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“Millennium Falcon, this is Caluula Station,” a female voice said at last. “Someone should have told us you were coming.”

Han clamped his right hand on Leia’s left in relief. “Caluula Station, even we didn’t know we were coming,” he said into the mike. “We’ve got drive trouble, and a couple of coralskippers are hounding us. Any chance you could lower your shields long enough to take us in?”

“Can do, Millennium Falcon—so long as you can guarantee that your ship’s as fast as she’s rumored to be.”

“Pull in the welcome mat while we’re making our approach,” Han said, “and the Falcon’ll still get us inside with time to spare.”

“We won’t hold you to that, Millennium Falcon, but come on in.”

“First we’ve got to lose these rock spitters.”

Routing additional power to the main thrusters, Han fire-walled the throttle and began to take the Falcon through a repertoire of stomach-churning evasive maneuvers. The tandem-piloted skips did their best to keep up, singeing the Falcon’s, stern with gouts of plasma. But as the Falcon neared the station, the enemy vessels had to contend also with laser beams and the sting of ion cannons.

“Don’t worry,” Leia assured Page and Cracken as Han continued to rocket for the small window Caluula Station had opened. “Han does this all the time.”

The moment the Falcon soared into the station’s embrace, the shield repowered. Repulsed by heavy fire, three of the skips peeled off and jagged for the protection of the battle group. The fourth kept coming, only to be stunned by the shimmering energy field, then fell prey to the station’s powerful batteries.

Leia swiveled to face Cracken and Page. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Color slowly returned to their faces, and they nodded.

Steadying his shaking hand, Han cut power to the thrusters and allowed a tractor beam to convey the Falcon safely into a docking bay.

Seat of the galactic government since the fall of Coruscant, the water world of Mon Calamari was nimbused with ships of all category and classification, from twenty-year-old scallop-hulled Mon Cal cruisers to gleaming Star Destroyers fresh from the yards of Bothawui and distant Tallaan. The star system’s inner worlds were similarly encircled, ever on alert that the Yuuzhan Vong might one day decide to fold their myriad battle groups into a single armada and strike at Mon Calamari from the heart of the galaxy.

Inbound from the hyperspace reversion point well beyond Mon Calamari’s single moon, Jaina weaved her X-wing to Ralroost, one of the largest and whitest of the ships in orbital dock, and was the last pilot of Twin Suns Squadron to drift into the fleet flagship’s spacious though welcoming hold.

A Bothan Assault Cruiser originally commissioned for the defense of Bothawui at the conclusion of the Galactic Civil War, Ralroost was under the command of Admiral Traest Kre’fey, who had emerged from relative obscurity at the start of the Yuuzhan Vong invasion to the position of second in command of the entire Alliance fleet.

The transports had been the first to arrive from Kashyyyk, and many were already docked and disgorging their cargoes of freed prisoners. Despite devastating losses to the star-fighter squadrons, the mission had been deemed a success. Dozens of former New Republic officials and scores of commanders had been rescued, and most of Alliance Intelligence’s double agents had been extracted. The operation might have gone far worse had the stingcrawler coralskippers arrived sooner than they did, or had the deadly skips pursued the transports to Mon Calamari. But instead they had remained at Selvaris to safeguard the Peace Brigade freighters that had yet to be unloaded, and to escort those prisoner ships to Coruscant.

Seizing the opportunity, Chief of State Cal Omas’s media team had spun the mission into a public relations event meant to send a message to the governments of threatened worlds to hold out; that unlike the fallen New Republic, the Galactic Federation of Free Alliances was not