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“If you could just find out where my quarters are, that would do for now,” Han said, tugging at the tight collar of his shirt. “Oh, and let me know when General A’baht comes aboard.”

Han lay bare-chested on his back in the bunk of what until recently had been the quarters of the ship’s surgeon. His shirt hung from a wall clip nearby, and his shoes made a pile at the foot of the bunk.

It had been a long day, and Han’s body wanted sleep. But the ship, like the station, was on Standard Time, eight hours out of sync with Imperial City. Han knew from experience that the best way to adjust to it was to extend his day further still, and turn in with the first watch. He had left the overhead lights on as insurance against falling asleep.

But his body welcomed the quietude, and his eyes needed rest from the light, and his mind wanted relief from the thoughts that gnawed at him. Nothing felt right—being away from Leia and the kids, going off alone without Luke or Chewbacca, resenting Leia for asking when she knew he could not refuse her, hating his own inability to say no. Somewhere he had lost the independence he had once cherished as his most precious possession, and the worst part was that he knew he had given it up freely.

No—the worst part was that here he was, on his own, and he couldn’t remember how to enjoy it. It didn’t feel right to be alone.

Han flung an arm across his face and tried to make it all vanish. In a little while, it did.

General A’baht climbed out of the Poranji jumper with respectable limberness for someone his age.

“General,” the deck officer said, saluting smartly. “Good to see you, sir. Captain Morano’s in conference with the task force captains, and the XO is on the bridge.”

“Thank you,” A’baht said, jumping down and jerking a thumb in the direction of the jumper. “Find someplace to strap this down, will you, Marty? It’s borrowed, but I’ve taken kind of a fancy to it.”

“Yes, sir. Will do.”

There was something about the deck officer’s demeanor—something in his voice, or the way he held his mouth—that wasn’t quite right. But it wasn’t until A’baht turned to walk forward toward the exit that he got a clue as to what it was. That was when he saw that fully half the bay’s crew had stopped work to look his way. Several seemed to be wearing either funereal regret or indignant distress on their faces.

“Marty, what’s going on?”

The deck officer swallowed hard. “Sir, General Han Solo showed up a couple of hours ago—”

“Did he,” A’baht said thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir. I figured that he was here to see us off, but the captain put him in Dr. Archimar’s quarters.”

“Did he.”

“Yes, sir. I—General, there’s talk that Solo’s here to take over the Fleet.”

“If he is,” A’baht said evenly, “then Captain Morano gave him the wrong quarters. Where is General Solo now, Marty?”

“I can find out for you. He asked to be notified when you came aboard, sir.”

“Find out for me,” said A’baht, nodding. “But let me be the one to give him the message.”

A smile cracked the deck officer’s mask of concern. “Yes. sir.”

The first that Han knew he had fallen asleep was when he was startled awake by a sharp noise. Sitting bolt upright, wild-eyed, he found a tall Dornean in a Fleet Command uniform looming over him. The age lines on the Dornean’s face showed that he was over a hundred years old. The bars on his jacket showed that he was General A’baht.

“General Solo,” A’baht said. “There’s a rumor all over the ship that I’m out and you’re in. Want to tell me what that’s about?”

“I don’t know what that’s about,” said Han, swinging his feet over the side of the bunk and grasping for his shirt. Still half addled by his nap, he needed three swipes to grab it away from the clip. “You’re the commander of the Fifth Fleet. Nothing’s changed.”

“You’re here,” A’baht said, settling back against the vanity. “That’s a change.”

Han shrugged into his shirt and began struggling with the buttons. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Look, General, I know you don’t want me here, and the truth is I really don’t want to