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Han ushered Spray into the navigator’s chair, directly behind his own, and all three buckled themselves in. He thought about sending out a distress signal to the Mor Glayyd, but a glance at the commo board ended that; one or more of the oncoming craft was jamming, and he had no time to try to circumvent the interference.

Bringing thrusters up to a hover, he retracted the ship’s three-point landing gear the rest of the way. Over the low tumult of the engines he asked the Wookiee, “How good a pilot is he?” He jerked a thumb at Spray. The first mate made a so-so motion of his hairy paw but nodded, which meant that while the skip-tracer might never make the Kessel Run, he would be adequate in a jam—which this was. “Splendid,” Han said unenthusiastically, and cut in main thrusters. Kicking up fountains of steam and mud and clumps of scrub growth, the Millennium Falcon blasted free of the remaining snow and shot off into the sky.

Han let his copilot take the controls and left his seat to bend over Spray. “Here it is: we haven’t got hyperdrive because we didn’t have time to reconnect it. That means we can’t duck out of this one. Sensors say those are small, fast jobs coming for us, maybe interceptors, and sooner or later they’ll overhaul us. We can’t outrun them but we can outfight them if Chewie and I can man the turrets. That means somebody’s got to pilot, so unless you feel like manning a quad-mount—”

“Captain,” gasped Spray, “I’ve never fired a weapon in my life!”

“Sort of what I figured,” sighed Han. “Take a seat here.” Scratching his hand nervously, Spray sat unwillingly in the pilot’s seat while Han adjusted it and pushed it closer to the console. Spray poked his buck-toothed snout up to various indicators, scopes, and gauges; with his inferior eyesight he was, of course, primarily an instrument pilot. But he obviously knew what he was doing.

“Just keep shields up and try to angle with their attack runs,” Han instructed, “and try to preserve her resale value, if that inspires you. Otherwise, nothing fancy. Just leave the rest to us.”

He and his partner made their way to the central ladderwell that led to the top and belly turrets. “I wish there was another way to do this,” Han confessed.

“Dowwpp,” the Wookiee responded.

Han climbed toward the top turret and felt the vibrations along the ladder that told him his copilot was descending. He hauled himself into the turret, seating himself before the quad-guns and donning his headset.

Ship’s gravity was altered here, permitting him to sit with his back perpendicular to the ladderwell without feeling a downward drag. In the same way, Chewbacca would be sitting in the belly turret facing directly “downward” without being pulled against his seat’s belt.

Glancing over his shoulder, Han could look directly down the ladderwell at his friend’s back. Chewbacca flipped him a quick wave, and each of them ran his battery through a few test-traverses, making sure the servos responded to control grips and tracked accurately.

“The usual stakes,” Han called down, “and double for kills in the Money Lane.” Chewbacca woofed consent.

Spray’s voice, shaking with tension, came up. “I have three confirmed blips on approach. They should be on your screens by—they’re on us!”

XII

JUST as Spray apprised the two partners of the oncoming craft, the newcomers announced their own arrival unmistakably. The Millennium Falcon quaked, her shields claiming huge amounts of power as cannon fire incandesced against her.

“They’re breaking!” Spray yelled, but both Han and Chewbacca could already see that from their targeting monitors. Clutching the handgrips of his gunmount, Han traversed the quad-barrels astern to address his natural target, the uppermost of the vessels overtaking his ship. He knew the Wookiee would be on the one falling deepest into his own field of fire. They’d been through this sort of thing before; each knew the area of his responsibility and how the other worked.

The targeting computer drew