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If we had had time to retune the engines, Han carped at himself, we’d be highstepping away from them right now.

A voice crackled over the open commo board. “Heave to, Millennium Falcon, or we fire for effect!” Han recognized the voice.

He switched his headset to transmit mode. “No free meals today, Magg!”

Fiolla’s onetime assistant said nothing more. The pursuer’s shots came closer; the shields’ drain on the Falcon’s power grew acute. Han trained batteries aft by servo-remote. The slaver with her heavier guns was still out of range. Though Han flew a twisting, evasive course, parting the cold air of Ammuud with a high whistle of speed, he knew the slaver would soon close. All he could hope for was that inspired piloting, more than a little luck, and a well-placed salvo to damage the slaver would get him clear.

He brought his ship out of a quick bank with a flourish, sideslipping as thick streams of turbolaser fire belched past to starboard, just missing the Falcon. He thought, we could still make it, unless—

Fulfilling his silent fear, the freighter wobbled and shook herself as if in the throes of a fit. Instruments confirmed that a brute tractor beam had fastened onto the Falcon. Her maximum effort failed to free her.

With the freighter held fast, the slaver closed rapidly. In another moment, Han knew, their pursuer would be on top of them. He tried not to be distracted by regrets; his hands flew across the console and he lacked even the time to tell his copilot what he was about to do.

Han brought the Falcon about at full power, just barely overcoming the drag of the tractor, redeploying defensive shields to maximum over the upper half of his ship’s hull. Before the startled pilot of the slaver vessel knew what was happening, the Millennium Falcon had come about, reversing field in the tractor beam, and dived under his bow. Evading the tractor projector set in the bottom of the slaver’s hull took an extra twist and full power from the freighter’s already overworked engines, using both the tractor’s draw and the Falcon’s thrust to snap-roll free of the beam.

Dumbfounded fire-control officers began redirecting their gun crews’ aim, but the suddenness of the freighter’s evasion had won Han the advantage of surprise.

Streaking under the length of the slaver, Han fired salvos from his top turret and waited with some dread for the moment his shields failed. But they didn’t, and Han’s wild aerobatics eluded all fire coming from the surprised slaver.

Nearly. There was a monumental jarring. Such of the Falcon’s alarms and warning lights as were not already alive came on. Chewbacca, taking damage readings, hooted worriedly as Han accelerated again, leaving the slaver to match him if she could.

He turned to Spray. “Some of that new stuff we put in today must’ve been hit; I don’t get any readouts from it. Try the forward tech station and see if you can find out anything.”

The skip-tracer staggered off, lurching this way and that as the ship swayed around him. Reaching the forward compartment, he found Fiolla and Bollux still seated in the acceleration couch. From the tech station’s chair Spray began examining readouts and squinting into scanners and scopes, twisting in the chair and scratching at his hand nervously.

“Does your hand still hurt, Spray?” asked Fiolla.

“No, it’s much—” he started to say, then stopped and swung his chair around to face her with a shocked look. “I meant—that is—”

“Somatigenerative treatments always leave the skin itchy, don’t they?” Fiolla went on, ignoring his protests. “You’ve been scratching since we got here. Solo told me he bit the hand of whoever jumped him in the hangar at the Bonadan spaceport. It was you, wasn’t it?” There was little of inquiry in her tone, more of statement.

Spray was very calm. “I forgot how bright you are, Fiolla. Well, yes, as a matter of fact—” The Falcon quaked again; the slaver was gaining on her once more.

“And you left the lifeboat transceiver keyed open, too, didn’t you?” she snapped. “But how? Han was right; you weren’t anywhere near that boat.”

“I