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Han caught his breath and went to his side. “Must be something I can do to help.”

“Yes,” Droma said, scowling at him through tears, “learn to fall more gracefully. Learn to fall brilliantly.”

Han dropped into a sitting position, with his hands resting on his raised knees. “Easy for someone with a tail to say.” He let a moment pass, then he grinned. “You saved my neck, Droma. I won’t forget this.”

Droma snorted. “I couldn’t very well let you fall. As you said, you’re too well-known to die.”

“You’d better believe it.” Clapping him on the back, Han helped him to his feet. “Come on, we might still be able to catch them.”

Droma exhaled in exasperation. “You never give up, do you?”

Han threw a smile over his shoulder. “Thanks to you I’ve got my second wind.”

“I’ll know better next time,” Droma muttered.

With the Ryn hobbling after, Han raced down the passageway for the hatch to the docking bay. But even from a distance it was clear that the hatch-release mechanism had been rendered inoperative by a well-aimed blaster bolt.

Han palmed the release pad anyway, then turned to Droma, frowning. “Reck doesn’t miss a trick.”

They raced back down the passageway and through a series of right-angle turns that brought them to another hatch—also fused by blasterfire. It was the same at every hatch that accessed the docking bay from that part of the Queen. But by the time they had circled back to the first hatch, the passageway was thick with the astringent smell of molten plasteel, and a neat half circle had been burned through the hatch.

“Hull cutter,” Han said excitedly.

He and Droma fell back as the cutter completed its work. Moments later a massive disk of alloy dropped from the hatch with a resounding boom and rolled a few meters down the passageway, gyrating like a coin before it ultimately settled to the floor. Through wisps of white smoke agitated by the pressure differential surged a dozen New Republic elite forces in black helmets and A/KT combat jumpsuits, carrying BlasTech E-15A rifles and grenade launchers.

Han and Droma ducked into a recess as the soldiers stormed down the passageway, seemingly unaware that most of the Peace Brigade had already abandoned ship. Han motioned Droma through the circular breach in the hatch. In the spacious pressurized bay beyond sat the sleek assault craft that had brought the troopers aboard, along with two X-wings.

One of the starfighter pilots was just climbing from the cockpit when Han ran up to him to ask if he’d seen any ships leaving the bay.

The pilot took off his helmet and shook his long hair out of his face. “Word is that three shuttles launched, but I didn’t see any of them.” The pilot gave Han and Droma a distrustful look. “Who are you two?”

Han was considering just whose name he should drop to facilitate commandeering a fighter when another ship nosed through the docking bay’s transparent force field and surrendered itself to the grasp of the starliner’s artificial gravity.

It took Han a moment to accept that it really was the Falcon.

Droma guffawed in derision. “Will you look what the Queen dragged in.”

Han whirled on him, brows beetled and mouth an elongated O. “Hey, that’s my ship you’re talking about.”

Droma looked from Han to the Falcon and back again. “Your ship?”

Without bothering to explain, Han hastened for the landing zone while the Falcon was settling down on her broad disks of landing gear. He was waiting at the foot of the starboard ramp when Luke, Mara, and Leia appeared. Behind them came R2-D2 and C-3PO, who on seeing Han, raised his arms and nearly took a tumble in his haste to reach him.

“Thank the maker you’re alive!” the droid exclaimed. “I don’t know what I might have done had my actions contributed to your demise!” He turned to his counterpart. “You see, Artoo, no matter how great the odds, there is always a chance of beating them.”

Leia’s face lit up. She tried to run to Han’s arms, but he deftly avoided contact.

“Did you spot any departing shuttles when you were