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Han nodded thoughtfully. “Well, if that doesn’t change, you’ll be able to figure out our chances by yourself. Let’s take inventory.”

The pockets of what remained of the two men’s flight suits yielded a flexible comb, the Imperial thousand-credit “Victory Tax” coin Barth carried as a worry-stone, an expired meal card from the Fleet headquarters mess, a pilot’s pop-up collapsible cup, and one two-tablet dose of an antiallergen that was on the preflight restricted list. The inventory of jewelry was even shorter—two Fleet service pins with sealed-back attachment mounts, and a fine titanium ankle chain.

“I’ve seen bigger arsenals,” Han said, and nodded toward the corpse. “We’d better see what he has.”

Barth blanched. “Couldn’t we skip that?”

“They didn’t bother to strip him. Maybe they didn’t bother to search him, either.”

The blaster bolt that had killed Captain Sreas had scooped out a third of his upper chest, leaving behind a cauterized concavity into which the burned edges of the hole in his blouse were fused. The hollow was half filled by the gray down enthusiastically growing on the cadaver.

Gritting his teeth, Han rummaged the pockets and keepaway flaps of the captain’s flight suit. He handed his discoveries to Barth, who hung back and tried not to watch.

“How long did you serve with him?” Han asked.

“Four months—nineteen jumps all together.”

“Your first assignment?”

“Second. I spent a year with the Third Fleet as a drag pilot on a tender.”

Han pulled a Fleet ID from the shoulder pocket and passed it back. “What kind of man was he?”

“All officer,” said Barth. “Demanding, but fair. Not much of a talker—I know he had kids, but I don’t know their names.”

“I know the kind,” Han said, then touched his tongue to a comlink power pack. “Dead,” he muttered, handing it back. “Did he ever surprise you?”

“He collected glass animals,” said Barth. “I wouldn’t have expected that. And once he showed me the holo of his wife he always carried with him. It must have been twenty years old. She was sitting on a black-sand beach somewhere wearing nothing but a smile. ‘That’s the most beautiful woman on this or the next thousand worlds,’ he told me. ‘I’ll never figure out why she fell in love with a dullard like me.’ ”

“And was she?”

Barth took a moment to consider. “In a way. I guess I’d have to say any man would say so if that smile of hers was aimed at him. I’m still hoping to find someone who looks at me that way.”

Han nodded as he gently rolled the corpse onto its back. Then he sat back on his heels. “Well, I can’t say that Captain Sreas’s worldly possessions are going to have much to say about the outcome,” he said. “But hold on to that hope, Lieutenant. You’ll see Coruscant again.”

By then Barth had retreated from the corpse to the opposite wall. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think we’re going to die here, too.”

Han grimaced as he stood, but erased the pain from his face before he turned toward the young officer. “Lieutenant, our captors went to a lot of trouble to grab us. They’re not about to discard us now. And the folks at home aren’t going to just write us off. One way or another, our people are going to get us out of here. Until then, we have an obligation to be as difficult and uncooperative as we can manage. You can’t let them make you afraid. That just gives them what they want—a way to control you.”

“But isn’t that what we are—a way for the Yevetha to control the President?”

Han shook his head firmly. “If I thought for a moment that Leia would compromise herself, that she’d compromise the Fleet or the New Republic because of us being prisoners here, I’d find a way to die now, before it could happen.”

“Then explain this—if you’re right, why should the Yevetha keep us alive once they find out we’re not worth anything as bargaining chips?”

“Slatha essach sechel.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

Han hadn’t expected Barth to understand—the reintroduction of Illodian was meant as a reminder. Han pointed at the air vent over his head to underline the reminder, and a light went on in Barth’s haunted eyes.

“If your