On Coruscant, Han stepped apprehensively into Eastport’s Docking Bay 3733 and palmed the wall-mounted illuminator bar. A glow ring concentric to the interior rim of the docking bay’s iris dome powered up, washing the Millennium Falcon in harsh light. Umbilicaled to sundry diagnostic and monitoring devices, the ship looked as if it were a patient on life support. The glow ring hummed loudly, and the air smelled faintly of ozone. The floor was a canvas of lubricant spills, scorch marks, and paint overspray.
Bay 3733 was leased to one Vyyk Drago, but in spite of Han’s attempts to keep a low profile, almost everyone in Coruscant’s administrative district knew that the Falcon was berthed there. In setting the ship down a week earlier, Jaina had bull’s-eyed the permacrete’s faded red landing circle. After what had happened on Kashyyyk, it had taken Han that long to marshal the nerve to visit. Three days aboard a dilapidated freighter hadn’t helped any.
Approaching the Falcon head-on, her boxy mandibles aimed at him, he recalled his first glimpse of the ship on the Hutt world of Nar Shaddaa almost thirty years earlier. She had then been the property of Lando, who had won her—so the story went—in a sabacc game in Bespin’s Cloud City. Though he had seen countless Corellian YT-1300s, it was love at first sight for Han, for there was something singular about the Falcon. Aside from promising amazing speed and maneuverability, the ship was built for adventure and proud of its obviously checkered past. Han had resolved that she would be his, one way or another.
Ironically, the chance came in Cloud City, during a four-day-long elimination-round sabacc tournament that ultimately found Lando and Han pitted against each other, with Han holding a pure sabacc hand to Lando’s bluff of a winning idiot’s array. Short on credits Lando had offered a marker—good for any ship on his lot—which Han had eagerly accepted. Dismayed by Han’s win, Lando had tried to maneuver him into selecting a newer-model light stock YT-2400, but Han had chosen the Falcon.
He still savored memories of his first moments in the pilot’s seat, awed by the power of her sublight engines and the response of her military-grade hyperdrive. She had speed, all right, but she needed muscle and stealth. So had begun a process of retrofitting and upgrading that would continue for twenty years. To Han the Falcon was a work in progress, a work of art, never to be completed.
Throughout those years he had protected her with his life, worrying about her as only a parent would, missing her as only a spouse could. There was the time Egome Fass and J’uoch had made off with her on Dellalt; the time the Falcon had clung to the aft command tower of the Star Destroyer Avenger; the time Lando and Nien Nunb had flown her against the second Death Star …
Mara’s tasking her cherished Jade’s Fire to crash into a fortress on Nirauan some years back was a decision he would never understand.
Circling the ship now, Han could still identify signs of some of the modifications he and others had made. At Shug Ninx’s spacebarn in the Corellian section of Nar Shaddaa, Han and Chewie had installed a military-grade rectenna, a ventral quad laser cannon, and concussion missile launchers between the mandibles. Shug had macrofused to the hull just aft of the starboard docking arm a small sheet of armor plating from the Star Destroyer Liquidator.
Thanks to a group of outlaw techs who operated in the Corporate Sector, the Falcon was soon sporting augmented defensive shields, heavy-duty acceleration compensators, oversize thruster ports, and a late-model sensor suite, as well. Back then, the ship had had the distinction of violating the Corporate Sector Authority’s performance-profile Waivers List in more ways than any ship of its class.
While the Falcon was on Kashyyyk during the Yevethan crisis, Jowdrrl had retrofit a quartet of transparent optical transducer panels to enhance port and aft visibility. Chewie’s cousin had also designed the cockpit’s autotracking fire controllers for the gun turrets.
More recently, as hostilities with remnant Imperial factions had begun to wane—and through no fault of Han’s—the Falcon had slowly become a kinder, gentler ship. Routine maintenance at the hands of a well-meaning but bumbling shipyard boss on Coruscant had resulted in a near restoration. Cables had been tagged and bundled, mechanicals shock-mounted, electricals grounded and pulse-shielded. A Sienar Systems augmenter had been added to the drive matrix, a Mark 7 generator to the tractor beam array, a Series 401 motivator to the hyperdrive. Sensor lenses had been replaced, dings hammered out, holds recarpeted … Han had nearly gone berserk.
He liked that the ship wore all the bumps and bruises that had shaped her, much as he might have worn, had it not been for bacta treatments and synthflesh. He sometimes wondered what he might look like if he’d let all the wounds scar like the one on his chin, the result of a knife slash received in another lifetime.
The ultimate damage to the Falcon had been done a mere six months ago, however, with Chewie’s death. What she lacked now, and what was likely to keep her grounded for an indeterminate time, no modification could offset.
Overcome by sudden grief, Han stood motionless below the starboard hexagonal docking ring, lost in time. The Falcon was so laden with memories, such a chronicle of his and Chewie’s adventures and misadventures, that he could scarcely bring himself to look at her, much less board her. But after a moment he entered an authorization code into a handheld remote, and the ship’s ramp lowered toward him, as if daring him to enter.
When he did so, he was like a man relearning to walk.
The ramp led directly to the ship’s circular ring corridor. Han stopped at the intersection and ran his hand over the corridor’s now unblemished padding. In the past five years, the Falcon had become such a spiffy ship. The floor grating had been replated, the interior lights worked, and there was always food in the galley and something fragrant in the air. Once utilized to conceal loads of spice or personnel, the shielded smuggling compartments just forward of the passageway to the ladder well had of late housed luggage for family outings, or pieces of folk art Leia had purchased for their home on Coruscant.
Han moved past the outrigger cockpit connector and deeper into the ship. A year back, thinking vaguely about returning the Falcon to stock, he had made a start on stripping her of many of the add-ons. The YT-1300 was a classic, after all, nearly as valuable a collector’s item as the J-type 327 Nubian. And for all her rattles, squeaks, and carbon-scoring, she was in fine shape—not to mention of considerable historical interest.
One of the first things to go had been the concussion missile launchers in the jaws, which had always interfered with the operation of the cargo-loading mandibles. But that, of course, was before the Yuuzhan Vong had appeared out of nowhere to present the galaxy with a terrible new threat. Who could say how many besides Chewie would have died in the Outer Rim had he removed the quad lasers.
Han stepped down into the main forward hold and sat dejectedly in the engineering console’s swivel chair. Flashy new carpeting covered both the smooth metal deck plates and port-side grating—another accommodation to family travel. It was from here that he had watched Luke practice lightsaber technique against a stinging remote. He swiveled to face the dejarik hologame board, at which Chewie had spent countless hours, and around which—only a few years earlier—Leia, Admiral Pellaeon, and the late Elegos A’Kla had sat talking about peace.
Han drew his hand down his face, as if to erase the memories that came to mind unbidden, then he pushed himself up, crossed the hold, and stepped up into the circuitry/maintenance bay. Here, he and Leia had shared their first kiss, only to be rudely interrupted by C-3PO, announcing that he had located the reverse power flux coupling or some blasted thing.
A million years ago, Han told himself.
Worming his way aft, he emerged from the bay into the port-side ring corridor, opposite the bunk room where Luke had recuperated after losing his hand to his father’s lightsaber.
The corridor passed under the power core ducting and exhaust vents into the main rear hold, which had seen more alterations than any other portion of the ship. Reduced in size to accommodate the hyperdrive, the hold had been partitioned in any number of arrangements. A would-be slaver named Zlarb had come to a grim end back here.
The location of the escape pods hadn’t changed since the Corporate Sector days, but the original capsule-shaped pods—entered by way of hinged grates—had been replaced by spherical ones equipped with snazzy iris hatches.
Entering the starboard aft corridor and moving forward, Han passed the bunk room he’d often used as his personal quarters, and within which he had nearly had a showdown with Gallandro, then the galaxy’s fastest gun.
Dead now, like so many others from the glory days.
Han spread his arms in a hatchway in the interior wall and leaned into the galley. Laughing to himself, he recalled preparing pudding in cora shells and spiced aric tongue for Leia, when he’d spirited her off to Dathomir during his very wrongheaded courtship of her.
A few more steps brought him full circle to the docking arm. But instead of exiting, Han continued on to the cockpit pod and reluctantly entered. Stepping between the pair of rear chairs, he leaned stiff-armed on the console and gazed through the fan-shaped viewport at the spare-parts shelves he and Chewie had erected on the docking bay wall only the year before.
Ultimately he dropped himself into the outsize copilot’s seat and sat for a long while with his eyes closed and his thoughts shut down.
A month earlier, Chewie had still seemed so alive to him that he could almost hear the sound of the Wookiee’s angry yaups or happy foghorn laughs reverberating in the docking bay. Sitting in the pilot’s seat, Han would glance to his right, and there Chewie would be, regarding him sardonically with arms folded across his chest or paws linked behind his head.
Chewie wasn’t the only alien he’d flown with—there’d been the Togorian Muuurgh in the Ylesia years—but the Wookiee had been his only real partner, and he couldn’t imagine piloting the Falcon with anyone else. So he could either mothball her, as he had his BlasTech side-arm, or donate her to the Alliance War Museum on Coruscant, as persistent curators had been urging him to do for fifteen years.
A museum was probably where he belonged, as well, Han told himself. Like the Falcon, he was part of the past and of little use to anyone now.
He sighed heavily. Life was like a game of sabacc: the cards could change at random, and what you were sure was a winning hand could end up losing you the pot.
Instinctively, he reached under the control console for the metallic flask of vacuum-distilled jet juice he and Chewie had often kept secreted there, but it was gone—placed elsewhere by one of the kids or swiped by some disreputable mechanic.
His minor disappointment quickly turned to bitter anger, and he slammed the edge of his right fist repeatedly on the console until his hand went numb. Then he lowered his head to his folded arms and let his tears flow.
“Ah, Chewie,” he said out loud.
Han was on his way to Eastport’s transport center when a voice behind him yelled, “Slick!”
Without slowing his pace, he glanced over his shoulder, then came to a dead stop on the beltway and spun around, grinning ear to ear. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” he said to the stocky, gray-haired human who was hurrying to catch up with him.
The man grasped Han’s proffered hand and tugged him into a backslapping embrace. When they separated, Han was still smiling broadly.
“What’s it been, Roa—thirty years?”
“I couldn’t tell you exactly when, but I can tell you where. Departure terminal of Roonadan Spaceport in the Corporate Sector. You and a lovely, dark-haired young woman were waiting to board the Lady of Mindor to Ammuud, I believe.”
“Fiolla of Lorrd,” Han said, as if snatching the name from thin air. He gestured with his chin toward Roa. “You had on a white business suit, with some kind of rainbow sash …”
“And you, my young friend, were wearing an especially wary look.” Roa’s rheumy blue eyes glinted. “You told me you were out of the business, running a collection agency. Han Solo Associated, wasn’t it? The next thing I hear, you’ve won the Battle of Yavin single-handed.”
“Not true,” Han said, “I had help.”
Roa stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “Let’s see, then I heard that you’d had yourself encased in carbonite—for posterity, I assumed at the time.”
Han narrowed his eyes. “Actually, I was thinking of marketing molds of myself.”
Roa laughed, then showed him a look of mild rebuke. “I warned you about working with the Hutts.”
“You should have warned Jabba about working with me.”
Han appraised Roa’s Askajian suit, chromasheath ankle boots, and the rings that sparkled on the pinkies of his plump hands. Roa was already the grand old man of the smuggling trade when the late Mako Spince had introduced Han to him on Nar Shaddaa. Honorable, good-natured, and generous to a fault, Roa had launched many a young outlaw into the business, including Han, whom Roa had brought through his first Kessel Run. Han had even worked for him for a time, and along with Chewie, Lando, Salla Zend, and a couple of the other Nar Shaddaa regulars, had attended Roa’s wedding, after which the old man had retired from smuggling, at his wife’s insistence.
“So, you still in import-export?”
“Sold everything—almost ten years ago now.”
Han studied him some more. “Roa, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day since Roonadan.”
“Nor do you,” Roa said, almost convincingly.
Han smiled lopsidedly and tapped his forefinger against his front teeth. “Regrown.” He touched his nose. “Broken and repaired so many times there’s hardly any original tissue left. Plus, my face is all out of whack. This eye’s higher than the other one.”
“And you think I come by my youthful appearance naturally?” Roa asked theatrically.
“Don’t tell me, you’re a clone, right?”
Roa laughed. “Next best thing: rejuvenation therapy, coupled with some daily myostim.” He displayed a noble profile. “I instructed the cosmeds to leave just enough age to keep me looking distinguished.”
“And you do, you old scoundrel.”
“Besides, the treatments were Lwyll’s idea—mostly.”
Han had an image of Roa’s rich-voiced, blond-haired, elegant wife. “How is she?”
Roa smiled weakly. “She died a few months back.”
Han’s lips became a thin line. “I’m sorry to hear that, Roa.”
Roa didn’t respond immediately. “And I was sorry to hear about Chewbacca, Han. I actually tried to obtain authorization to visit Kashyyyk for the memorial, but you know how Wookiees can be about granting permission to humans.”
Han nodded. “They’ve got a long memory for what the Empire did to them.”
“Who doesn’t.”
Han was quiet for a moment. “So what brings you to Coruscant? I thought you liked wide open space.”
Roa’s eyes darted. “To tell you the truth, Han—you. You’re the reason I’m here.”
Han felt a shiver pass through him. Because of a series of unexpected encounters with Roa over the years, in out-of-the-way places like Nar Shaddaa and Roonadan, the old man had become one of those people who made Han wonder if the galaxy wasn’t a lot smaller than he’d been led to believe, regardless of his own far-ranging journeys.
“Somehow I expected you to say that,” he said at last.
Roa put his hands on Han’s shoulders. “What do you say we go someplace where we can talk?”
Han nodded. “There’s a restaurant in the transport center.”
They rode the beltway indoors, talking about old friends—Vonzel, Tregga, Sonniod, the Briil twins—and familiar places, though Han was clearly preoccupied. All these years later he could still recite Roa’s Rules—never ignore a call for help; take only from those who are richer than yourself; don’t play sabacc unless you’re prepared to lose; don’t pilot a ship under the influence; and always be prepared to make a quick getaway—but that didn’t mean he trusted Roa unconditionally.
At the Spacer’s Lounge, a courtesy droid showed them to a table on the patio, where a group of Duros and Gotals were watching a shock-ball match on the HoloNet. Bland renditions of twenty-year-old jizz classics wafted from unseen emitters. For old times’ sake Han and Roa ordered flagons of ebla beer—a Bonadan export. Halfway through their first, Han asked to know the purpose of Roa’s seeking him out.
“Fair enough,” Roa said, setting the flagon down on the table and patting his mouth dry. “Do you remember a smuggler from the old days named Reck Desh?”
Han thought for a moment and grinned. “Tall, sinewy guy. Fond of body markings, piercings, electrum jewelry. Chewbacca and I partnered with him on a small job for you, running R’alla mineral water into Rampa.” His grin broadened. “The Falcon was being worked on by Doc Vandangante, so you loaned us your ship—the Wayfarer. Reck claimed she was faster than the Falcon, and after the Rampa Rapids run, we raced for fifty cases of Gizer ale.”
“Which you and the Wook won, hands down.”
Han nodded. “Reck was a decent navigator, but he never impressed me as a pilot.”
Roa took a drink and licked his lips. “Sometimes you only know a soldier when he becomes an officer.”
“Meaning what?”
“Reck’s gone over.”
“Gone over to who?”
“To the enemy, Han,” Roa said, leaning forward. “Or at least to a group of mercenaries working for the Yuuzhan Vong.”
“That can’t be right. Reck wasn’t the traitor type. Besides, he and Chewie got along great. No way Reck would have anything to do with the Vong after what they did to Chewie.”
“Maybe he didn’t hear about Chewie. Or maybe the credits are too good.” Roa paused briefly. “The group Reck’s fallen in with call themselves the Peace Brigade. Word is they’re stirring up anti-Jedi sentiment and scouting out worlds where the Yuuzhan Vong can repeat what they did at Sernpidal.”
Han’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “Why are you telling me this, Roa?”
Roa lowered his gaze. “Because Lwyll died on one of the worlds the Peace Brigade softened up for the kill.”
Han’s voice deserted him. He stared at his old friend.
“If we had left a day sooner,” Roa went on, without looking at Han. “But I had to take care of some business.” He laughed shortly and ruefully, then looked at Han, his eyes moist. “Always business. Lwyll died in the first Yuuzhan Vong wave. I was one of a handful who made it out alive.”
Han squeezed his eyes shut and struck the table with the edge of his hand. But when he raised his eyes to Roa, his anger was muted by realization. “So your coming here—this is as much between you and Reck as it is between you and me.”
Roa held Han’s polar gaze. “I don’t want anyone else to suffer because of what Reck and his cohorts are doing. The Yuuzhan Vong are masterful enough at causing tragedies without the Peace Brigade’s help. If I could deal with Reck on my own, I would, but I’m more frail than I look, Han.”
“Yeah, and who better to help you than me, huh? A guy who just lost his partner.”
“To put it bluntly: yes.”
Han snorted. “Never ignore a call for help, right, Roa?” He got to his feet and walked to the tall windows that overlooked the spaceport’s liftoff zones. There wasn’t a moment when some ship wasn’t leaving for somewhere. When he returned to the table, he spun the chair around and straddled it.
“Where are Reck and his crew now?” he asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know, Han. But I know where we could go to find out. First stop would be—”
Han threw up his hands. “Don’t say anything. If I don’t know where we’re going, then I can’t tell anyone.”
“We’d have to leave while the scent is fresh,” Roa said.
Han tugged at his lower lip and thought for a moment. “Your ship’s here?”
Roa looked surprised. “Of course. But you want me to pilot you? Now that’s a switch.”
“Yes or no, Roa?”
Roa made a placating gesture. “Don’t get me wrong, son, I’m more than happy to oblige. I just naturally figured you’d want to take the Falcon.”
Han shook his head. “As an occasionally smart-mouthed droid I know once said, the Falcon’s better configured for running away than engagement. And besides, she’s become a ghost ship.”