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LANDO CALRISSIAN WALKED DOWN THE RAMP OF HIS personal command shuttle looking every centimeter the general he was, from the millimetrically level brim of his gleaming cap to the subtly iridescent uppers of his similarly gleaming boots. The elegantly close-fitting jumpsuit he wore was also subtly iridescent, so that its powder-blue sheen could pick up complementary highlights from whatever environment he might find himself in—because a gentleman and an officer must never, ever clash—and it fit as if it had been designed specifically for him, which, of course, it had. He’d designed it himself.

Thrown over one shoulder he carried his custom belt-length uniform jacket—jet black, naturally, because black goes with everything—which he’d commissioned after being reliably informed that Ackbar and Republic Command would absolutely draw the line at an opera cape. At his side walked Fenn Shysa, wearing only his usual battered flight gear—which, Lando had to admit, suited him rather well.

When Lando had come into the shuttle’s cabin for the first time wearing these dress blues, Shysa had snorted openly. “Don’t recall ever seeing a holo of Madine in an outfit like that.”

“That’s because Crix can’t pull it off,” Lando had replied with a shrug, admiring the jacket’s cut in a full-length mirror. “He carries a bit much in the middle, know what I mean?”

“And you’re wonderin’ why Mandalorian mercenaries don’t seem to respect you.”

Lando grinned. “I like being underestimated.”

“I’m thinkin’ it’s mostly that you like your fancy clothes.”

“If looking good ever becomes a crime, Fenn my friend, I’m ready to do life.”

Shysa marched through the busy docking bay with his usual straight-ahead military stride. Lando lagged a bit, nodding to this tech and that deckhand, greeting most of them by name, introducing himself to those he didn’t know. The same uncanny knack of memory that let him mentally track the tactics and tells of thousands of gamblers across the galaxy also helped him recall the names of anyone he’d ever met—often the names of their children and details of their homeworlds, too. It was more than just a trick, though; he genuinely liked people, and this had made him almost ridiculously popular with the rank and file of the RDF. But it could slow him down when he had to move through a crowd, which was why he was a bit late to catch what Leia was saying to Fenn as he came up, something about C-3PO waiting in the conference room with full briefing and status report.

Something had brought an entirely lovely blush to Leia’s cheeks, which Lando automatically assumed must be the result of some clumsily flattering compliment from Shysa. Since to be outsmoothed by a gruff-mannered fighter jock would never be part of Lando’s life plan, he stepped up and bowed over Leia’s hand. “Princess, I apologize in advance for my inadequate words,” he said, “because as usual, your beauty leaves me entirely speechless.”

“Stow it.” Leia reclaimed her hand with a brisk yank; that high color in her cheeks was apparently not due so much to pleasure as to, say, rage. “Answer a question instead.”

Lando blinked. “Princess?”

“Why is it,” she said through clenched teeth, “that the only man I know under the age of sixty who is capable of even pretending to be a grown-up is my own brother?”

Before Lando could begin to stammer out anything resembling an answer, she swept off along the corridor, stalking toward the docking bay in a stiff-backed march that reminded him uncomfortably of a Socorran granite-hawk’s threat display.

Fenn leaned toward him. “What’s with her?”

“She does seem a bit wrought up.”

“I thought she’s a diplomat—isn’t she supposed to be more, I dunno, kinda self-possessed?”

“She is. She was once interrogated by Darth Vader himself and never so much as blinked. Look up unflappable on the HoloNet, you’ll find her profile.”

“She’s sure flappin’ some right now.”

“I’d say so.”

“So what is it that can get a girl like her so spittin’ mad and all?”

“It’s not a what, it’s a who,”