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“We all were, Commander,” Han said.

He recognized Garray’s type: done in by years of command; of sending soldiers to their deaths. A man who no longer needed to prove to himself that he was a hero. He was just doing his job, and hating himself for it.

Garray forced himself to brighten. “But don’t worry, we’ll get the Falcon repaired, and we’ll have you on your way in no time.”

“We don’t want to take your personnel away from their jobs, Commander,” Han said firmly. “Leia and I will see to the repairs ourselves.” He paused, then added: “Between you and me, Garray, if Cracken and the rest weren’t expected on Mon Calamari, we’d be staying behind to help you.”

Garray smiled. “I appreciate that, Solo. Reinforces everything I’ve heard about you all these years.” He glanced at Leia. “Will the two of you join me for lunch?”

“We’d be honored,” Leia said. She deliberately fell behind Han to whisper, “Everything he’s heard all these years … One day they’re going to build a statue of you.”

Han gestured broadly. “These are the people who deserve statues—every last one of them.”

They continued to walk and talk and bump into people who knew or recognized Han—and Leia. Caluula seemed to have drawn every celebrated soldier, mercenary, and ne’er-do-well from within a thousand parsecs. Commander Garray excused himself to attend to business, but promised he’d rendezvous with them in the mess hall.

They were emerging from one of the transparent connectors that linked the station’s separate modules when Han heard what he thought was a familiar voice. The source of the voice was a dark-haired man as old as himself, dressed in a worn gray flight suit that was cinched at the waist by a broad red belt. Of medium height but broad-chested, he was sitting cross-legged atop a cargo crate, in a murky area of the module, between a golden-furred Bothan and a tall Calibop whose wings were folded behind him. Surrounding the trio stood roguish-looking human and alien warriors in similar gray flight suits, who might have made up a separate starfighter squadron, or just as easily a criminal swoop gang from Nar Shaddaa.

“Another fan?” Leia asked.

Han rubbed his stubbled jaw. “I definitely know the voice from somewhere. But I can’t place the face.”

“So ask him.”

Han nodded and sauntered over to the soldiers, every one of whom monitored his approach with a mix of amusement and wariness.

“I’m Han Solo. Am I right that we’ve met?”

The man looked at him askance, almost as if to display the ragged scars on the side of his furrowed and somewhat dark-complected face. “Not in the flesh, Captain, though we have come close. I guess that means that we’re not entirely strangers.” He extended a meaty hand. “Hurn.”

Han tried out the name twice, then shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But you’re sure we never served together? During the Rebellion, maybe?”

Hurn shrugged. “I’ve one of those faces that used to appear familiar to everyone.”

Han caressed his jaw. “Ever been to Dellalt?”

“Don’t think so.”

Han nodded uncertainly, then tipped his head in parting and walked away.

Leia waited until she, Han, and C-3PO were out of earshot of the group to ask, “Did he mean ‘familiar’ before the Rebellion, or before all the scars?”

Han glanced over his shoulder, and shook his head in ignorance. But any response was drowned out by the sudden blare of klaxons. Instantly, the station was thrown into managed chaos. Everyone knew precisely where to report and what to do—except Han, Leia, and C-3PO, who weren’t sure whether they should go to the nearest battle station or simply stay out of everyone’s way.

Appearing out of nowhere, Garray put a quick end to their confusion.

“Enemy reinforcements have arrived. Another entire battle group.”

Leia was astonished. “They must be desperate to have Caluula to spare so many ships.”

Garray agreed. “Our shields should hold.”

The commander’s adjutant came running to report that the station’s long-range scanners had zeroed in on something unusual. Garray led everyone to the