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He got an answer from the flight controller after the rover landed.

“Outer patrol is moving out on an intercept,” the controller advised them. “We’ve got a ship coming in from the interior, high speed, no proper ID, nothing but some kind of jammer or scrambler signal in response to our hail.”

Morano wheeled around to face Wialu. “Is this part of your demonstration, too?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “This one belongs to you.”

“General, Commander Jarrou has taken the group back to a level two alert,” the controller continued. “Captain, you and the general are wanted upstairs, flank speed.”

Luke raced to the bridge at General A’baht’s heels, then anchored himself in front of a tracking display. The image was still small and two-dimensional. His head cocked to the side, Luke studied the image as it slowly grew larger.

“Specialist, how fast is that ship moving?”

“Eight sublight, sir. She’s cooking.”

“Can you let me hear that jammer signal she was transmitting?”

“Still transmitting,” said the specialist. “On the headphones, sir. Watch the volume—it’s an eardrum-killer.”

Luke slipped the earpieces in place and listened. Almost at once, he laughed.

“Sir?”

“That’s not a jammer. That’s Shyriiwook. Wookiee-talk,” he said, tearing off the headphones. “It’s Chewbacca, and he’s upset about something.” Luke peered at the display again. “He wants those pilots to get out of the way. General A’baht!”

A’baht looked up from a huddle with the tactical officer. “What now?”

“Better tell those fighters they’re on a rendezvous-and-escort, not an intercept,” said Luke. “That’s the Millennium Falcon coming in.”

Shoran and Han were both carried off the Falcon on medevac stretchers.

By appearance alone, they looked to be in equally dire straits, but the indicator lights on the stretchers’ monitor panels foretold their different destinations. The indicators on Shoran’s stretcher were static and mostly red, and he was taken directly to Intrepid’s morgue. The indicators on Han’s stretcher were jumpy and mostly yellow, and he was taken directly to a bacta tank in med ward one.

There was no chance for Luke or anyone else to talk to Han before he went into the tank. He had apparently been unconscious since before the Falcon jumped out from N’zoth, his already fragile state aggravated by the stresses of the rescue, particularly the high-g escape. And even if Han had been conscious, there was Chewbacca to contend with—the Wookiee hovered over Han so protectively that he got in the way of the doctor and the medical droid, and ultimately had to be dragged back from the triage table by two of his companions.

The four Wookiees made an impressive sight, and their presence in the med ward drew a great deal of curious attention. Luke thought he recognized the injured one as Lumpawarrump, a thought confirmed when Chewbacca made him the next object of his anxious hovering.

Lumpawarrump had limped off the ship under his own power, but the second-degree blaster burn on his right calf was ugly with leaking blisters and needed care as well. A translator droid arrived in time to assist K-1B to negotiate with his patient.

“Skin and hair cell damage is serious. Underlying fat and muscle damage is limited,” said K-1B. “All damage is repairable. Prescribe immersion, one session, ten hours.”

Both Chewbacca and his son looked at the prep table where Han was being fitted with his breather and monitors. Chewbacca drew his upper lip back over his teeth in an expression of disgust, and Lumpawarrump shook his head vigorously as he growled an answer.

The droid’s translation was diplomatic. “The patient has expressed an unwillingness to be immersed.”

K-1B’s head swiveled in a distinctively mechanical fashion. “Topical treatments are of limited effectiveness. Grafts are contra indicated for species with body fur. Scarring is likely without immersion.”

Both Lumpawarrump and Chewbacca answered at once, and their growls had sharply contrasting timbres.

“The patient says that he finds scarring socially