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“Ah, Chewie,” he said out loud.

Han was on his way to Eastport’s transport center when a voice behind him yelled, “Slick!”

Without slowing his pace, he glanced over his shoulder, then came to a dead stop on the beltway and spun around, grinning ear to ear. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” he said to the stocky, gray-haired human who was hurrying to catch up with him.

The man grasped Han’s proffered hand and tugged him into a backslapping embrace. When they separated, Han was still smiling broadly.

“What’s it been, Roa—thirty years?”

“I couldn’t tell you exactly when, but I can tell you where. Departure terminal of Roonadan Spaceport in the Corporate Sector. You and a lovely, dark-haired young woman were waiting to board the Lady of Mindor to Ammuud, I believe.”

“Fiolla of Lorrd,” Han said, as if snatching the name from thin air. He gestured with his chin toward Roa. “You had on a white business suit, with some kind of rainbow sash …”

“And you, my young friend, were wearing an especially wary look.” Roa’s rheumy blue eyes glinted. “You told me you were out of the business, running a collection agency. Han Solo Associated, wasn’t it? The next thing I hear, you’ve won the Battle of Yavin single-handed.”

“Not true,” Han said, “I had help.”

Roa stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “Let’s see, then I heard that you’d had yourself encased in carbonite—for posterity, I assumed at the time.”

Han narrowed his eyes. “Actually, I was thinking of marketing molds of myself.”

Roa laughed, then showed him a look of mild rebuke. “I warned you about working with the Hutts.”

“You should have warned Jabba about working with me.”

Han appraised Roa’s Askajian suit, chromasheath ankle boots, and the rings that sparkled on the pinkies of his plump hands. Roa was already the grand old man of the smuggling trade when the late Mako Spince had introduced Han to him on Nar Shaddaa. Honorable, good-natured, and generous to a fault, Roa had launched many a young outlaw into the business, including Han, whom Roa had brought through his first Kessel Run. Han had even worked for him for a time, and along with Chewie, Lando, Salla Zend, and a couple of the other Nar Shaddaa regulars, had attended Roa’s wedding, after which the old man had retired from smuggling, at his wife’s insistence.

“So, you still in import-export?”

“Sold everything—almost ten years ago now.”

Han studied him some more. “Roa, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day since Roonadan.”

“Nor do you,” Roa said, almost convincingly.

Han smiled lopsidedly and tapped his forefinger against his front teeth. “Regrown.” He touched his nose. “Broken and repaired so many times there’s hardly any original tissue left. Plus, my face is all out of whack. This eye’s higher than the other one.”

“And you think I come by my youthful appearance naturally?” Roa asked theatrically.

“Don’t tell me, you’re a clone, right?”

Roa laughed. “Next best thing: rejuvenation therapy, coupled with some daily myostim.” He displayed a noble profile. “I instructed the cosmeds to leave just enough age to keep me looking distinguished.”

“And you do, you old scoundrel.”

“Besides, the treatments were Lwyll’s idea—mostly.”

Han had an image of Roa’s rich-voiced, blond-haired, elegant wife. “How is she?”

Roa smiled weakly. “She died a few months back.”

Han’s lips became a thin line. “I’m sorry to hear that, Roa.”

Roa didn’t respond immediately. “And I was sorry to hear about Chewbacca, Han. I actually tried to obtain authorization to visit Kashyyyk for the memorial, but you know how Wookiees can be about granting permission to humans.”

Han nodded. “They’ve got a long memory for what the Empire did to them.”

“Who doesn’t.”

Han was quiet for a moment. “So what brings you to Coruscant? I thought you liked wide open space.”

Roa’s eyes darted. “To tell you the truth, Han—you. You’re the reason I’m here.”

Han felt a shiver pass through him. Because of a series of unexpected encounters