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Gaph glanced at Melisma, R’vanna, and some of the others. “Abregado-rae would suit us fine.”

Tall folded his arms. “Then here’s how it’s going to work: We’ll provide everything you need to forge the permits. If we’re satisfied that they’ll pass muster with Salliche Ag and the spaceport authorities here on Ruan, you’ve got yourselves a deal.”

“I am Plaan,” Tholatin’s Weequay security chief said as he joined Droma and Han in the Falcon’s forward hold.

Plaan had the thumbs of his big hands hooked into the broad gunbelt that gathered a quilted, knee-length garment the color of Sriluur’s desert wastes. His broad-nosed, desiccated face was deeply creased, and dark age spots showed on the almond-shaped bony plate that reinforced his skull from brow ridge to spine. His deep-set eyes gave him a haunted, fearsome aspect. Behind him stood two mean-spirited humans in camouflage combat suits, one cradling a new-generation blaster rifle, the other a twenty-year-old BlasTech E-11, which had been the weapon of choice among Imperial stormtroopers. Half a dozen other humans and aliens were inspecting various parts of the ship. Han couldn’t make out their muffled comments, but the mere thought of them pawing through his property filled him with rage. It took all the control he could summon to keep from going ballistic.

“My first mate, Miek,” Droma said, gesturing offhandedly toward Han.

Plaan nodded. “Sorry about having to search ship, Captain Droma. Furnished passcodes checked out. But as things are now, even we must take precautions.” A being more apt to communicate by pheromones than words, Plaan spoke in a clipped and heavy accent.

With the hyperdrive behaving erratically, it had been a long, slow trip to Tholatin, an uninhabited world, save for a deep, almost undetectable rift legions of smugglers had used over the years. The Falcon—going under the name Sunlight Franchise—had been directed to a landing zone on the floor of the forested cleft, but berthing spaces and maintenance areas were located under a ceiling of cantilevered rock at the base of a sheer cliff. Although he had taken heart that the old passcodes had worked, Han was troubled by the motley nature of some of the berthed ships.

“You have been to Esau’s Ridge before?” Plaan asked suddenly, studying Han with interest.

“Not in a lot of years.”

“Back then, who running things?”

Han stroked his beard, as if in hazy recollection. “Let’s see, there was Bracha e’Naso. And an information broker named Formyaj—a Yao, as I remember.”

Plaan nodded. “Long gone, with almost everyone from those days. Left when the Yuuzhan Vong pushed through on way to Hutt space.” He glanced at Droma. “Where acquired, those passcodes, Captain?”

“From a friend on Nar Shaddaa,” Droma said, as Han had instructed. “A human by the name of Shug Ninx.”

Plaan nodded again. “Ninx is known to us. So you are coming from Nar Shaddaa?”

Droma had his mouth open to affirm that they’d arrived from Hutt space when a baritone voice rang out from the starboard ring corridor.

“Plaan, get a look at this.”

Han and Droma followed the security chief into the corridor. Just where the outrigger cockpit branched off, two human members of the search team had discovered the removable panels that covered the secret compartments Han had used for smuggling, in what felt to him like another lifetime. Like Plaan, the two snoops had the rawboned look of mercenaries or pirates rather than smugglers, which jibed with the mix-and-match ships—the uglies—Han had observed in the berthing spaces.

Plaan was grinning bemusedly. “Smugglers?”

“Now and again,” Droma said.

“Freelance or for Hutts?”

“We’re independent contractors.”

Plaan snorted. “Better ways of earning credits these days. Even Hutts have to take care. With Boss Bunji forced off Jubilee Wheel, not enough glitterstim on Ord Mantell to fill bantha’s horn.”

As he was saying it, a short man wearing mechanic’s utilities entered the corridor from the extended landing ramp. “Looks like your ship has seen some recent action,”