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“Yes, I know,” said Tal Fraan. “I have studied your past. I learned a great deal from it. It is how we know how important you are to your people. There are so many stories about you, Han Solo—more than are told of any Yevetha, even the viceroy. I wonder why you permit it.” He paused a moment, then continued. “This is also how we knew that Lieutenant Barth was not important. There were no stories of his life and heroics. I was not surprised when you let him die.”

Han’s hot flash of anger overwhelmed any good intentions he had not to be drawn into Tal Fraan’s game. “You son of a bitch—you think you understand us, but you haven’t the first clue,” he snapped. “What you did to Barth makes him important to us—just like what you did to those colonists all over the Cluster made them important to us. We’re not like you—we remember our dead. That’s why our fleet isn’t going away.”

Other than a twitch of his forebrow ridges, Tal Fraan showed no outward reaction whatever to Han’s outburst. “I have an interesting question for you, Han Solo—do you think that your mate would be willing to fire through your body to kill my master?”

“Is that what this is about? Is that why I’m being moved?” Han looked out at the swiftly darkening sky enveloping the shuttle, at the rich array of bright stars piercing the curtain. “When you can answer that question yourself, Proctor, then you really will understand us as well as you think you do.”

“So coy,” said Tal Fraan. “Is the answer that distasteful to you?”

“All I’m gonna say is this,” Han said, relaxing against the back of the bench and turning a quietly murderous gaze on the Yevetha. “When your last morning arrives—and it’ll come sooner than you think—I hope the fates give you a moment to realize that everything that’s happened, you brought on yourself.”

“You are kind to show such concern for me,” Tal Fraan said, nodding and smiling generously. “We will have to talk again. You have been most helpful.”

As Han gritted his teeth Tal Fraan peered past him out the viewport at the massive Star Destroyer Pride of Yevetha, which had just come into view.

“Such a splendid vessel. The sight of it still inspires my blood,” he said with open pride. “You should count yourself honored that the viceroy has allowed you to make it your new home.”

* * *

From the moment Han knew where he was bound, he had been picturing himself alone in one of the tiny isolation cells of a standard Imperial detention block. A Super-class Star Destroyer had six such detention blocks for crew discipline alone, and ten additional high-security blocks for enemy prisoners.

But to Han’s surprise, his four-guard escort led him to a different part of the ship, and a different sort of prison. Three of the ship’s cargo areas had been designed for the secure transport of large numbers of slaves, refugees, or prisoners of war. Located adjacent to the large landing bays used by the SSD’s bulk shuttles, each of the holding areas was equipped with minimal facilities—water taps, ventilation, and food dispensers—considered adequate for up to a thousand people.

The holding area to which Han was taken, number two, was not even remotely that crowded. At a glance, Han guessed that there were no more than a hundred prisoners huddled along the walls or sprawled on the hard deck.

Most took little or no notice of his arrival, but a small group, perhaps twenty strong, formed a large, ragged circle around him as he made his way toward a water tap. More than half a dozen species were represented in the circle, and they looked upon him with a mixture of dull-eyed curiosity and suspicion.

“What world are you from?” asked a young woman in a brown fire-scorched caftan. She was either human or Andalese—her tousled hair might have concealed the latter’s horn points, and the caftan was shapeless enough to hide the symbiosis grafts.

“Coruscant,” said Han. “And you?”

“I was at the Morath pholikite mine number four, on Elcorth.”

The others began to crowd closer