# C H A P T E R 5

HAN FINISHED HIS REPORT, sat back, and waited for the criticism to start.

It was a very short wait. “So once again your smuggler friends refuse to commit themselves,” Admiral Ackbar said, sounding more than a little disgusted. His high-domed head bobbed twice in some indecipherable Calamarian gesture, his huge eyes blinking in time with the head movements. “You’ll recall that I disagreed with this idea all along,” he added, waving a webbed hand toward Han’s report case.

Han glanced across the table at Leia. “It’s not a matter of commitment, Admiral,” he told the other. “It’s a matter that most of them just don’t see any real gain in switching from their current activities to straight shipping.”

“Or else it’s a lack of trust,” a melodic alien voice put in. “Could that be it?”

Han grimaced before he could stop himself. “It’s possible,” he said, forcing himself to look at Borsk Fey’lya.

“Possible?” Fey’lya’s violet eyes widened, the fine cream-colored fur covering his body rippling slightly with the motion. It was a Bothan gesture of polite surprise, one which Fey’lya seemed to use a lot.1 “You said possible, Captain Solo?”

Han sighed quietly and gave up. Fey’lya would only maneuver him into saying it some other way if he didn’t. “Some of the groups I’ve talked to don’t trust us,” he conceded. “They think the offer might be some sort of trap to bring them out into the open.”

“Because of me, of course,” Ackbar growled, his normal salmon color turning a little darker. “Haven’t you tired of retaking this same territory, Councilor Fey’lya?”

Fey’lya’s eyes widened again, and for a moment he gazed silently at Ackbar as the tension around the table quickly rose to the level of thick paste. They had never liked each other, Han knew, not from the day Fey’lya had first brought his sizable faction of the Bothan race into the Alliance after the Battle of Yavin. Right from the start Fey’lya had been jockeying for position and power, cutting deals wherever and whenever he could and making it abundantly clear that he expected to be given a high position in the fledgling political system Mon Mothma was putting together. Ackbar had considered such ambitions to be a dangerous waste of time and effort, particularly given the bleak situation the Alliance was facing at the time, and with typical bluntness had made no effort to conceal that opinion.

Given Ackbar’s reputation and subsequent successes, Han had little doubt that Fey’lya would ultimately have been shunted off to some relatively unimportant government post in the New Republic … if it hadn’t happened that the spies who discovered the existence and location of the Emperor’s new Death Star had been a group of Fey’lya’s Bothans.

Preoccupied at the time with more urgent matters, Han had never learned the details of how Fey’lya had managed to parlay that serendipity into his current position on the Council. And to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“I merely seek to clarify the situation in my own mind, Admiral,” Fey’lya said at last into the heavy silence. “It’s hardly worthwhile for us to continue sending a valuable man like Captain Solo out on these contact missions if each is predoomed to failure.”

“They’re not predoomed to failure,” Han cut in. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Leia give him a warning look. He ignored it. “The kind of smugglers we’re looking for are conservative businesspeople—they don’t just jump into something new without thinking it through first. They’ll come around.”

Fey’lya shrugged, his fur again rippling. “And meanwhile, we expend a great deal of time and effort with nothing to show for it.”

“Look, you can’t build up any—”

A gentle, almost diffident tap of a hammer from the head of the table cut off the argument. “What the smugglers are waiting for,” Mon Mothma said quietly, her stern gaze touching each of the others at the table in turn, “is the same thing the rest of the galaxy is waiting for: the formal reestablishment of the principles and law of the Old Republic. That is our first and primary task, Councilors. To become the New Republic in fact as well as in name.”

Han caught Leia’s eye, and this time he was the one who sent out the warning look. She grimaced, but nodded slightly and kept quiet.

Mon Mothma let the silence linger a moment longer, again sending her gaze around the table. Han found himself studying her, noting the deepening lines in her face, the streaks of gray in her dark hair, the thinness rather than slenderness of her neck. She’d aged a lot since he’d first met her, back when the Alliance was trying to find a way out from under the shadow of the Empire’s second Death Star.2 Ever since then, Mon Mothma had been right in the middle of this horrendous task of setting up a viable government, and the strain had clearly told on her.

But despite what the years were doing to her face, her eyes still held the same quiet fire they’d possessed then—the same fire, or so the stories went, that had been there since her historic break with the Emperor’s New Order and her founding of the Rebel Alliance. She was tough, and smart, and fully in control. And everyone present knew it.

Her eyes finished their sweep and came to rest on Han. “Captain Solo, we thank you for your report; and, too, for your efforts. And with the Captain’s report, this meeting is adjourned.”

She tapped the hammer again and stood up. Han closed his report case and worked his way through the general confusion around to the other side of the table. “So,” he said quietly, coming up behind Leia as she collected her own things. “Are we out of here?”

“The sooner the better,” she muttered back. “I just have to give these things to Winter.”

Han glanced around and lowered his voice a notch. “I take it things were going a little rough before they called me in?”

“No more than usual,” she told him. “Fey’lya and Ackbar had one of their polite little dogfights, this one over the fiasco at Obroa-skai—that lost Elomin force—with some more of Fey’lya’s veiled suggestions that the job of Commander in Chief is too much for Ackbar to handle. And then, of course, Mon Mothma—”

“A word with you, Leia?” Mon Mothma’s voice came from over Han’s shoulder.

Han turned to face her, sensing Leia tense a little beside him as she did likewise. “Yes?”

“I forgot to ask you earlier if you’d talked to Luke about going with you to Bimmisaari,” Mon Mothma said. “Did he agree?”

“Yes.” Leia nodded, throwing an apologetic look at Han. “I’m sorry, Han; I didn’t get a chance to tell you. The Bimms sent a message yesterday asking that Luke be there with me for the talks.”

“They did, huh?” A year ago, Han reflected, he would probably have been furious at having a painstakingly crafted schedule flipped at the last minute like this. Leia’s diplomatic patience must be starting to rub off on him.

Either that, or he was just getting soft. “They give any reasons?”

“The Bimms are rather hero-oriented,” Mon Mothma said before Leia could answer, her eyes searching Han’s face. Probably trying to figure out just how mad he was about the change in plans. “And Luke’s part in the Battle of Endor is rather well known.”

“Yeah, I’d heard that,” Han said, trying not to be too sarcastic. He had no particular quarrel with Luke’s position in the New Republic’s pantheon of heroes—the kid had certainly earned it. But if having Jedi around to brag about was so important to Mon Mothma, then she ought to be letting Leia get on with her own studies instead of foisting all this extra diplomatic work on her. As it was, he would bet on an ambitious snail to make full Jedi before she did.3

Leia found his hand, squeezed it. He squeezed back, to show that he wasn’t mad. Though she probably already knew that. “We’d better get going,” she told Mon Mothma, using her grip on Han’s hand to start steering him away from the table. “We still have to collect our droids before we leave.”

“Have a good trip,” Mon Mothma said gravely. “And good luck.”

“The droids are already on the Falcon,” Han told Leia as they wove their way around the various conversations that had sprung up between the Councilors and staff members. “Chewie got them aboard while I came here.”

“I know,” Leia murmured.

“Right,” Han said, and left it at that.

She squeezed his hand again. “It’ll be all right, Han. You, me, and Luke together again—it’ll be just like old times.”

“Sure,” Han said. Sitting around with a group of half-furred, half-size aliens, listening to Threepio’s precise voice all day as he translated back and forth, trying to penetrate yet another alien psychology to figure out what exactly it would take to get them to join the New Republic—“Sure,” he repeated with a sigh. “Just exactly like old times.”4