Leia steps forward. She clasps Norra's hands in her own. "Lieutenant Wexley-"

"Norra."

"Norra, please, reconsider. Don't do this to yourself. Not for me."

"Why not? You'd do it for me. For all of us. That person, the princess and general in all the holovids? That's not some creation. It's not propaganda. It's you. You gave up so much for us. You lost your world. At least let me get your husband back." Norra leans forward and in a much lower voice says: "And a child needs its parents. I know that now."

Leia appears speechless. All she can do is acquiesce with a small nod.

"That's done, then," Norra says as her heart churns excited-and panicked-blood through her veins. She feels woozy, like she's on the edge of something. But it feels good. It feels right. "Private citizen Norra Wexley. I suspect this meeting no longer involves me. If you'll excuse me, Admiral, I have matters I must attend to."

- The matters Norra must attend to include, in order: a) Trying very hard not to vomit.

b) Trying doubly hard not to pass out.

c) Feeling both lost and free at the same time, which is probably why she feels like vomiting and passing out.

She stands at the far side of the Skygarden, away from the others, just out of sight. She can't go, not yet. Her legs are too wobbly. And she's not really even sure where she's going.

That's the thing. For so many years now, she's been on rails. Fixed to a track not of her own making. She almost jumped that track on Akiva, but it wasn't long before duty called and once again she was swept up in someone else's cause. Admittedly, it felt comfortable. It felt easy.

Following orders is simple.

But the galaxy isn't simple, is it? The Empire is about following orders, but the Rebel Alliance was about changing all that-tossing it on its head and flipping up an obscene gesture before walking out of the room. The Empire didn't care about individuals. It cared only about itself. Still does. But Norra wants to care about people again. Not orders. Not governments. She adds a new "matter she must attend to" when she tries not to cry.

She fails. Norra sobs. Her shoulders hitch and what comes out of her is a desperate, animal sound. Brentin. Her husband. Temmin's father. Brentin is lost precisely because she got swept up in someone else's cause. And now her chances of getting him back are gone. Because she chose a path bigger and greater, even if it wasn't her own.

It was his. It was Brentin's cause. He was the rebel. She just wanted to be a mother to her son. The galaxy, she hoped then, would sort itself out.

She leans forward, wiping up tears with a drag of her forearm.

A hand falls upon her shoulder.

It's her son. She sweeps him up into a hug. He oofs a little and then goes with it, hugging her back. Approaching under a copse of flyleaf trees are both Sinjir and Jas, with Bones toodling behind.

Norra says to them: "Sorry to do that back there, I know I'm abandoning you and the team-"

"Shut up," Jas says, rolling her eyes. "We're in."

"What?"

"We're going to help you find Solo."

Sinjir snorts. "Little Miss Bounty Hunter here even negotiated a truly impressive fee for the job."

"Shut it, Rath Velus."

"Ten credits. Ten. We're all getting paid enough that we can probably split a steaming kofta-bun or all buy four bottles of jogan juice. Small bottles. We'll be richer than in our wildest dreams. Provided that our wildest dreams have us living in total destitution. You've gone soft, Emari."

"Like the lady said, we have debts. I pay mine."

"And Jom?" Norra asks.

Jas scowls. "No. The coward is sticking with them. Antilles, too."

"That's fine. They have to follow their path. We have ours. So let's get to work." She draws a deep breath and wonders exactly what they're getting themselves into. "Han Solo is apparently not going to find himself."

The veldt stretches out before them.

The ki-a-ki bushes tremble in the warm wind, dark thorny scrubs whose gentle tremors call to mind an animal trying very hard not to be seen. The thirstgrass conspires with the breeze: whispers and shushes and hissed hushes. Red, feathery clouds streak across the open sky, a sky the color of blush and bloom. A lone ship crosses it-some cargo ship, probably, one of the few travelers to this distant world of Irudiru.

Down there, among the grass and the scrub, sits a compound.

The compound has seven buildings. Each sits squat and rectangular, each made of blond brick and blood-red mortar, each with rail-top roofs and round porthole windows and water catchment tanks. One of the buildings is different, though: a manse larger and more ostentatious than the other, more austere buildings. The house is surrounded by a screened-in-porch, a xeriscape garden, and a series of shimmering and shifting holostatues. A droid with many extensor limbs flits about, tending to the garden and tuning up the statues.

Otherwise, the compound is silent and still.

And it has been for the better part of the last day.

This is the compound of Golas Aram.

What the crew knows about Aram is little, but perhaps enough: The big-headed Siniteen was once employed by the Galactic Empire as an architect. A prison architect, in fact. Aram designed some of the Empire's most notable prisons, including the Lemniscate beneath Coruscant, the floating asteroid prison of Orko 9, and the Goa Penal Colony. Aram's reported specialty was making prisons that were self-sustaining and inescapable. He considered it his "art."

Thing is, he didn't work only for the Empire. He operated freelance, too-helping design and build prisons for the Kanjiklub, for the Junihar Cartel, even for Splugorra the Hutt.

Aram is retired, supposedly.

Just the same, Aram is the only Imperial connection out here on Irudiru. He's the one good lead they have. But what happens when they go pulling on that thread? Will they find Han Solo? Or will the whole thing fall apart? Could they be putting Solo in danger?

The narrative they can put together for Solo is shaky, at best. The Millennium Falcon got into a scrap not far from Warrin Station. Han had transmitted after that-but whatever he was investigating sure stirred up trouble. Given the presence of that Prowler droid, plus the information from Black Sun and the sheer manic glee of Tashu regarding Irudiru, there's cause to worry. So if Han was here investigating Aram, then what? After that, the narrative frays. Why look into Aram at all? Did Aram catch Solo sniffing around? Is Solo in prison-or is he looking for someone in prison?

Either way, it's what they have, so here they are.

From their hiding spot atop a gentle hilltop plateau, Norra leans forward, parting the sharp-bladed thirstgrass like a curtain and peering out through a pair of macrobinoculars. Using the dial on the side, she scans through the heat signatures then clicks over to electric and electronic indicators. The binocs highlight a series of danger spots all around the compound; they glow red in the viewscreen. "I see them," she tells Jas-Jas, who lies unseen in the tall grass even though she's only a few meters away.

The binocs highlight that the compound is ringed by an invisible perimeter fence: a barrier of ghosted lasers, impossible to see but sure to cut you apart if you marched through them. The ground leading up to the compound, both in and out of the fence, is littered with land mines. Then, located throughout the compound are turret-droids. Each hides in plain sight near vaporators, looking like part of the mechanism. Stealthy buggers, those.

Through the grass, Jas says, "The place is loaded for war. Aram's protecting himself. I get that he's paranoid, given the changes cascading through the galaxy, but this is a whole other level. He's afraid. And he hasn't come out in days." From behind them, Norra hears Temmin working on something-a tink tink tink followed by a buzzing twist from a microspanner. What is he doing back there? Norra's about to ask, when- The grass swishes and shakes as Sinjir crawls up on his belly. "Ow!" he says, flexing his hand and popping the knuckle of his thumb in his mouth. "This grass is slicing me to bits."

"It drinks your blood," Jas says, easing closer. "Thirstgrass sustains itself on the creatures who walk through it. Little sips from little cuts."

He frowns. "Lovely. I'm here for my hourly update. And my hourly update is: I am bored. Bored out of my skull."

"That's always your hourly update," Norra says.

"Because it's true every hour."

"It's my update, too," Temmin says, crawling up next to them. "Seriously, this is awful. I want to burn all this grass. And the thorny bushes. And the flies." As if to demonstrate, he swats at the back of his hand. "See? Ugh. I should've stayed on Chandrila."

"Can't we just go back to Kai Pompos?" Sinjir asks. "We'd make it by nightfall. There's a little drinkery around the back of the town. They have a still where they ferment this root, this korva root. So we go back, we tip back a few under the Irudiru moons, we reformulate our strategy-"

"This is a fact-finding mission," Norra says, feeling like a mom commanding a child to stay put. "We stay here until all the facts are found."

"Facts are," Temmin says, "the guy isn't coming out. He's dug in like a blood-bug." They'd heard rumors that Aram was a big-game hunter, and thought maybe that would afford them an opportunity to get close to him. But so far, no go. Nor has he gone out for supplies. Or even a breath of fresh air. They've seen neither hide nor hair of the man. Just droids. "Here's what we do. We take Mister Bones-" Bones sits crumpled up behind them, his skeletal body folded tightly with his head bowed and his arms enclosing his knees. "And we let Bones march down there, find the guy, drag him up here onto the plateau, and we question him. Simple."

"As simple as chasing birds with a hammer," Sinjir mutters.

"Everyone hush," Jas says. "Temmin, did you build my thing or not?"

"Yeah, yeah." He fishes around in his pocket and holds up a pair of devices in the palm of his hand. One looks like a round from a slugthrower, but it's been modified-the shell casing crimps around a circuit bulb, and the tip of that bulb has four little prongs. Like insect mandibles. The second device is round, no bigger than a button, with a little zigzag antenna sticking out.

"It's a bug," Temmin says, sounding impressed with himself.

"This planet has enough bugs without us adding more to it," Sinjir grouses. "And before anyone corrects me, yes, I know, it's a listening bug and not a real bug and-oh, never mind. Good job, Jas. Now what?"

"We can't get eyes on, so we need to get ears on. I load this into my rifle and fire it right at his manse. Then-" She grabs the second device. "This jury-rigged earpiece with which to listen in."

"Clever," Sinjir says. "Still not sure what I'm doing here."

Jas hands him the earpiece. "You're going to do the listening."

"Joy." He makes a face as he takes it and screws it into his ear.

The bounty hunter unslings the slugthrower from her back. Norra again grabs the binocs and focuses them at the compound.

A herd of animals have come up alongside the invisible perimeter-long-limbed, long-necked leathery things, these beasts. They number in the dozens. Some stop to nip at the tufts of ki-a-ki bushes, while the others bat at one another with bony protuberances atop their narrow snouts. Norra is pretty sure they're morak. Big things, but herbivores. Though she'd hate to get stomped under those long legs-legs that end in claw-tipped feet.

Jas pulls the slugthrower close and uses her thumb to pop open a bipod at the end of the barrel, giving it stability. She tugs the scope tight against her eye. Norra watches her through the grass-the way Jas draws a breath deep, then slowly exhales it until no breath remains and she is still...

It's surprisingly close to what Luke taught Leia, isn't it?

Shut out the world. Be mindful, but empty.

Like a cup to be filled up.

(Of course, Jas does this in order to kill people more efficiently.) The bounty hunter's finger coils around the trigger.

But then- The morak all look up at the same time. A gesture of alarm.

Norra reaches out and touches Jas's shoulder. "Wait."

"What is it?" Jas asks.

"Something's up."

Sinjir plucks the earpiece out of his ear, scowling at it. "This thing is fritzing out. It's making this...high-pitched whine. Wretched sound."

Down below, the morak begin to move. All of them at once, a herd movement. They go from walking to galloping, their long bony legs launching them forward with a swiftness that surprises Norra.

The animals are headed toward the hill where the crew is waiting.

Closer, closer.

The ground begins to vibrate beneath them.

It's too steep, surely. They can't- The animals reach the bottom of the hill and begin to scramble up the side of it. Their clawed feet make great haste, and now Norra knows what those claws are for. Dust spirals behind them.

They're coming right for us.

"We have to move," Norra cries. "Move!"

She and the others spring up out of hiding and turn tail, bolting through the grass. The morak crest the hill, bleating and blowing mucus from their snouts. The ground rumbles as the herd stampedes.

The grass slices at Norra's arms, but she can't waste time caring. Everyone moves fast-everyone except Bones, who sits somewhere under cover, and is hopefully resilient enough to suffer the knocks and blows of the morak. She's not even sure where they should go. Run straight? Turn to the side? The morak are coming right up behind them- One lopes past Norra in a lumbering gallop, swiping at her with its long neck-the thing is twice her height and she just barely darts out of its way even as others come up behind her. Ahead, though she can't see it, the far side of the hill awaits. What then? Run down it, trying not to fall? Duck and pray the charging morak go over the edge?

The bounty hunter runs next to her, and when one morak comes behind her, Jas jabs at it with the barrel of her slugthrower-and the beast roves drunkenly toward Norra. It clips her and she staggers- Her legs go out from under her- There's Temmin, grabbing her by the belt to keep her from falling. It's just enough to help her get her legs back under her. Norra is about to thank her son- She doesn't get the chance.

A sound hits them, a sonic hum. Suddenly, the morak are squawking and turning sharply away, the herd splitting in twain as if by an invisible wedge. Norra thinks, Thank the stars for whatever is doing that.

But then something lands in the grass in front of them-the thing rolls a few times like a flung rock. It beeps three times in succession. Then: An implosive sound-foomp. The air lights up around them, a hard pulse of bright light. It concusses the air, too, hitting her like a thunderclap. Norra is suddenly blind and deaf, her ears ringing, her vision washed away in a tide of searing white. She fumbles for the blaster at her side-she whips it out, and it's suddenly rocked out of her hand, clattering away.

A shape emerges in front of her as the white light begins to recede: a person-shape. Norra thinks: Aram has us. We thought we were watching him, but he was watching us.

She leans forward, starts to stand.

"Don't move," comes a voice. Quiet, but urgent.

Norra asks as her eyes adjust, "Who is that? Who's there?"

The figure steps forward. She spies two blasters held aloft, one in each hand, and one pointed right at her. "Name's Han Solo. Captain of the Millennium Falcon. Who the hell are you?"

The little cantina here is less a bar and more a ragtag collection of debris and detritus. The crew sits under mesh netting in an alcove formed by old junk: the war-scorched foot of an AT-AT walker; a stack of tire treads looped end-over-end; crates whose lids are pulled back just enough to reveal the haunted dead eyes of forgotten, deactivated droids.

They sit and they watch the man known as Han Solo.

When they saw him on that plateau, he was barely recognizable. The scruffy beard made it hard enough, but then he was dressed in a set of ratty rags: rags, Jas realized later, that matched the color of the thirstgrass. Smart. His hair is longer, too. Shaggier. Unkempt.

Here, now, Jas recognizes in him that smuggler's lean-an easy swagger that the man doesn't have to try to manifest. It's just part of who he is. Part of that bona fide Han Solo charm. He's certainly handsome. A boyish rogue. Jas would, given half an invitation, mount him like a turret. Though here her mind wanders to Jom. That coward, she thinks. She tries to make her fury at the old commando burn hotter than it does. She fails, and misses Jom Barell regardless.

Solo sits back, arm over an empty chair. There's something else there, something beyond his swagger and his charm, and her shared looks with Sinjir tell her that he sees it, too: Solo is on edge. He's wary, but a smuggler is always wary. This is different.

Han Solo is angry.

And not just at them, she thinks.

The Bith bartender shuffles up, his one leg little more than a crudely fashioned metal prosthetic, and pops glasses in front of all of them. Korva. The stuff Sinjir was talking about. The smell coming off the glasses is enough to fry an astromech's circuits. The vapor blurs the air above the liquid. The Bith sets one down in front of Temmin, and Jas watches Norra rescue the glass before the boy can grab it. He pouts in response.

When the Bith is gone, Solo regards them.