor's son!

The Emperor, who had rejected him at birth for lacking the spark of the Force. The Emperor, who considered his son's mere existence among his youthful missteps, the greatest mistake he had ever made before ascending the throne—perhaps the greatest mistake of his life. He had fathered a defective child, one who could never be more than an indelible stain on the good name of Palpatine. His existence had to be kept secret.

But Marl believed the time to prove himself had finally come. What greater proof could there be than saving the Emperor's life? If he succeeded, perhaps he would be forgiven, perhaps he could be his father's son again, even if unfit to be a Jedi. After all, true Jedis were almost extinct! Many beings could use certain aspects of the Force—he was one of them. Only those capable of mastering it all, the Jedis, had perished!

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock. Major Dorcier, the ship's first officer, entered through the ornate door of the suite. The medical droid, seeing that its patient no longer needed it, politely stepped back.

"What is it, Major?" Marl asked, carefully banishing any irritation from his voice.

"We have a problem, sir," the soldier replied.

Since Marl's promotion to general, the major had reverted to strict military formality from their previous casual manner of speaking.

"And?" the young man raised an eyebrow.

"Your presence is urgently needed on the bridge, sir."

"What's the issue?"

"A viral outbreak in the detention block, sir," the officer reported.

The young general did not like what he was hearing. He could have sworn there was something off about this situation.

"To the bridge!" he suggested.

They didn't have to go far: the bridge and the captain's quarters were, naturally, close to each other.

"Captain on the bridge!" the stormtrooper guard announced as they entered.

Marl quickly took his place at the command station.

"Which part of the detention block reported the viral alert?"

"Sector A, sir."

"But that's where Han Solo is being held!" Marl's voice snapped.

"That's why I called you, sir," the first officer explained.

"Who ordered the alert?"

"The computer did."

The captain pondered. He stared blankly ahead, rubbing his chin. No one dared interrupt—they knew he was deep in thought.

They stood silently around him, waiting until he finally spoke:

"Because of the alert, the guards left their posts, correct?"

"Of course, sir. They followed protocol to avoid the risk of infection."

"I suspected as much," the young man shook his head. "Check if Han Solo is still in his cell. I'd be surprised if he is."

The officers set to work. Major Dorcier stepped closer to his captain.

"Do you think he might have escaped, sir?"

"Not might have, Major. He has!"

The first officer frowned.

"That rascal," he remarked.

"He didn't do it alone; he had outside help," the young general corrected him.

"Sir," someone shouted excitedly, "the prisoner is gone!"

"Stop shouting in my ear!" Marl reprimanded coldly. "And don't act so surprised!"

Then he continued without pause, needing no more time to think:

"Deploy two companies of stormtroopers to the B/3 TIE hangar immediately!"

At that moment, the alarm bells blared. Red lights flashed, and the elevator displays lit up with the word BLOCKED.

"It's incomprehensible, sir!" Dorcier shouted. "Someone has ordered a full vacuum alert."

"It's not as incomprehensible as you think!" Marl clarified. "The security doors have closed, and the elevators are down. We can't send our troops to the hangar. We're dealing with a damned cunning opponent who has infiltrated our information network. And he knows an alarming amount about our military secrets!"

The first officer stood before his captain, looking utterly defeated.

"Forgive my foolishness, sir," he began, his voice breaking. "It's my fault that the prisoner escaped."

But the captain merely shook his head.

"No, Major! You followed protocol. Everyone did their job correctly. The enemy just outsmarted us this time. They won this battle, but the war is far from over!"

"Is there nothing we can do now, sir?" a junior officer asked eagerly.

"There are many things we could try," Marl explained, "but it's pointless. We could launch TIE fighters, but they've likely prepared for that. Our tractor beams and laser cannons won't stop them if they're even slightly skilled—and they are. However, if it makes you feel better, go ahead and warm up the turbolasers. Fire at will if it gives you some comfort—just don't expect a miraculous victory! We can afford the energy cost of a few minutes of fireworks. So go on, have at it!"

With that, he left the bridge. Barely had he gone when the sirens blared again.

"Level Five storm alert in effect..." someone noted as heavy, opaque shields slammed down over the bridge windows.

The Star Rider lifted off from the hangar's keramite floor, rocketing toward the exit. By the time it reached space, it had already gained significant speed, appearing as a mere speck next to the colossal Star Destroyer.

Han took his place in the port-side turret. He donned his gunner's helmet, activated the targeting monitor, and switched on the gun barrels' cooling system. His fingers wrapped around the turret controls, and he performed a few sweeping maneuvers to test them.

Everything was in perfect working order.

"All set here! How about you, Chewie?" he spoke into the communicator.

A reassuring growl came from the starboard turret.

"Yeehaw!" shouted the Corellian. "The fun's about to start! We can expect at least a full squadron of TIE fighters."

"It won't be that many," Caspar said coolly. "Just the regular patrol and those three Interceptors parked in the B/3 hangar."

"You're underestimating their anger, Caspar," Han warned.

"And you're underestimating my caution," came the reply. "I've locked down all their docks except ours. They can't launch any fighters for several minutes."

Han sat in silence for a few moments.

"You could've given me a heads up," Han said at last. "I'd have taken out those three too. I thought three were no biggie."

"I kept quiet on purpose; I hate boring trips. And from what I hear, so do you!"

"Ever gone up against an Interceptor?" Han asked. "Those things are the Empire's nastiest fighters. Quicker than an X-wing, just as agile as an A-wing, and they pack more punch than a regular TIE!"

Laughter echoed from the other end.

"You're a funny guy, Solo!" remarked the captain of the Star Ranger. "You charge a whole squadron of TIEs without a second thought, but three make you nervous?"

"My courage doesn't waver," Han retorted, "but even I get cautious sometimes! Just saying this little thrill might cost us big time!" He spun the turret. "Though it's a long shot..."

Caspar's next words cut the discussion short:

"They're coming! Twelve o'clock, high! I'll take them head-on so they can't use their speed advantage."

"Try to split them up!" Han advised. "Two for me, two for Chewie..."

"Will do!" promised the captain. "Just stay sharp; they're gonna be fast."

"I've done this before, Caspar!" the Corellian reminded him.

There was no time for more as the attacking fighters appeared on his monitor.

"I see them! They'll be in range soon..."

He was surprised by his own words.

"Hey, Caspar! These guns have quite a range, don't they?"

"I modified them," explained Caspar.

Han fired. Laser beams shot toward the incoming fighters, but they deftly veered to the sides, splitting into two groups.

Caspar guided the Star Rider straight between them, while Han and Chewie unleashed a barrage of fire on the TIEs flanking them. Neither scored a hit. Meanwhile, the fighters kept up their assault, peppering the sluggish freighter with laser fire. But the unusually strong shields absorbed the energy with ease.

They began circling, attacking from different angles each time.

"They're too fast," Han assessed. "We need more firepower..."

"Consider it done," murmured Caspar. "Watch the adjacent turrets!"

Indeed, new gun barrels emerged from the turrets to Han's left and right, syncing perfectly with his main gun. He now controlled three coordinated turrets simultaneously.

"Nice work!" Han praised, but he was truly astonished when he fired again.

A continuous wall of fire consumed the two attacking fighters.

"Holy Galaxy!" he exclaimed.

Chewbacca, half witnessing his friend's success, demanded similar firepower. He fell silent only when Caspar synced the weapons on his side as well.

The result was immediate: Chewie's next volley shredded the lead fighter of the other group, while the wingman spun out, trailing flames, into Han's firing line.

Han delivered the coup de grâce.

"That's a wrap," he grinned.

"The hard part's still ahead!" warned Caspar, cutting off any premature celebration. "Those Interceptors have locked onto us! They're blazingly fast! We have about a minute and twenty seconds before they catch up. If you want, If you want, we can make a quick jump to hyperspace."

Solo's protests mingled with Chewbacca's guttural roars.

"Alright then... But you should know the Star Destroyer's got its turbolasers aimed right at us. We're not out of their firing range yet!"

"No worries," Han replied, cool as ever. "How much time we got before they can send more TIE fighters after us?"

"Three minutes, tops," Caspar estimated.

"Let's make the most of it, then we'll bolt," the Corellian suggested.

And so they stayed.

"One minute until the Interceptors arrive... Thirty seconds... Fifteen... They're here!"

The announcement was almost redundant; the trio of modified Interceptors made their presence felt with deadly precision.

The Star Rider shuddered violently as concentrated energy beams struck it, the shields wailing in distress, and the fire suppression system hissing in the distance. Before Solo could even aim, the attackers were gone, readying for another strike.

"These pilots aren't the greenhorns we faced before," Han remarked. "No way we'll get lucky with this bunch."

That seemed likely. Such mistakes were for amateurs.

The Interceptors swooped in again, but this time Han managed to lock onto them. He fired, missing but forcing two to veer off their path, reducing their immediate threat. The remaining Interceptor continued its assault, laser beams scouring the ship's surface and ripping off sensors. The pilot's pride was short-lived, however, as he plunged into Chewbacca's trap.

Using Han's targeting data, Chewbacca anticipated the Interceptor's path and fired pre-emptively. The enemy pilot, reacting too late, flew directly into the Wookiee's line of fire and exploded in a brilliant flash.

Chewbacca roared triumphantly, shaking his head so vigorously his helmet split. He grumbled to Caspar about the damage.

Then the Star Destroyer opened fire.

Space around the Star Rider lit up with laser blasts and ion explosions. The Star Destroyer didn't seem concerned about their own pilots.

Caspar began evasive maneuvers, striving to get out of range as quickly as possible. The two remaining Interceptors pursued relentlessly, like hounds after a hare. Their laser beams snapped at the Star Rider heels.

"How are we holding up, Caspar?" Solo inquired.

The captain understood immediately. Seasoned spacers had a way of knowing.

"MOR, damage report!" Caspar ordered the droid.

The six-legged machine began listing off:

"Fire in generator two, output at sixty-five percent; vacuum breach in the food storage, majority of supplies destroyed; crack in thrust cone two, no performance drop; lost several surface sensors. Otherwise, all good, boss!"

Solo overheard the report through the communicator.

"Your droid's got a, uh, unique personality," Han remarked to Caspar. "Not exactly what you'd call conventional."

"As long as it gets the job done, I don't care about its manner," Caspar defended his creation.

"Understood," Solo acknowledged, deciding to hold back further criticism of the droid.

He refocused on the Interceptors. The remaining duo fell into a standard formation, leader and wingman, maintaining precision and discipline. Solo assessed their flawless coordination, imagining a cable strung between them, unbroken by their maneuvers.

They attacked from above at maximum speed. Their tactic was flawless, staying in the side gun turrets' fire for just a moment before darting to the belly of the Star Rider.

"Put the ship into a corkscrew!" Han shouted into his helmet mic. "We'll never catch them this way!"

"Roger that," the captain acknowledged. "We've got about a minute left before we should really consider getting out of here!"

"That'll work," Han said with a grin. "Alright, Chewie, here's the plan! When I shout 'Now!', hit that fire button like there's no tomorrow! Caspar, you start spinning the ship lengthwise like a corkscrew! We'll cut through them like an old harvester. If they get in our sights, they'll need a miracle to make it out!"

"If they come in," Caspar countered.

"They will," the Corellian assured him. "We've gotta nail the timing. If they catch wind of our plan, they'll dodge and switch tactics. We need to let them get close and hit 'em hard on the first try 'cause they won't fall for it again. Ready?"

Both acknowledged with a firm yes.

"Alright, here they come! They're feeling pretty cocky..."

"I see them at seven-three," confirmed the captain, his voice tinged with excitement.

"Come on, hotshots, come on!" the Corellian urged the TIE pilots, as if they could hear him. "Closer, closer!"

Nerves were taut. The two Interceptors closed in dangerously, ready to unleash a deadly barrage. From this range, they couldn't miss, and the shields might not withstand another hit.

"Now!" Solo shouted, slamming the fire button so hard his thumb turned white.

The Star Rider spun like a fiery dancer on the dance floor, its six turrets on each side unleashing a laser storm, turning space into a blaze of destruction. The two TIE Interceptors were obliterated, leaving no trace.

"Yee-haw!" Solo yelled. "Let's get out of here!"

While both gunners wrestled with their helmets and powered down the weapons, the stars outside became streaks of light for a brief moment before returning to their usual appearance. The micro-jump through hyperspace had shaken off their pursuers for now—Star Destroyers couldn't maneuver so deftly.

Solo and Chewbacca met in the main corridor and headed to the lounge, then the cockpit together.

The Star Rider's cockpit was far more spacious than the Falcon's, almost worthy of being called a bridge. Its windows spanned the wide nose section. The instrument panel, with its myriad gauges, screens, levers, and buttons, lay beneath the windows. In front of it stood three large, comfortable pilot seats.

Caspar, sitting in the middle seat, stood up as his friends arrived and took a few steps toward them. He extended his hand to Solo.

"Welcome aboard the Starshadow," he said ceremoniously.

Han smiled and shook the offered hand vigorously. "Thanks for what you did, Caspar."

"I still owed you for that alloy incident," the captain replied, still shaking hands.

Han shook his head. "I don't think that's the only reason you did it."

"Come on, Solo, don't get sentimental on me! Can't you see we're at war with the Empire? This isn't just a scuffle between smugglers and enforcers, it's a real war! Han Solo's war! Everyone needs allies, even Han Solo. I'm your ally, so I helped you. Next time, you'll help me. Simple as that!"

The Corellian raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Caspar, you're not just a smuggler anymore; you're a champion of justice! Be careful, it's a thankless job."

"You don't seem ungrateful," Caspar countered, shaking his head.

"Oh, but I am," Han said, growing serious. "Where's the Falcon? I'm guessing you trailed us here with it, right?

"It's safe," Caspar replied, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

Han's sharp eyes caught his uncertainty. "Where? You know the Falcon means everything to me. If I lost it..." He paused, then sighed. "I'd rather be dead."

Caspar gave him the coordinates. "Your ship is waiting for us there. We're headed there now."

But Han wasn't reassured. "Who took it there?" he asked, suspicion clear in his voice.

"Look… Solo…" Caspar tried to explain gently. "We had no other choice, and well…"

But the Corellian wasn't listening. "Who?" he demanded sharply.

There was no point in hiding it anymore. "Scarpa," Caspar admitted.

"Scarpa?" Han echoed incredulously.

"Yes, Scarpa," Caspar repeated despondently.

"You must be mistaken," Han tried to clarify. "You must mean someone else…"

Caspar slowly shook his head. "No, it's Scarpa. He took the Falcon to the designated coordinates."

Han Solo stared blankly ahead for a moment before collapsing into the right-hand pilot's seat. He buried his face in his hands and muttered in a heart-wrenchingly sorrowful tone, "My poor ship, my poor, dear Falcon."

"Scarpa's proven to be quite a talented pilot. He just needs to learn a few things…" the hat-wearing man tried to console him.

"A few things!" the Corellian snapped back. "Like the fact that a control stick isn't a bureaucratic term, and that a spaceship differs from an auto-pilot forklift by the crucial fact that it can maneuver vertically. Such trivial details, really!"

He sprang up from the seat.

"Listen up, Mr. Ex-Police Officer Scarpa," Han began, launching into a theatrical rant. "This here is a hydraulically balanced pilot seat," he pointed behind him. "It's hydraulic so it doesn't turn into a rocking chair during sudden maneuvers. The principle of hydraulics is a bit too complex to explain right now, but let's just say it has nothing to do with bridges over rivers, despite the unfortunate naming coincidence. And those are instruments! Contrary to what you might think, they're very real! If a gauge needle swings into the red zone, it means trouble. No, Mr. Scarpa, the red zone does not signify communist planetary systems. The throttle levers are incredibly important: they allow you to permanently ruin valuable equipment. The knobs are used to replace actual measurements. Now you can fly a spaceship – here are the coordinates, go get it!"

Chewbacca roared with laughter, and Caspar applauded with a grin.

"I'm glad you're all having such a great time!" Han spread his arms wide. "Just remember, besides my ship, that poor idiot is also in danger! He does something wrong and BOOM, he blows up!" He mimicked an explosion with his hands.

"Listen, Solo," the hat-wearing man spoke seriously. "I set everything on the Falcon to automatic, whatever I could. I even tweaked a few things, with your retroactive permission. Controlling the ship boiled down to handling the control stick and the throttle. After all, Scarpa didn't have to perform any complex maneuvers, just take off from a space station and cruise to the designated coordinates. Then just wait, wait, wait. Even a fool could manage that – and he's not a fool, just inexperienced and awkward."

The Falcon's captain stared at his friend for a long moment, then nodded. "I guess you're right," he finally said. But he couldn't quite believe it – and that said it all.

Chapter Five

"Major Dorcier, I've called you here because I need someone I can trust completely, someone to confide in and rely on for assistance. You are my first officer, so naturally, I thought of you. Will you accept?" Marl asked the senior officer standing before him.

The conversation took place in the captain's quarters, behind closed doors, while outside, Marines from the Hammer stood guard.

"I will share my secrets with you," the young man continued, "which, by their nature, are both state and military secrets."

The major bowed formally. "It is an honor, sir."

The elderly soldier, despite his advanced age, wasn't bothered by taking orders from someone who could be considered a youngling. He saw no issue with it; age was irrelevant, only competence mattered.

"I'm glad you accepted, Major. I want you to witness a conversation." The officer nodded. "Send in the 'borg!" the young general ordered into the communicator.

The armored figure entered almost immediately. Its mask concealed any facial features—if it even had a face.

"I have good news," Marl began. "The First is dead. Han Solo killed him, destroying the bounty hunter ship, Storm, along with him."

The 'borg seemed to bow its head in sadness. Clearly mourning the ship, thought the young man.

"Remove your mask!" he commanded. "I'm unsettled by not seeing your face!"

"I fear you will be disappointed, sir," warned the creature.

"I'll decide that! Obey!"

"Yes, sir..."

The being began removing the metal plate covering its face. A soft hiss sounded as the clasps released—revealing a visage that could hardly be called human. Photoptical lenses glowed red where eyes should be, a special respirator hid the mouth, and the forehead was a single convex metal plate.

Even the strong-willed Marl couldn't hide a fleeting expression of disgust, while Major Dorcier simply lowered his gaze.

The 'borg seemed oblivious to it all.

"You are aware that a loyalty conditioning failsafe has been built into you. With the control unit I possess, I've set this to my person. If you defy me or disobey my orders, a pain signal will activate in your head that can kill you. Are you aware of this?"

"Yes, sir," the 'borg nodded. "I was informed."

"I'm pleased," the young general acknowledged. "I don't like dealing in uncertainties."

The undead remained silent. Gone were the days of its buoyant spirit and perpetual half-smile.

The silence was broken again by the Captain of the Inferno.

"Our primary target is Han Solo. I judge that he knows too much about the matter, and his death is necessary. From the results of his mind probe and the data stored on the drive you brought, I conclude that you became personally close to him in the previous phase of this matter; dare I say, you were friends. Is this true?"

The 'borg nodded solemnly.

"So, you know Han Solo well," Marl summarized in his usual manner. "What do you think his next move will be, where will he go?"

The undead replied without hesitation, "To Tatooine."

"Could we hear your reasoning?" Marl snapped sarcastically. He didn't even know why he took pleasure in goading the dangerous creature.

But it didn't seem to have disturbed its mental equilibrium. It answered with its usual indifference:

"Han Solo has no idea of my fate. He wants to meet me, hoping I can save him from the Empire's wrath. Our meeting was supposed to take place on Tatooine."

"Alright. We'll jump to the Tatooine system, you'll show up at the rendezvous—and eliminate the Corellian! Understood?"

"Yes, sir," the 'borg replied, his distorted voice tinged with what sounded like sadness.

"You may leave," Marl ordered.

The departing half-machine, half-human creature carefully closed the door behind it.

"Well, what do you think?" the young captain turned to his first officer.

"Frightening and pitiful at the same time," the aging officer commented. "I'm not sure it's right for us to create such abominations."

"I didn't ask you to critique the Empire, I asked for your opinion on the matter," Marl snapped.

"Understood, sir," the other replied slowly.

"Well?"

"I find this machine... this man, unpredictable," he finished awkwardly. "I don't know what he thinks, how he feels, I simply don't understand him, and thus, I can't trust him."

"You hit the nail on the head," the captain raised his finger. "You're a smart man, we'll get along just fine."

He beckoned the older man closer as if preparing to share a great secret. Marl had been taught psychology by the best.

"This is what I want you to do," he lowered his voice. "We must catch Han Solo at all costs, and I don't trust the 'borg. When we reach the Tatooine system, go down to the planet. There's a place called Mos Eisley: the haven for criminals and scum in this sector of the galaxy. Find me bounty hunters you think can capture our man. Bring the three best ones onboard in utmost secrecy so I can choose among them. Is everything clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Here, take this data storage. I've compiled information on Han Solo specifically for you. I hope it helps you find the best expert. Remember, we need a tailor-made killer!"

The old soldier left without a word. Marl was left alone.

He pondered what the best course of action would be. Should he simply kill Han Solo as soon as they find him, hoping that without him, the future he saw in the trance wouldn't come true? Or should he monitor the Corellian's every move to eliminate all the people and organizations he contacts? Surely, Solo alone couldn't bring down the Empire!

For now, he couldn't decide between the two options.

"Look, Scarpa," said Solo, "I have to say, you pulled off an incredible feat. We found the Falcon exactly at the specified coordinates, not a scratch on her. I'm impressed!"

The ex-cop blushed furiously. "I just... well... it was so easy," he stammered. "No fighter attacked, even though from my experiences with you, I thought that was part of space travel."

Han and Chewbacca laughed together. "Luckily, not every time," the Corellian remarked.

Caspar's voice crackled over the communicator: "We need to hurry! Is everything alright with you? Can we go?"

The man with the hat was speaking from the Star Rider, not having transferred to the Falcon. The two smuggler ships had only docked briefly to allow the Falcon's crew to board their vessel before the Star Rider moved away again to avoid vulnerability to any potential attack. Caspar was extremely worried about the prolonged delay.

"They could strike at us any moment with their medium-range fighters," he warned.

Solo settled into his pilot seat, putting his feet up on the console—this position was the most relaxing for him.

Meanwhile, the Wookiee was resetting the instruments that the man with the hat had reprogrammed. The automatic mode was useful if an amateur was at the controls—but highly obstructive when a pro was flying the ship.

"Are you afraid they placed a beacon on one of the ships?" Han asked through the communicator.

"Exactly," came the reply. "There's no other explanation for how they found us on Tatooine in just a few days. There's no other reason they would have looked here..."

"Brilliant logic," praised the Corellian. "And which ship is it hidden on? Perhaps both?"

"No," Caspar responded quickly, as if expecting the question. "Only the Star Rider is 'infected,' that's logical too. When they ambushed us on Tatooine, they took the Star Rider with them. But they didn't find the Falcon; it was safely parked in the dock where you left it, Solo!"

"Sounds convincing," agreed the Falcon's captain. "And Marl had plenty of time to hide the bug thoroughly on your ship, remember—he had months to commandeer the Star Rider!"

He pondered. An inexplicable bad feeling took hold of him. He didn't hesitate long—caution first—he immediately gave the command: "Chewie, shields up!"

Just in time: a swarm of small ships burst out of hyperspace a few kilometers ahead of them.

Their movement showed they knew two armed smuggler ships awaited them. They didn't hesitate, didn't search for the enemy—they charged at their prey at full attack speed.

"Eight GAT-12 strike fighters from the XI series!" Caspar recognized them. "Medium range, high speed, three medium ion cannons, low-power hyperdrive, average shield resistance. Strong in frontal attacks, weak in evasive maneuvers and when attacked from behind. That's all I can tell you, but tactics and dogfighting are your specialty, Solo!"

The Corellian was ready with a battle plan. "Just follow me, Caspar! We'll escape them. Program a hyperspace jump to Ramor II, and find that cursed beacon! Leave the rest to me!"

The Falcon surged forward as Han pushed it to maximum speed, matching the cumbersome Star Rider. They flew head-on towards the attacking GATs.

"Solo!" shouted the Star Rider's captain over the speaker. "What the hell are you doing? I told you, they're best in frontal attacks! Each has three fixed forward ion cannons—they'll scorch us out of the universe!"

"Trust me," the Corellian growled into the mic, his focus unwavering. The crux of his plan was perfect timing. "Chewie, load three high-explosive missiles into the launch tubes!" he ordered.

Han had installed a combined missile launcher and torpedo system between the Falcon's forward stabilizers during its first modifications. Few knew of its existence, and he rarely used it, but sometimes it was indispensable. Imperial commanders might approve of proton torpedoes, but they dismissed missiles as outdated. Not Solo, whose old-school tactics often confounded the enemy.

The Imperial squadron closed in dangerously. Soon, they would be within range of the ion cannons.

"Divert all power to the forward shields!" commanded the smuggler captain. "Use the reserves too, Chewie!"

The Wookiee's thick fingers expertly maneuvered the switches. With a brief growl, he signaled that he had done as ordered.

Solo rested his hand on the missile launch button. "Take this!" he hissed, sending three deadly gifts on their way with a small motion.

The missiles launched with a flash, the ship shuddering slightly. For a few moments, their trails were visible before the darkness of space swallowed them. But the three small lights did not give up; moments later, a massive flash illuminated a significant area of space.

The explosion's roar was silent in the vacuum, and even the sudden light didn't blind the pilots, as Solo had pre-set the filters.

The GATs opened fire just as the missiles launched. Their shots were deadly accurate, evidenced by the Falcon's shield alarms blaring in distress.

"Forward shield is down!" Chewbacca rumbled in his language.

Han Solo, however, was least concerned about this. His focus was solely on determining the fate of the strike fighters.

They emerged one by one from the swirling gas and particle cloud in space.

"One, two, three," the Corellian counted, then waited.

No more appeared. After a while, some large debris floated by: a triangular stabilizer with an ion cannon still attached, a torn hatch door, a jagged nozzle, and a miraculously intact transparisteel window from a cockpit, reflecting the distant sun's light.

"Bravo!" Caspar shouted. "You took out five, Solo, and look: the remaining three are crippled!"

Indeed. One of the surviving ships drifted uncontrollably, another burned in multiple places, leaving frozen liquid droplets in its wake. The third, the only one undamaged, seemed to have given up its attack, circling protectively around its damaged comrades.

"Caspar, how's your droid doing with the search?" the Falcon's captain inquired.

"Nothing yet, but most of it is still to be searched," came the reply.

"Well, hurry it up!" Solo advised. "Until you find that thing, they won't stop hunting us. Chewie hasn't slept in days; he needs some rest..."

"We're doing everything we can."

"You'd better be; now, let's head for the Ramor II system!" With that, both smuggler ships disappeared into hyperspace.

Marl stepped onto the bridge of the Inferno.

"Captain on the bridge!" bellowed the stormtrooper beside him.

The young general fixed his unflinching gaze on the black glass-steel visor in the white helmet.

"How many times," he began slowly, "do I have to ask you not to shout in my ear?"

"Yes, sir!" the soldier yelled, snapping to attention.

Marl sighed in disappointment and moved swiftly toward the command post.

"Status report?" he demanded from the gathered officers.

"The strike fighter squadron tracking the signal from the Star Rider has located the fugitives. They used a diversion to launch a missile attack on our ships, destroying five immediately and severely damaging two more. Our rescue teams are already on-site."

"Congratulations. Truly a successful operation," the young captain said sarcastically. "Whose salary should I deduct to cover the material losses? I'm afraid all of yours combined wouldn't suffice! In the future, take better care of the Empire's assets and don't risk them and dozens of lives in reckless ventures!"

"But sir!" the lieutenant protested. "Eight GATs against two freighters isn't exactly—"

"Freighters?" Marl cut him off angrily. "You call the Millennium Falcon and the Star Rider mere freighters?"

"They are, technically, sir," the officer shrugged.

"Leave the bridge!" Marl ordered.

"But sir..." he objected.

"Get off my bridge!" Marl roared, pointing toward the lift station. "Now!"

"Sir?" the officer stepped back in fear.

"Troopers!" Marl called to the stormtroopers guarding the bridge. "Remove the lieutenant!"

Until the brief altercation ended, everyone remained silent. The captain broke the silence again:

"Further reports, please," he sighed.

It was difficult to find a volunteer, but as the silence became uncomfortable, someone finally spoke up.

"After the short battle—"

"Battle!" Marl laughed. "Never mind, continue!"

"The fugitives fled to the Ramor II system." He glanced at the instruments. "We're currently receiving the transmitter signals from there through hyperspace."

"I understand," Marl nodded. "Take the ship to the Tatooine system!"

"I said Ramor II, sir!" the officer pointed out.

Marl shrugged. "And I said Tatooine," he repeated and left.

The officers exchanged furtive glances behind him, only Major Dorcier lowered his eyes.

None of the worlds in the Ramor II system were suitable for human life. All three planets orbited the blazing white dwarf in long elliptical paths, each one a swollen gas giant shrouded in methane clouds. From space, they appeared like opalescent gemstones.

The two smuggler ships took orbit around the middle planet, staying a safe distance from its magnetically stormy atmosphere, joining the hundreds of frozen moons ranging from a few meters to several thousand kilometers in diameter.

The Empire had never managed to establish a foothold in the system, which had been a pirate haven for centuries. They never put much effort into it, given the gas giants and frozen wastelands held little value. Pirates would vanish at the first sign of an Imperial fleet and return to destroy the Imperial outpost as soon as the warships left. Decades of such failures discouraged further attempts.

"Millennium Falcon calling Ramor II Central!" Han Solo repeated for at least the tenth time. "Central, respond!"

The radio crackled. "What the hell do you want here, Solo? Get lost, or we'll blast you to interstellar dust!"

The Corellian grinned broadly. "Told you they know me around here!"

"I hear that," Caspar's voice came through on another frequency.

Chewbacca growled, drawing their attention to five pirate ships rising from one of the moons.

Solo turned back to the mic. "I need twelve hours, then I'll be on my way."

"Six," the voice snapped.

"Make it eight," Han offered.

"Fine, eight. But not a minute more! If you stay even five seconds over, you'll become our next frozen moon!"

"Deal," the Corellian said, cutting the transmission.

Scarpa shifted uneasily in the seat behind Chewbacca, finally voicing his concern. "Why do they hate you so much here, Captain Solo?"

"They're convinced the Empire follows me everywhere."

"I can't imagine why they'd think that," the ex-cop said indignantly, and Solo couldn't tell if there was an ironic undertone in his words.

The next hours passed in idleness aboard the Falcon, but with feverish activity on the Star Rider. Chewbacca slept soundly, wrapped in his usual fur; Solo quizzed Scarpa about his spacefaring experiences, while MOR and Caspar tore the ship apart searching for the Imperial transmitter.

If the man in the hat hadn't designed and rebuilt the ship himself, they might never have found the tiny device. However, towards the end of the fifth hour, they discovered it.

It was a fist-sized instrument drawing power from the ship's internal network via an obscure side cable. Caspar promptly deactivated it.

Soon, the system speaker tuned to the neighboring ship crackled on the Falcon. "We found the bug, Solo!"

"Then let's head to Tatooine!" the Corellian proposed.

"Are you crazy? That's the first place they'll look for us."

"We have to go!" Han insisted. "I set up a meeting with Go Rien there. We need to see him—he's our only chance to get out of this mess. Someone's after us, that's clear! It's either the Empire or the conspirators, I don't know. All I know is, only the bounty hunter can stop them. We have no choice, Caspar! We'll just have to be careful."

"Lead the way, I'll follow," the man in the hat conceded.

The two smuggler ships broke orbit and pointed their noses towards a distant point in deep space. Han Solo, feeling deeply insulted by the pirates' rude behavior despite not showing it, saw no reason to say goodbye. So, they left the system in complete silence, at speeds far beyond light.

Chapter Six

In Mos Eisley, every group and social class had its own bar. Han Solo most often frequented the favorite watering hole of free space pilots. Here, he could meet others with similar worldviews—humans, humanoids, and other beings. Of course, there were also merchants, robbers, and even disguised Imperial spies.

Solo's favorite table squatted in a dimly lit booth in the far corner of the cantina. Even now, it was occupied, but this time by four Dzsubads, creatures even more peculiar than usual for this place. Their experience and caution were evident, as none of them sat with their back to the room. They seemed to be stranded in Mos Eisley or perhaps waiting for someone, as they had been coming in regularly for the past two days, ordering a few drinks of their preferred but humanly indigestible beverage, then leaving after a few hours. The drinks, mixed by the bartender from dubious recipes, remained untouched each time.

The cantina's other patrons would have been greatly surprised if they overheard their hushed conversation. They rarely spoke, but when they did, it was not in their native tongue but in Basic, except for the largest one, who only occasionally grunted.

"We've been stuck here for two days, and your friend is nowhere to be found, Solo!" one of them grumbled in a muffled voice, tossing his long trunk over his shoulder irritably, like a woman flipping her hair.

The one he addressed was much wiser, wrapping his perpetually swinging and entangling trunk around his neck like a scarf.

"Don't be down, Caspar!" he chuckled. "Maybe he's in disguise and wandering around, and we just don't recognize each other!"

The third, whose rough canvas dzsubad outfit bore the insignia of a BR lieutenant, laughed loudly at the joke. His joy quickly faded when their fourth, the giant, placed a heavy hand on his shoulder in warning.

"We could sit here until doomsday, but every hour increases the risk of getting caught. We've already taken enough risks!" said the first. "I saw a bunch of disguised Imperial agents this morning."

"They must have had great disguises!" giggled the BR-lieutenant.

"Scarpa!" Han snapped. "Did you drink from your cup?"

The other nodded vigorously, indicating he only had a little with his thumb and forefinger.

"Ra-hass is the most intoxicating drink in the universe! I warned you not to even stick your tongue in it!"

"Then why did you order it?" the accused spread his arms, causing the end of his trunk to flop onto his lap from the table.

"Because Dzsubads only drink Ra-hass," explained the smuggler captain.

"See!" the other laughed.

"But you're not a Dzsubad, Scarpa!"

"Shut up!" Caspar hissed angrily, starting to wrap his trunk around his neck.

Silence fell again, but only around the table. The other patrons continued their loud revelry, luckily not noticing the brief exchange. The band also began to play.

"Let's go!" Solo suggested. "We'll check back later this evening."

One of the Dzsubads tossed some coins on the table, and the group departed.

The landing shuttle touched down in the protocol dock of the Inferno. As soon as its landing struts hit the ground—or rather the floor—the heavy gate lowered behind it, shutting out the brilliant starlight from the hangar.

This time, there was no honor guard, and aside from a few technical staff members, the dock was deserted.

Three giant marines stepped out of the shuttle's airlock chamber. They scanned the area and then signaled the others to follow: Major Dorcier, the star destroyer's first officer, emerged next, followed by three figures wrapped in floor-length, dark blue cloaks. Three soldiers brought up the rear.

The group hurried to the nearest lift station. Once inside, the major instructed the automation.

"To the captain's quarters!"

The door closed, and the lift sped silently through the shafts towards its destination, slowing only when other cabins blocked its path.

"You are to remove your cloaks only in the presence of General Marl," the first officer warned the guests. "You are forbidden to reveal yourselves to anyone else, and whoever is chosen among you, the other two must remain silent about this visit. I trust I don't need to remind you of the consequences if you break these rules..."

"We've heard all this three times already," a voice generated by a mechanical membrane said from under one of the cloaks. "Do you take us for fools?"

The major ignored the veiled threat in the words. "Better safe than sorry," he quoted.

"A brave man," mocked another cloaked figure. Her voice was a pleasant surprise after the previous one: a clear, ringing female voice. Some of the marines perked up at the sound, but her hood didn't move, and none of them managed to get a look underneath.

The cabin gradually slowed and then stopped. The door opened to reveal a spacious room filled with bright light, the walls gleaming white, and the floor covered in black and white plasteel triangles. The only piece of furniture was a single console with a comfortable armchair positioned with its back to the room.

The six marines lined up along the walls. Dorcier stepped up to the console, leaving the three cloaked figures alone in the center of the room.

The armchair on the platform swiveled around; a youthful-looking man sat in it, with insignia of high rank on his chest.

"I am General Marl Davion," he announced, walking calmly down the steps and signaling the first officer to follow. They walked past the guests, Marl examining their stature and the tips of their shoes peeking from under the cloaks. "You wear armor, you're not human but humanoid, and you're a woman," he enumerated. "Interesting, very interesting!" He turned to the major. "I think you've made an excellent choice." He stepped back and motioned to the first officer. "Have them remove their cloaks!" he commanded loudly.

The bounty hunter on the left indeed wore armor that covered his entire body from head to toe. The gray paint on the metal was chipped in places, revealing the steel underneath, and the visor was black glass-steel. He carried a rocket backpack and various weapons. He perfectly fit the description of a "walking arsenal."

"That's Boba Fett, a galaxy-renowned bounty hunter," the major introduced. "He has excellent references and is one of the best in his profession."

Marl nodded silently and looked at the figure in the middle. A humanoid of the Rogg species. Short, gray-skinned, and squinting in the bright light, his large, pointed ears that also sensed ultrasonic waves twitched furiously. His mouth quivered constantly, emitting sounds needed for orientation.

Roggs could either speak or "see," but not both simultaneously. The humanoid carried a single laser weapon on his waist.

"That's Gorrkh," Dorcier continued. "A dangerous gunfighter, a worthy opponent for Han Solo."

"Next!" the general signaled, and he scrutinized the last candidate.

A human woman; a fresh young creature with long, wavy chestnut hair and bright green eyes. Almost as tall as Marl, she returned his gaze without flinching.

The young general suddenly felt the air in the room grow warmer, his limbs tingled as if his blood were boiling in his veins. He found her beautiful; his gaze traveled from her lovely face to her ankles. She wore a boyish outfit that clung to decidedly unboyish curves.

Seeing the captain's yearning look, the girl smiled slyly and took a slightly wider stance, lowering her gaze below his. She looked up at him with her head bowed.

The Emperor's son suddenly mastered himself: with a few deep breaths and a brief focus, he banished the woman's intoxicating aura from his mind.

"Who is she?" he asked the major.

"Her name is Lamia," he replied. "She is my secret candidate. An excellent pilot, skilled with a pistol and, as you can see, sir, not lacking in other 'weapons' either. Moreover, she's Corellian, just like the target. She's new to the trade, has no references: more of a pirate than a bounty hunter."

Marl nodded again. "Thank you, you may leave. Wait in the adjacent room!" he pointed to a door.

He waited until the three of them left the room before speaking again.

"Let's evaluate the candidates, major!" he suggested. "Boba Fett is probably the best killer among them, but he's no better than our 'borg. It would be redundant to employ him since he's so similar, even his armor color... The Rogg is also unsuitable. We don't want Han Solo shot in a duel or ambushed. Besides, he wouldn't get close to Solo due to his repulsive and suspicious appearance."

"I agree, sir," the first officer nodded.

"The girl, however, is a real find. Congratulations, major! Although she's so beautiful, it pains me to send her after Han Solo. A deeply personal matter, but I'll tell you: I'd rather keep her on board. But alas," he sighed. "Go, dismiss the other two and bring her back in!"

He was left alone with his thoughts for a few moments. Thoughts that, for the first and even second time, were startlingly personal. With considerable mental effort, he banished them to make room for work-related concerns.

Marl truly considered the girl a perfect fit. Her beauty would soften Han Solo's heart, of that he was sure. Especially because she was also Corellian, also a lone star pilot. They likely had many common traits. One of them, perhaps the foremost, was a love of money. This would be the link that, despite all their commonalities, would bind her more to the Empire. Or, to be precise, to him, Marl.

He wouldn't be surprised if it turned out the girl spent all her credits on her ship. Well, if that's the case, and if she proves loyal, she could soon afford a luxury yacht. He would see to that!

The major returned, the Corellian pirate girl by his side. The young general beckoned them closer.

"Lamia, I've chosen you," he said without any unnecessary preamble. "We need to discuss the details."

"And the payment!" the girl interjected.

"The young lady urgently needs a significant sum of money," Dorcier coughed. "She recently bought a decommissioned GAT-12 strike fighter at a military auction. She wants to refurbish and customize the ship to her liking, which is very costly."

Marl glanced at the girl, his eyes asking: Is this true?

The young woman nodded curtly, adding a small detail:

"With that decommissioned ship, I could take out an entire squadron of your TIE fighters!"

The star destroyer captain smiled.

"I have no doubt, you're a true Corellian after all," he said. "I was thinking of paying you ten thousand in advance, and another thirty thousand upon successful completion."

Lamia whistled. "Wow! For that kind of money, I'd have to ice a senator at least."

"Nothing of the sort: the target is a smuggler. A Corellian smuggler."

The girl nodded slightly. "Now I understand."

"His name is Han Solo. He is currently believed to be on Tatooine, in Mos Eisley at the pilots' bar, where he has a meeting with a third party," Marl began explaining, but he carefully omitted mentioning the 'borg. "When you find him, you don't have to kill him right away. First, spy on who he's with and what they're planning. You must report all gathered information to me. I will decide when you can execute the target. The thirty thousand credits will only be paid if you comply with all these requirements. For safety, I will assign you an SST-6 assassin droid to watch over you. We will, of course, disguise it properly. You can only report to me personally, using the Gamma 17 frequency! Any questions?"

Lamia shook her head; the task was clear enough. Then something struck her. She hesitated for a moment before deciding to speak.

"Why not use an Imperial agent?" she asked from the doorway.

"Because Han Solo can smell them a mile away," the general replied. "That's why we need your apparent... innocence."

"Innocence!" the girl exclaimed joyfully. "Innocence!"

She was still laughing when the lift door closed behind her.

The 'borg stood lost in thought in the middle of the Mos Eisley cantina. A sea of living beings surrounded it, representing countless species—many of whom tried to conceal their distinctive features from prying eyes. A fully armored figure hardly drew any attention here.

This time, the creature's shoulders were covered by a long, sand-colored cloak: dust gray and desert brown—the only colors that dominated this world. Brighter hues were rare, perhaps only seen on sand skiffs or the garments of far-flung traders. The native population, the farmers, and settlers had long learned to blend in with the desert backdrop.

A dull but intense pain flared in the 'borg's head whenever it thought of Han Solo, and it became nearly unbearable every time it caught sight of the Corellian in his ridiculous dzsubad disguise. The pain was generated by internal biomechanical structures, reacting to the undead's unwanted emotions. The loyalty-conditioning module—quite correctly—deemed any sympathy for the target as undesirable and contrary to orders, regularly punishing such thoughts with pain.

Go Rien had faced Han Solo many times, and each time it became harder to find an acceptable reason for not executing the smuggler captain. The pain grew stronger, and Go Rien knew it couldn't resist the hated command much longer.

Only the emotions dwelling in its heart held it back—though it admitted it was highly unlikely for the tiny fusion reactor-powered device to harbor such feelings.

The Corellian sat at his favorite table once again. Chewbacca was easily recognizable by his enormous stature, Scarpa by the stars he had given him long ago.

Long ago...

Those days seemed so distant now... and so... memorable. Back then, it had found something it thought it could never experience.

Friendship—how much that word meant to a human! A human who had his past stolen and his future stripped away.

A human!

Deep in the recesses of its mind, fused with positron circuits and photoelectric storage, the dying ember of its human personality laughed bitterly. Even its lips, stretched by the respirator tube, formed a faint smile.

A human; ha!

Where was that "human" now? Taken apart and put back together like a machine, and behold: it had become a machine! A cursed machine. Oh, how it hated the Empire for this! It had served them faithfully for a lifetime, but even that wasn't enough for them: they needed it even after death. They didn't care whether it agreed.

They had cobbled it into a machine, a wretched contraption. A killing machine!

The bridge of the star destroyer was bathed in light: Tatooine's twin suns were shining brightly. Out here in space, with no atmosphere or sandstorms to soften the light, its sharpness was almost tangible.

Marl squinted at the yellow-brown planet for a moment, then ordered the filters to be activated. The glare softened, becoming bearable.

Major Dorcier entered the bridge, striding directly to the young captain.

"Have you returned the bounty hunters to the planet, Major?" Marl inquired.

"Yes, sir," Dorcier nodded.

Marl stood in contemplative silence for a few moments.

"Did the girl receive the advance payment?" he asked finally.

"She did, sir."

"Good. You may retire, Major," Marl suggested, turning his attention back to the view beyond the window.

"Thank you, sir. May I ask a question?"

The general turned back, surprised.

"Go ahead, Major."

"You ordered the 'borg to kill Han Solo, yet instructed the pirate girl to first gather intelligence on the Corellian's plans."

"That's correct," the questioned agreed.

"But sir… the girl can't complete her task if the 'borg kills Solo before she even finds him!"

"True, Major. In military tactics, this is known as double redundancy."

The first officer of the Inferno clearly struggled to grasp the concept, not for lack of intelligence but because his interlocutor was a genius.

"It would be double redundancy, sir, if the girl was also ordered to kill Han Solo," he objected.

"Listen, Major!" Marl began a more extended explanation. "This Han Solo is a cunning and cautious man, and now that he likely suspects I'd love to wring his neck, he'll be even more vigilant. Can you follow?"

A flicker of irritation crossed the other man's face.

"Of course, sir," he muttered.

"I'm glad to hear it! So, as outlined earlier, Han Solo will suspect anyone who tries to get close to him. Even the girl. But if the 'borg attacks and is exposed, Solo will no longer fear that some unknown pirate girl is trying to get close to him on the Empire's behalf. He'll find a much more straightforward explanation. The 'borg is merely a diversion to lull the smuggler captain's suspicions!"

Dorcier nodded slightly, like someone lost in thought.

"I understand, sir. But what if the 'borg does manage to kill the Corellian? There's a significant chance of that!"

"Not as much as you think," Marl pointed out. "The 'borg had friendly feelings toward Han Solo in life. Even as an undead, it will find it hard to kill him. It will hesitate, look for excuses. Even if it attacks, subconsciously, it will wish to miss! In such a state of mind, dear Dorcier, you can kill an agent selling cleaning droids, but not a Han Solo!"

Han Solo and his companions disguised as mercenaries were unaware of all this. Trusting in the perfection of their disguise, they had been on the planet for three days. However, their situation was far from ideal, and they knew it.

"I met with Jabba," Han recounted. "Jabba knows everything happening on this planet, with contact even in Imperial circles. That's how he's become so wealthy. I've worked for him a few times, done him a few favors. Now it's payback time. He slipped me some inside info: the Empire's putting up a big bounty, hiring hunters for a special job. They picked three and took them to a Star Destroyer to meet some big shot. Ship's name is Inferno. Any guesses who they're after?"

"Us?" Scarpa ventured.

"Who else?" replied Solo"Jabba didn't give away much more, but when I pushed him, he dropped one name: Boba Fett!"

"Boba Fett?" Caspar exclaimed, clearly recognizing the name.

"You know him?" Solo probed.

"Of course! Everyone knows Boba Fett! Dark, unscrupulous character. Nobody knows if he's human, humanoid, or some sort of machine… But he's one of the most dangerous beings in the galaxy."

"How does he know about our situation?" wondered the Corellian.

"He was likely one of the three guests on the Inferno," suggested the Star Rider's captain.

Solo began to piece it together, deep in thought, absently stroking his snout. "This means that of the three, only one was chosen for the job, otherwise, Jabba wouldn't have given me Boba Fett's name. Probably, even Jabba wouldn't know, since someone like Fett wouldn't blab if he got the job. If he's really that high-caliber…"

"He is, Solo, accept it," insisted Caspar.

But Solo's mind was already racing beyond Fett. "It's obvious they're not just trying to take us out. There's more to it."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the older smuggler interrupted desperately. "Slow down, Solo! Even I can't keep up!"

Chewbacca nodded in agreement, and Scarpa added, "I'd be proud if I were only that far behind."

Han looked around innocently. "Sorry, I got a bit ahead of myself. I'll make it clearer."

"So why do you think they don't just want us dead?"

"Two reasons. One: on this backwater planet, Boba Fett's the best assassin they could get, and they didn't hire him! Two: if they wanted us dead, they'd slap a bounty on us and have every hunter in the galaxy after us. They hire assassins for big targets; we're not that important!"

"Undeniably logical," admitted Caspar, and Chewbacca proudly patted his friend on the back.

"Two things we need to figure out," Han said. "Why they hired this guy if it's not to kill us, and who he is."

"I'm at a loss, sir," the star-adorned companion shook his head, his snout swaying amusingly.

"I've got some ideas," Han said, raising a finger. "We don't have anything they'd want to steal, so they must be after information. What kind, I'm not sure. Maybe I'm not their main target; they could've already picked my brain clean. The real problem is we don't know who their agent is. An assassin's easy to spot, but this guy? Not so much. That's why they picked him. We're in trouble, folks!"

Caspar gazed thoughtfully at the bustling cantina. "So, we're looking for someone who isn't suspicious at all, someone we'd welcome among us, and who will try to get to know us."

Lamia watched from the dimly lit corner, observing the heated argument between the disguised mercenaries. She would have given anything to eavesdrop on their conversation. Using the information from Jabba and his directions, she had easily tracked down Han Solo, disguised as one of the mercenaries. It seemed the smuggler captain had yet to realize that trusting a fence was a mistake. The four snouted beings sat around Solo's favorite table. If one knew what to look for, the telltale signs were clear.

They didn't know what to do with their long snouts, hadn't touched their favorite drinks, and gestured with human-like movements. A sharp-eyed observer wouldn't be fooled – and Lamia prided herself on her excellent observational skills.

She quickly spotted the gray-armored figure. Despite hiding in the crowd, it was clear he was watching the mercenaries. However, what caught Lamia's attention was not his spying but the intense emotions radiating from him, the strongest in the room. Lamia had a special ability: she could sense people's emotional imbalances. She couldn't pinpoint the cause or type of emotion, only the imbalance itself and its intensity.

By simply observing, she determined the direction of the emotions: they were aimed at Han Solo and his companions. Yet, even her sharp eyes couldn't discern what the gray-armored figure felt toward them. However, his intent to attack was unmistakable. This wasn't due to her sixth sense but his movements: increasingly determined steps, the hand gripping the pistol.

Lamia realized her thirty thousand credit debt would be lost if the man reached the mercenaries' table. He would shoot Han Solo – whichever one he was – as easily as hunting a squirrel in the Corellian forests. She acted immediately, leaping from her vantage point by the small table on the tiered platform and desperately pushing through the crowd toward the gray-armored figure. She could only hope to reach him in time. She was lucky.

She shouted at the figure, and he, as if waking from a dream, stopped, staring in shock at his weapon-wielding hand before leaving in a daze, without further conflict but visibly relieved.

Lamia didn't understand what had happened but was satisfied with the result and didn't question it further. She returned to her table and continued her surveillance. She didn't enjoy this kind of work and liked killing even less, but she needed the money more than ever. Life had taught her a fundamental truth: you can live without money – but why would you want to? She had learned this at twelve years old. Since then, her life was driven by two things: the pursuit of money and an insatiable love of flying.

Marl was right: she was a true Corellian! She started like any decent youngster; racing her airspeeder across the planet, causing numerous headaches for law-abiding citizens. She soon became one of the best, joining the real daredevils. By sixteen, she had matured somewhat and applied to the Space Academy. She was accepted on her first try, the only female student in her class. She graduated top of her class, with exceptional results. She immediately got a job as a second, later first officer on a luxury passenger ship converted from a Corellian cruiser.

It didn't take long for her two main concerns about the job to surface: the pay was too low, and she was bored to death. A few days later, she left the ship without a word and joined a ship involved in dubious activities. Her doubts quickly vanished: she had joined pirates! She soon realized she had no objections to this. She was never bored again and even got a share of the loot.

She worked aboard the Black Phoenix for three years, learning many useful things not taught at the Academy. Yet, an internal drive urged her to be her own master, to fly wherever she pleased, to be free as a bird. She was a true Corellian.

She said goodbye to her comrades, took her savings, and scoured spaceports for a decent ship she could afford. It wasn't easy. Fortune smiled on her: at an auction, she acquired a decommissioned GAT-12 destroyer, straight from the Imperial Fleet. It cost her all her money, but she had a ship that, after some refurbishment and modification, would far exceed her dreams.

Needing funds to cover the renovation costs, she turned to a loan shark she knew from her pirate years – Jabba on Tatooine. After three months of enforced delay, she finally ventured into space with her own refurbished ship.

She took on various jobs, but the pay barely covered the first installment of her debt to Jabba. The big score eluded her, and even small jobs started to dry up. Without a reputation, she was struggling.

Then came the offer for this job. Jabba mentioned it, worried he might lose his money otherwise. Lamia met the man, who was disguised but whose accent and demeanor gave away his officer status. She hadn't expected to be chosen out of all the applicants, but figured she had nothing to lose by trying.

She got lucky: the big deal came through – now it was up to her to get rich!

Half an hour later, when the disguised mercenaries stood up to leave, Lamia quickly rose to exit ahead of them. Since she was seated closer to the door, it wasn't difficult. She hurried up the steps and stepped into Tatooine's dry heat. The warm wind, carrying sand, almost scorched her face after the cool comfort of the cantina.

From around the corner of a nearby clay-brown building emerged the assassin droid. It couldn't accompany her into the bar because droids, especially Imperial ones, weren't welcome. The droid's body resembled a human skeleton: spindly legs, thin arms, a torso no wider than a humanoid spine, with sensitive instruments in its chest protected by thick ribbing. Its head was like a dome's half-sphere, with small red eyes glowing menacingly.

"I had to wait a long time," it complained reproachfully. "I hope this won't happen again!"

"You have my word," she nodded agreeably, then shot the droid in the chest.

It was no small feat, considering the superhuman speed of SST-6 assassin droids. Outsmarting one, even catching it off guard, was a significant achievement.

The droid was initially surprised by her actions, but, being programmed for killing, not human psychology, it returned fire. Lamia dodged its deadly shots just in time, diving for cover near the entrance. She stumbled on the steps and fell into the arms of one of the mercenaries heading up.

"What the hell…?" he grumbled.

"They're after me!" she explained unnecessarily, as the droid's appearance made the situation clear: it opened fire on all of them without hesitation.

One laser shot hit Solo's massive disguise squarely, sending the entire mask flying off his head. Han, his hair disheveled but uninjured, stared at the fallen headpiece.

"Alright!" he yelled at the droid. "You wanted me to lose my head, here it is!"

He then joined the firefight. The others followed suit, even the usually calm and cowardly Scarpa.

The droid hadn't anticipated such resistance and was quickly overwhelmed. Several direct hits knocked it back, sending it sprawling out of the cantina. It lay on the hot sand, its chest smoking, desperately trying to crawl to safety.

The mercenaries all threw off their masks, reverting to their familiar smuggler identities. They blinked at each other in confusion until Scarpa summed it up:

"I love this smuggling life! Never a dull moment, and I get to shoot more than at the range!"

Footsteps echoed from above – footsteps Han Solo could recognize anywhere. "Stormtroopers," he stated.

The girl screamed in terror.

"It's them! They're after me! The Empire wants me dead!" she hissed.

"We're all in the same boat," muttered Han.

"Lay down your weapons immediately!" a voice boomed from outside. "This is the Imperial Enforcement Forces!"

The first soldier appeared at the top of the stairs. His rigid armor made descending difficult. But his problems ended abruptly when the girl, without a word, shot him in the gut. His next companion met the same fate.

"Looks like you didn't grow up in some backwater convent!" remarked the Falcon's captain.

"I'm Corellian!" she replied proudly.

"Then that explains everything," Caspar nodded, pulling a wide-brimmed hat from his clothes and placing it on his head.

They rushed down the stairs, with the soldiers stumbling and jostling behind them. At the bottom, they ran into a mixed crowd of various species, all alarmed by the gunfire. They struggled to push through, making slow progress. Clearly, others knew about the emergency exit and weren't keen on meeting the Imperials.

"Chewie, take the lead!" the Corellian suggested.

The towering Wookiee parted the crowd effortlessly. They were nearing the exit when the Imperials arrived in the underground room behind them. Unsure of their target, they began firing randomly into the crowd.

All hell broke loose: in places like this, everyone had a laser weapon. Besides the bluish-purple light of the Imperial carbines, laser bolts of various colors lit up the room with an eerie glow. Screams and cries of pain mixed with the whine and crack of the weapons. Whoever was blamed for this chaos would not be welcome here again.

Meanwhile, the group was already climbing the emergency exit stairs. Many patrons did the same, some on two legs, others on three or even six. A Rigerian insectoid passed overhead, clinging to the ceiling's irregularities. For the first time in his life, Solo thought the Rigerians might not be an evolutionary dead end.

Never had humans and other beings been so happy to feel Tatooine's scorching wind. The emergency exit led to a small courtyard with a single narrow entrance from the street. The walled area quickly filled with escapees, all waiting for friends, family, or – judging by the suspicious looks and weapons – their enemies.

Han and his group didn't make the mistake of thinking they were safe.

"Move, into the street!" Solo urged. "Reinforcements are coming. They'll check everyone's IDs."

They rounded the corner to the street, but a quick glance left and right showed the garrison knew what they were doing this time. Both ends of the street were blocked with portable barriers, stormtroopers lined up behind them, carbines ready.

"Stay where you are! Put away your weapons!" a commander ordered through a megaphone.

"Not a chance," Solo muttered. "Come on, I got an idea!"

They turned the corner to the small square where the cantina's main entrance was. Here, they found numerous escapees and a few stormtroopers beginning to check IDs.

"We'll need two speeder bikes," said the Corellian, surveying their group, now five strong. "I'll drive one, and the other…"

"I will!" the girl interrupted.

All eyes turned to her, then to Solo, waiting for his response.

"I don't know how good a pilot she is, but she said she's Corellian. Good enough for me. She drives the other speeder!"

The judgment was accepted by all.

The vehicles were parked right in front of the cantina's door. There were about twenty, none larger than a three- or four-seater. Solo quickly inspected them, pointing to two rather battered machines, ignoring the shiny luxury models.

"We're taking those two! I'm not one for stealing, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

"That's probably a saying among thieves," Caspar quipped, a stickler for the law – except Imperial laws.

But he didn't argue.

They almost reached the speeders when a stormtrooper stepped in their way.

"Identify yourselves!"

Solo was about to lie when the girl stepped forward and kicked the soldier in the gut, sending him sprawling.

Apart from that, he wasn't much hurt and was already getting up, reaching for his weapon.

"The lady is a bit feisty," Han explained, but the trooper seemed unyielding.

Chewbacca decided it was too late for pleasantries and continued the girl's method. He stepped up and, ignoring the helmet, knocked the trooper out. The difference between the girl's kick and the Wookiee's punch was evident from the dented faceplate. The trooper lay sprawled in the Tatooine dust.

More stormtroopers appeared.

"Let's get out of here!" Han suggested.

"All that comes from dust shall return to dust…" Scarpa philosophized.

But there was no reason for cheer or satisfaction. Several stormtroopers noticed the commotion and rushed over, their blaster shots raining down on the group.

Wookiee and humans alike dove for cover behind the speeders. The blaster bolts followed their movements relentlessly, setting the lead speeder ablaze.

"Get in!" Han ordered.

Solo and Chewbacca jumped into one vehicle, the others into the second. The two Corellians started the engines simultaneously and pushed the throttle forward.

The turbines roared, kicking up Tatooine's dust and obscuring them from the pursuing Imperials. Accelerating rapidly, they took the first turn sharply, speeding toward the barricade. Laser bolts from handheld weapons rained down on them.

The two born pilots desperately dodged the laser beams, but it wasn't easy. The landspeeders, while handling like atmospheric craft, couldn't maneuver in the vertical plane. Solo managed, but smoke billowed from the nose of the girl's speeder, obscuring her vision.

Han maneuvered alongside the damaged vehicle and used hand signals he'd learned at the Academy to indicate "follow my lead!" The girl nodded her understanding. Neither had ever expected to use such an antiquated form of communication.

They flew onward, Solo navigating for both of them while the girl matched her course to his. It was necessary; Lamia could see nothing through the smoke.

They reached the barricade: the striped barriers shattered into pieces, soldiers leaping aside in fright. They burst through effortlessly, disappearing into the dust cloud, as if they had never been there.

Chapter Seven

The crew gathered in the lounge of the Star Rider. There were too many of them now to fit comfortably around the game table in the Falcon. But the modified space freighter had plenty of room.

Everyone was there: Solo, Chewbacca, Scarpa, Caspar, MOR the droid – and the new member, the girl.

"It's time," began the hat-wearing leader at the head of the table, "for the young lady to explain what that was all about…."

"Oh, come on," Solo cut in. "We saw it – she was being chased!"

He flashed a grin at the girl, who smiled back sweetly.

"No, no," she protested. "I do owe you an explanation!"

"Especially about the droid," Caspar insisted, turning to the Corellian. "You might not have noticed, but that was a poorly disguised Imperial SST-6 assassin droid. They don't send those after just anyone."

Solo whistled appreciatively. "And I took it down!" he boasted.

"Like so many others," the girl added quietly.

"Alright," Han snapped playfully, "keep it up and I might just take offense…"

Chewbacca chuckled softly.

"Let's hear your story!" asked the hat-wearing leader.

"My name is Lamia," the newcomer began. "As I mentioned, I'm Corellian, just like you," she flashed a brief smile at Han. "I'm in the space transport business, and sometimes… well, other things too."

Solo nodded knowingly. The girl continued.

"I had some trouble with the Empire involving military secrets. I was in big trouble. A fence on Tatooine helped me out with some money and fake papers. Everything was fine for a while, but eventually, they tracked me down. I've been on the run ever since – I can't even get to my ship; it's heavily guarded."

"What's the fence's name?" Han asked.

"Jabba. Jabba the Hutt. Do you know him, Captain Solo?"

"Everyone knows Jabba around here," he replied evasively.

"You can verify my story through him, at least."

"Oh, come on," the Corellian waved it off. "No need…"

"We will!" Caspar interrupted sternly.

"Alright," Solo agreed. "We gotta see that old slug anyway. I need his help to set up a meeting with Boba Fett."

The mention of the infamous bounty hunter sent a shiver down the girl's spine. She had no desire to see him again, especially after he snatched the job right from under her. Not to mention, he could easily betray her out of revenge.

She shrank into her chair, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. She buried her face between her knees and began to sob quietly, fat tears soaking her hair.

The others turned toward her – she felt it rather than saw it.

They must feel sorry for me – people are so easily manipulated through their emotions! Especially men, she thought.

She wasn't wrong.

"What's wrong?" Han Solo leaned closer. "What's got you now?"

"I was just thinking about what's going to happen to me…" she sobbed. "I escaped this time, thanks to you, but what about next time? They'll catch me eventually and execute me. But I want to live! I'm so… young!"

"Don't worry!" Han comforted her, with far more tenderness than a compatriot deserved. "We won't let them hurt you. Stick with us! Just, please, don't cry!"

He wrapped his arm around her, making her heart skip a beat. Not out of emotion, but because she knew her ploy had worked.

Outside, beyond the safety of the spaceship's walls, the wind picked up. Its violent gusts chased people and other creatures off the streets, gradually building small sand dunes around the landing legs of the two docked ships. As harsh as the weather was outside, the Corellian pirate girl felt content and satisfied inside.

In the raging sandstorm, the winding streets of Mos Eisley were deserted. The locals and spaceport visitors had all sought refuge in their homes or ships to escape the biting sand.

Only one figure trudged determinedly through the tempest. The violent gusts nearly knocked him off his feet, his brown cloak flapping wildly behind him. The sand scoured his gray armor, rubbing it to a dull finish.

He stumbled, occasionally collapsing to his knees with a howl of pain. His hands clutched his head in agony, tormented by the guilt generated by the devices implanted in his body for letting his target escape.

He was headed to Jabba's palace. Only there could he hope to pick up Han Solo's trail again. Han Solo, whom he was destined to kill, even though he had once been a friend.

Once more, he fell into the street's dust, like a blind beggar. The grime infiltrated the moving parts of his armor, grinding and creaking with every step.

The cyborg bitterly reflected on himself: where was the once proud, fearless Go Rien Moss, the swift, the invincible Imperial bounty hunter? He was dead and would never rise again!

His reflexes had slowed, and his sharp logic was dulled by the turmoil in his soul. At times, he hated the Empire; other times, he snarled at Han Solo, driven by the machines in his head. The last few meters, he crawled on all fours. He leaned against the wall of the house opposite Jabba's. The wind slowly buried his legs and hands in sand as he lay there. He felt exiled, betrayed.

His red photo-optics were fixed on the fence's door, and he began a silent, motionless vigil. Just like a machine.

After the storm subsided, Han Solo and Lamia set out for Jabba's palace. This time, instead of the djubad disguises, they chose a different cover: they disguised themselves as Sand People. They wrapped their bodies from head to toe in beige rags and affixed tubes resembling optics in front of their eyes.

The Sand People were a peculiar lot. They rarely left their homeland, the rolling dunes of the desert. Living in primitive tribes, even Imperial anthropologists knew little about their customs. Occasionally, they ventured into town to restock supplies and sell their loot. Members of their kind frequently visited the fence's house.

The building was well-guarded. Guards constantly patrolled around it, and its reinforced door could only be breached with heavy weaponry. The electronics instantly detected someone stepping on the threshold, and a metallic voice emerged from a speaker mounted on the wall.

"Who are you and what do you want?"

"I'm Han Solo, and I need to talk to Jabba," the Corellian replied.

"Jabba is busy right now."

"That's not for you to decide! Go and tell him!"

"Wait here," the voice conceded.

Solo glanced at the girl. Despite the poor visibility through her tubes, he noticed Lamia was nervous.

She has every reason to be, he thought. If Jabba refuses to confirm her story, things could get awkward.

The door creaked and groaned open – on Tatooine, few things worked smoothly as the fine-grained sand infiltrated everything.

"Jabba will see you," said the voice's owner, a humanoid with insect-like compound eyes.

"No need to escort us, I know the way!" Han tossed back.

"No guest in Jabba's house roams alone," the gatekeeper countered. "I'll accompany you."

Solo shrugged in agreement.

The fence favored dim lighting. His dying species had always lived deep beneath planetary crusts, even in their prime. Windowless, dark corridors greeted those arriving from the blinding outside light. As often before, the Corellian sensed the path was intentionally designed to be this labyrinthine.

They arrived in a spacious room Jabba called his throne room. He, with his enormous body, sat on the throne, surrounded by his entourage of dubious characters. The place said much about the host's modesty.

"Han Solo and his companion, Lamia!" announced a man who played the roles of both gatekeeper and protocol master. Long, thick tendrils hung from his nape, which he wore coiled around his neck.

Jabba the Hutt, the slug-like creature, turned his many-chinned face toward them and squinted. He gestured with his stunted forelimbs for them to come closer.

The protocol master escorted them to the center of the room. "What do you want from me, Han Solo?"

The Corellian and his companion dropped their masks. When the girl's long hair fell from beneath the hood-like mask and spread over her back like a cloak, a murmur of surprise spread through the crowd.

"I need a private word with you, Jabba," Han shouted firmly.

The mound of flesh laughed, his chins quivering.

"These are my allies," he thundered. "They wouldn't dare speak of anything said here without my permission. Speak freely in their presence, Han Solo! Just don't waste our time!"

The Falcon's captain ignored the insult. Perhaps he'd address it someday, but not now.

"Tell me, Jabba, who is this girl?" he asked loudly.

"Her name is Lamia," the Hutt replied. "I once helped her when she was in need."

Jabba prided himself on never lying – he merely twisted facts when necessary. And necessity often arose, which he didn't mind. He loved deceiving, manipulating people like puppets in a master puppeteer's hands. Throughout his long life, he had learned immeasurable amounts about the universe, far more than the average creature, and he sought to exploit this advantage.

"Alright," the Corellian nodded. "Second, I need you to set up a meeting with Boba Fett!"

"Solo, you ask for a lot!" the fence thundered. But Han wasn't deterred; he wanted certainty.

"Does that mean you won't help?" he pressed.

Jabba made a pondering face, though those who knew him well were aware he rarely needed to think about such questions.

"I didn't say that," he hedged.

"Then say it or help!" the Corellian insisted.

"You push too far, Solo! Aren't you afraid of me?"

The captain shook his head.

Jabba's enormous mouth twisted into a mocking smile.

"I fear I'll have to change that sooner or later," he mused. "Nonetheless, I'll grant your request this time: Boba Fett will find you," he promised.

"Dock 23," Han replied, grabbing his mask from the floor and turning to leave.

The girl mimicked his every move, but before she left, she exchanged a conspiratorial glance with the fence.

The figure lying in the corner was half-covered in sand, yet it didn't move. It didn't even flinch when the disguised Han Solo disappeared into the doorway of the house across the street. Despite the Sand People disguise, the hidden man instantly recognized him by his gait and the rare vitality that emanated from him.

He watched as the Corellian and his companion vanished inside, then continued waiting.

A few minutes later, a burly, pig-headed, tusked creature – one of the house guards – stopped in front of him, legs spread wide, towering threateningly. He wasn't afraid of the man lying there, as the sand-covered armor and tattered brown cloak concealed his true identity.

"Get out of here, beggar!" the creature growled.

Its foul breath assaulted the cyborg's sensitive nose.

Still, he didn't move.

"Didn't you hear me? Get lost!" the creature shouted, kicking the supposed beggar's leg. The sand fell away, revealing gray armor. "What the...?" the guard gasped but got no further.

From under the sand, the cyborg's hand shot up like a hidden snake. A narrow blade, extending from his wrist guard, glinted metal as it plunged into the guard's abdomen with a sickening crunch, causing instant death.

The figure on the ground swiftly rolled aside to avoid the spurting blood. A few meters away, he rose, sand trickling off his cloak in small streams. A plate on his thigh armor swung aside, revealing a compartment holding a laser pistol secured by plastic clips. As the cyborg grasped the weapon's grip, the clips released and retracted. The cover snapped shut instantly.

This took but a second, and Go Rien stood armed. No other enemies appeared.

He holstered the weapon and focused on disposing of the corpse. He easily lifted the heavy, bloodied body as if it were featherlight and tossed it a few corners away, then returned to his hiding spot. He kicked sand over the bloodstain and settled back to wait, as if nothing had happened.

Reflecting on the past few minutes, he felt a brief return to his former self. He understood why. Despite some organs being replaced or enhanced with biomechanical components, he wasn't a worse bounty hunter – if anything, he was better. What made him feel inferior – possibly rightly so – was the conflicting directives from his mechanical parts, forcing him to act against his own will. The problem, although within him, wasn't his fault but the fault of whoever ordered Han Solo's death. It divided his strengths, stripping him of his perfection.

This realization brought immense joy to his human side. After all, it meant Han Solo had a better chance of defeating him and escaping death!

The rebellious thought was punished with a torturous headache from his mechanical side.

He didn't have to wait long: the fence's door opened again. The same two Sand People who had entered earlier stepped out. They waved farewell to the guard and began walking. The figure in the corner rose and followed them.

They headed toward the docks, oblivious to his presence. The streets had come alive again, allowing him to blend into the crowd, and he had plenty of practice moving unseen.

They stopped in front of Dock 23. The human side of Go Rien had justified his inaction to the loyalty-conditioning module by saying he was waiting for the perfect moment to kill. Now, he resisted the deep compulsion with immense effort until the Corellian disappeared behind the dock's gate. Then, in agony, he collapsed to his knees again.

He knew that next time he wouldn't have a choice: he would have to kill Han Solo. He took up a position opposite the dock to wait.

Lamia was alone on the Falcon, while Solo and his first mate worked on some minor repairs outside. They were fixing a few damaged sensors and welding some cracked hull plates. Han was working on top of the Falcon, while Chewbacca stood on the sandy concrete of the dock below, operating the control instruments and passing tools up to the captain. Their shouting could be heard through the open airlock.

"Hey, Chewie! These bent plates are in the way! Pass me the Y-wrench; I need to take the whole thing apart!"

That was Solo's voice. Chewbacca's growled response was lost on Lamia, as she only knew one Wookiee phrase: "norr gorrk," meaning "I don't understand."

She rose from the seat behind the pilot's chair, where she had been comfortably settled, and leaned forward against the console to peer out the cockpit window. She first saw the Wookiee, standing in front of the ship's nose, watching Solo's work with his head tilted back. She couldn't see the captain himself but had no doubt he was up there working.

Lamia knew she wouldn't get a better chance. She turned to the radio, switching it on with practiced ease. The colorful displays lit up, and the dials flickered. She began tuning it, and moments later, the display read "Gamma 17 waveband."

"Inferno, come in!" she spoke into the microphone.

"This is the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Inferno," came the eventual reply. "Who are you, and what do you want? Why didn't you check in properly?"

"Because I'm not an Imperial slave like you!" the girl shot back. "This is Lamia. Patch me through to Captain Marl immediately."

A long silence followed, then, "Yes, ma'am! We've been expecting your call."

"Yes ma'am?" Lamia echoed quietly. "If only you were always this polite!"

Her musings were cut short by a voice from the radio.

"Greetings, Lamia! This is General Marl speaking."

"The pleasure's mine."

"How are you?" the officer asked politely.

"I don't have time for chit-chat! I'm calling from the Falcon – the owners could return any moment and expose me."

"You're just as crazy as that Han Solo!"

The girl couldn't tell if that was a compliment or an insult, so she ignored it.

"I'm reporting in," she continued. "I've gotten close to them, and they trust me completely. I can track their every move, and I believe they'll include me in their plans."

"Good," the general praised her. "I'm allocating five thousand of the promised thirty thousand credits to you right now. You'll get that amount regardless of the outcome."

The girl stayed silent, refusing to thank him. After a moment, Marl continued with a question.

"Where are they now?"

"Dock 23. It's a pretty rundown place!"

She glanced out the window again: Chewbacca was approaching, his long strides almost reaching the ramp. Lamia quickly turned back to the radio.

"I have to go now, General! I'll contact you later!" she rushed.

"Wait…!"

But she didn't wait. She swiftly retuned the radio and turned it off. She threw herself back into the chair as if her life depended on it – which it might. She leaned her head against the backrest and pretended to sleep.

When Chewbacca wasn't careful, he could stomp around the Falcon's metal floor so loudly it sounded like an entire battalion of stormtroopers approaching. When he was deep in thought, he often muttered to himself. He was doing just that as he entered the cockpit. Seeing the girl asleep, he halted and fell silent, feeling terribly embarrassed. He tiptoed over to the control panel. Carefully, he settled into his chair, shaking his head disapprovingly when it creaked under his considerable weight.

He switched on the instrument they had just repaired, and hummed contentedly when it worked. Normally, he would have bellowed the good news to Han, but instead, he stood up quietly and tried to sneak out of the tiny room without a sound.

As soon as he left, the girl's eyes opened. She stared at the cockpit ceiling, seeing instruments everywhere. She knew exactly what some of them did, while others were only guesses.

No matter how much she tried to deny it, guilt gnawed at her. The people she had betrayed were, in many ways, kindred spirits, unlike the Empire, for which she felt no sympathy. These people were at war with the Imperial Fleet, just as she had been. Of course, it would be foolish to believe that things would be different after completing her current mission. She would be paid handsomely and then sent on her way – left to fend for herself in the vast universe. That would mean returning to smuggling and piracy. And if that happened – and why wouldn't it – the powerful Empire would once again see her as an enemy. She felt she had made a significant realization.

Whoever owned Dock 23 didn't prioritize security for their tenants' assets. The dock gate was equipped with the most outdated and cheapest electric lock, likely assuming that those desiring greater security would rent a more expensive dock.

It took the cyborg a mere fifteen seconds to deceive the code analyzer module, and the lock clicked open quietly. The creature slipped through the partially opened door. Thanks to his sand-colored cloak, he blended seamlessly with the building's wall. No one noticed him.

The human part of his being was entirely suppressed: the loyalty module had taken control of his body and mind. He had one single purpose: assassination. The last concession that Go Rien's human soul could make was to insist, "not here, not now."

He crept along the wall toward the Falcon, which was parked farther back. He kept a constant watch on Solo and Chewbacca, who were busy with repairs, and on Caspar, Scarpa, and the strange six-armed droid working behind the other ship. If anyone glanced his way, he froze, trying to blend into the wall – successfully.

When he was out of their line of sight, he crossed the concrete floor of the dock towards the Falcon's ramp. He silently crept aboard.

Once inside, things were easier; he knew the ship's interior layout down to the centimeter. He moved along the main circular corridor, past the lounge door. He heard a rustling sound from the cockpit area. He didn't know who it was, but he didn't care at the moment.

He hid in the cargo hold, where the lingering smell of recently transported foodstuffs still hung in the air. To his surprise, he found an all-black, modified X-wing fighter hidden among empty crates. He immediately began to take possession of it; who knew if he might need it later? He had always been taught to prepare an escape route.

Solo had just finished calibrating the last component when he heard a soft knock from the dock gate.

"Chewie!" he shouted down, "bring the ladder over!" The Wookiee complied. "Looks like we've got a visitor," the Corellian said as he climbed down. "Seems like someone who doesn't want to be noticed. I'll go check it out."

"Who the hell are you?" he asked through the gate intercom.

"I'm alone," came the reply. "You wanted to speak with me."

Solo instantly knew who it was. He opened the gate.

"Come on in!"

The figure in the mouse-gray armor stepped inside. Weapons bristled from his back, and two more pistols hung from his belt. He waited until Solo shut the door behind him before speaking.

"I'm Boba Fett. Jabba mentioned you wanted to meet me. What's this about?"

"Maybe we should talk inside," the captain suggested evasively.

The bounty hunter nodded and started moving.

"To the ship at the back," Solo said.

They walked across the sand-strewn concrete.

"Sorry about the mess," the Corellian apologized. "The storm left us…"

"Doesn't matter," Fett interrupted.

"Not really in the mood for small talk either," Han muttered grumpily. What kind of beings are these!

They hurried up the ramp and disappeared into the ship's belly. Chewbacca followed immediately. They gathered around the game table.

"All right, I'm listening," Fett said.

"Jabba mentioned," Solo started, "that you've got some intel on the Inferno's operations against me."

"Maybe," Boba Fett replied.

"What do you want in exchange for the information?"

"Information."

"Deal!" Solo shot back. "I'll ask first."

The bounty hunter nodded in agreement.

"Were you one of the three taken to the Star Destroyer?"

"Yes. Why are they after you?"

"I don't know," Solo shrugged.

Even though he couldn't see through the mask, he felt the other man's suspicious eyebrow raise. But Fett said nothing.

It was Solo's turn to ask again. He didn't waste the opportunity.

"They didn't choose you for the job, did they?"

A raspy laugh.

"Or you'd be dead by now, Solo! What do you know about General Marl?"

"Whoa! A General?" Han exclaimed in surprise. "When I met him, he was a first officer on a Star Destroyer, then a captain on another. General now, huh? Figures he's a real career climber."

Boba Fett shook his head.

"That's not a satisfactory answer."

"Neither was yours!" the Corellian retorted.

"Fine, I'll accept that. Your turn to ask."

"Who was chosen among you?" Han pressed, asking the most crucial question.

"I won't answer that directly."

"Figured as much," Solo sighed in disappointment. "Let's try a different angle: is this person a bounty hunter?"

"No. They might not even think of themselves as one."

At that moment, the girl entered from the direction of the cockpit. She paused at the threshold, stretching sleepily, her clothes clinging to her figure. Han's eyes widened – and even Boba Fett seemed to lean forward slightly in his seat.

Only Chewbacca remained indifferent, as Han had perfectly put it, these fragile, hairless creatures didn't excite him at all.

"Good morning," Lamia yawned.

"It's afternoon," Solo informed her.

The newcomer shrugged. She settled into a chair, propping her feet on a toolbox, then asked, "Am I interrupting?"

The Corellian glanced at the bounty hunter.

"Not at all," Fett replied in an unusual tone.

"Then I'll stay," the girl decided. "Go ahead, continue!"

"I'll ask," the guest stated. "I'll ask again, and this time I expect a proper answer: who is Marl?"

"All I know is the Empire gave him some kind of special training. Real special."

Fett thought briefly.

"And I'm asking," Han shot back, "do you think our situation is dangerous after seeing who they sent? Do you really think the assassin will succeed?"

He stared intently at the black visor of the bounty hunter's helmet – seeing nothing, of course.

"I'm certain," Fett said firmly. "I have no more questions: I gave you that last answer as a gift, Solo, in return for your hospitality."

With that, he stood up. He nodded at Chewbacca, paused in front of the girl, scrutinizing her from head to toe, then turned back to Han.

"Escort me out?"

"Sure!" the captain jumped up from his seat.

As they walked out, just before the final farewells, the guest remarked in a conversational tone, "The girl is a remarkable presence. She'll go far in life."

"She's truly beautiful," the Corellian misunderstood completely, and opened the dock gate.

Boba Fett stepped out onto the street, then turned back.

"Goodbye, Solo. We might meet again."

He adjusted his shoulder strap and walked away, his flowing cloak billowing behind him.

Chapter Eight

The Inferno entered orbit around Tatooine. The bridge, save for the ship's own lighting, was cast into darkness as the second sun slipped behind the nearby planet. Marlon and his officers felt the onset of dusk, then night, even though it was early morning according to the ship's Imperial Standard Time.

The interior lights adjusted to the outside dimness with a slight delay: new light fixtures blazed to life, and soon the bridge was awash with illumination.

"I don't understand, sir," Major Dorcier spread his arms wide. "If we've decided to capture Han Solo again, why don't we go down to the surface and bring him aboard? We know exactly where he is, don't we?"

The young captain shook his head.

"As a Sector Governor, I can't just order a landing on a planet under another sector's jurisdiction. I'd have to ask for permission, which would draw unnecessary attention. We'll wait for Han Solo to lift off - out here in space, we can do whatever we want with him!" he explained.

The first officer seemed convinced, although the reasoning wasn't entirely sound. Marl, as a general and a special agent of the ISB, could command a landing on almost any planet in the galaxy without prior notice – and certainly on Tatooine. He had another reason for wanting to capture the fugitive in deep space. If they nabbed him on the planet, several others would inevitably share in the success: the local governor, the Sector Governor, and a few other similar bigwigs. That's what Marl wanted to avoid; he wanted to reap the glory alone. He hadn't chased this smuggler genius across half the galaxy just to boost someone else's career. This was his big chance; let everyone else prove themselves!

His thoughts were interrupted by another concerned question from the veteran officer:

"Aren't you worried, sir, that out here in space, this criminal will slip through our fingers again? Then we'll be chasing his trail all over again!"

"Oh, Major!" Marl waved dismissively. "I'm not a fool. We'll wait until our agent contacts us again, then I'll instruct her to disable the Millennium Falcon's hyperdrive. All we'll have to do is wait for Han Solo to venture into space, and simply snare him, like a desperate wild buffalo on a Loeni spring hunt. I love hunting, have I mentioned that, Major?"

"No, sir."

"Well, now you know!"

He smiled contentedly. He was proud of his plan, no matter how simple it seemed.

The best ideas are always simple, he reminded himself. And he hadn't even told the major about the next part. Once Han Solo was captured, they'd take him to the Imperial City, and Marl would personally deliver him in chains to the Emperor. The Emperor would then decide whether this man was truly a threat to the Empire, or if Marl's sixth sense – for the first time in his life – had misled him. Yes, that would be the best way!

Morning on Tatooine is undeniably the most bearable time of the day. At the boundary between the sunlit and shadowed hemispheres, the pressure difference stirs up moderate winds that pleasantly warm the face after the extreme cold of night. The stirred-up sand veils the air, filtering the sun's rays and delaying the arrival of the scorching heat for hours. By late morning, the sand settles, and from then on, two swollen suns pour their almost unbearable heat onto the barren surface. Relief comes only with dusk or the rare rains that occur once or twice a decade.

In the mornings, the streets of Mos Eisley fill up. Vendors offer their goods, and housewives go on shopping rounds. The hustle and bustle are immense, with sand skiffs parked all over, occupying the already narrow space.

Few sleep during these early hours, perhaps only the underworld figures of the night and the notoriously lazy independent spaceship pilots. In Dock 23, rented by the latter's well-known representative, Han Solo, there was complete silence and calm.

Only after the best hours had passed, around ten, did some movement arise. The Millennium Falcon's airlock door opened, and a sleepy figure in a canvas shirt stumbled down the ramp. He waded into one of the sand patches covering the concrete here and there and enjoyed the warm sand slowly enveloping his bare feet. He stretched mightily towards the sky, then squinted at the scene.

"What time is it?" he asked the huge, shaggy figure appearing in the doorway.

A short Wookiee bark was the reply.

"Really?" the Corellian was surprised, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

He yawned once more, then stumbled back inside his ship.

"Wake Caspar, Chewie!" he told his first mate as he passed by. "Everyone in the Starbird lounge in half an hour; we're holding a war council!"

Chewbacca hurried off to his task – for him, the problem of morning and evening dressing and undressing did not exist. His thick fur protected him better from the weather than any clothing – and it also kept him safe from accusations of indecency.

As Han Solo walked back barefoot towards his cabin, he scolded himself for always postponing the installation of floor heating in the Falcon. The metal plates were far from as pleasantly warm as the sunlit sand outside.

"Stop, Captain Solo!" barked a distorted voice from behind him.

Han spun around as if stung by a wasp. At first, he thought Boba Fett had returned, as the stranger behind him was dressed in head-to-toe grey armor just like the bounty hunter. Then the differences became apparent: the armor was much darker, with visibly thicker plating – not to mention the peculiar shape of the helmet. This armor was designed specifically for its wearer, clearly allowing free movement.

"Who are you?" Han asked, staring at the blaster pointed at his chest. "Your voice sounds familiar! Have we met before?"

"Not with me, Han Solo."

"Your voice!" the Corellian marveled. "It's electronically generated, yet…"

Then he saw the small motion, the twitch of a finger. He desperately dove aside: the beam sizzled past his ear, and he felt its heat. Rolling onto his back against the wall, he no longer cared about the cold metal plates.

The following shots tore into the corridor walls and floor. There was little room to hide. One beam singed his leg, another his shoulder. The threads of his canvas shirt glowed faintly.

He longed for the spy movies where explosive bullets eventually ran out. After a while, even submachine gun magazines emptied… A grazing hit reminded him: that wasn't going to happen now – this was reality!

But the shots stopped. The stranger loomed over him, aiming straight between Han's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Captain Solo," he said.

The Corellian then realized who the mysterious attacker was.

"Go Rien!" he shouted.

The other shuddered. It was miraculous that he didn't pull the trigger – either intentionally or accidentally. He stepped back, painful groans erupting from his throat.

"Go Rien! Is it really you?" the captain propped himself up on his elbows.

The response was only a growl, the figure staggered back another step. He grabbed his helmet with his left hand, hitting his forehead as if suffering unbearable headache, but the pistol in his right remained steadily aimed at Han Solo.

"What's wrong, Go Rien?" Solo tried to ask.

The situation was still critical, his life hanging by a thread.

The attacker howled. His cry was utterly inhuman – the captain couldn't compare it to anything he'd ever heard. He pulled the trigger, and the violet laser beam shot out, and…

…missed Han Solo's head. The strong wrist motion that made the stranger lift his pistol barrel at the last moment was enough.

Then the girl arrived. The attacker didn't notice her, though she appeared right behind him. Her blaster was already in hand, and she immediately fired.

The armored figure was hit in the chest, burning a hole in his armor and knocking him back. He rose with a smoking chest, though another would have instantly died from such a severe wound.

Lamia's second shot hit his shoulder, scattering the metal segments. He fell again, blood pouring onto the floor.

"Enough! He's already down!" Solo snapped, springing to his feet with agility.

Finding himself in front of the girl, she had to cease her firing. Corellian curses rained down on the captain's head. Solo ignored them as he knelt beside the motionless body.

"Damn it, Go Rien!" he panted.

He began trying to remove the injured man's helmet, but it wouldn't budge. Finally, he felt the securing clasps at the back. The mask came away from the rest of the helmet with a soft hiss. Solo lifted it off.

He recoiled in horror at the sight of the revealed face.

"Damn it, what have they done to you, Go Rien?" he whispered.

Lamia turned away in disgust.

"This is awful," she grimaced.

"But it's him!" Han exclaimed. "I can still tell it's him. We've got to get him out of here! We've got to help him!"

"He nearly killed you," the girl protested, "and you want to nurse him back to health?"

"He's saved my skin more times than I can count! If you so much as touch him, I'll hand you over to the Empire myself, and trust me, that's not my style! There's gotta be some outside reason for his attack – he'd never want to kill me. He didn't this time either!"

"I suspected you wouldn't be grateful," the girl huffed.

The captain looked at her.

"Fine; thank you. Thank you for shooting one of my best friends! Chewbacca's out there – when are you gonna shoot him in the head?"

"You, you... " she trailed off.

"Stupid fool!" the girl snapped and left him alone.

Solo felt he might have been unfair to her, but he couldn't back down now. Besides, there was no time. He focused on the injured man again: it didn't take a doctor to see that this man had sustained a fatal wound.

Yet, judging by his face, it wasn't certain if he was even human, and this gave Han some hope.

The unconscious body twitched, fingers trembling. The next moment, two iron grips seized the Corellian's throat. Struggle as he might, the other proved infinitely stronger. Han quickly realized he was dealing with non-human strength.

But this realization did little to help. The fingers tightened around his neck, he got less and less air, and his attempt to reach the fallen blaster was in vain, as it was out of his reach.

After a brief, undoubtedly decisive struggle, he lost consciousness: his body went limp in the grip of the 'borg.

He awoke to Chewbacca shaking him vigorously. He was no longer lying on the floor but on a bench beside the game table. The Wookiee bent over him with a worried expression.

The first two questions that came to his mind were rather mundane: "Where am I and what happened?" He didn't voice them aloud.

"Chewie!" he exclaimed. "You're shaking me to pieces! How about helping me sit up instead?"

With effort, he was helped upright and looked around. Everyone was there, their anxious eyes fixed on him.

"Hmm…" he cleared his throat. "Hi! Are you all okay?"

Caspar stepped closer.

"Don't joke around, Solo! How are you?"

"I'll live…" Han whispered, then winced and grabbed his forehead. "Is my hair okay?"

The man in the hat stared at him in disbelief.

"What are you staring at, Caspar? How do you think I am after nearly being strangled? Throat hurts like hell – and I bet I have bruises the size of a jinek" hatchling!"

The other shook his head.

"Nothing serious," he finally pronounced.

"Did he escape?" the Corellian asked.

Chewbacca's angry growl could mean only one thing.

"He stole the X-wing. Must be a great pilot, because he took off right from the Falcon's cargo hold. We only noticed when the cargo door opened and the fighter jet flew out. We ran as fast as we could: you were lying unconscious in the corridor. A thick trail of blood led all the way to the hold," Caspar explained.

"Sorry he took your ship," Han muttered.

The other just waved it off.

"Don't worry! The important thing is you're not seriously hurt. It's a miracle he didn't kill you. He must have thought every second counted, even more than killing."

Solo's face grew even more somber.

"Don't think that! I reckon I owe him another life… who knows how many that makes!"

"Our captain here is somewhat biased," the girl stepped forward.

Han had completely forgotten about her. He got up from the bench and stumbled beside her.

"I guess I owe you an apology," he began. "I was unfair earlier. Thanks for saving my life without a second thought."

Lamia shrugged, as was her habit.

"Forget it!" she suggested.

The Falcon's captain looked around at the group again.

"Looks like we're all here," he observed. "Since we're gathered, let's hold the planned meeting here! I'll stand – that way everyone has a seat."

Chewbacca protested vigorously, expressing that Han's health was far from ideal, so he should sit down, and he would stand instead, as it wouldn't be fair for him to take up two seats. With typical Wookiee fervor, he argued his case, and the others relented.

"I barely slept last night, instead I did a lot of thinking," the Corellian began, glancing surreptitiously at Lamia. The girl acknowledged the hint with a brief smile. "Let's stick to what we know and forget about this Go Rien thing for now. We can hash it out later."

The group members nodded in agreement.

"Boba Fett's words kept me up. He thinks our mystery pursuer is real trouble and he's sure he'll get us. We don't know who he is, but Boba Fett does. We've got to take him seriously. We're in danger. You agree, Caspar?"

The man in the hat spread his arms.

"Better to be safe than sorry," he said.

"Exactly! We need to plan our defense. There's a saying I like in combat: the best defense is a good offense!"

"But Captain Solo!" Scarpa interrupted. "You just mentioned that we have no idea who this person is, how can we attack them?"

"Bravo, Scarpa!" the Corellian praised quickly before anyone could snap at the unlucky ex-cop. "You've hit the nail on the head!"

"Me?" the former sergeant looked around in confusion.

"You!" the captain pointed his finger. "We can't hit the mystery man, but we can go after the one who hired him!"

"The Star Destroyer?" Caspar exclaimed in disbelief, and the Wookiee grumbled indignantly.

"The Star Destroyer," Han confirmed. "If we take out the Star Destroyer, and Marl with it, our pursuer loses the bounty on our heads, and therefore..."

He fell silent.

"Therefore, he'll stop the hunt," Lamia interjected. "He won't be foolish enough to work for free."

"It's that simple," Han nodded.

A heavy silence fell in the Falcon's lounge. Attacking a Star Destroyer was more than reckless, and everyone present knew it. Just as they knew Han Solo wouldn't be deterred.

"Of course, we won't charge in like a crazed bantha. I've devised a plan that I think can take them down."

The man in the hat leaned forward with interest.

"Care to share it with us?" he asked.

The Falcon's captain nodded, addressing Chewie and Caspar mainly.

"Remember the Druul system?"

The older smuggler smiled.

"We all learned to navigate there in real time. The galaxy's most extensive asteroid field, no one dares venture into its center; the legends say the rocks are so close together there. It's a rite of passage for pirates and smugglers to fly along the edge as young pilots. Many have lost their lives there. I had to prove myself there a few times in front of bloodthirsty fools."

"We'll lure them in there," Han stated resolutely. "If necessary, we'll venture into the center: Marl's crazy enough to follow us. Then we'll see who comes out the other side, them or us!"

"Star Destroyers have excellent meteor defense systems," the man in the hat rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "They raise their forward particle shields, and they blast larger asteroids with turbo-lasers. The field must be very dense to damage them. So dense that our survival would be questionable too..."

"But we've no other choice," Solo asserted. "I'll take off tomorrow morning and give it a shot; anyone who wants to come with me, can, anyone who wants to stay, can stay!"

The Wookiee immediately took a stand... in favor of going. Caspar and Scarpa didn't seem to hesitate either, only the girl hesitated.

"That's insanely reckless," she said. "I've never been there, but from what you've described… Let me sleep on it."

The black X-wing didn't travel far: it descended onto the desert sands just a few dunes away from the city. The dust kicked up by its engines slowly settled, covering the jet-black hull in a fine layer.

The cockpit canopy opened, but no one moved inside; only a faint groaning was heard. Eventually, a hand appeared, gripping the edge of the cockpit. The groaning intensified, and with a prolonged cry of pain, a figure tumbled over the edge and fell onto the sand with a dull thud.

He lay on his back – his gray armor marred by a burnt-edged hole surrounded by soot. The wound on his shoulder had reopened, causing blood to stream out again. The injured man remained motionless, unconscious in the sand. A soft beeping from inside the ship indicated that not all instruments had been properly shut down.

Time passed, and Tatooine's two swollen suns rose higher in the cloudless sky. The heat grew increasingly intense. It was clear that if the man didn't move soon to seek the shade of the fighter, the heat would claim his life.

But the heat wasn't the only danger lurking in the desert.

Atop a nearby dune, a peculiar figure appeared. Tall and gaunt, it was wrapped in brown rags, with only withered hands and optical devices in place of eyes visible. It gripped a gardeff that resembled both a spear and a rifle and rode a creature like a yak but the size of an elephant. Soon, three more figures followed.

Sand People.

Seeing the ship and the man lying beside it in the valley below, they began to gurgle excitedly. Triggering small avalanches, they descended the dune, dismounted their banthas, and tethered the animals. A heated argument ensued over who would guard the ridge while the rest inspected the promising find. As expected, the weakest was given the inglorious task. The remaining three cautiously approached the fighter and the unconscious humanoid.

They relaxed only after poking both with their weapons and receiving no response.

Their primary interest was the spacecraft. They immediately set to work prying off the panels in hopes of valuable parts. The task proved difficult, but their persistence and greed were far from ordinary.

They ignored the body, assuming it was dead.

A mistake.

The 'borg's body twitched, the protective shutters over his eyes opened, and a red glow shone from deep within the optical sensors. He slowly turned, trying to assess his surroundings.

The desert scavengers were still too engrossed in their looting to notice him; their lookout was too far away to spot such minor changes.

The 'borg moved with incredible speed: laser-sharpened blades sprang from his forearm armor, and he pounced on the Sand People. The first he simply stabbed in the throat, the second he kicked aside, but the third managed to block the left-handed strike with the flat of his gaderfii.

The muscles of the desert people are hardened to steel by harsh conditions; their endurance and survival instincts rival those of the maddened. The third creature wasn't satisfied with a partial success and immediately launched a counterattack. Had he fled, he might have avoided his fate: the 'borg might have let him go. But mercy was not an option now. The undead warrior dodged the spear thrust, seized the gaderfii, and yanked it towards himself. Such superhuman strength resided in his arms that the Sand Person clinging to the weapon's other end was hurled at his feet. With the full weight of his body and armor, the 'borg elbowed the frail creature's chest. The last sound the Sand Person heard in his life was a crack.

The scavenger who had escaped the initial assault with broken ribs now charged at the armored figure with a gurgling scream. At the end of his leap, an outstretched arm and a forward-thrusting blade awaited him: he fell dead into the sand.

The youngest lookout atop the dune thought his older companions' actions were sheer folly, and indeed, events proved him right. He had not forgotten his weapon's secondary function. He aimed at the killer below and pulled the trigger.

He was not a sharpshooter.

The bullet struck the 'borg's thigh, and without reloading, the outdated weapon could not fire again. Nonetheless, the wounded 'borg staggered and fell face-first into the sand.

For a long time, he didn't move. Cautiously, the young Sand Person dared to approach. He would have likely slit the helpless victim's throat had he not been startled by a blood-curdling roar from afar.

A roar so chilling it could never come from far enough

He turned on his heel, leapt onto his bantha, and galloped away from the scene.

His wisdom would become legendary among the dunes.

Chapter Nine

To an untrained observer, it might have seemed like the small freighter was inhabited by sleepwalkers. On this night – just like the previous one – a cabin door opened, and those familiar, shapely legs appeared again.

This time, however, their owner didn't head for the cockpit but the engine room. She paused only in front of the hyperdrive unit. With a discerning eye, she inspected the machinery, then bent down to examine some parts more closely. She seemed satisfied with what she found.

She moved to the wall-mounted tool cabinet and took out two oddly shaped wrenches. After adjusting something on their handles, she returned to the vital module. She crouched down and began removing a cover plate. Carefully selecting from the exposed wires, she snipped one that seemed insignificant. A red light blinked on the adjacent console.

She reattached the cover plate and hurried to the console. She fiddled with it for a few minutes until the light went out. Placing the tools back in their slots, she quickly left the engine room.

On her way back, she bumped into Han Solo.

"Well, well!" the captain exclaimed. "Up again, I see."

"Just like you," she retorted.

Solo chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. "Something's been bothering me. I'm trying to figure out what kind of person's tracking us."

"Why are you so sure it's a man?" Lamia pointed out. "It could just as easily be a woman!"

Han laughed. "I didn't know you were such a fierce feminist, Lamia!"

"Oh, please," she waved him off, laughing as well. "I'm just not biased towards the stronger sex. I was going for a walk – care to join me?"

Han nodded at first, then noticed her lack of proper footwear. "But you're barefoot!"

"It's most pleasant to walk barefoot in the sand," Lamia explained.

Solo pondered this. "But it's cold out there now, not like in the morning!" he warned.

"I can handle the cold, and besides, it's stuffy in here. The cool sand will be refreshing," Lamia said, hoping the captain wouldn't suspect anything, attributing her behavior to his paranoia.

"Alright, let's go! But if your feet get cold, let me know right away – I'll lend you my boots!"

They walked out under the starry sky. A chilly breeze hit their faces: Tatooine, like most desert worlds, was a place of extremes. Blazing heat by day, freezing cold by night.

The girl shivered. "Wow, this is refreshing!" she exclaimed.

They wandered around the dock. In the Starbird's cockpit, they saw a light and a moving shadow.

"Looks like Caspar can't sleep either," Solo noted.

They walked in silence for a long time. After a full circle, Han spoke again. "Look, Lamia, what we're planning to do tomorrow is incredibly dangerous. I won't be offended if you don't come with us."

The girl nodded. "I know. But you guys said this is a kind of rite of passage; everyone has to go through it, so that includes me."

The Falcon's captain shook his head vigorously. "It's not the same. The rookies just skim the edge of the field. We're ready to dive right into the middle if we have to, with an angry Star Destroyer hot on our tail..."

"I'm not exactly a rookie anymore," the girl replied. "I'm coming with you. I'm cold; let's go back inside."

Returning to the Falcon, both found the previously stuffy warmth quite pleasant. They parted with smiles, though both were filled with worry about what lay ahead.

After all… the coming day could be the last for both of them.

The 'borg awakened to a strange, pleasant tingling sensation in his body, something he hadn't felt since becoming a machine. The Force was flowing through his limbs.

The Force – even though he had lost the ability to harness even the smallest fraction of it. Machines, in this regard, were outcasts of the universe.

The Force healed his wounds; it pulsated through his body with such controlled intensity that he could never have mastered it. He had never even dreamed of such power. To wield the Force so perfectly, to become one with it, was a skill only known to the Jedi.

The real Jedi!

But then it hit him – they were all gone. The Emperor and Darth Vader didn't count as true Jedi since they embraced the Dark Side...

So, what was happening to him? Why did he feel like a true Jedi had come to his aid?

"Calm yourself, my son. Do not struggle now," a voice said softly beside him.

It was a gentle, friendly voice; an old man's voice.

An old Jedi Master's voice.

"Why?" he whispered. "Just tell me why?"

"Because I sense the spark of goodness within you. It's the machines that make you evil. You will learn to overcome them. Soon…" A sigh. "Oh, these barbarians!"

"I never again..." the 'borg began.

"Don't speak now! Rest!"

A hand touched his forehead.

"A long journey lies ahead, a new life, gather your strength for it!"

This was the last sentence he remembered from the conversation. He fell into a long unconsciousness, losing track of time, and he didn't know how much later he woke up again. This time he could open his eyes.

He found himself in a natural cave chamber, devoid of luxurious furnishings. A bed, a cabinet, a table, chairs, a tiny repair workshop. In the kitchen, an old man was working, and a delicious aroma wafted towards him.

Go Rien propped himself up: the wounds that had previously caused him so much pain with every movement now didn't hurt. He felt completely healthy. "I have to go! My friends need my help… they're in trouble!"

The old man looked up, moved the pot off the flame, and walked over to him.

"Wait! Eat first," he suggested.

"Alright," the 'borg agreed. "Who are you?"

"Call me Ben."

"Ben..." Go Rien repeated the name, then pondered the events. "You're a Jedi, aren't you?" he asked.

"The Jedi are extinct," the old man replied evasively. "And that's as it should be."

"I understand," nodded the 'borg. "I can keep a secret."

The old man, who called himself Ben, didn't respond.

"Help me save my friends," Go Rien pleaded.

Ben just shook his head.

"I can't. It's your job to help them!"

There was nothing more to say.

"You promised to teach me how to overcome the machinery within me," the 'borg reminded him.

"No. I promised that you would learn. I can only give you advice."

"Please, tell me!"

The old man smiled.

"You thirst for knowledge. You've always been like this, haven't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's a shame you fell into the wrong hands! I can give you advice, but it will only solve this particular problem. I know you're waiting for me to teach you, but it's too late – you can't become a Jedi. The only thing you can do to serve the Light Side is to forget everything you've learned so far!"

Go Rien waited with his head bowed. Facing the truth wasn't easy.

"Humans are like vessels," Ben said. "They come into the world clean, capable of holding anything, but once you fill them with poison, they're no longer fit to store cool drinking water."

"What can I do about the machinery?" Go Rien whispered.

"Don't fight them! Learn to live with them! That's the key to solving most problems in the world: coexistence. Those machines detect your intentions through your resistance; they function like a bad conscience. If you don't resist them, they won't notice you're not following their commands. Forget about their existence, and they'll be as if they don't exist!"

Go Rien nodded.

"Now let's eat," the old man suggested, "because the food will get cold! When we're done, you can leave, but keep in mind you still need to fix your ship! The Sand People have vandalized it."

They began to eat. They sat at a table, coexisting: the old Jedi and the Empire's professional assassin.

"Chewie, run those diagnostic tests!" Han Solo ordered. "Pay special attention to the hyperdrive, shield generator, and lateral thrusters. If any of those fail, we're done for."

The Wookiee got to work following the instructions while the Corellian stared out the cockpit window of the Falcon. The rising suns of Tatooine glared into his eyes. Squinting, he examined the Starbird.

Caspar's voice crackled over the communicator – as if the man in the hat had sensed Han's curious gaze on his ship.

"Everything's good here, Solo! MOR ran the diagnostic tests. How are you guys doing?"

"We're almost there. You know, these things take a bit longer for us. Chewie sticking his finger in the socket won't help; it'll just cause a short circuit."

"I'm glad you finally admit that having a reliable droid can be useful, Solo!"

"For diagnostics, maybe," the Corellian shot back, "but let's see how you feel after our next scrap."

The Wookiee chuckled softly, not letting it distract him from his task.

Meanwhile, Lamia sat tensely in her seat. Much depended on the test results. If they noticed the hyperdrive malfunction, they wouldn't even take off – and seeing the cut wire would easily lead them to figure out there was a traitor on board. It wouldn't be hard to deduce who. She had done everything to ensure the fault was hard to detect, but success depended on how thorough the Millennium Falcon's diagnostics were.

Chewbacca hummed contentedly, reporting that everything was fine.

No one noticed the girl's tiny sigh of relief or the small smile that appeared at the thought of thirty thousand credit units.

"Caspar, we're gonna rile up the Star Destroyer; you join in at the final stage! The Falcon's a lot faster, and we need a quick ship for this job. When they launch the fighters, we'll wait a few minutes before jumping to hyperspace. That'll give us some time since they'll have to pull back their fighters before they can chase us."

"Alright, Solo. Scarpa will be my co-pilot; this will be a great trial by fire for him."

"Just be careful!" Han warned. "This isn't worth getting hurt over."

"Don't worry about old Caspar and the Star Rider! I feel young again, thanks to that much-missed sense of danger. No matter what happens, this is the real life, not trading or chasing money! How many foolish people never realize this? We're born adventurers. None of us are born bankers – we're just raised to be."

"Good to hear that from you, old smuggler!" Solo shouted. "The moment's perfect for departure, so let's go!"

The engines of the two freighters roared to life. The sand on the dock's concrete swirled up. Slowly, the Millennium Falcon and the Star Rider rose from the dust cloud. They pointed their noses at the hazy sky and climbed higher, leaving Mos Eisley – and soon, Tatooine – behind.

The Star Destroyer hovered in stationary orbit just beyond the atmosphere, directly above Mos Eisley. Alongside powerful optical telescopes, the technical crew maintained a 24-hour watch, though two of the three scopes had been fixed on the same point for over 24 hours: Dock 23 in the dusty town of Mos Eisley. When the two parked ships below lifted off, they immediately reported to the massive warship's captain.

"So, they're on the move," Marl acknowledged, then turned to his first officer. "Alert Fighter Squadrons 1 and 2 – have them on standby! I strictly order that unless otherwise instructed, they are only to fire warning shots at the two freighters. Anyone who actually hits one can forget about any promotions!"

"Understood, sir! I'll take care of it!" the major hurried off.

The young general was left alone with his thoughts. He fervently hoped the girl had truly disabled the Falcon's hyperdrive, because if not, another long chase was about to begin.

"The two freighters have separated, sir," an officer reported. "The Star Rider is heading towards the edge of the system, likely preparing for a hyperspace jump based on our calculations. The other ship is coming straight towards us."

"Raise the shields!" Marl ordered. He wasn't going to make the mistake of underestimating the small Corellian freighter again. "And power up the turbo-lasers!"

Well, the fish is wriggling; it's not going to be caught easily, he thought. Maybe it already senses it's trapped?

He had every reason to be in good spirits, but something, some nagging premonition, soured his mood.

"They've spotted us, Chewie," Han observed. "But that's not enough; let's give them something to really worry about!"

The Wookiee nodded excitedly.

"How do you know?" Lamia asked.

"They've raised their shields, and... just watch, they're moving into attack position. Star Destroyers love to come at you head-on so they can use all their side guns. What they hate most is a rear attack. So that's what we're gonna do," Han explained. "Chewie, max power to the front and starboard shields! Increase thrust to 0.3: I don't want them turning on us..."

Leaning forward in his seat, he watched the Star Destroyer's movements intently.

"They've opened the TIE hangar doors," he noted. "We'll have company soon. Increase the speed, Chewie! I've got a great idea they're going to hate."

With that, he turned the Falcon back toward the warship.

"We're not going to go around them?" the girl asked curiously.

"That would be boring, and we don't have time," the captain replied. "They've got Interceptors on board, and they won't hesitate to use them against us. Those things'll catch us before we can get behind the ship. This will really tick them off, trust me!"

"You're quite the strategist, aren't you, Captain Solo?" the girl teased. "You actually think you can outmaneuver a Star Destroyer. Wouldn't it be simpler to just get out of here?"

Solo only half-listened to her, his focus on the Inferno.

"Listen, sweetheart! If you're so scared, you could've bailed out. And just so you remember, our plan isn't to run away but to lure that Star Destroyer after us."

"I understand," Lamia replied, "but this whole show seems so unnecessary..."

"What do you mean by that?" Han snapped.

The Corellian pirate girl quickly caught herself.

"Nothing… I mean, they would follow us anyway, wouldn't they?" she tried to recover.

She was furious with herself for slipping up so easily. She had almost ruined everything! Luckily, Han Solo was too occupied with executing his plan to catch such an obvious mistake.

Meanwhile, they were getting closer to the behemoth. The first laser beams reached out toward them, but Solo skillfully dodged them. The space in front of them soon became a garden of blooming and fading light flowers. The yellowish-red flashes mingled with the violet bursts of ion blasts.

"They're putting on quite the fireworks show for us," Han grinned. "Uh-oh, here comes the welcoming committee!"

And indeed, tiny dots were approaching from the direction of the warship: countless in number. The anti-aircraft batteries and turbo-lasers fell silent. The sudden calmness reminded the tiny freighter's passengers of the quiet before a storm.

"Chewie, keep reading our distance from their shields!"

The Wookiee began; the numbers grew smaller and smaller, while the dots of approaching fighters grew larger.

Meanwhile, the Corellian loaded a proton torpedo into the forward launch tubes. When Lamia tried to ask a question, he silenced her with a single hand gesture, indicating that he needed his full concentration to execute his plan perfectly.

The approaching dots took shape: egg-shaped cockpits, two massive parallel wings. TIE fighters. They flew in tight formation.

Chewbacca, who had started to understand what his friend was planning, appreciated the Imperial pilots' rigid discipline. Solo's plan wouldn't have worked against a ragtag formation.

At the crucial moment, both the Wookiee and the Corellian shouted "Now!" in unison. Solo also pressed the launch button. The torpedo shot out of the tube and raced straight towards the Star Destroyer.

Everyone knew it would never reach its target. As it neared the warship's shield, it exploded in a massive flash – taking with it two dozen TIE fighters that had just reached the shield's edge.

The Falcon banked sharply upward to avoid the collision. Its belly plates got slightly singed, and a few sensors burned out, but otherwise, it was unharmed. With a tight loop, it turned its back on the warship and sped away at full thrust. Vengeful laser beams reached out after it, and another wave of TIE fighters gave chase, as the Star Destroyer itself lumbered into pursuit.

"Here come the boys," Han said cheerfully. "Man, are they mad! I feel like a matador right now. Chewie, divert all power to the rear shields!"

The Wookiee began excitedly growling and pointed to one of the radar screens.

"I see 'em," Han nodded. "Eight TIE Interceptors. Looks like they've thrown everything they've got at us…" He leaned into the communicator. "Caspar, it's getting hot over here. Start your hyperspace jump! We'll follow shortly. Rendezvous at the agreed coordinates!"

He pointed the Falcon's nose in the mentioned direction as the Star Rider accelerated and disappeared into hyperspace. They were left alone against the Star Destroyer and its fighters. Fortunately, there was no real danger – they could always escape into hyperspace…

"Chewie, get that jump vector calculated! And make it quick, they're right on top of us!"

At that moment, the girl unexpectedly spoke.

"Captain Solo, I need to tell you something…"

Her tone was so out of place that Han involuntarily turned around. Lamia was right behind him, leaning down, and she kissed him on the mouth.

"Just so you know: what I did wasn't out of spite," she whispered as their lips parted.

However, it seemed the captain wanted more proof because this time he pulled her close. Taking advantage of the situation and the circumstances, he kissed her back passionately and at length. Lamia didn't resist much.

"I'm sorry I had to betray you to the Empire, Captain, but we all have to survive somehow, and I urgently needed a substantial amount of money. Aren't you surprised?"

"Just a moment," Han requested, pushing the hyperdrive lever forward.

The stars stretched into lines of light. The Star Destroyer and the countless TIE fighters vanished behind them.

The girl leaned forward in shock, rubbing her eyes in disbelief. The view remained unchanged: they were undoubtedly in hyperspace.

"How… how is this possible?" she stammered.

Solo shrugged.

"I fixed the hyperdrive that you sabotaged."

"So you knew?" Lamia lowered her head in shame.

"Right from the start," replied the Falcon's captain. "I overheard both of your radio conversations and saw when you cut the wire. Gotta admit, you did a great job – I was thoroughly entertained."

"So you knew all along, but you still accepted the kiss!" the girl snapped, lifting her head defiantly, her eyes blazing with anger. "You… you're a… a lecherous pig!" she finally shouted and stormed out of the cockpit. She paused at the door to throw one more accusation at Solo. "You eavesdropped and spied on me, you uncivilized criminal!"

Chewbacca almost split his sides laughing until Han motioned for silence.

"It's not polite to laugh at others, Chewie!"

From then on, the Wookiee chuckled very politely, to himself.

Chapter Ten

The journey through hyperspace took hours, as the Druul system and Tatooine were on opposite ends of the galaxy.

"Look, Lamia," Solo began, "I wasn't trying to mock or offend you. This sulking act of yours is a bit absurd, considering you tried to kill me, and it wasn't for lack of effort that you failed!"

"Exactly!" the girl snapped. "But why didn't you kill me or throw me out when you found out?"

Han hesitated to tell the truth and opted for a convincing lie instead.

"You see, if I exposed you, Marl would just send another spy or assassin after me, and I might not spot them in time. So, it was better to keep an eye on you."

The girl shrugged.

"What you're talking about will happen sooner or later anyway. If I don't deliver results, the general will simply hire someone else. I'm afraid that's already happened, and I've wasted my time. Goodbye, thirty thousand credits."

"It's not worth fretting over the thirty thousand," the captain reassured her. "The Empire might, I repeat, might have paid you, but you'd never get another job in the galaxy again. If word got out that you sold out a smuggler to the Empire, no one would ever speak to you. Reliability is crucial in our line of work. Nobody likes a snitch."

"I get it, professor," the girl replied. "I'll think about it!"

The Falcon's captain gazed into her enchanting eyes.

"Glad to hear it," he said. "Now, head to one of the gun turrets. We'll probably need your help soon! Get yourself acquainted with the weapon."

A few hours later, the Falcon dropped out of hyperspace at the edge of the Druul system. It sped towards the bright white dwarf at the center. The asteroid field stretched between the third and fourth planet's orbits, covering hundreds of thousands of square kilometers mostly along the ecliptic plane.

From this distance, it appeared as a peculiar, nebulous phenomenon, sparkling where denser areas reflected the light of the central star. This glitter indicated significant metal content, which could be advantageous, as the resulting magnetism might disrupt the Star Destroyer's sensors.

"Falcon calling Caspar, Caspar, come in!" Solo rattled into the communicator.

"We're here," came the reply. "We drifted a bit into deep space during the jump, but we'll reach the rendezvous point in minutes. Exactly two minutes and thirty seconds. How about you?"

"We're waiting at the agreed coordinates. Chewbacca doesn't calculate as fast as MOR, but he seems to be able to nail the vector more accurately."

The hat-wearing man's laughter echoed from the other side.

"Congrats to Chewbacca for the great work and to you for an even better response."

They didn't talk more until the rendezvous was complete. The Falcon slowed to wait for the Starbird. Then they traveled side by side, just waiting for the Star Destroyer.

"They'll be here any minute," the Corellian guessed out of boredom. "That's about how long they'd need to prep the fighters and make the jump."

Sure enough, as if on cue, the Inferno arrived.

Its massive presence caused significant distortions in the fabric of space, which the Falcon's sensitive instruments immediately detected. Numerous indicators swung from their resting positions.

"They're coming in from eight-zero-six!" Han shouted. "Alright, folks, the chase is on!"

With a determined push, Han jammed the throttle forward. The freighter surged ahead, one of the fastest ships in the galaxy. Its modified, double-powered engines could outrun even a Corellian cruiser, renowned as the swiftest warships. There was no way the Star Destroyer could keep up.

Beside them, the Star Rider also accelerated but inevitably lagged behind. It fell in line directly behind the nimbler Falcon, its stronger shields offering protection from the wrath of the Imperial giant.

Laser blasts crackled around them, and ion beams added their purple streaks to the chaos.

"Fighters coming in from eight-zero-seven," Caspar's excited voice crackled over the comm. "Clever bunch: they're approaching below the horizontal firing line to avoid the gunners."

Han glanced at the rear monitor.

"And three full squadrons! That's thirty-six fighters! Maybe we shouldn't have pissed them off so much?"

Chewbacca rumbled in agreement.

"No problem, we'll hit the asteroid field before they reach us..."

And they did. The fighter formation was still halfway between the Falcon and the Star Destroyer when the freighter zipped past the first asteroid. Then the second, and more followed, at first only sparsely dotting space. They didn't seem too dangerous, just irregularly shaped, spinning rocks that even a fool could avoid. For now. But they grew denser as the two freighters moved deeper into the field.

Solo carefully reduced speed. The field density could suddenly thicken, and no pilot could avoid collisions if they charged in too fast.

"Fighters within firing range!" Caspar reported.

Unnecessary. The probing laser beams were a clear enough warning.

Solo banked sharply to the right, while the Starbird veered left, both freighters taking cover among the asteroids. The sudden maneuver caused confusion among the TIE fighters, as not every pilot could decide instantly which freighter to follow. This indecision didn't claim victims yet, but it hinted at future disaster.

The squadron leaders promptly began reformation. Squadron One chased the lens-shaped freighter with strict orders to focus solely on their prey. Squadron Two did the same with the intergalactic barge, while Squadron Three stayed back as a reserve.

It took the Corellian only a few seconds to grasp their pursuers' tactics.

"They've split us up, Caspar! For now, keep your distance, but when I give the word, execute the 'Crisscross' maneuver."

"Got it: 'Crisscross'! Okay!" came the reply from the speaker.

Both freighters zigzagged at insane speeds through the increasingly dense field, the TIE fighters trailing like an elongated tail. If their high-energy laser bolts weren't pounding the Falcon's rear shields, Solo might have found the sight amusing.

Fortunately, the Star Destroyer had to cease firing for now, as from that distance, the fire control systems couldn't reliably distinguish between asteroids, enemy ships, or their own TIE fighters.

Suddenly, a cloud of smaller rocks appeared ahead of the Millennium Falcon. Han aimed straight for it.

"Caspar, 'X-legged girl' before that cloud!"

"I think I get it," understood the Star Rider's captain. "We'll manage!"

The two freighters maneuvered craftily, giving the impression they were about to bypass the cloud on their respective sides, but at the last moment, they crossed in front of each other and darted towards the opposite side, barely meters from the debris. Their tails naturally followed, but the few greenhorn TIE pilots who didn't catch on to the pursued ships' intentions in time collided helplessly with the cloud's edge. Their doomed fate was marked by blinding flashes that the officers on the distant Star Destroyer's bridge could easily see.

When they exited hyperspace and scanned the system with their long-range sensors, Marl's face fell with disappointment.

"Just a simple asteroid field, nothing more," he exclaimed. "I expected magnetic storms, nova threats, or at least a few Mon Calamari battle cruisers! Instead, we get a plain little asteroid field!"

"The field's expanse is incredibly vast, sir!" Major Dorcier pointed out, unintentionally sounding consoling. "It orbits the central star in the plane of the ecliptic, forming a ring. Our experts believe it's the remains of at least two or three shattered planets. Moreover, dangerously strong magnetism is measurable at the field's center."

"The width of the ring?" asked the young general.

"Between one hundred and two hundred kilometers."

"So, we'll have to follow them into the field if we don't want to lose their trail. They calculated this very cleverly."

The first officer stared at him in amazement.

"Sir, do you think they'd be foolish enough to venture into an asteroid field with those small ships?"

"Absolutely," Marl nodded. "Why else would they come here? Send the fighters after them, all of them! And make sure they don't repeat the foolishness of attacking in our ship's line of fire, rendering our guns useless!"

"Yes, sir! And what do we do?"

Marl nearly snapped at the old soldier for questioning, thinking he'd find out everything when the captain deemed it appropriate, but then he realized that this man was the Inferno's first officer, his direct deputy, and as such, had the right to know the captain's plans.

"We follow them into the asteroid field," he stated in a flat voice.

"Yeehaw!" Han yelled. "We took out the first five! Next time they'll think twice about sending their pilots into an asteroid field."

Chewbacca calmly reminded him that there were still plenty of TIEs on their tail.

As if to prove his point, the Imperial fighters opened fire on the freighter again.

"Chewie, how's the rear shield holding up?"

The Wookiee growled reassuringly.

"Good, it's holding," Han acknowledged. "Lamia, light 'em up! They're getting way too close for comfort!"

Lamia winced. "See, Solo, even I wouldn't wish that on you!"

"How kind," the captain muttered, making another sharp turn with the Falcon. Ahead, a large asteroid loomed with a gaping hole in the middle – a tunnel they could fly through. The Corellian was ready for it. What seemed spacious by human standards was barely enough for a freighter. But this wasn't Han Solo's first time pulling such a stunt.

"Caspar, you might want to peek to the left!" Han crowed over the comm. "I'm about to give the Imperials the slip."

With that, the Falcon disappeared into the tunnel. Han had to tilt the ship at the perfect angle to fit through, but they made it without a hitch. The asteroid's walls whizzed past at dizzying speed.

The much smaller TIE fighters had an easier time. The cavern's size didn't bother them; the only obstacle was avoiding each other.

"Lamia, shoot the walls!" Han ordered.

She complied immediately, the Falcon's guns blasting the tunnel walls apart. Huge chunks of rock flew in all directions, creating unavoidable obstacles for the pursuers.

The TIE fighters scrambled to dodge, but the tight space made it nearly impossible. They collided with each other or the cavern walls, resulting in explosive chain reactions. None of them made it out of the asteroid.

"How many followed us in?" Han asked.

Scarpa, watching comfortably from the Star Rider, answered, "Six entered, and three went around the asteroid, Captain Solo."

"So, we've taken out almost an entire squadron," Han calculated with a satisfied grin.

Chewbacca's worried growl informed him that the Star Destroyer had reached the edge of the field, marking the start of their real challenge. Han relayed the news to everyone else.

Except for Scarpa, they all knew what the Wookiee meant. In the asteroid field, the smaller ships would have to slow down to maneuver through the increasingly dense and unpredictable debris, while the massive Star Destroyer could rely on its powerful shields and firepower to clear a path. This meant the Star Destroyer would eventually close the gap and catch up. The question was whether its defense systems could handle the dense inner regions of the field. If they did, the smugglers had only one chance: to push through and shake off the warship again before it caught up.

But Han Solo and his crew were counting on something else – that within the deadly section of the field, the Star Destroyer would fall victim to the relentless barrage of rocks. Its kilometer-long frame would be unable to dodge collisions. If its defense system faltered for even a second, it would be the end of the space fortress!

"We've lost nine fighters, sir," the major reported gloomily. "The pilots are requesting permission to return…"

"Permission denied," Marl snapped. "Their duty is to sacrifice their lives for the Empire if necessary!"

"But sir! This is just a simple smuggler! We're not talking about the paramount interests of the Empire here, just apprehending a criminal!"

The young general narrowed his eyes in displeasure. "First Officer! Are you questioning the validity of my orders?"

"Not at all, sir. I was merely intending to warn…"

"Don't warn me about anything!" Marl interrupted irritably. "Understood?"

"Understood, sir," Major Dorcier replied, bowing his head in shame. However, he was uncertain whether he should be ashamed of himself or for his captain.

Marl stared at him in surprise. He couldn't understand what had gotten into the older officer all of a sudden.

"Look, Major," he began explaining in a far from friendly tone, "I am the general. You and those pilots are my subordinates. I see the higher state interests, whereas you can't see past your own noses! My job is to weigh and give orders, and yours is to obey without question. I expect you to remember that in the future, unless you wish to end up in a court-martial! I'm done here!"

The elderly first officer looked him straight in the eye throughout the reprimand.

"I apologize, sir, for my inappropriate behavior. The fighters will continue to pursue their target as per your orders, and we will enter the asteroid field," he repeated the instructions respectfully.

"Good," Marl nodded. "I'll overlook punishment this time." He switched to a friendlier tone. "It seems to me that Han Solo wants to settle this: it's either him or us. I've decided to play along. We're abandoning the plan to capture him alive and will do everything we can to execute him. It appears we have no other option since we cannot, under any circumstances, let him escape. This is of the highest state interest! Instruct the fighter pilots and the gunners that they do not need to cease fire even if the Millennium Falcon's shields completely collapse!"

As soon as the Falcon emerged from the tunnel, the three remaining TIE fighters from the Squadron One swooped down on it. Unaware of what had transpired inside the asteroid, they had no clue about the location of the ship's turret, so they boldly closed in on the freighter as they had before.

Lamia opened fire immediately, proving to be an exceptional gunner. One of the attacking fighters, with a damaged stabilizer, spun out of control and smashed into a massive asteroid, disintegrating on impact like a bug on the Falcon's viewport.

"Bravo!" Solo shouted. "Keep it up!"

However, the two remaining TIE pilots were seasoned veterans. Seeing their comrade's fate, they pulled back, maintaining a distance halfway between the Falcon and the reserve squadron. This made it harder for Lamia to hit them but also reduced their own firing accuracy.

Meanwhile, the Falcon reached the denser part of the field. Sharp turns to the right and left became unavoidable and increasingly frequent. Han increased the speed, forcing their pursuers into a wild chase. It was a deadly gauntlet: any mistake would cost a life.

Boulders of various sizes flew towards them, some weighing hundreds of tons. The two freighters and the swarm of tiny fighters behind them weaved madly to avoid the sudden protrusions.

The first to falter was a green pilot from the reserve squadron. Too close to his leader in one turn, he overcompensated in panic, sending his fighter spinning sideways. In open space, this would have been a minor issue, warranting only a reprimand from the squadron leader.

But in the asteroid field, it was fatal.

"Chewie, where's the Star Destroyer?" Han inquired.

The Wookiee's anxious growl and a thick finger tapping on a tracker monitor was his answer.

Han glanced quickly but didn't dare take his eyes off the swirling rocks ahead for long. Even that brief glance was enough to nearly miss spotting a colossal asteroid that loomed suddenly from behind a smaller one, its cratered surface filling the viewport with no chance of evasion.

The captain made a snap decision, aiming for the deepest trench and steering the Falcon into it. The ship's belly scraped the trench floor, sending Lamia into a near-panic as the hull clanged and shook, shaving off rocky spires.

The Star Rider flew alongside for a few moments – their hulls almost touching – then fell back to take position behind the Falcon, its almost intact shields providing protection.

The TIE fighters relentlessly followed – still nearly two dozen strong.

"The magnetic field is strong, don't rely on your instruments, Solo!" advised the Star Rider's captain.

Han shrugged. "I usually fly by sight anyway. Instrument navigation is for those who can't feel their ship's movements. In other words, amateurs! How about some bumper tag, Caspar?"

There was a brief silence before the speaker crackled.

"That won't be easy; their ships are much smaller and more agile."

The Falcon's captain laughed. "I remember this Corellian corvette captain who said the same thing when Ronosian pirate barges were on his tail. Moments later, those pirates learned the hard way that sometimes geometry's deceiving—couldn't fit through gaps that the bigger, bulkier corvette slipped right through…"

"Great story! Who starts, you or me?"

"You go first, Caspar," Solo encouraged.

Bumper tag was a popular Corellian game, played with various ship types, though originally designed for Incom hoppers. At least two, but usually more, ships race at breakneck speeds through obstacle-filled courses. Whoever falls behind or leaves the course loses, and collisions often mean more significant losses – sometimes even lives. In wilder races, onboard weapons are allowed, and no dirty trick is off-limits.

The TIE fighters, equipped with fixed weapons, had no choice but to join the chase and remain in the trench if they wanted to follow orders and keep firing at the fleeing freighters.

A desperate pursuit began. The Falcon, trailed by the two survivors of the 1st squadron and the entire reserve squadron, vacated the area to clear a path for the Star Rider and its pursuers.

The intergalactic barge accelerated, taking sharp turns at steep angles, following the trench's unpredictable twists. The cliff walls zipped by at dizzying speeds, uncomfortably close on both sides. Caspar focused intensely at the helm while Scarpa, pale-faced, sat in the copilot's seat, occasionally shielding his face with his hands in fright.

The first TIE fighter was taken out by a protruding ledge. The pilot, unable to see the rock finger rising from the trench due to the freighter ahead, crashed into it at full speed. The explosion consumed both man and machine.

The next two perished in an even sharper turn. One drifted wide, its stabilizer catching on the other's, sending them both spiraling into the walls.

A bridge-like formation spanning the trench caused a massacre among the Imperial pilots. Caspar deftly navigated through the short tunnel beneath it, but only three of the trailing fighters followed him. The rest smashed into the formation, shattering to pieces.

"Your turn, Solo!" shouted Caspar over the comm, abruptly pulling the Star Rider out of the trench.

Three TIEs followed, relieved.

Han took his turn, diving steeply towards the trench floor, pulling up the Falcon at the last second.

"She's handling like a spry young lass! She loves this!" Han yelled, affectionately patting the control panel. "Alright, Chewie, let's see who's got the guts to keep up!"

He glanced at the tracker monitor and was disappointed to see only two TIE fighters tailing them, with the rest hanging back.

"Well, well, they've figured out quality over quantity," Solo remarked. "Let's see what your best pilots can do."

A minute later, he had his answer. Though not as skilled as Han, the veteran pilots' nimble ships leveled the playing field.

Han realized he couldn't shake them or take them out – not like this!

Then came a surprise. A black dot appeared ahead, barreling towards them at incredible speed – far faster than the terrain. Han recognized it only in the last split second. He yanked the Falcon up; a moment later, and they'd have collided.

The veterans had no time to react. They too pulled up, only to smash into the trench walls with their advanced TIE Interceptors.

The black X-wing gracefully looped out of the trench and joined the Falcon and the Star Runner.

"Welcome, Go Rien," Solo greeted the newcomer over the standard channel. "Here to kill me?"

"To save you," corrected Go Rien.

"Your first maneuver suggested otherwise," Solo retorted.

"You're alive, your pursuers are dead. Where's the problem?"

"I'm alive because of my skills," Solo snapped.

"And because I learned about your exceptional reflexes," added the 'borg.

Han decided it wasn't worth arguing. He watched the remaining Imperial fighters retreating towards the Star Destroyer.

"How did you get here, Go Rien?" Han asked suddenly. "Last time, you were acting…strangely."

There was a pause. Then...

"It's a long story, Captain Solo. I've changed. Now I'm here to help, and that's all that matters."

"You're willing to help me against an Imperial Star Destroyer?" Han asked, surprised.

"Against the Empire," the 'borg clarified.

"Against the Empire?" Han repeated, astonished. "You really have changed! If it took nearly choking me to death back on Tatooine for this change, I'd say it was worth it!"

"There was a much higher price," replied Go Rien mysteriously.

Chewbacca's discontented growl drew attention, and he pointed to the tracker monitor with a thick finger.

"The Star Destroyer!" Han sighed. "We gotta move fast; it'll be on us soon! It's cutting through the asteroid field like a reaper through crops. I doubt it's planning a gentle end for us!"

Chapter Eleven

Marl straightened up with a superior air, a satisfied smile on his face as he looked down at the major.

"That's what you call a strategic sacrifice, see?" he proclaimed. "We lost two-thirds of our fighters, but they distracted the enemy long enough for us to sneak closer. Now, we have a real shot at catching Han Solo and his crew."

"We're paying a heavier price for this smuggler, sir," the major replied.

The young general laughed. "The scoundrel doesn't give up his life easily, I'll give him that! But sooner or later, he'll have no choice but to surrender it, I guarantee…"

Major Dorcier had been focused on an information monitor before him. He now read something that prompted him to interrupt his superior.

"Sir!" he shouted excitedly. "We've lost the commanders of One and Three squadrons! They were the ship's best pilots, with over a hundred combat missions each."

"And yet they blew it," Marl added coldly, showing little sympathy. "Alright then: recall the fighters, we don't need them anymore! Anything else?"

"An X-wing has joined the fight on the fugitives' side, likely the same one involved in the skirmish near Regil."

The captain raised an eyebrow with interest.

Who could be piloting it, and how did it get here? he wondered. He didn't bother asking out loud; these fools wouldn't be able to give a useful answer.

Not that he could, for now.

"What's the load on the meteor defense system?" he asked one of the technicians.

The man pulled up the data on his monitor.

"Seventy-six percent, sir," he reported.

Marl stared out through the massive transparisteel window. A dazzling fireworks display unfolded outside.

Rocks hitting the deflector shield burst into yellow-red flashes, disintegrating into atoms, while the enormous ones in the distance were sliced into pieces by precise bluish-purple laser beams.

"Keep me updated on the load!" he turned back to the technician.

The two cargo ships and the X-wing pressed deeper into the asteroid field, heading toward its heart. No one had ever ventured this far before. It was a savage, inhospitable region, remnants of a destroyed world.

Death lurked behind every boulder, and although they had managed to evade it so far, the moment could come when even their intense focus and skill wouldn't be enough. Their path could end abruptly, leaving them crushed between the massive rocks.

Solo wondered whether there had ever been life on this shattered planet, whether the stones bore the marks of a once-intelligent species. The thought of an entire world's destruction was horrifying. He hoped the Empire would never gain the power to blow up a whole planet.

He didn't yet know how disappointed he would be.

"Where's the Star Destroyer now?" he asked for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

No one could blame him; it had been the longest ten minutes of his life.

Chewbacca's growl sounded more unsettling than the previous four times, and Han knew it would be even more so the sixth time.

The warship was closing in rapidly, showing no signs of difficulty navigating the increasingly dense asteroid field.

In the last fifteen minutes, the communication between the three ships had dwindled. The pilots were entirely focused on navigating their vessels. The others weren't any happier. Chewbacca was busy reading the Falcon's instruments and handling copilot duties, MOR was doing the same in his own way. Scarpa, in his excitement and fear, was biting his nails. With nothing else to do, Lamia had moved to the Falcon's cockpit, silently watching her compatriot's expert maneuvers with undisguised admiration. Only one person showed no signs of excitement: Go Rien. He worked with the calm precision of a machine.

Chewbacca read out another distance measurement. Han translated it immediately for the others.

"Star Destroyer within firing range."

The three pilots glanced at their visual tracking monitors, but they saw nothing of the massive warship only a few kilometers behind them. The asteroid field was too thick. Apart from the readings of their sensitive instruments, its presence was only hinted at by the occasionally inaccurate turbolaser shots. Sometimes, through a temporary gap in the field, they caught a glimpse of a colossal white shadow behind them.

"We're in trouble!" Caspar shouted. "That monster is still keeping up. It's clearing a path for itself, and we can't hold out much longer..."

"Are you complaining or bragging about designing that giant barge?" Solo tried to cheer him up with a joke.

But the other smuggler remained grim.

"I'm getting tired, Solo. I'm too old for this!" he admitted.

Han was alarmed by the resignation in his friend's voice.

"Don't give up, Caspar!" he shouted desperately into the communicator. "You're not worse than them! Don't let them think they've beaten you!"

"Such vanities don't matter to me anymore, Solo," came the reply. "I'm tired of the endless competition and constant proving myself. I've got everything I ever wanted from life – why should I keep pushing myself?"

Suddenly, a third voice chimed in, answering the question. It was a distorted, mechanical voice.

"Don't think only of yourself, Caspar! What a selfish attitude! You have a man on your ship whom you've taken under your wing! Go ahead, crash into an asteroid and kill him too! Good solution, right?"

Solo sensed the sarcasm and disdain in the words, but he knew they were just psychological tricks Go Rien liked to use.

"You're right," Caspar admitted. "It was a serious mistake to forget about ex-sergeant Scarpa…"

Chewbacca's urgent growl interrupted further apologies.

"What?" Han exclaimed in shock. "That can't be!"

The Wookiee grumbled in confirmation.

"We're doomed," Han whispered.

"Will someone finally tell me what the hell is happening?" Lamia burst out. "I'm glad you all speak Wookiee, but I don't!"

"The asteroid field's thinning out. Looks like we've hit the center," Han rasped from the Falcon's cockpit. "The Star Destroyer made it through; we couldn't trap it."

"Then let's get out of here quickly!" the girl suggested. "We'll try again next time!"

Han shook his head disapprovingly.

"Don't you get it? There's no next time! That Star Destroyer will be on us in minutes – it's cutting through the field way faster than we are. This was always a one-way game. It's either them or us! And I'm afraid we've lost!"

Marl realized with surprise that he was clenching his fists so hard that his nails had cut into his palms. He stared at the four bloody half-moons in astonishment.

"Load is at eighty-nine percent, sir," reported the technician.

"Continue the pursuit!" Marl ordered, his voice steady.

The Emperor's son would not back down from a mere smuggler. Marl Palpatine did not give up just because the danger was increasing. Deep down, he felt confident that the defense system would hold. The real question was whether the courage of his officers and soldiers would last until the end.

"Get my marines to the bridge!" he commanded the first officer. He had absolute faith in their dedication and obedience.

If needed, they would force the others to follow orders at gunpoint.

"The field is getting denser, sir!" the major warned again.

"Excellent!" Marl replied, his mind elsewhere. His fists clenched again, the pain going unnoticed. "We will catch them!" he muttered to himself.

Major Dorcier shook his head.

"You're risking fifty thousand lives, sir!" he pointed out the undeniable fact.

His voice was inappropriately firm.

Marl snapped his head up.

"Are you scared, Major?" he snapped. "If you are, leave my ship. The governor's shuttle is at your disposal!"

The old soldier stared at him, insulted.

"I'm not afraid, sir. I'm concerned for the lives entrusted to our command!" he raised his voice.

Marl spun around.

"People! This is a dangerous mission, and I assume none of you thought when you joined the Navy that serving on a warship might be dangerous! So, if you're scared, you can leave the ship using the shuttles parked in the docks!"

"Sir!" the major shouted. "You know as well as I do that we don't have a pilot capable of navigating a smaller ship out of here! Leaving the ship would be suicide!"

The young general grinned wickedly.

"Really? Well, in that case, you'll have to hold your ground. What a pity!"

"Load is at ninety-eight percent and rising, sir!" the technician shouted.

Marl nodded.

"Forward!" he waved nonchalantly.

Space around them was a sea of flames.

The lasers were almost continuously firing, and the shield was taking so many hits that its outlines were visible from the constant explosions.

Behind the Star Destroyer, a wide, straight path was formed, slowly reclaimed by the spinning, colliding boulders.

"Load at one hundred percent!" the technician yelled, forgetting to address him as "sir."

"Forward!" hissed the captain.

He felt the warm blood trickle down his palm.

"Overload. The defense system can't handle it, sir! We must slow down!"

"No!" he slammed his fist on the control panel. "Forward!"

The enormous warship was shaken by surface explosions. The defense system started to select: less dangerous rocks were allowed to pass, causing local explosions as they struck the hull. Dozens of crew members died, but the young captain was not concerned.

"Spare me the damage reports; only speak if there's a serious problem!" he declared.

Minutes passed like this, with tension palpable on the bridge. People stared out the windows, watching as the ship's sharp, jewel-like nose was slowly smashed into a jagged wreck by the relentless asteroid bombardment. Then suddenly, everything returned to normal.

"The field is thinning, load is at ninety-five percent, sir!" a relieved sigh accompanied the report.

"See?!" Marl spread his arms.

"Load at seventy-five percent, fifty, thirty-five..." the technician listed.

"The density is decreasing suspiciously fast," Major Dorcier observed, but no one paid attention.

The crew celebrated Marl.

"Enemy ships in range, target lock established!" reported an officer. "Shall we fire, sir?"

"Yes," Marl nodded, "but just soften them up! Bring the Falcon in with the tractor beam!"

"We haven't crossed it; it's just a clearing," the first officer insisted. "A large one, but still just a clearing."

Outside, the laser fire intensified again, but this time, the two cargo ships and the X-wing were among the targets.

The pursued ships desperately tried to escape, but the field was still too dense. They had to settle for hiding behind larger boulders, as the Star Destroyer slowly but surely hovered above them.

"Let's get out of here!" Han bellowed. "The Star Destroyer is here! This isn't the end of the field, just a clearing! We still have a chance. Look at the nose of that monster! It didn't come through unscathed...!"

Everyone stared at the tracking monitors.

"Great Galaxy, look at that!" Caspar exclaimed. "Marl doesn't care what happens to his ships. He just wants to catch you, Solo!"

That's when the first blaster bolts struck.

All three ships shook violently.

"Rear shields up!" Solo shouted. "Divert the reserves, Chewie!"

If there's any left...

"Head for the asteroid cover!" Go Rien advised.

They followed his advice: the three ships darted between the dwindling number of rocks like pirate ships weaving through a convoy.

But the Star Destroyer's gunners were relentless, blasting the cover away.

Chewbacca let out a mournful roar, alerting Han to another problem. Han glanced at the indicated instrument.

"Tractor beam!" he realized. "Full thrust, Chewie!"

The Falcon surged forward like a spurred horse, but it was too late.

The sensors screamed as the beam locked on.

"Engage emergency reserves!" Han ordered.

For a moment, it seemed they might break free. The freighter bucked and jolted like a trapped animal, moving forward at a snail's pace. The engines roared louder than anything else.

Then – perhaps because the warship also deployed its reserves – progress halted, and they began to be pulled back despite the engines at full power.

Han Solo released the control stick.

"They've got us," he announced grimly. "Caspar, Go Rien, get out of here while they're busy with us," he ordered over the comm.

But his friends showed no intention of obeying. The Star Rider turned to face the warship and launched a proton torpedo attack.

The deadly warheads exploded harmlessly against the Star Destroyer's shields. The cargo ship, now helpless, circled its trapped companion.

The X-wing chose a different strategy: it activated its cloaking shield and vanished from both space and the Star Destroyer's displays. It remained on the scene, but invisible and undetectable. This gave it a significant advantage but also posed great risk. To stay hidden, it had to deactivate its defensive shields, making it vulnerable to even the smallest asteroid or stray laser blast.

"Your task is to help them!" Go Rien recalled the words of the old Jedi. "Your task...!"

Who else's task would it be?

He had dragged Han Solo, the simple smuggler, into this complex mess; who else could ensure the Corellian could become a simple smuggler again?

This was his duty!

Now wasn't the time to ponder if it was worth it. The thought would lead too far, as who knew what the future held and what role his actions would play in it? Who could say...

The past and future were merged before him, and he saw only the present clearly: what he had to do. With a decisive motion, he turned the X-wing towards the Star Destroyer. He sped towards it at full throttle.

"Too late, you can't be a Jedi..." the old Ben's words echoed in his mind. "You can only do one thing to serve the Light side; forget everything you've learned! Your task is to help them!"

He reached the Star Destroyer's shield. To survive the energy discharge, he had to activate his own shields. From that moment on, the warship's sensitive instruments registered his presence and tracked his movements. The cloaking shield was now useless, so he deactivated it. He could almost hear the alarm sirens wailing throughout the massive body of the looming behemoth. He watched the outer deck rushing below, marred by craters from asteroid impacts. He steered toward the towering stern superstructure ahead.

"Man is like a vessel," he heard Ben's voice. "He comes into the world clean and capable of holding anything – but once you fill it with poison, it can no longer store pure drinking water…!"

"Because the vessel holding the poison itself becomes toxic," Go Rien added. "And that poison can easily cause the death of your friends, no matter how carefully you guard it. Smash the vessel, and it will cause no more harm!"

From below, anti-starfighter guns spewed intense laser fire at the tiny black starfighter. Go Rien diverted all power to the shields, even the energy needed for life support. The cabin's air began to thin.

"Go Rien, don't do it!" Han Solo shouted through his headset, realizing what the former bounty hunter was planning.

The 'borg ignored him. He suspected he was fundamentally misinterpreting the old Jedi's words, but he shrugged off the thought. After all, it was the disciple's job to interpret the teacher's words. And this was his interpretation!

He directed the X-wing toward the uppermost level of the rear superstructure. Toward the command bridge windows.

"Primary target acquired," reported the tractor beam operator commander. "Estimated time to capture: five minutes, sir. The freighter is resisting fiercely."

"Engage the reserves, Commander!" Marl barked. "If they escape, I'll hold you personally responsible!"

An inexplicable sense of foreboding gripped him, and he fervently hoped it wasn't related to Han Solo. It would feel like a massive injustice if that Corellian smuggler outwitted him again.

But no. The Millennium Falcon attempted to break free but failed. The Star Destroyer's super-strong tractor beam held it securely.

"We've won!" the young general shouted, shaking the first officer's hand with uncharacteristic excitement. "Thank you for the congratulations," he smiled at the older soldier.

At that moment, the shield alarm sirens wailed.

"Unauthorized breach attempt above the bow deck!" yelled a technician. "Unknown fighter, protected by cloaking shields!"

Marl's head snapped up.

"The bad feeling!" he reminded himself.

"The breach attempt was successful!" the technician confirmed.

"The intruder is an X-wing fighter!" reported another. "It deactivated its cloaking and is concentrating all energy on its forward shields..."

"To survive the anti-starfighter fire," the young captain finished the sentence. "The fighter is black, correct?"

"Yes, sir," someone confirmed.

Marl stared out the windows. Above the shattered bow, he spotted a tiny, sparkling dot. A fighter's transparisteel window reflecting the sunlight.

The dot rapidly approached.

The Emperor's illegitimate son instantly realized the attacker's intention.

"Evacuate the bridge!" he shouted. "Everyone, out! Now!"

He, his marines, and the first officer dove into the nearest lift. Desperately, he punched a randomly chosen station's button. The lift lurched away from the bridge.

Countless others followed – some in time, most too late.

A horrific explosion rocked the warship as the fighter crashed through the massive plastisteel windows, shattering them. Secondary explosions triggered a chain reaction, spreading from block to block, deck to deck. But the colossal hull remained intact, though the engines' glow and much of the internal lighting dimmed.

The Star Destroyer, now without control and propulsion, drifted helplessly towards the edge of the asteroid field's clearing. The meteor defense system was no longer operational.

Stray asteroids in the clearing struck the hull, causing minor but persistent damage.

The lift jerked to a stop. The cool blue light faded, replaced by the red glow of emergency lighting. The faces turning towards Marl were bathed in crimson.

"The Firestarter will be destroyed in minutes," the young general realized. "We're in the middle of an asteroid field, on a crippled ship. If we don't get out soon, we'll perish with it!"

None of the passengers panicked or lost their composure. They acknowledged the situation without a word.

"Central computer!" Marl leaned towards the lift's communicator mic. "This is the captain speaking!"

"Listening, sir," the electronic voice responded, calm and cheerful despite the chaos. Marl sighed with relief.

"At least this still works," he muttered, then switched to a commanding tone: "Priority one order: divert power to... " he squinted at the tiny numbers on the display, "C-116 lift!"

Moments later, the normal lighting returned.

"That's better," Marl remarked, then turned to the first officer. "Which dock are the returning fighters landing in, Major?"

"The B/2 and 3 TIE hangars, sir," he replied after a moment's thought. Marl programmed the lift accordingly.

"I'll get out at the hangars, and you go to the protocol dock and evacuate my soldiers with Rogow's shuttle!" He pointed around. "Do not leave the clearing area, wait for me. I'll lead the remaining fighter squadron against Han Solo and his crew. When I'm done, I'll dock with the shuttle and get us out of the field."

The giant marines' cheers echoed deafeningly in the confined space. They still idolized their young commander.

"Don't shout in my ear, please!" Marl scolded them, but this time his tone was more affectionate than reprimanding.

Chapter Twelve

The Millennium Falcon broke free from the tractor beam in the third second after the X-wing crashed. Or rather, the tractor beam simply vanished.

With the freighter's engines already operating at maximum, the ship shot forward at an incredible speed.

"Damn it!" Han shouted, desperately trying to slow down before they crashed into a stray asteroid.

The sudden maneuver to avoid smashing into the denser regions of the field pinned all three passengers to their seats.

"Damn it!" the captain repeated. "This isn't how I pictured our escape!"

Several others shared his sentiment.

But Han Solo wouldn't be the famous Han Solo if he couldn't tame the wild Falcon in moments. The speed normalized, and now dodging the occasional rock was no effort at all.

"He went out saving our skins," Han declared bitterly. "Took down a whole damn Star Destroyer by himself!" A profound sadness overcame him; he felt betrayed and wretched. "He left us just when he finally belonged with us. Another reason to hate the Empire with all my heart."

He leaned forward, closer to the cockpit window, and addressed the stars:

"I'll avenge you, Go Rien!"

Chewbacca's agitated growl pulled him from his reverie.

"Fighters from the Star Destroyer?" he asked darkly, glancing at the tracking screens.

No doubt about it: besides the various transport ships, a squadron of TIE fighters had launched from the now-helpless behemoth.

Just over a dozen – an entire squadron – led by two Interceptors. They swiftly formed an attack formation, heading straight for the Millennium Falcon.

"Radio message from one of the Interceptors," Lamia exclaimed in shock from her position at the ship's radio. "Patch it through, Solo?"

"Let's hear it!" the captain agreed.

"Greetings, Solo!" the speaker crackled. "This is Marl!"

"What do you want, Marl?" the Corellian growled, not the least bit friendly.

"You, Solo!" came the immediate reply. "I want your life!"

"Why are you so hell-bent on getting me that you'd throw away an entire Star Destroyer? At least tell me that!"

Laughter echoed over the channel.

"Now I can tell you," the young general responded. "One of us won't leave here alive. Look around, Solo! This clearing is a perfect arena!"

Han's lips formed a determined line, a strange fire gleaming in his eyes.

"Alright, Marl, I accept! A Corellian never turns down a challenge like this."

"I'm glad we agree. Here's my secret: you're a significant threat to the Empire. If you survive this duel, let that knowledge be your reward."

Solo laughed.

"That's not a reward; it's fuel. It gives me strength! But tell me, who are you to come after me with this kind of obsession?"

Silence from the other end.

"I am a loyal soldier of the Emperor, that's all you need to know!"

Han hesitated but decided there was no harm in asking one last thing.

"Alright, Marl, spill it. What did you do to Go Rien to make him so hell-bent on taking me down?"

"The one who attacked you wasn't Go Rien. The bounty hunter died in his first encounter with you. The one you think of is a bioborg! Half-human, half-machine. A living dead robot. I sent him against you. The real Go Rien is gone, Solo, never to return!"

The captain laughed.

"You think so, Marl? Then who piloted the X-wing? Me, Caspar, or your charming bounty hunter?"

The radio fell silent for several long seconds. Han used the time to send Chewbacca and Lamia to the gun turrets.

"What about the radio?" Lamia asked.

"Leave it on!" Solo waved. "And good hunting!" he wished with the favorite Corellian saying.

"Good hunting!" the girl echoed, rushing to her station.

The Falcon's captain was alone in the cockpit. He glanced out the window to the left and saw the Star Rider closing in. Inside the lit cockpit, Caspar's hat-silhouetted figure signaled the "all okay" gesture towards the Falcon.

The Corellian returned the signal. Then the radio crackled back to life.

"Let the duel begin!" Marl announced.

The TIE fighters split into two groups, each led by an Interceptor. One carried Marl, the other presumably the lone surviving squad leader. They started an encircling maneuver from the right and left.

Their only disadvantage against the two freighters was that they could only fire forward, so every attack run required them to turn directly towards their target to aim with the fighter's nose. They carefully stayed out of the freighters' gun range before attacking.

Once again, they positioned themselves, formed a line, and accelerated to attack the bulky ships in the center.

The Falcon wasn't lucky; a single assault managed to partially tear down its right shield and fry a bunch of sensors. The freighter was left blind and deaf on that side, without landing a single shot on the swift and cautious fighters.

The group attacking the Star Rider, however, met a grim fate. The intergalactic freighter's massive firepower took the enemy by surprise once again. Following Caspar's orders, Scarpa fired the synchronized port side batteries at the last possible moment. In the barrage, five TIEs vanished, with only an Interceptor and its wingman escaping the destruction.

Marl cursed the other Interceptor pilot. He had informed him about the Star Rider's extraordinary capabilities, yet the former squad leader still botched it. Their significant numerical advantage had dwindled.

"Bravo, Scarpa!" Han roared over the comms.

The ex-cop manning the port gun turret of the Star Rider was beaming with pride.

"Five in one shot!" Caspar praised. "A result worthy of an old space adventurer!"

"Thank you, you're very kind," Scarpa responded gratefully.

The first attack by the TIE fighters made Han realize that six fighters, if expertly commanded, were too many for the Falcon. He decided to use the terrain to his advantage, weaving the freighter through the scattered asteroids. The TIEs could only follow in pairs, so at most two could fire at once.

Leading the charge, of course, was Marl.

"I'm going to get you, Solo!" the young commander yelled, holding down the fire button.

His shots missed the Falcon for now, only carving chunks out of the surrounding rocks.

"You'd make a top-notch miner, Marl," Han taunted. "Ever thought about being more useful to the Empire in a mining station? I've got a buddy in the ore business; I could put in a good word for you!"

"Solo, you don't know the line between a joke and an insult!" the speaker scolded.

"But you can guess which I intended, can't you?" Han replied ambiguously.

Meanwhile, Lamia and Chewbacca weren't idle. Their guns spewed laser fire at the pursuing fighters, particularly the Interceptor. Yet it always dodged at the last moment, slipping out of the crosshairs before the targeting systems could lock on. The best they managed were a few scorched streaks on its gleaming fins.

"Chewie, leave the leader, try to shoot down the others!" Han suggested, seeing his crew's futile efforts.

"If it didn't have shields, I'd have taken it out by now!" Lamia grumbled, though she knew just as well as the others that their failure was due more to poor aim.

From then on, they focused on the Interceptor's escort. The weaker TIE fighter flailed under the barrage of energy beams.

Wookiee growls echoed through the Falcon's internal comm system.

Han translated immediately.

"Lamia, Chewie suggests we box him in!"

The girl hummed in agreement.

The laser beams closed in on the fighter from two directions, leaving it little room to escape. The only way out was to break formation and act independently. But military discipline forbade this, and the pilot proved to be a loyal and foolish soldier.

His obedience brought little reward. Marl ignored his dire situation, gave no permission to break off, and didn't maneuver to help his wingman. Thus, the pilot perished in a blinding flash.

"Got him!" Lamia shouted triumphantly. "I took him out!"

Chewbacca started growling furiously, claiming credit for the successful hit. He backed his claim with some bone-crunching threats.

After Han's translation, Lamia seemed willing to concede the Wookiee's point but expressed doubts about his chivalry.

Solo's orders halted the widening argument.

Meanwhile, in another part of the clearing within the asteroid field, Caspar and Scarpa were fighting their own battle. Unlike the more agile Falcon, the slower Star Rider opted for a defensive strategy. It positioned its gunless right side against a massive asteroid, leaving only its left side exposed to attacks.

They had only two enemies left: a TIE Interceptor and its wingman. The latter was relatively easy to handle since the standard TIE fighters lacked shields, meaning even nearby powerful explosions could take them out. And in terms of firepower, the Star Rider was unmatched in its class across the galaxy. It proved more than enough when Scarpa fired randomly at the approaching ships with the synchronized port side battery during the next attack.

The squadron leader, now without his squadron, was much more dangerous. Direct hits were the only effective strategy against an Interceptor, and against such a nimble ship with a veteran pilot, the inexperienced ex-cop had little chance of success.

Caspar had a better chance but couldn't leave the cockpit or hand over control to someone else—after all, they were in the middle of an asteroid field, where even standing still required skill.

"Scarpa," Caspar encouraged over the communicator, "there's no way around it, you'll have to take down this ship too! Pull yourself together and remember, you're essentially a special agent."

"No, no!" Scarpa protested. "I've had enough of the Empire; I'm not working for them anymore! I'm no special agent, I'm a smuggler! I even tore the lieutenant's stars off my collar!" A brief silence followed, then: "Speaking of which, could you give me some kind of badge that smugglers wear?"

The man in the hat almost laughed despite their dire situation. Only the fear of offending the other held him back.

Meanwhile, the repeated attacks from the Interceptor significantly weakened the Star Rider's left shield.

"Scarpa, two more hits like that, and our shield will fail!" Caspar warned.

"I can't hit it!" the ex-cop cried out in desperation. "I just can't! I've barely ever fired this kind of gun before, please!"

"Just keep trying, Scarpa!"

With a desperate expression, the ex-cop lowered the targeting visor over his eyes. The blue-green crosshair glowed in front of him, perfectly tracking the movement of the gun barrel. The schematic of the attacking fighter appeared, with constantly changing numbers indicating distance, angle, and probability calculations at the edge of his vision. It was all dauntingly complex, but he focused solely on aligning the crosshair with the fighter, just as the Star Rider's captain had explained.

This time, he nearly succeeded. At the last moment, before the TIE left his field of view, the crosshair turned bright red, indicating that the targeting computer estimated a hit probability above ninety percent. But by the time Scarpa pressed the fire button, the Interceptor had already slipped away.

From the cockpit, Caspar saw that the last shot came closer than any before to hitting the attacking Imperial ship. If it hadn't had a shield, the explosion would have destroyed it instantly. As it was, the Interceptor was severely jolted, and its shield's energy level dropped to at least half.

"Bravo, Scarpa! That was pretty good!" Caspar called out cheerfully, trying to forget that they could withstand only one more attack.

The former police officer drew renewed strength from the praise. He needed it because despair had been creeping over him. Now, he stared defiantly at the attacking fighter.

"I'm going to get you this time!" he hissed, completely out of character. "Come on!"

But the Interceptor didn't need an invitation; it came on its own. Attacking from a steep angle above, making Scarpa's task much harder. Its shots rang out loudly on the ship's shield, and the Star Rider's alarm bells began to sound.

This time, the self-proclaimed smuggler didn't fire randomly; he waited for the targeting electronics to predict a sure hit. Until then, he kept his finger on the trigger button.

"What's happening, Scarpa? Why haven't you fired?" Caspar's irritated voice came through the headphones.

Scarpa didn't answer; he had more important things to do. The crosshair turned red, though the fighter was still far away. Scarpa pressed the trigger for only a brief moment, sending a single beam from each gun barrel. Yet the attacking Interceptor turned into a self-consuming fireball, trailing a long tail of fire and debris before crashing into an asteroid behind the Star Rider.

"Yee-haw!" the ex-sergeant shouted, just as Han Solo would in similar situations.

Han Solo didn't yell this time. Behind the Falcon, a formation of five fighters still trailed in hot pursuit. Even though Marl's escort was shot down, another one immediately took its place, and two laser cannons relentlessly hammered the freighter's rear shields. Solo nearly broke down in frustration every time he glanced at the shield energy meter.

He swung the Falcon in a sharp turn around a small asteroid, maneuvering behind the trailing unit. The sight of the freighter appearing on their tracking monitors threw the two TIE fighter pilots into chaos. They zigzagged furiously, trying not to break formation. Such maneuvers were not only challenging but also perilous, especially with constant backward glances. Within seconds, they collided: sparks flew from the touching rudder fins, and by the time the pilots regained control, their fighters were so severely damaged that both had to drop out of the chase.

"Running out of birds, Marl!" Solo shouted into the mic.

"And so is your time, Solo," came the retort from the young general. "Better start thinking about your last wish!"

"Alright then: I wish you to hell! Take a look at your ship, Marl, it's falling apart! A lot of people died today because of you, not that I feel sorry for them!"

The Star Destroyer – or what was left of it – reached the denser part of the region. Countless asteroids began tearing the massive structure apart. New explosions erupted with each impact, ripping apart this corrupted yet magnificent creation of human hands.

It might take days to achieve complete destruction. In the clearing, numerous smaller transport ships floated, carrying thousands of refugees. They probably knew they wouldn't make it out alive – the Empire wasn't going to send another Star Destroyer for them.

Despite his tough talk, Han Solo was furious at the thought of mass death. He played a significant role in how things turned out. The fight for survival was sometimes horrifyingly brutal.

Time to end this prolonged adventure, he decided.

"Marl, keep your eyes on me! Let's see if you've got the guts to follow me everywhere!"

"Even to the depths of hell, Solo, until I finish you!" came the response from the speaker.

"Alright then," Han murmured, gripping the control stick tightly.

Behind the next asteroid, he suddenly veered right, pointing the Falcon's nose towards the nearest boundary of the clearing.

"Wow!" shouted the young general. "This is getting exciting!"

The freighter, followed by the Interceptor and two TIE fighters, entered the denser region at a breakneck speed. Solo deftly swerved to avoid a massive boulder ahead, then spun the Falcon on its axis to slip through a narrow, closing gap between two smaller rocks.

The pursuers couldn't follow through.

The Interceptor, its navigation computer screaming in overload, soared sharply upwards, spinning to dodge a protruding peak, then looped back behind the Millennium Falcon. Its two escorts split left and right to avoid collision. One failed to take the turn tightly enough, scraping its rudder against the rocky surface. The friction tore off a vital module, sending the TIE drifting uncontrollably along its previous trajectory.

The other narrowly avoided impact, and the pilot sighed in relief, only to find a massive rock monster looming ahead, directly in its path. The Imperial pilot, with no other options, raised his gloved hands to his face and screamed. His grave was the newly born crater – many had settled for less.

The passengers in the remaining two vehicles only saw the flickering lights of explosions. Marl burst into hysterical laughter, teetering on the brink of madness.

"They didn't last long, did they?" he cackled, his voice breaking.

Han didn't respond. He knew the danger of the foe racing behind him. Madness multiplied one's strength and performance. The enormous surge of adrenaline in his veins sharpened his reflexes and heightened his sense of perfect timing.

The Interceptor opened fire again. Han found it deeply troubling that the kid could still manage to shoot while focusing on navigation. Solo accelerated, using the Falcon's flat structure to glide between two closely floating asteroids for several long seconds. Rock walls bordered his path above and below as if he were moving through a two-dimensional tunnel.

"Fire at the walls!" he shouted, hoping his old trick would work again.

It should have worked. Yet the Interceptor, as if guided by some intuition, swiftly dodged the incoming debris. Captain Solo was certain that Marl couldn't do this alone, sensing some strange power guiding his hand, perhaps the very Force Go Rien had mentioned.

At the end of the 'tunnel', Han pitched the ship forward so sharply the Falcon's joints groaned and creaked. The old vessel wasn't used to such brutal treatment anymore. Chewbacca's outraged roar echoed from the gun stations.

"We'll piece it back together, Chewie!" Han yelled back. "Nothing lasts forever!"

The Interceptor arrived as well. The tiny fighter outperformed the much bulkier Falcon in both acceleration and deceleration. Only another fighter could compete with a fighter, and only another Interceptor with an Interceptor! Within moments, it caught up with the slowing Falcon and unleashed a close-range laser barrage.

Alarms shrieked in the freighter's cockpit.

"What happened?" Lamia screamed in panic.

"Nothing major, just lost the rear shield," Han said. "It was getting boring, taking laser hits without a scratch! Things are gonna be different now. Hopefully, our gunners are fired up to finally nail that devil!"

Curses and indignant Wookiee howls were the reply.

"Switch, Han Solo!" Lamia proposed. "I'll fly the ship… anyone can fly… and you can finally prove your sharpshooter reputation! What do you say?"

"I wouldn't let you touch the Falcon's controls even in a dock, let alone here!" Han retorted.

"No matter what you think, I'm a better pilot than you!" the Corellian pirate girl shouted back. "Anyone who can't shake an Imperial pilot for this long…"

Solo could almost see her dismissive wave.

"You know what? The next round is yours!" he offered. "But let's win this one first!"

He spun the ship in place and disappeared into an alarmingly narrow opening. The TIE fighter followed without delay.

Han knew that now, with no shields protecting the ship's hull, he had only one option: not giving his pursuer any time to fire. He could only achieve this by forcing constant life-threatening maneuvers. What was dangerous for a TIE Interceptor was even more so for a freighter.

From that moment on, the goal was no longer to progress through the asteroid field, but to seek out and test the most perilous passageways. The two ships slipped through gaps and dodged obstacles that even the most experienced observers would have deemed impossible.

The struggle between the two pilots lasted for long minutes. They stared intently at the swirling rocks ahead, navigating increasingly treacherous paths.

"Marl," Solo hissed, as he could only speak while concentrating, "you're a superb pilot. If you weren't born into the wrong family, you might've been a smuggler!"

Young Palpatine's heart skipped a beat. Could it be that Han Solo knew his secret, the closely guarded truth of his real origins? All signs pointed to yes.

But Han suspected nothing; his earlier words had no hidden meaning. He merely meant it was a shame Marl fought for the Empire.

The Emperor's son was overwhelmed by the thought that his secret was exposed. The fervor that had fueled him vanished, along with the Force he had felt for the first time in his life, shining proof that he wasn't born a failure.

His hands trembled on the fighter's controls, his head drooped. He knew death had come for him. He sobbed violently at the thought of dying – he had been so close to victory! Defeated, though he had considered himself invincible. The awareness of his downfall was unbearable agony.

He snapped back to reality, trying to regain control of the runaway fighter.

He jerked the control stick sideways to avoid an asteroid. The move lacked the previous smooth harmony, no more than a desperate amateur's attempt at survival.

The TIE Interceptor narrowly avoided collision, but another rock loomed ahead. Clumsily, he tried to dodge this one too; he no longer followed the Millennium Falcon, seeking safer routes to escape.

It was futile.

A small "pebble" shaved off one of his rudder fins, another crushed his engine, but still, it didn't explode. Marl screamed continuously, mixing in expletives unfit for print.

Then the inevitable happened. The fighter, a pinnacle of Imperial technology, crashed into a small asteroid with a blinding flash.

The Emperor's only – and illegitimate – son met his end.

Chapter Thirteen

The intruders had already left the vast, uncharted asteroid field of the distant Druul system. Except for one small group, they had all departed on the path of death. The few survivors were not intruders at all—they were conquerors. They stood on the surface of the largest asteroid in the clearing at the center of the field, gathered around a small pile of rocks. Their space suits protected them from the cold and vacuum of space. Nearby, two spacecraft rested; their landing struts deeply embedded in the fine dust covering the surface. One of them was a battered, lens-shaped Corellian light freighter, the Millennium Falcon, known throughout the galaxy. Even Imperial engineers could learn a thing or two from its jury-rigged, heavily modified instruments. The other, a much bulkier, angular, modified intergalactic barge, was a fitting counterpart: the Star Rider, a ship designed by the same man who once designed Star Destroyers, resembling a miniature version of one in many respects.

The four spacesuit-clad figures—three men and one woman—placed a stone each on the pile. Han Solo was the last to bend down, securing a metal plate from a spacecraft's armor to the side of the mound.

"Here lies Go Rien Moss…" he read from the scorched inscription, then continued with a solemn eulogy, "who died as he lived: a genius, a madman, and a hero. The greatest hero I've ever known. He was the Empire's top bounty hunter, but he became much, much more: a destitute outcast! Because he gave up everything he achieved just to live by his principles. And when those principles demanded his death, he didn't hesitate…"

He paused. Only the static noises of the surrounding space echoed in his companions' helmets.

"I don't know why he had to die, I can't understand it. But for some reason, he decided it was the right thing, and I respect his choice because he was a much smarter man than me. Besides… he was my friend." He squatted down, running his hand over the plaque. "This rock will be a peaceful resting place for you, Moss. As peaceful as your life was turbulent. Few will disturb you here, guaranteed by the surrounding danger. If you hear the roar of engines, you can be sure it's just me coming to visit…" He cleared his throat.

"Let's get out of here!" he suggested, already turning away.

The real reason wasn't haste—oh, not at all! Han Solo couldn't stand it when any sign of emotion showed on his face. For behind the tough, cynical space adventurer mask lay a peculiar man. A kind-hearted, lovable, and… yes, not a mistake, a humanistic thinker.

It's a different matter that there's little room for such people in a galaxy corrupted by the Empire, forcing them into piracy, smuggling, and bending the law to make a living.

The Corellian saw in the pile of rocks a memento of a man much like himself. A man who had no place left and so moved on. Moved on to another dimension—for the Empire is so boundlessly vast that one cannot sufficiently distance oneself in the three dimensions of space.

Perhaps the fourth dimension, the slowly passing time, will bring a solution, and one day the Empire will also meet its end.

He reached the Falcon's ramp and turned back: the others were marching behind him.

He settled into the old Falcon's pilot seat. Chewbacca took his place in the copilot's seat. Lamia sat in the radio operator's chair. The famously powerful engines roared to life, and the freighter lifted off the asteroid, stirring up a huge cloud of dust. A difficult journey lay ahead until they reached open space again, where they could execute the hyperspace jump. The return trip through the field would be just as dense and dangerous as the way in—at least this time, there was no need to hurry.

The two smuggler ships set off side by side, leaving behind the "clearing" and the grave that served as a permanent memorial to their friend.

The well-traveled group spent a few days together on the scorching world of Tatooine. Despite getting along famously, the harsh rules of survival demanded they eventually part ways.

Han Solo had no idea how lucky he was that the ambitious Marl kept his future plans to himself, wanting to bask in the glory alone. With Marl's death, the secrets surrounding the Corellian vanished into obscurity.

Han continued to be hunted, but only as a simple smuggler and criminal, not the Empire's top enemy. With his friend and partner, Chewbacca, they took on countless risky jobs and, if not double-crossed, pocketed handsome sums after each run. However, these earnings quickly left their pockets, mostly landing in the hands of various spaceship parts dealers.

Caspar and Scarpa were the first to leave. On the fourth day of their stay on Tatooine, the ex-cop pulled Solo aside, away from the others. They sat on some rusted, empty barrels in a corner of the dock.

"Captain Solo!" began the ex-cop, visibly embarrassed. "I owe you a confession; I'm eternally grateful you kidnapped me from Virgill!"

Han raised an eyebrow but stayed silent. Scarpa continued on his own.

"The truth is, I would have gotten nowhere as a cop. First, I became a special agent, then a lieutenant, and finally—believe me, Captain Solo, this is what I value most—a smuggler."

Han couldn't help but smile.

"That's quite the career path," he said.

Scarpa looked down.

"So, the truth is, Captain Solo, I consider you my role model, and I hope one day to be like you!"

He pulled out a carefully tied bundle from behind him. Unwrapping it revealed deep blue military pants, a canvas shirt, and a multi-pocketed vest.

"I've already bought a new uniform!" he announced eagerly. "But I could use some kind of badge or rank insignia that smugglers wear. Something that everyone will recognize, showing I'm a smuggler too."

The captain glanced thoughtfully at his own gear, his eyes landing on the holster strapped to his thigh.

"Well, I do have something that might work," he said, unbuckling the holster and handing it over. "This will definitely be recognized. But you'll have to get your own blaster, mine's still on the Inferno, same with Chewie's. We'll make new ones, but you, Scarpa, need to buy your own. Every smuggler gets his own weapon; we never trust that job to anyone else."

The ex-cop nodded vigorously.

"Yes, Captain Caspar mentioned that too."

Solo looked towards the Star Rider.

"You're going with Caspar?" he asked.

"Yes!" Scarpa replied eagerly. "He promised to teach me how to pilot a spaceship and stuff…"

"Pilot a spaceship?" Han echoed. "You already do that well enough! If I recall, you flew the Falcon, and not many can say they've piloted my ship!"

Scarpa blushed.

"Oh, Captain Solo, that was just a short trip, and…"

"No 'and'!" Han cut him off.

"Understood!" the ex-cop said, snapping to attention.

The Falcon's captain shook his head.

"No 'understood' either, and no standing at attention," he said quietly. "Regarding the 'and stuff' you mentioned, you still have a lot to learn, Scarpa."

Caspar approached them.

"I came to say goodbye, Solo," he said.

His freshly twirled mustache didn't budge in Tatooine's gentle breezes.

"I hear Scarpa's coming with you…" Han prompted.

The hat-wearing man nodded, and Han continued his questioning.

"Where are you headed?"

Caspar spread his arms.

"I don't know exactly," he replied. "We'll try to find that famous Rebel Alliance—maybe they can use my skills. I'm not much of a freedom fighter, but I'm fed up with the Empire!"

"You can be sure the Rebels will welcome you with open arms," Solo reassured him. A memory flashed in his mind—Kirra Mallowy's charming face. "Just don't expect them to pay in cash; that's not their style!"

The other man shrugged. "I've got everything I need," he replied evasively. He took off his signature wide-brimmed hat and extended his hand to the Corellian. "Goodbye, Solo!"

Han grasped the offered hand firmly. "Thanks for everything, Caspar. If you ever need help, you know how to find me."

They stood for a few more seconds, hand in hand, eyes locked, then the man with the hat turned and hurried towards the Star Rider, carefully pulling his hat back on as he walked.

Scarpa quickly shook hands with Solo before running off to join his new mentor. He turned back several times, waving.

"Goodbye! Goodbye, Captain Solo!" he shouted even from a distance.

Soon, the sand beneath the Star Rider swirled up, and the dock was filled with the roar of engines. The intergalactic barge slowly lifted off, accelerating into the Tatooine sky.

In the following days, Han and Chewbacca worked on repairing the Falcon's damaged sensors. Lamia helped them, hoping that in return, they'd assist her with fixing up her GAT12.

She wasn't disappointed. The three of them restored the scrapped fighter in a few days. It turned out better than new, which was a testament to Han Solo's expertise.

"They couldn't have done a better job for thirty thousand credits," Han remarked once.

"I could've paid off Jabba with that thirty thousand," Lamia replied. "Now he might come after my ship."

"I know a good job. It's risky, but worth it. Take some weapons to Quaron III. Look for a Quaronian girl named Mielta. If you mention my name, they might even give you an advance."

"Quaron III…" Lamia repeated, committing the name to memory. "But if it's such a good deal, why don't you take it? If you say it's out of generosity, I'll laugh."

Solo shook his head. "I've got my reasons, but don't bother guessing."

The girl laughed bitterly. "I don't have to guess, I know the reason! Her name is Mielta, the Quaronian girl!"

Han stared at her in shock. "How the hell do you know that?" he snapped. "Chewie, did you spill the beans?"

The Wookiee shook his head frantically, his fur swinging from side to side.

"Remember, Solo, I don't speak your friend's language!" Lamia defended the unjustly accused first mate. "I'm just a woman, and that means I see certain things more clearly than you might think."

The Corellian suddenly felt a surge of anger. "Like what, exactly?" he raised his voice.

He jumped up and began pacing the Falcon's lounge with energetic strides.

"Like the fact that I could easily end up like that Quaronian girl," Lamia said with a smile.

"If…?" Han demanded the rest of the sentence.

"If I stayed here with you," she completed the sentence.

"Who cares if you stay or go?" Han shouted passionately. "You can leave anytime you want! So, when are you leaving?"

The Corellian pirate girl gave a mischievous smile. "Why are you so upset, Solo?" she asked.

"Because you're making me angry!" the captain raged.

The girl stepped closer. "Then it's my duty to calm you down," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him fiercely.

Chewbacca, muttering quietly, began to crawl around searching for a supposedly lost ring under the game table. The fact that the Wookiee never owned a ring went unnoticed.

The passionate kiss lasted for minutes – the troublesome ring was never found, and after it ended, Han and Lamia remained embracing for a while longer.

"So, you're staying with us?" the captain asked, though it sounded more like a plea.

"No," the girl replied. "I don't want to end up like Mielta, and besides… two captains can't share the same ship."

"That won't be an issue between us," Solo pointed out. "I think there's no question who the better pilot is."

Lamia raised her eyebrows suspiciously, prompting Solo to confidently point to himself with his thumb.

"You?" she exclaimed angrily. "I knew your arrogance was greater than your politeness, Han Solo! Well, fine, maybe you're more experienced than me for now. For now! But let's meet in a few years, and then we'll settle that 'next race'!"

Han was about to respond sharply but then laughed. After a moment, Lamia's melodious laughter joined his deep chuckles.

When they kissed again, Chewbacca decided he would buy a ring, as such treasures were essential for a discreet Wookiee.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," Lamia announced shortly after.

From this, the Wookiee realized that tonight he would honor his people's ancient tradition and sleep under the open sky.

At dawn the next day, after the twin suns had risen, Lamia quietly slipped out of the spaceship—and out of Han Solo's life.

The Corellian only woke up to the roar of the GAT-12's engines. He rushed to the radio, but the other party didn't answer, possibly having turned off the device.

Soon after, the Millennium Falcon also left the dock. Solo accepted another illegal job for Jabba, for a hefty payment, and though he had to dump the entire cargo into space during an encounter with an Imperial warship, he wasn't overly concerned about his future. After all, each new day promised a new planet, and each planet a new job…

And since he wasn't thinking about the Emperor or aiming to destroy the Empire, he didn't bat an eye when Marl's vision—years later, on Endor, the home of the warrior Ewoks—came true.

THE END