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Han and Chewbacca pelted down the squalid alley, then swung out onto the street with its rustic-looking buildings made of blue native wood and stuccoed permacrete. A chilly breeze made the Corellian shiver. It was early spring here on Devaron’s south polar continent.

Han quickly holstered his blaster as he dropped his pace to a fast walk. “How’s the arm, pal?”

Chewie groaned, ending in a snarl. Han glanced down at the damage. “Well, it was your choice to come back,” he pointed out. “Not that I’m sorry you did, mind you. I … I want to say … uh … thanks for saving my rear.”

The Wookiee made an interrogatory sound. Han shrugged. “Well, sure, I guess …” he mumbled. “I’ve never had a partner before, but … yeah, why not? It can get kinda boring on long space flights without someone to talk to, I guess.”

Chewie rumbled with satisfaction, despite his pain. “Don’t push your luck,” Han said dryly. “Listen, we got to get that arm seen to. There’s a med droid’s clinic across the street. Let’s go.”

An hour later the two were back on the street. Chewie’s arm, after a bacta treatment, was sheathed in a protective bandage, but the med droid had assured them that Wookiees were quick healers.

The Wookiee had just finished commenting that he was hungry, when Han heard a soft call from the shelter of a nearby doorway. “Pilot Solo …”

Han stopped in his tracks and looked over to find a Duros male beckoning to him. He glanced from side to side, but the Devaronian street scene was quiet and peaceful. This section near the town square was reserved for pedestrian traffic. “Yeah?” he replied, in a low voice.

The blue-skinned Duros motioned for Han to follow him into a nearby alley. The Corellian walked to the mouth, turned the corner, then stood with his back against the wall, hand on the grip of his blaster. “Okay, this is as far as I go without knowing what you want.”

The Duro’s mournful expression lengthened even farther. “You are not a trusting sentient, Pilot Solo. I was referred to you by a mutual friend, Truthful Toryl. He said you are an excellent pilot.”

Han relaxed slightly, but didn’t take his hand off his gun. “I’m good, all right,” he said. “If Truthful Toryl sent you … prove it.”

The Duros gazed straight at him with calm, moonstone-colored eyes. “He said I was to tell you that the Talisman you brought him is no more.”

Han relaxed and took his hand off his weapon. “Okay, you’ve convinced me he sent you,” he said. “State your business.”

“I need a ship delivered to Nar Hekka, in the Hutt system,” the Duros said. “I am willing to pay well … but, Pilot Solo, you must not allow Imperials to board her should you run into any patrols.”

Han sighed. More intrigues. But the Duros’s offer interested him. He’d been planning all along to eventually make his way to Nar Shaddaa, the “Smuggler’s Moon” that orbited Nal Hutta. Now would be as good a time as any. From Nar Hekka, he could easily catch a ship to Nal Hutta or Nar Shaddaa.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“Only if you can raise ship within two hours,” the Duros said. “If not, tell me, and I will look elsewhere for a pilot.”

Han considered for a moment. “Well … I could maybe change my plans … for the right price.”

The Duros named a figure, then added, “And the same sum upon delivery.”

Han snorted, then shook his head, though inwardly he was surprised at how high the initial bid was. “C’mon, Chewie,” he said, “we’ve got places to go, people to see.”

Too quickly, the Duros named another, higher sum.

This guy must really be desperate, Han thought as he pretended to hesitate for a beat. He shook his head. “I dunno … it’s not worth my butt if the Imperials are lookin’ for this ship of yours. What’s she carrying?”

The Duros’s expression did not change. “That I cannot tell you. But I will tell you that if you deliver the ship and its contents safely to Tagta the Hutt, he will be pleased, and pleasing a Hutt Lord is generally considered to be a good thing for one’s financial well-being. Tagta is Jiliac the Hutt’s highest-ranking subordinate