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Han looked, startled, at the ship before them. Rebel Dream had once been Leia’s flagship—not her command, since naval officers always captained her, but a vessel at her beck and call, chosen to lend credence to her importance as she conducted negotiations between the New Republic and unaligned planetary systems. The Millennium Falcon had rested for some months in one of Rebel Dream’s cargo holds while Han had led a military campaign against a rogue warlord.

Leia’s expression was open, thoughtful, and years seemed to drop away from her as she revisited those long-ago times. “What do you think, Han? She looks like she’s in wonderful condition.”

“Yes, she does.”

Leia glanced over and realized that her husband wasn’t looking at the ship. She flushed but looked amused. “Han. Get your mind back on work.”

“Sorry. Getting old. Easily distracted.” Han kept his exultation, his victory from his face. For one moment, he’d distracted Leia from the ache that had consumed her since Anakin and Jacen were lost. Maybe if he could do it again from time to time, the poison of that ache would not claim Leia, would not take her from him too. “Sure. Old. Of course.”

“Lusankya has her escort,” Tycho said. “And with them keeping the Yuuzhan Vong fighters and frigate analogs at bay, she’s ripping a seam right through their fleet.”

Wedge nodded. The hologram bore out Tycho’s statement.

No new friendlies had appeared in Mon Mothma’s vicinity for a couple of minutes; she’d finished with her interdiction field generators. “Order Mon Mothma to bring up the rear of our force there, and tell her to tuck in close. The Vong will fall on any stragglers; they don’t need a yammosk to tell them to do that.”

The hologram showed the Yuuzhan Vong fleet, which had grown large and diffuse, gradually contracting as it moved against the group centered on Lusankya. But without yammosk coordination, the Yuuzhan Vong were unable to mount any sophisticated tactics or manage any real concentration of fire on the New Republic’s capital ships. As Wedge watched, the Yuuzhan Vong numbers began to thin. Wedge felt a professional impatience with the enemy commander, or whoever had taken charge of their fleet after their designated commander had died; if he didn’t acknowledge defeat and order a retreat, he stood a good chance of losing his fleet.

Then it came. First a matalok-class cruiser analog peeled away from the engagement, then a frigate analog and two or three coralskipper squadrons, and suddenly the battle was essentially done, all the Yuuzhan Vong capital ships outward bound, only a few coralskipper-on-starfighter duels continuing as some Yuuzhan Vong pilots chose a futile but honorable death over retreat.

“Issue the order,” Wedge said. “Set up for the fleet’s return.” He offered Tycho a bitter little smile. “We also need to celebrate our victory.”

Tycho looked at him, expressionless. “I’m giddy already,” he said.

Han Solo marched down the Falcon’s ramp, one arm around Leia’s waist and the other raised in a wave as he acknowledged the cheers of pilots and crew in Borleias’s main docking bay. “Why are they so happy? I mean, I’m happy, but they’re acting like I won this one single-handed.”

Leia gave him a little smile, the best she’d been able to manage since—Han turned his thoughts away from the memory. She said, “You dropped into the middle of a Yuuzhan Vong fleet and came out without a scratch. The famous Han Solo. You’ve just reminded them that they can win.”

“Ah.”

“Besides, you win every one of your fights single-handed. Just ask your admirers. I’ll find you a historian who knows how to appreciate a bribe, and tomorrow you’ll be the man who told Lusankya to drop out of hyperspace where she did, the man who blew up the enemy flagship with his blaster pistol.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Ahead of them, the Falcon’s passengers moved through the crowd, led by one of Wedge Antilles’s officers. Many of them were Jedi, but not all of them had ever been the object of a