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Then the Destroyer leaped forward and was gone, lost into hyperspace.

Far behind, the other Destroyer began firing off escape pods like mold spores as more and more flames gouted up from beneath her surface. Then the brightest flame of all rose out of her midsection, a globe-shaped inferno, and began eating away at the vessel in all directions. The few starfighters remaining in its vicinity raced away at full speed.

One last flash, bright as a nova, and the Destroyer hurled asteroid-sized pieces of itself in all directions.

21

Hours later, Wedge—freshly scrubbed and uniformed, a little bacta treatment having rid his lungs of the smoky crud that had coated them but also having left a nasty taste in his mouth—marched into Mon Remonda’s bridge.

It wasn’t quite the same bridge. The armature of the captain’s chair had broken and Onoma was standing over his control board. Portions of the deck were crumpled and an entire control board was still black from burn. A new shift of officers was at work. Han Solo had his back to the bridge; he was lost in thought, staring into the depths of hyperspace.

Wedge approached to stand beside him. “Commander Antilles reporting.”

Solo didn’t answer for long moments. He looked tired, the lines in his craggy face deeper than Wedge had ever seen them. He took a deep breath. “We lost him.”

“We hurt him. We eliminated the other Destroyer. Razor’s Kiss.”

“But Zsinj is still at large.”

“We’ll get him next time.”

“I am so sick of next time.” Finally, Han grinned, looking briefly like his old self. “I’ll bet you’re just as sick of the gloomy Han Solo.”

“We’ll vape Zsinj together and you can go back to a life of irresponsible good cheer.”

“I’ll drink to that. How are your people?”

“Good. Lieutenant Loran will make it. We almost lost Piggy saBinring—he was floating off to oblivion with no thrusters, no lasers, no comlink—but Shalla Nelprin calculated his last known course and Sungrass retrieved him. We even picked up a hyperdrive-equipped interceptor out of the deal.”

“If they ever make you a general, demand to be head of the quartermasters. You’re really learning to turn a profit.”

Wedge watched him return to his distracted, distant staring. “Han, what’s it like? Actually being someone’s personal enemy?”

“I hate it. But I can’t just hand the job off. Not until someone feels about him the way I do.”

“Still up for that drink?”

Han snorted. “What do you think?”

Melvar appeared with his customary stealthiness beside Zsinj’s desk in his private office. He put a datacard before the warlord. “The final tally of losses.”

Zsinj barely stirred. He seemed drained of energy, so drained that even his fat sagged. “I’ll look at it later.”

“How do you think they did it?”

“One of the pirates,” Zsinj said. “He must have planted a transmitter on Iron Fist while collecting his pay, in spite of our sweeps, in spite of our sensors. I don’t know how. We’ll find out.”

“Your orders?”

Zsinj nodded listlessly. “Get all available cargo ships and tugs back to the last engagement zone. I want them to collect every piece they can find, no matter how large or small, of Razor’s Kiss for transportation back to Rancor Base.”

“Yes, sir.” Melvar waited a polite few seconds. “May I ask why?”

“Ask tomorrow. No more talk today.”

Melvar saluted—one of his few genuine salutes—and took his leave.

• • •

Face jumped as Kell came barging through the door, potted flowers in his hands. The big man took a look around, ignoring Face, and set the wavy mass of violet-colored vegetation down on a meal table. Then Kell caught sight of Dia, seated next to Face’s bed; she had an arm around his neck, her other hand stroking his brow, in what had been a most comfortable pose until Kell’s sudden arrival. “Oh, I see,” Kell said. “Celebration’s already started.”

Face glared. “What celebration?”

“Ask the commander.”

Behind Kell came Piggy, Janson, all the other Wraiths. Tyria was holding some sort of figurine, a gray human figure half the length of a forearm; it gripped