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“Submit or die,” the guard growled.

The sudden pain, and the adrenaline that came with it, had energized Han’s body to the point that he was ready to fight the Yevethan who was pinning him down. Then he heard Barth groan in pain, then call out in a raspy, shaky voice, “Don’t—don’t—it was me, Han, my fault—I fell, that’s all, stupid clumsy feet—”

With a will, Han opened his fists and spread his hands wide in surrender. “It’s all right, Lieutenant. We’ll let ’em off this time, okay?”

The guard looming over Han stepped back. Moving slowly, Han clambered back to his feet. A few meters down the corridor, Barth was doing the same. “You okay?”

“I’m—what are they going to do? Where are they taking us?”

“It’s going to be all right,” Han said, tugging his pants up at the waist. “Hey, how about this fine Yevethan tailoring?”

Jerking his head to the left, the guard growled, “Enough. Darama waits. Walk.”

The prisoners were taken to a large chamber with a high domed ceiling decorated with scarlet accents. They were made to sit at either end of a long bench facing a low platform and a large window beyond. Han squinted at the bright light, but savored the warm, fresh breeze entering the chamber with it.

There was one oddity: Lieutenant Barth’s wrists were bound to a bar running the length of the bench, low behind their hips. But Han’s were not.

Before he could puzzle that out, Viceroy Nil Spaar entered the chamber.

“Darama,” Han repeated under his breath.

Nil Spaar was leading an entourage of four. One carried a folding stool, which he set up facing the prisoners’ bench. A second carried a tall stand topped by a silver sphere, which he placed a meter to the right of the stool and slightly forward. Those two left when they had shed their burdens.

The two that remained took up positions behind Nil Spaar as he settled on the stool. Han studied their faces, trying to divine what burdens they had carried into the room. Advisor? Muscle? Toady? What does a Yevetha look like when it’s nervous? Or do they even get nervous?

“General Solo,” said Nil Spaar, ignoring Barth with both his words and his gaze. “You appear to be the only one who can save thousands more of your kind from dying in shame. I am here to give you that opportunity.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were on your way to take command of the Fifth Fleet when you were captured. You were carrying Princess Leia’s orders for the invasion of Yevethan territory.”

Han waited, mute.

“Defiance of the sovereignty of the viceroy of the Protectorate makes your life forfeit,” Nil Spaar continued. “I have spared you in the hope that you will join me in an act of mercy.”

Han cocked his head. “Explain.”

“Princess Leia has recklessly sent more ships to threaten us—”

“Good for her.”

“—and issued foolish ultimatums. She does not understand us. Perhaps when you do, you can open her eyes.”

“Go on.”

“Our claim to these stars is natural and ancient. Our eyes have owned them since the beginning of our days. They are alive in our legends. They call to us in our dreams. We draw our strength from the All. The purity of the All inspires us to perfection.

“Our claim to these stars is not a shallow thing of greed, or politics, or ambition. It is not a claim we would ever surrender. We are not like the weaklings you are accustomed to, calculating when to pursue an advantage and when to retreat, believing only in the expediencies of the moment.

“Leia’s threats do not move us. We will never give up that which is ours, or share it with those who are not born of the All. If your forces do not withdraw, there will be war—terrible, bloody, unending. We will never yield, General Solo—and none of your soldiers will enjoy my mercy as you have. The fighting will go on until the last of you has been killed or driven out. Do you understand that, General?”

“I think so.”

“I hope you do,” said Nil Spaar. “I have studied your histories. You have never faced an adversary like us. Your wars are decided by the death of a