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“Thank you, Han Solo, for giving me the chance to return to my own kind,” she told him. Without warning, she tossed the filled bulb at him. “See that this reaches the Jedi.”

Reflexively, Han caught the bulb, then tossed it aside. He threw himself at the closing hatch, but not in time. The pod’s launch warning system came to life with flashing light and metered sound.

Han beat a fast retreat into the rear hold and flattened himself to the deck grating as the pod launched with a concussive thump that made his ears pop.

“Blast!” he screamed, yanking himself upright.

Rushing to the cockpit, he found Droma still steering a slalom course directly for the Yuuzhan Vong frigate.

“The other way, the other way!” Han screamed, heaving himself into the pilot’s seat.

“Make up your mind!” Droma yelled back.

Han took the controls and threw the Falcon into an ascending loop, hoping to catch sight of the launched escape pod on the downward curve. For a moment he had the sphere in the ship’s tracking reticle, but he lost it just as quickly as a Yuuzhan Vong missile streaked across the Falcon’s bow.

The flaming projectile appeared to lock on to the pod like a predator hot on a blood scent. A blinding explosion forced Han to glance away, and when he looked back the pod was gone. A second later, however, he thought he glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye, plunging toward the night side of a heavily cratered planetoid. Then again, it was possible that the frigate’s dovin basal had already captured the pod and brought it on board.

An agitated voice issued from the communications console. “Han, what the blazes are you doing? I thought you wanted cover fire.”

“We do, we do!” Han told Mak Jorlen. “Punch it, Droma!”

The Falcon banked sharply, barrel-rolled to evade a slew of projectiles, and sped toward the Thurse. With the field clear, the cruiser-carrier opened up with all batteries, stunning the Yuuzhan Vong ship with ion cannon and turbolaser fire. A few remaining battleworthy coralskippers attempted to launch suicide runs at the Thurse, but were instantly pulverized. Defenseless, the frigate abandoned pursuit of the Falcon. Then, streaking away, it made an abrupt jump to lightspeed.

Han leveled out the ship and Droma cut her speed. He and the Ryn collapsed in their seats, as if someone had just let the air out of them.

“Is it over?” Droma asked after a moment.

Han nodded. “For the time being.”

Droma glanced at Han and uttered a short laugh. “You know, I could almost believe you’ve been doing this sort of thing all your life.”

Han pushed himself upright in the chair and favored him with a roguish grin. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Removed from the frenzied tempo of lofty Coruscant, deep in a vertical slice of the city-world known colloquially as the Abyss, a mixed-species dozen sat nervously at a long table in a windowless and otherwise secure chamber. The chamber resided at the heart of the entombed headquarters of the New Republic’s Intelligence division and was accessible to upper-echelon officers only. In a sterile realm of artificial illumination and sunlight purloined by shafts and mirrors, the big-leafed shrub lodged in a corner of the chamber stood out like a chance oasis, and so had been given the name Mirage.

Separate conversations came to an abrupt halt when an entry-granted tone sounded from the door and Director Dif Scaur stamped into the room, a sheaf of durasheet documents and optical prints under one arm and a gunmetal-gray modified protocol droid trailing in his wake. Everyone was standing by the time he reached the head of the table, but the obvious attempt at deference only deepened his scowl and he motioned brusquely for everyone to be seated. A former admiral with the Fourth Fleet, Scaur was tall and gaunt, with watery blue eyes and a pronounced widow’s peak.

“I’ve been in meetings with Defense Force command staff all morning,” he began on a sullen note, “and the advisory council is expecting a full report