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Dengar’s heart began beating harder. So you did it, Han, Dengar thought. You escaped again. Now I must follow.

And Dengar had only three things to work with. His rage, his hope, and his loneliness. He flailed about, looking both ways across the desert for signs of help, but there was none, and the aching loneliness flayed him. He wondered how he would ever vent his rage and frustration, when the object of his wrath was flying away. Han, like the Empire, was untouchable, unbeatable, and Dengar cried out in anger against them.

And as he did so, he imagined Manaroo, imagined huddling in her arms as the tech-empath shared her emotions, making him human once again.

With a scream like one damned, Dengar jerked his right hand with all his might, not caring if he pulled it off at the wrist. The Empire had destroyed him, but in the process it had given him strength. Almost immediately one of the cords snapped with a twang, followed quickly by the snapping sound of another, while the bolt that held the third cord pulled from the rock.

Dengar screamed again and began kicking with his left leg, till it also tore bolts free from the ground, then he pulled out the ropes that held his right leg and untied his left hand.

The Teeth of Tatooine had him now as the storm built to its crescendo. The skies were going dark under whirling clouds of sand, and Dengar knew that there was no shelter. He’d seen nothing that could hide him for miles. Still, Jabba’s men had tied Dengar to the ground while Dengar wore his battle armor. Dengar’s legs and chest had ample protection, but at the moment, it was his head and hands that were being chewed away.

Dengar turned his back to the wind and began stumbling in the general direction of Jabba’s palace. Boba Fett had betrayed him twice. But he had left Dengar wearing his armor, and Dengar vowed silently that Boba Fett would pay for that mistake with his life.

For long he walked, head hunched, hands curled up protectively against his chest. He was stumbling blindly, unable to see, suffering from fevered dreams. The dry wind was having its way with him, and still after two hours he had not begun to find his way off the pan, nor had he found so much as a single boulder in this sandblasted desert that he could hide behind.

At last, when he could walk no farther and his rage and hope languished under the weight of fatigue, Dengar curled in a ball and lay down to die.

It seemed he waited for an eternity, and he lay exhausted, empty, knowing that he could not make it out of the desert himself. Even if he’d broken his bonds immediately after wakening, he might not have made it out of this desert himself.

And then it came to him, distantly at first. His eyes were closed, but he saw light. He felt as if he were flying, almost as if he were bouncing over the ground in a speeder, and something propelled him forward, dimly recalled memories. He felt an overwhelming sense of love and hope, tinged with a sense of urgency.

I am dying, he thought. My life force is flying. But where am I going? He watched for a moment, and the lights and feelings became more clear. He felt younger and stronger and more passionate than he had in years, and he stopped and called out in hope, “Payback?”

Then Dengar realized the truth. This was not a vision of dying, this was Manaroo. Dengar was still wearing his Attanni, and Manaroo was somewhere nearby in a speeder, searching for him.

Dengar shouted, stood in the clouds of dust. He looked about and could not see her, and she could not hear him. He felt her frustration as she powered up the speeder, prepared to move on.

Dengar shouted again, and again, and stood with his eyes closed and his hands raised to the sky, and suddenly she turned.

Through Manaroo’s eyes he could see himself vaguely through the haze—a dim mass in the dark swirling sands, something that might be human, or might only be an illusion, or might only be a stone.

Manaroo turned the speeder, and the image was lost for a moment in a driving gust of sand, but she plunged ahead, until she saw Dengar standing