Star Wars
The New Jedi Order
Star by Star

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

PROLOGUE

RECOVERY

ONE

OUTSIDE THE MEDCENTER viewport, a ragged crescent of white twinkles known as the Drall’s Hat drooped across the violet sky, its lower tip slashing through the Ronto to touch a red star named the Eye of the Pirate. The constellations above Corellia had not changed since Han Solo was a child, when he had spent his nights contemplating the galactic depths and dreaming of life as a starship captain. He had believed then that stars never changed, that they always kept the same company and migrated each year across the same slice of sky. Now he knew better. Like everything in the galaxy, stars were born, grew old, and died. They swelled into red giants or withered into white dwarfs, exploded into novas and supernovas, vanished into black holes.

All too often, they changed hands.

It had been nearly three weeks since the fall of the Duro system, and Han still found it hard to believe that the Yuuzhan Vong had a stronghold in the Core. From there, the invaders could strike at Commenor, Balmorra, Kuat, and—first in line—Corellia. Even Coruscant was no longer safe, lying as it did at the opposite end of the Corellian Trade Spine.

Harder to accept than Duro’s loss—though easier to believe—was the enthusiasm with which the cowards of the galaxy had embraced the enemy’s offer of peace in exchange for Jedi. Already a lynch mob on Ando had killed Dorsk 82, and on Cujicor the Peace Brigade had captured Swilja Fenn. Han’s own son Jacen was the most hunted Jedi in the galaxy, and his wife and other children, Anakin and Jaina, were sought almost as eagerly. If it were up to him, the Jedi would leave the collaborators to their fate and go find a safe refuge somewhere in the Unknown Regions. But the decision was not his, and Luke Skywalker was not listening.

A raspy murmur sounded from the lift station, shattering the electronic silence of the monitoring post outside Leia’s door. Han opaqued the transparisteel viewport, then stepped around the bed where his wife lay in a therapeutic coma, her eyelids rimmed by purple circles and her flesh as pallid as wampa fur. Though he had been assured Leia would survive, his heart still ached whenever he looked at her. He had almost lost her during the fall of Duro, and a stubborn series of necrotic infections continued to threaten her mangled legs. Even more in doubt was their future together. She had greeted him warmly enough after they found each other again, but Chewbacca’s death had changed too much for their marriage to continue as before. Han felt brittle now, older and less sure of his place in the galaxy. And in the few hours she had been coherent enough to talk, Leia had seemed hesitant, more tentative and reluctant to speak her mind around him.

At the door, Han peered out of the darkened room to find four human orderlies outside flanking the MD droid at the monitoring post. Though they had a covered repulsor gurney and fresh white scrubs, they were not wearing the masks and sterile gloves standard for visitors to the isolation ward.

“. . . don’t look like orderlies to me,” the MD droid was saying. “Your fingernails are absolute bacterial beds.”

“We’ve been cleaning disposal chutes,” said the group’s leader, a slash-eyed woman with black hair and the jagged snarl of a hungry rancor. “But don’t worry, we came through decon.”

As she spoke, one of the men with her was sliding across the counter behind the droid. Han drew back into the room and retrieved his blaster from a satchel beneath Leia’s bed. Though he had been dreading this moment for three weeks, now that it had come, he felt almost relieved. The enemy had not arrived when he was sleeping or out of the room, and there were only four.

Han returned to the door to find the MD droid standing with darkened photoreceptors, his vocabulator slumped against his chest. The orderly behind the counter was scowling down at the data display.

“Don’t see her on the register, Roxi,” he said to the woman.

“Of course not,” Roxi growled. “Slug, do you think a Jedi would use her own name? Look for a human female with amphistaff wounds.”

Slug, a moonfaced man with a bald head and a week’s worth of stubble on his face, scrolled down the screen and began to read symptoms off the display. “Parietal swelling . . . thoracic lacerations . . . double severed sartorius . . .” He stopped and looked up. “You understand this stuff?”

Roxi glared at the man as though the question were a challenge, then asked, “What was that second one?”

Slug glanced back at the display. “Thoracic lacerations?”

“That could be it.” Roxi glanced at her other companions and, seeing that they had no better idea what thoracic meant than she did, continued, “Well, lacerations sounds right. What room?”

Slug gave her the number, and the four impostors started down the opposite corridor. Han allowed them a few moments to clear the area, then slipped into the monitoring post and used the controls to seal his wife’s room with a quarantine code. The thought of leaving her alone made his stomach queasy, but he had to handle this problem quietly and by himself. Though a Jedi-friendly doctor had admitted Leia under a false name and Han had sent the famous Solo children home with Luke and Mara, the alias would not withstand a CorSec incident investigation. And with a new Yuuzhan Vong base rising at the edge of the sector, no one associated with the Jedi would dare trust Corellia’s always erratic government for protection. Had Leia’s condition not forced them to divert soon after escaping Duro, this was the last place Han would have stopped.

He peered around the corner of the monitoring post and, in the night-shift twilight, saw the impostors disappearing into a bacta tank parlor about halfway down the corridor. Taking a datapad from the recharger on the counter and a breath mask, hygienic cap, gloves, and lab coat from the supply locker, he did his best to disguise himself as someone official and followed.

The intruders were gathered around tank number three in the parlor’s far corner, studying a slender human with a trio of freshly stitched lacerations angling down across her chest. Like Leia’s wounds, the cuts were atypically inflamed and almost black at the edges, a sign that some toxin was proving a challenge for the bacta. The only other occupied tank contained a Selonian female whose severed tail stump was covered by a graft of unfurred hide.

“The contract said she’d shaved her head,” Roxi complained, staring at the long hair of the patient in tank three. “Even in bacta, I don’t think it would grow back this fast.”

“Maybe not, but they are amphistaff cuts,” Slug said. He was standing next to a deactivated attendant droid, reading from a data display. “And no one’s saying how she got them.”

Roxi lifted her brow and thought for a moment, then said, “We’d better bring her along. Start the tank draining. We’ll pick her up after we’ve checked the other rooms.”

Han drew back and tucked the blaster under his lab coat, then made sure his breath mask was secure and waited. When he heard the impostors coming, he turned the corner with the datapad before him. He ran headlong into the burliest of the impostors and was nearly knocked off his feet.

“Uh, sorry,” Han said, looking up. “Entirely my . . .” He let the sentence dangle off, then gasped, “You’re not wearing a breather!”

The burly impostor frowned. “What breather?”

“Your safety mask.” Han tapped the breath mask on his face, then looked from one impostor to the other. “None of you are. Didn’t you check the hazard indicator?”

“Hazard indicator?” Roxi asked, pushing her way to the front. “I didn’t see any indicator.”

“In the decontamination lock,” Han said. “Red means no entry. Orange means full biosuit. Yellow means breath masks and gloves. The light was yellow. We’ve had a leuma outbreak.”

“Leuma?” Slug asked.

“You’ll be all right,” Han said, striking just the right note of insincere reassurance. He waved Roxi toward the monitoring post. “But we’ve got to get you some breath masks. Then you’ll need inoculations—”

Roxi made no move to leave the bacta parlor. “I’ve never heard of any disease called leuma.”

“Airborne virus,” Han said. “A new one—or maybe it’s a spore. We really don’t know yet, but there’s talk of it being a Yuuzhan Vong weapon.”

That was enough to bring Slug and the burly impostor out into the corridor.

“Hold up, you two!” Roxi snapped.

The pair stopped, then Slug frowned and said, “But we need those breath masks.”

“And soon,” Han pressed, turning his attention to Slug. “You can still be saved, but the chances are going down with every breath you take.”

Three of the impostors—the three men—clamped their mouths shut. Roxi only glared at Han.

“You know this how?” She stepped into the door and stood nose-to-chin with him. “Because you’re a doctor?”

Han’s stomach sank. “That’s right.” He had to resist an urge to check his appearance. “Senior xenoepidemiologist, to be exact.” He pretended to scrutinize her white scrubs. “And you are?”

“Wondering why the senior xenoepidemiologist would make his rounds in patient slippers.” Roxi glanced at his feet. “Without socks.”

She flexed her fingers, and a hold-out blaster dropped out of a sleeve holster. Han cursed and brought the datapad down on her wrist. Her weapon clattered to the floor, and he kicked it away, then retreated, fumbling for his own blaster. Roxi withdrew into the parlor, shrieking orders and pushing her companions at the door. Only Slug went. He ignored Han and ran up the corridor.

“Slug!” Roxi screamed.

“M-masks!” Slug called. “Gotta get—”

Han found his blaster and planted a stun bolt between Slug’s shoulder blades. The impostor thumped to the floor.

Weapon flashes sprayed from the bacta parlor. Han dived behind a low half wall in the small waiting area opposite. His attackers continued to fire, and the thin plasteel started to smoke and disintegrate. He thumbed his own power to high, then stuck the blaster through a melt hole and returned fire.

The bolt storm quieted. Han dropped to his belly and peered around the corner. The impostors were nowhere to be seen, but their repulsor gurney remained at the back of the parlor. The woman in tank three had opened her eyes and was looking around. Considering that she was caught in the middle of a firefight, her expression seemed surprisingly calm. Maybe she was too sedated to comprehend what was happening. Han hoped so. If she didn’t use the microphone in her breathing mask to call for help, there was still a chance—a slim chance—that he could take care of this without CorSec connecting the incident to Leia’s room.

The woman’s gaze shifted, then Roxi’s voice cried, “Go!”

The male impostors leaped into view and began to lay suppression fire. Han burned a hole through one man’s chest. Roxi pulled something long from beneath the gurney sheet, and when Han switched targets, she took cover behind tank three. He stopped firing. The woman in the bacta seemed to smile her thanks.

“On two, Dex,” Roxi called. “One—”

Roxi stepped into view, and “two” was lost to the shrieking cacophony of the repeating blaster in her hands. Han concentrated fire on her. A faint hiss sounded somewhere deep in the parlor, and Dex’s blaster fell quiet.

Roxi’s bolts stitched their way across the floor toward Han’s head. He drew back and popped up in the corner, blaster trained on the parlor entrance. She poured fire into the corridor, but stayed out of sight until she appeared at the door and began to chew through his flimsy cover.

Han fired back, but to little effect. There was no sign of Dex, and that worried him, too. Seeing that his angle was hopeless, he stopped firing and looked to the back of the parlor.

“Now!” he yelled.

Nothing happened, except that Roxi glanced away long enough for Han to hurl himself across the waiting room. She adjusted her aim and began to burn more holes through the half wall. Han returned fire. Now that his angle was better, at least he was making her cringe.

Then the repulsor gurney glided into view, moving sideways, no one pushing. Han’s jaw must have dropped. Roxi sneered, shook her head, and, not one to be fooled twice, nearly burned his head off.

The gurney caught her in the hip. Her weapon stitched craters across the ceiling, and she stumbled into the doorway. Han blasted her chest and shoulder, spinning her around so that she fell over the gurney. The repeating blaster clattered to the floor inside the bacta parlor, where Dex could get at it. Cursing his luck, Han poured fire through the door and charged.

Dex lay dead between tanks one and two, the last wisps of smoke rising from a round hole in his chest. It was too small and perfect to be a blaster wound, at least an ordinary one. Han glanced around the room, searching for the source of his mysterious help.

The woman in tank three was watching him.

“You?” he asked.

The gurney moved again—it might have been settling on its repulsor, but Han didn’t think so.

Out by the monitoring station, the decontamination lock hissed open, and the sound of booted feet began to rumble down the corridor. Han ignored the clamor and gestured at the impostor on the floor.

“Him, too?”

The woman’s eyes fluttered closed, opened again, then fell shut and remained that way.

“Okay—must have been a ricochet.” Han was not sure he believed that, but it was what he intended to tell the CorSec investigators. “I owe you—whoever you are.”

Then the security squad was rushing down the corridor, yelling at Han to drop his weapon and hit the floor. He placed his blaster on the gurney and turned to find a pair of ruddy-cheeked boys poking Imperial-era blaster rifles in his face.

“Hey, take it easy.” Han reluctantly raised his hands. “I can explain.”

TWO

TEMPLES ACHING, WORLD spinning, stomach . . . churning. Leia returned. Someone yelling. Han, of course.

Head pounding.

Quiet!

Han continued to yell, and someone snapped back. Leia opened her eyes and found herself staring into a sun. Which one, she did not know, but it was blinding and blue, and it moved from one eye to the other.

A gentle voice—a man’s—said she was coming to. To what?

There were silhouettes around her. A man standing at her side, the blue disk of a headlamp affixed to his brow. A woman behind a tray of medical instruments. Han and someone in a bulky jumpsuit still arguing over by the viewport. Another man by the closet in the corner of the room, turned half away, pawing through a shape Leia recognized as her travel satchel.

“Oo thurr . . .” Even to Leia, the words were weak and incoherent. “Thopp.”

“It’s okay, Leia,” said the man with the headlamp. “I’m Dr. Nimbi. You’ll feel better soon.”

“I thel fie.” Leia tried to point, but her arm felt as heavy as a durasteel beam. “Thopp thath theet.”

The headlamp went out, revealing a gray-eyed face with laugh lines and a familiar smile. “Better?”

Leia could see now that the man wore a doctor’s lab coat with JASPER NIMBI embroidered on the lapel. His assistant, a plump woman old enough to be the doctor’s mother, was dressed in a well-worn nurse’s uniform. The man poking through her satchel had the patches of a Corellian Security agent on his jumpsuit, as did the officer with whom Han was arguing.

“. . . released him?” Han was demanding. “He’s a killer!”

“The only deaths here are the ones you caused, Solo,” the officer replied. “And his identification has been confirmed as authentic. If we need to question Gad Sluggins again, we’ll know where to find him.”

“So would I,” Han retorted. “In the nearest Peace Brigade safehouse.”

“Political affiliations are no longer a crime on Corellia, Solo.”

In the corner, the agent at the closet removed a datapad from Leia’s satchel, glanced around at the others in the room, then slipped it into his jumpsuit pocket. Leia tried again to point. This time, the effort ended in a metallic clatter as her arm, strapped in place and connected to a tangle of intravenous drip lines, rattled the bed’s safety rail. She settled for lifting her head to glare in the thief’s direction.

“Shtop.” The word was almost recognizable. “Thief!”

Han immediately stopped arguing with the CorSec officer and came to her side. With hollow cheeks and bags under his eyes, he looked exhausted.

“You’re awake,” he said, perhaps overstating the case. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible,” Leia said. Everything ached, and it felt like she had a hot power-feed around her legs. “That agent is stealing.”

She extended a finger toward the culprit, but the man’s officer had stepped to the foot of the bed, and it looked like she was pointing at him. Han and the others exchanged glances and appeared concerned.

“Pharmaceutical illusion,” Dr. Nimbi said. “Her perceptions will clear within the hour.”

“I am not having delusions.” Leia continued to shake her finger toward the unseen closet. “The other one. Going through my bag.”

The officer pivoted around to look, exposing the now closed closet and an innocent-looking subordinate.

Han squeezed her shoulder. “Forget it, Leia. We’ve got more important things to worry about than someone digging through your underwear.”

“She doesn’t need to hear that now, Han,” the doctor said. He turned back to Leia with a comforting smile. “How do the legs feel? Any better?”

Leia ignored the question and demanded, “What things, Han?”

Han seemed baffled. He glanced at Dr. Nimbi, then said, “Nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry.”

“When you tell me not to worry, that’s when I worry,” Leia said. Han had always been one of those men who navigated life more by instinct than by chart—it was one of the things she most loved about him—but his instincts since Chewbacca’s death had been carrying him into some very dangerous areas. Or perhaps the territory only seemed dangerous, lying as it did always farther from Leia. “What’s wrong?”

Han still seemed worried, but at least he had the sense to ignore Dr. Nimbi’s admonishing shake of the head. “Well,” he began, “you do remember where we are?”

Leia glanced at the emblems on the CorSec officer’s jumpsuit. “How could I forget?”

And then it hit her. The Corellians were calling them by their correct names. There were two CorSec agents standing in her hospital room, and Dr. Nimbi—a Jedi sympathizer with enough experience in such matters not to slip—was calling Leia by her real name. Their cover had been blown.

Something started to beep on the equipment behind the bed.

Dr. Nimbi held a scanner over Leia’s heart. “Leia, you need to calm yourself. Stress only reduces the chance of your body overcoming the infection.”

The beeping continued, and the nurse took a spray hypo off her tray. “Shall I prepare a—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Leia reached out with the Force and nudged the hypo—clumsily, but enough to make her point. “Clear?”

The astonished nurse dropped the hypo on the tray and huffed something about pushy Jedi witches, then raised her nose and started for the door—where she was met by a rising din of excited voices. The MD droid was threatening to notify security and protesting that the media were not permitted in the isolation ward, but the intruders were paying no attention. A sudden glow poured through the door as a holocrew’s lights illuminated the corridor outside, and the flustered nurse came stumbling back into the room.

“Great,” Han muttered. “Thrackan.”

A bearded man who—except for his gray hair—looked more like Han than Han did came bursting into the room, leaving a small swarm of assistants and holojournalists in the corridor outside. The man, Han’s cousin Thrackan Sal-Solo, glanced around briefly, saw that he was standing between Leia and the door, then moved forward so the holocams would have a view of her face. She slid down and tried to hide behind Dr. Nimbi, who recognized what she was doing and quietly positioned himself in front of her.

Sal-Solo scowled at the doctor, then looked Han and Leia over and nodded to the CorSec officer. “That’s them. Well done, Captain.”

“Thank you, Governor-General.”

“Governor-General?” Han repeated, trying not to scoff and, to Leia’s ear at least, failing. “You’ve come up in the galaxy, cousin.”

“The Five Brothers reward those who protect them,” Sal-Solo said.

“Yes—it seems reekcats always land on their feet,” Leia said.

Less than a decade earlier, Sal-Solo had held her family hostage in a failed attempt to establish an independent Corellian sector. More recently, he had inadvertently destroyed an entire Hapan battle fleet by using an ancient alien artifact called Centerpoint Station to attack a hostile force of Yuuzhan Vong. Given that Leia had been responsible for bringing the Hapans into the war, she was probably the only person in the galaxy who despised Han’s cousin more than Han did. And it did not help matters that Sal-Solo had been hailed as a hero for his foolish actions and, eventually, elected governor-general of the entire Corellian sector.

“What’s next?” Leia continued to glare at Sal-Solo. Han winced and drew his finger across his throat, but she ignored him. “Lose the war and become the New Republic Chief of State?”

Sal-Solo half turned toward the holocam outside the door. “My allegiance is to the Corellian system alone.” His voice was stiff and self-conscious. “And you’d be smart to curb that lightsaber tongue of yours, Princess Leia. An insult to the man is an insult to the office.”

“Really?” Leia propped herself up on her free elbow until the holocam lights warmed her face. “In this case, I should think it is the man himself who is the insult.”

Sal-Solo glared at her in disbelief, then stormed over to the door and stuck his head into the corridor. “Clear the hall! Can’t you see this is an isolation ward?”

The holocam illuminated his face briefly before he palmed the activation panel and the door closed. He stood facing the wall until the corridor was finally empty, then turned to Leia with eyes as dark as black holes.

“You must have a death wish,” he said.

“You’re the one who wanted to play this out in the media,” Leia said. “Don’t blame me if you can’t handle it. Wouldn’t it have been easier to keep things quiet and ignore us?”

“Nothing would have suited me more—except maybe sending you off with a squad of Yuuzhan Vong infiltrators,” Sal-Solo said. “Unfortunately, the choice wasn’t mine. I didn’t know either of you was here until I saw on a newsvid that Han Solo had just killed three Corellian citizens.”

“Sorry about that,” Han said, not appearing sorry at all.

Sal-Solo gave him a dark look, then looked back to Leia. “There won’t be any charges, provided you—”

“Charges?” Han exclaimed. Even Leia could not tell whether he was angry or surprised; they been apart so long—and gone through so much alone—that she felt like she did not know him now. “For killing a bunch of Peace Brigaders?”

“They weren’t in the Peace Brigade,” Sal-Solo said. “CorSec Intelligence says they were local.”

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t Peace Brigade,” Han said.

“But they weren’t,” Sal-Solo said. “Roxi Barl is an independent contractor. She didn’t like orders, which rules out the Peace Brigade or anyone associated with the Yuuzhan Vong. Or so Intelligence tells me.”

“Then who was she working for?” Han demanded.

Thrackan shrugged. “That’s a good question. Fortunately, it’s also one that, as of an hour from now, will no longer concern me.”

Han scowled. “No?”

“Because you’ll be gone by then,” Thrackan said.

“Gone?” Han shook his head. “We’re not going anywhere until Leia can walk.”

Leia frowned. Their faces had been on newsvids all over the system, and he was talking about staying until she could walk. What kind of rocket juice had he been drinking while they were apart?

“Han,” Leia said gently. “We talked this over. You know I may never—”

Han whirled on her. “Until you walk, Leia.”

Leia recoiled, and Han hovered over the bed, staring into her eyes, not blinking, not breathing, not wavering, as though he could change what had happened on Duro—maybe even what had happened before that—through sheer force of will.

“Han, we can’t,” she said at last. “By now, bounty hunters and Peace Brigaders from all over the system will be converging on the medcenter. And even if Thrackan wanted to protect us, he couldn’t. It would give the Yuuzhan Vong too much reason to come see if Centerpoint is still operational.”

“And he’s just sending us on our way?” Han scoffed. “Straight into a Yuuzhan Vong patrol, that’s where he’s sending us.”

“He can’t, Han,” Leia said. “He can’t take the chance we’d break under torture and tell them Centerpoint isn’t working.”

Han considered this, then glanced at his cousin.

“If it makes you feel better, I could always have you killed,” Sal-Solo offered amicably. “That works for me.”

“And how do you think Anakin would like that?” Leia retorted. Their son Anakin was the only one who had ever been able to fully activate Centerpoint Station, and his absence was one reason the ancient superweapon wasn’t working now. “He doesn’t care for you much as it is, Thrackan. I doubt he’d be very helpful if you arranged the death of his parents.”

Sal-Solo’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “As long as we’re agreed, then. You’ll leave within the hour.”

“Han,” Dr. Nimbi said helpfully, “she can handle the journey if you stop at bacta parlors along the way.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Leia will be fine. It’s your, uh, friend I’m worried about.”

Han seemed confused. “Friend?”

“In tank three,” Dr. Nimbi said. “I don’t think you should leave her behind, not with all those bounty hunters and Peace Brigaders on the way.”

“Oh—right. Our friend.” Han glanced at Leia, and something roguish came to his eye, something sly and fun and conspiratorial that had not been there since before Chewbacca’s death. He looked back to Sal-Solo and sighed. “Look, I don’t mean to be difficult, but we can’t go without Jaina.”

“Jaina? Jaina’s here?”

Leia thought she had been the one to blurt the question, but realized that was not so when all eyes turned to Sal-Solo. At least she understood why Han had been acting so strangely. She had a vague memory of a deep-space rendezvous with the Jade Shadow, of kissing her brother and each of her children good-bye and telling them she would see them again on Coruscant. Something must have happened. Perhaps Han had needed Jaina to help him fly the Falcon, or perhaps Mara and Luke had run into trouble and been forced to divert. Maybe all of her children were on Corellia. She hoped not. She hoped Jacen and Anakin were safe on Coruscant . . . but it would be good to see them, too. So good.

“. . . Anakin?” Sal-Solo was asking. “Is he here, too?”

“Just Jaina,” Han said firmly. “Anakin and Jacen are on Coruscant.”

“Of course, you would say that.” Sal-Solo was thinking aloud. If he could force Anakin to reactivate Centerpoint, he would have no worries from the Yuuzhan Vong or the New Republic. He could use it to isolate the whole Corellian system and run the place as his personal empire. “But I can find out. I have my ways.”

“Yeah—you could comm them on Coruscant,” Han said. “Feel free to reverse the HoloNet charges—I know how strapped things are here in Corellia.”

“Wait—what was that about tank three?” Leia demanded, not paying much attention to the exchange between Han and Sal-Solo. “Jaina’s in a bacta tank? What happened?”

“You remember.” Again, Han gave her a strange glare. “That hit on Duro turned out to be worse than we thought.”

The stress alarm behind the bed started to beep again.

“Will you please disconnect that thing?” Leia demanded. Whatever had happened—whatever Han was trying to tell her—she did not want a machine giving them away. “And get me a repulsor chair. I want to see my daughter.”

“Yes.” Sal-Solo was scowling and studying Han, obviously wondering why Leia seemed so surprised. “Why don’t we all go?”

Dr. Nimbi arranged for a repulsor chair, then unstrapped Leia’s arm from the safety rail, hung the necessary IV lines on the bag hook attached to the chair, and helped her out of bed.

Leia’s legs were no sooner lowered than they began to ache with a pain a hundred times worse than childbirth. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a bursting, throbbing, burning kind of anguish that made her wish the Yuuzhan Vong had finished the job and cut them all the way off. She caught Sal-Solo staring and looked down to see two huge Hutt-like things sticking out where her legs should have been.

“If you’re going to gape,” Leia said, “I wish you wouldn’t smile.”

Sal-Solo covered his mouth, which was not actually smiling, and turned away. Accompanied by the CorSec agents, Sal-Solo, and even the nurse, Dr. Nimbi led them past the droid’s monitoring post down the opposite corridor. Leia’s heart began to pound immediately. The door of the bacta parlor was ringed by black blossoms of soot. Opposite, the ruins of the waiting room were set off by the jagged remains of a small half wall. They had been determined, these bounty hunters, and it made Leia shudder to think how close they must have come to capturing her only daughter.

As they reached the bacta parlor, Leia noticed an anvil-headed Arcona sitting in one of the few undamaged chairs. He met her gaze long enough to nod, then went back to staring at his feet. She steered her chair into the bacta parlor behind Han, the nurse, and the others.

They stopped in front of tank three, where a badly wounded woman of at least thirty years of age was floating inside. She was several centimeters taller than Leia and well muscled, and though there was something vaguely familiar about her face, she bore no resemblance at all to either Han or Leia. Most telling of all, her head was surrounded by a cloud of silky hair; like Leia, Jaina had left hers in a decontamination lock on Duro.

Leia craned her neck, checking the other tanks for an occupant that could be her daughter. There was none; only a Selonian with an amputated tail.

“This is Jaina?” Sal-Solo asked, clearly as doubtful as Leia herself. “She’s a little old to be your daughter, Han.”

“She’s been flying for Rogue Squadron,” Han said. “You’d be surprised how space combat ages a girl.”

And Leia finally understood. For some reason she did not yet know, Han and Dr. Nimbi were trying to get this woman off Corellia. Jaina was not there at all; none of her children were. Leia should have been relieved, but instead she felt let down and desperately alone.

“. . . that right, Leia?” Han was asking.

“Yes, of course,” Leia answered, with no idea whatsoever what she was agreeing to. “That’s true.”

Han nodded assertively. “You see?”

“Does space combat also change eye color?” the nurse asked, studying the data display attached to the mystery woman’s tank. “I seem to recall that Jaina’s eyes are brown, like her mother’s. This patient’s are listed as green.”

“Cosmetic tinting,” Leia explained. Even if her heart was not in it, she knew what Han needed from her. “To make her harder to identify.”

Sal-Solo looked doubtful. “What are you trying to pull, cousin? This woman can’t be your daughter.”

“I could confirm her identity with a simple genetic test,” Dr. Nimbi suggested. “We could have the results in, oh, two days.”

Sal-Solo glowered at the doctor, then turned to the nurse. “Check the admission data. Who’s the responsible party?”

Han had not changed so much in his time away that Leia could no longer see through his sabacc face. He awaited the nurse’s response with a feigned air of disinterest, but his eyes were fixed behind her, where a reflection on the surface of tank two showed the data scrolling up the display. When the screen finally stopped rolling, its reflection showed several blank data fields. Han’s gaze shifted quickly back to the nurse.

“She was admitted anonymously.” He stated it as though he knew it for a fact. “No name, no contact information.”

The nurse’s jaw fell, but she nodded. “Not even notes about the receiving circumstances.”

Han turned to Sal-Solo with a smirk. “That’s all the proof you need, Governor-General.” He pressed a finger to the bacta tank, and the green eyes of the woman inside fluttered open. “She leaves with us—or I inform every media station in the system that you’re holding our daughter against our will.”

Sal-Solo glared at him. “I could prove that you’re lying.”

“True,” Han said. “But could you prove it to the Yuuzhan Vong?”

Sal-Solo’s face grew even stormier, and he turned to the doctor. “Can she be moved—now?”

“We can lend them a temporary bacta tank,” Dr. Nimbi said. “As long as they change the fluid each time they stop for Leia, this patient should be fine as well.”

Sal-Solo studied the tank, no doubt trying as feverishly as Leia to puzzle out what the woman inside had to do with the Solos—and of what interest she might be to whoever had sent Roxi Barl. Finally, a full minute after Leia had given up on the riddle, he made a sour face and turned to Dr. Nimbi.

“I think I do see a certain family resemblance,” Sal-Solo said. “But you’ll sell the tank to them, not lend. I don’t want anyone coming to return it.”

THREE

THE SECURITY HATCH finally irised open, revealing the cavernous interior of the public berthing facility where the Solos had hidden the Millennium Falcon in plain sight. On any other planet, they would have rented a private bay in some very discreet luxury dock. But on security-obsessed Corellia, such measures inevitably drew more attention than they avoided. Leia and Han spent a moment studying the activity on the docking bay’s floor, then exited the cramped access lock.

The hatch whispered shut behind them, and finally they were someplace where they could talk. Putting her growing fatigue out of mind, Leia caught Han’s arm and pulled him around to face her.

“Han, what’s going on?” A muffled clamor sounded inside the access lock as their CorSec escorts entered with their “daughter” and her portable bacta tank. “Who is that woman, and why did Nimbi want us to remove her from a medcenter she seems very much in need of?”

“Because she may be in as much danger as you are.” Han squatted on his haunches in front of Leia, placing himself at eye level—and turning his back to any spymikes that might be aimed at them from the facility’s depths. “She did some things to help me during the firefight. I think she’s a Jedi.”

“A Jedi?” Leia did not ask for details or reasons. The CorSec agents would be in the access lock only a few moments, just long enough for the security computers to scan their faces and confirm their identities. “We may not be doing her any favors. Whoever sent Barl is still on our trail.”

Han glanced over his shoulder. “Where?”

“Behind us, in the access lock,” Leia said. “You remember when I said that CorSec agent was stealing?”

Han’s brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

“I wasn’t hallucinating. My datapad is gone.”

Now he looked angry. “That Ranat!”

“Han, don’t say anything about it. The money was well spent.” The device had only been a cheap replacement for the one she’d lost on Duro, and there was nothing on it but a few half-finished—probably incoherent—letters to family and friends. “He also took two datachits and the recording rod.”

“That’s money well spent?”

“It is when you realize he didn’t touch my credit case,” Leia said. “Or the credit chips you left on the dresser.”

“He’s a spy,” Han said.

Leia nodded. “Not a very good one, but I think so. Probably working for the same people who sent Roxi Barl.”

The hatch behind Leia began to hiss. Han glanced over her shoulder, then asked in a low voice, “What about the others?”

“Only the one,” Leia whispered. She was fairly certain of what she said; the agent had been working as hard to hide his thefts from his officer as from them.

The hatch stopped hissing, and two CorSec security men emerged with the mystery woman and her portable bacta tank. The guards were the spy and the same officer who had been in Leia’s room when she was awakened. She let her chin drop, less feigning exhaustion than allowing it to show. Despite the stimshots and painkillers Dr. Nimbi had pressed on her, the effort of sitting upright was taking its toll.

The hatch closed, and the officer said, “Go on, Solo. The rest of the detail will stay behind to hold the media back.”

“Thank you,” Leia said, and she meant it. Without a wall of CorSec agents to keep the holocrews at bay, she felt fairly certain the journalists would have followed them aboard the Falcon. “I thought we were going to have stowaways.”

“No need to worry about that,” the spy said. “We’ll do a search.”

Han muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “over your dead body,” then led the way around the perimeter of the floor—no experienced spacer ever cut across a public docking bay—toward a shadowy disk resting between the blockier forms of two ancient transports. Though Leia had never been a fan of the Falcon’s new matte-black finish, she had to admit that it did as much to reduce the famous ship’s public profile as it did to hide the hull blemishes acquired over so many decades of rough use. Now, even when someone did happen to notice the vessel sitting in the murk, it would hardly draw a second glance.

She wondered if that was what Han had intended when he chose the new color, or if it had just been a way of expressing his grief over Chewbacca’s loss. She might never know; they were no longer close enough that she could guess, and she was not comfortable asking. How sad was that, after defeating the Empire and having three children together?

As they approached the Falcon, an anvil-headed silhouette with glittering yellow eyes emerged from between the landing struts, thin arms held casually out to the sides to show that his three-fingered hands were empty.

“Captain Solo,” he rasped. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

“Not so fast, Twinkle-eyes,” Han said. “Just step away from the ship and go. We’re not giving interviews.”

“Interviews?”

The figure laughed coarsely and stepped into the light, revealing the salt-addicted Arcona who had exchanged glances with Leia in the hospital. He had a flat reptilian face with skin the color of durasteel and a cockeyed mouth that made him look half salted; over his threadbare tunic, he now wore a shabby flight tabard lined with dozens of fastclose cargo pockets.

“I’m no holojournalist,” the Arcona said. “All I’m looking for is a ride off this mudball.”

Leaving the portable bacta tank hovering on its repulsor gurney, the CorSec agents drew their blasters and moved up. “Do as Solo says,” the officer ordered. “And give me your identichip.”

The Arcona reached for a pocket as though to obey, then fluttered his fingers in the agents’ direction. “I’m not Corellian,” he said. “I don’t need an identichip.”

“He’s not Corellian,” the subordinate said.

“He doesn’t need an identichip,” the officer added.

Leia’s jaw was already hanging open, but Han was not so easily impressed.

“Cute trick. Now move along—and take your buddies.” He jerked his thumb at the two CorSec agents. “We’re not taking riders.”

The Arcona showed a row of crooked fangs in what was probably a smile. “I’m willing to earn my keep, Captain.” He glanced in Leia’s direction, then his tabard fluttered open to show her the lightsaber hanging on his belt, and she felt something warm slither over her in the Force. “I’m a first-class YT-1300 copilot. Have one of my own, if I can ever get back to the blasted thing.”

“Han.” Leia grabbed her husband’s arm. “I think—”

Han pulled away. “In a minute.” He continued to glare at the Arcona. “I don’t care if you fly Star Destroyers, you’re not getting on my ship.”

“Han!” Leia snapped. “Yes, he is.”

Han started to argue, then seemed to see something in Leia’s eyes that made him think better of it. “He is?”

Thankful she could still reach him, Leia nodded. “I think you should give him a chance,” she said. “I’m certainly not going to be much of a copilot.”

The fact of the matter was that C-3PO, still hiding aboard the Falcon, could help with most of the copilot’s chores, but Han seemed to realize Leia was trying to tell him something else. He turned to the Arcona and studied him from top to bottom, contemplating his ashen complexion, threadbare clothes, and listing features.

“Well, you look like a pilot,” Han said. “What’s the sequence for an emergency ion drive engagement?”

“Warm circuits, actuate, power up,” the Arcona answered.

Han raised his brow. “Emergency shutdown?”

“Power down, then disengage.”

“And where’s the vortex stabilizer found?”

The Arcona’s flat head folded slightly inward at the center, then he raised his three-fingered hand and said, “You already know where the vortex stabilizer—”

Han slapped the hand down. “Don’t try that stuff with me. Who do you think you’re dealing with?”

The Arcona shrugged, then complained, “How should I know where the vortex stabilizer is? That’s not a crew-serviceable part.”

Han actually smiled, then slapped the Arcona on the shoulder. “You’ll do.”

“Thanks, Captain.” The Arcona did not seem all that relieved. He pushed between the CorSec agents toward the portable bacta tank. “I’ll take it from here, fellas.”

The officer stepped aside, but the subordinate stood fast. “Our orders are to load the patient ourselves.”

“That was before we had help,” Leia said. “And your orders were to see us off. No one said anything about snooping around on the Falcon.”

She cast a pointed glare at the pocket containing her datapad. The subordinate’s face turned bright red, and he stepped aside so quickly he nearly fell.

“Hmmm.” The Arcona smiled and, out of the corner of his tilted mouth, whispered, “Interesting technique.”

He retrieved the repulsor gurney, then the agents returned Han’s blaster, and the group boarded together. C-3PO was waiting for them atop the ramp.

“Oh, thank the maker you’re back!” he said, arms pumping madly. “I can’t tell you how many times I was forced to lower the retractable blaster—”

“Not now, Threepio,” Han said, brushing past and starting for the cockpit. “Secure yourself for launch.”

“But Captain Solo, you and Princess Leia have been all over the newsvids. They’re saying you killed three people, and quite a few of the commentators seem to think there should be some sort of legal inquiry—”

“See-Threepio, we know,” Leia said, guiding her chair into the access ring. “This is . . .”

She turned to the Arcona.

“A friend of your doctor’s.” He plucked an eavesdropping device off the portable bacta tank and crushed it under his boot, then added, “There are more.”

Leia nodded and turned back to C-3PO. “Help our guest secure the gurney for launch.”

Seeing that her chair would prevent the bulky bacta tank from entering the access ring, Leia moved ahead. She was feeling terribly tired and weak, and her first instinct was to turn toward the main deck and stay out of the way. But she had been alone too much over the last year, and the thought of sitting by herself while Han and his new copilot solved their problems was more than she could bear. She needed to be with her husband—even if she was no longer quite sure he wanted her.