The massive Star Destroyer Ghorman burst out of hyperspace, abruptly slowing to a crawl as it entered the H'Zonalm system. Shortly after its arrival, swarms of TIE fighters erupted from its stern like insects, practicing attack manuevers around the much larger capital vessel. The
ship began its slow course toward H'Zonalm II, the glowing white engines pulsing softly as the Ghorman began its planetary assault campaign.

Alone in his conference room, Imperial Grand Moff Wilhulf Tarkin was lost deep within his own thoughts. As always, the Emperor was foremost in his mind; and though he tried to suppress them, Tarkin's thoughts always drifted toward his ever-present plan to create a weapon so powerful that he could overthrow the Emperor and rule the galaxy by himself. Then, he could crush the upstart Dark Jedi, Darth Vader, and make the so-called Dark Lord of the Sith bow down before him. Tarkin knew these were foolish dreams; Vader's power in the Force would never allow Tarkin to successfully enslave the Dark Jedi. The Grand Moff was forced to follow his original plan; to take over the Empire using a powerful weapon, one powerful enough to destroy all of Coruscant and with it, both the Emperor and Darth Vader. Only then
could Tarkin assume complete control of the Empire.

Even now, plans were being made to create a huge vessel called the Death Star, a moon-sized monstrosity that would carry enough firepower to destroy an entire planet. This was the brainchild of Tarkin's own tank of scientists, hidden safely away in a section of space called the Maw. Though he would never allow the Emperor to know (though he suspected he did, just as Tarkin suspected Vader and Admiral Motti did), Tarkin had plan to also commission his technicians to construct an even more powerful weapon once the Death Star was completed; a weapon so powerful, it could outmatch the Death Star.

Unfortunately, it appeared that the Death Star was a long ways off. It was still trapped in the planning stages; the latest estimates gave at least twelve years before the vessel would be finished. This seemed an interminably long wait for Tarkin; but the Grand Moff knew that it would be well worth it, when he could rule the Empire with his own iron fist and control the galaxy's ideas of justice, equality, and subservience to the Empire. Tarkin was shaken from his reverie by the swish of his door opening.

"Grand Moff Tarkin, sir," said the Imperial officer.
"Yes, what is it?" Tarkin asked, with a cold tinge to his voice to tell the officer he didn't appreciate being interrupted. Tarkin's photographic
memory identified the officer as Lieutenant Dorgan.
"Sir, Lord Vader is on the holotransmitter. He requests a meeting with you."
Tarkin sighed. "Very well," he replied. "I shall take it in here."

Dorgan nodded and turned to go.

"Oh, Lieutenant," Tarkin said, "please inform my servant, Ackbar, that I am ready to have my repast."

The officer looked puzzled for a moment. "The fish head?" he asked.

Tarkin's face turned cold. Unlike most Imperial officers, he had never understood the prejudice mentality of the Empire against nonhuman
species. It seemed pointless to reject the majority of sentient beings in the universe on the basis of so flimsy a thing as racism.

"Yes, the Mon Calamari," Tarkin corrected. "As I said, inform him I am ready for my breakfast."

Dorgan nodded and exited. Sighing again, Tarkin ran a hand through his greying, thinning hair, then sat up in his seat, tugging on his uniform to straighten it. Finally, he switched on the holotransmitter. A tiny, seven-inch-tall figure suddenly leapt to form in front of him.
The image of the Dark Lord of the Sith was flickering and rough, probably due to the great distance between the Ghorman and Coruscant.
Tarkin always loved seeing Vader this way; so small and seemingly helpless, as if all Tarkin had to do was smash his fist and the Dark Jedi
would be no more. Knowing that he was no more than three inches tall to Vader, due to his sitting position, made little difference to Tarkin. For a moment, he pondered why Vader always chose to stand during these briefings. Perhaps Lord Vader wished to make himself appear as large as possible during these conversations.

"Greetings, Lord Vader," Tarkin said with as much cordiality as he could muster. "Why do you contact me now? I am busy preparing for the
assault upon H'Zonalm II. I have little time for idle discourse."
"Then we are agreed, Grand Moff Tarkin," Vader replied in the rumbling bass that filtered through that death's head helmet, "since I do
not partake of idle discourse. I have contacted you to deliver a message: the Emperor wishes you to take a different course than originally planned. Once you complete the conquest of H'Zonalm II, you are to travel to the planet Despayre in the Outer Rim's Horuz system. There is a planetary penal colony there, and the Emperor believes it will be an ideal source for labor in the construction of the Death Star. You are to...persuade the warden of the colony to allow the workers to aid in the construction." The Dark Jedi strongly emphasized the word "persuade," and it was clear to Tarkin that if the warden did not agree, then he was to be simply dispensed with.
"I see," Tarkin said noncommittally, secretly thankful for a solid base for the construction of his technological terror. "You may tell the
Emperor that the task is as good as done. We will depart for the Horuz system as soon as the H'Zonalmi are subjugated. Inform the Emperor that this project will conform to the highest of his expectations."
"Understood, Grand Moff," Vader replied, with the slightest touch of sarcasm in his voice. Vader was well aware of the fear he created deep
in the back of Tarkin's mind; and though it might have been a product of his imagination.

Tarkin thought he felt a slight twinge at the base of his throat as the image of Vader flickered out of existence.

"Damned sorcerer," Tarkin muttered.

He had never been one to abide subordination, but he seemed to have little choice when it came to Vader. The Emperor would hardly care if, one day, Vader chose to end Tarkin's life on a whim. That thought was still lurking in Tarkin's mind when his servant suddenly entered the room, pushing a small anti-grav cart in front of him.

"Ah, Ackbar," Tarkin said with a touch of warmth; he had grown quite accustomed to the Mon Calamari's presence over the last few months. "I see you have been working hard at breakfast. And what have we today?"

The alien replied in a deep, gravelly voice that belied the fish-like exterior of Ackbar's face.

"Your favorite, Lord Tarkin...Corellian deep-dish fremoule with Goruth sauce."

Tarkin smiled as Ackbar placed the plate in front of him.

"Wonderful, Ackbar," he said. "Do you happen to know how soon we shall be in orbit around H'Zonalm II?"
"If I heard the officers correctly, we will arrive near the planet in about two hours," the Mon Calamari replied.
"Excellent," Tarkin replied as he finished the plate and began to work on his ale. "You are very observant, Ackbar. It serves you well. Perhaps one day you shall serve as an officer. Would you like that?"
"Indeed I would," Ackbar replied, though Tarkin thought he detected a bit of hesitancy in the alien's reply.

Tarkin placed his drink on the table.

"Ackbar, you do not know how much it grieves me to see the Empire treat aliens like this," he said. "And were it in my power to give you an office without the possibility of your suffering prejudice and ridicule at the hands of the other officers, I would grant it in a minute. But for now, I'm afraid you shall have to live with the Empire's rigid system of human supremacy. One day, the Empire will expand to allow all races within its Navy, and then we shall expand ourselves far beyond the borders of our own galaxy, to places far out of reach and control. But for now, you must suffer the burden of subservience. I am sorry."

The Mon Calamari bowed his head in deference to his master.

"You are a kind and gracious master," he said, "and it is a pleasure to serve you in any capacity."
"You are as eloquent as you are loyal," Tarkin said. "You are more worthy of being an officer aboard this ship than most of the Academy
graduates who do nothing but gamble and waste their time with other petty diversions."
* * * *

The Imperial officer's face twisted to admit a sly half-grin.

"Looks like you lose again, Fenrell," the officer said, pulling the sabacc chips from the center of the table to join his ever-growing pile.
The black-haired, dark-skinned officer across from him sighed as he sat back in his chair.
You're unbelievable, Slick," he muttered. "How many wins is that?"
"More than you want to know," Slick replied as he counted up the enormous pile in front of him. "Hey, don't say I didn't warn you."
Fenrell grinned. "Yeah, I guess you did," he said. "Still, you didn't have to take me for _everything_ I had..."
"Your loss," Slick answered. "Hey, you know you can pay me later. Or we could always play double or nothing?" the officer suggested with a
mischievous grin.
"I don't think so," Fenrell said. "I've learned my lesson."

Just then, the door to Slick's quarters hissed open and Lieutenant Hojn Dorgan poked his head in.

"You guys seen that fish-head?" he asked.
"Ackbar?" Fenrell asked. "No, he's not around here. Why?"
"Good," Dorgan said as he strode through the door and plopped down in one of the empty chairs surrounding the small, circular table of
black glass. "I hate that guy. He's ugly as hell."
"What, the Mon Calamari?" Slick asked. He'd completed counting the chips and handed a datapad to Fenrell bearing the results; Fenrell
emitted a groan as Slick continued,

"I hardly ever see him. Why does he bother you?"
"He's just...ugly, I guess," Dorgan replied. "And nosy. He's always poking around the bridge, following Tarkin around. And Tarkin loves him
so much that the fish-head never gets kicked out. I don't understand why the Grand Moff would even stand the presence of an alien on the bridge."
"Chill out, Hojn," Slick said. "It's no big deal. He can't harm anything. And I'm on the bridge all the time, and I don't see him much."
"He could be a spy," Fenrell suggested.
"A fish-head?" Dorgan asked increduously. "I don't think so. They're not that smart."
"Speaking of the bridge," Fenrell said, changing the subject, "how does it feel to the pilot of the Star Destroyer straight out of the Academy,
Slick?"
Slick grinned sheepishly at the prodding comment. "It's not that great," he said. "I just punch in the coordinates and execute the maneuvers. The navcomputer handles all the hard stuff."
"Sure, play it down," Fenrell said. "Play it down while we engineers are stuck down with the stormtroopers, listening to them complain about
their jobs during some important drill or something."
"Speak for yourself," Dorgan said as he eyed the sabacc chips on the table. "Being a lackey for the Grand Moff is no picnic either. All I do is
report messages to him and retrieve that damn fish-head. The only good part is, I once got to see Vader in a holo."
"Really?" Fenrell exclaimed. "Wow."
"What's he like?" Slick asked.
"Well, it's kind of hard to tell with those holos, you know," Dorgan said, "but he looks to be about seven feet tall or so. He's dressed all in
black, with a bunch of computer junk on him. But the helmet and mask is the most creepy thing; it looks like a big black skull. And then there's that breathing machine of his; makes him sound like an old man wheezing."
"Better not let Tarkin hear you talking like that," Fenrell warned.
"Hell, you'd better not let Tarkin catch us playing sabacc, Slick."
"Ah, he won't come in here," Dorgan said. "He's got better things to do. And as for Vader, he hates him more than the Rebellion. Gets in his
way, I guess. I once overheard a transmission between Tarkin and Admiral Motti, and Motti was saying all sorts of things, calling Tarkin an
over-ambitious control freak and telling him not to underestimate Vader and the Emperor. I guess Tarkin has some grand plan to take over the Empire or something."
"Woah," Slick said. "That's stuff I don't think you should be talking about, Hojn. Tarkin executes officers for stuff like that; my guess is, he
doesn't even want the Emperor or Vader to know that."
"Ah, I'm not worried," Dorgan said with a dismissive wave. "I don't talk about it much, and I know you two won't say anything. Anyway, what
say we start a new game here, eh?"
Slick grinned. "You ready to lose, partner?"

Abruptly, the intercom near Slick's door crackled to life.

"Lieutenant Solo, report to the bridge."

Slick quickly got up from the table. "Sorry, fellas, but it looks like I won't be able to join this game," he said.
"What a shame," Fenrell said with a sarcastic grin as he hunkered down to rob Dorgan over every credit. It would help him pay back Slick,
if that was possible.
* * * *

Lieutenant Han "Slick" Solo. Han had acquired his nickname after performing a particularly slick maneuver in a malfunctiong U-33 loadlifter
during class exercises in the Imperial Starfleet Academy. That incident had brought him to the attention of the Academy higher-ups; and after that, Han's career in the Academy had been well-attended. He was hailed as one of the finest pilots to enter the service of the Empire in a long time, and it came as a surprise to no one when Han had received a commission to pilot a Star Destroyer right out of the Academy. What had surprised Han, as he had later learned, was that the Grand Moff himself had requested Han. That such a powerful Imperial officer would take note of him was a source of great pride to the Corellian. But in the space of two months, the appeal of the Empire had waxed and wained in Han's mind. He was already tired of the long hours, the endless drill runs, the unyielding and uninteresting console that he stared at all day. But he never allowed himself to doze or daydream, as he knew to do so would mean a strong reprimand; and besides, Han was still somewhat interested in making a career out of the Imperial Navy. Though it wasn't as if he had a choice anymore. Once an officer, always an officer, as the saying went; though in the Empire, this old proverb wasn't speaking of personal character. Many officers remained
officers until the day they died. Stormtroopers had it easy, as did TIE fighter pilots; their life expectancy was little more than five years after
entering the service, due to the extremely high-risk nature of their jobs. Not surprisingly, storm troopers and pilots also commanded the highest salaries.

But Imperial Navy officers on Star Destroyers usually never got off the ship. Sure, they might take leave and visit home, or even retire...but
one could never really escape the Empire. If they wanted you, you were there, no questions asked. Tarkin himself was on the bridge as Han entered and hurried to the pilot's seat, relieving the old, feeble officer who was Han's alternate; Han always felt a twinge of pity for old Redege as the Alderaanian pulled himself up painfully from the seat and limped toward the lift doors. Once seated, Han took the time to adjust his stark grey uniform and adjust his cap. The Grand Moff ran a tight ship, and it would never do for the pilot to look as if he had just left a enjoyable game of sabacc. Through the large window that dominated the bridge, Han caught a glimpse of the swirling green-orange clouds of H'Zonalm II. He knew what was coming next.

Imperial conquest of a planet usually followed the same general pattern: Some beaurecrat in a war room on Coruscant would find some
planet or another strategically valuable, either as a position or a source of valuable resources or any other such reason, sometimes quite infeasible. Then, a Star Destroyer would be sent--sometimes two or more, depending on the size of the planet and the technology of its inhabitants--and it would decimate the planetary defenses as well as any major cities. A new Imperial government would be placed on the planet--Han knew that this the reason D'jik Sevvro, the Loloen beaurecrat, was on the Ghorman--and that was that. The planet belonged to the Empire.

This was an aspect of serving in the Imperial Navy that Han had always found somewhat...distasteful. Though he had been raised to
understand the doctrines of the Empire, his parents had always hinted that they found the Empire to be an evil institution, and they had strongly protested when Han had told them he wanted to enter the Academy. Now, Han had not had contact with his relatives for some time; even so, he always felt a twinge of regret when performing one of these planetary conquests.

Han brought the Ghorman into orbit around H'Zonalm II just as the Grand Moff gave the order for the TIE fighters to attack. Han watched the
vessels with fascination; he knew full well that the tiny ships were little more than tin balls with solar plates on them, and that they would fly apart at the slightest blast. More impressive were the wicked-looking TIE interceptors that maneuvered quickly in between the larger TIEs and packed both more punch and more structural integrity. Mightiest of all were the large TIE bombers, which followed the convoy at a snail's pace. It was the job of the bombers to take out any significant planetary weaponry, such as ion cannons, and to level the major cities.

"What is the extent of their defenses?" Tarkin asked the tactical officer as Han angled the Ghorman to allow its lower weapon banks a
clear shot at the planet surface.

"They have fighters to match ours," the tactical officer, Trawets, told Tarkin. "And they appear to have a few energy shields around their
major cities; nothing that could damage this ship."
"Excellent," Tarkin replied. "Proceed with the invasion."

His job more or less or at this point, Han watched as the TIE fighters engaged the smaller, more manueverable vessels of the H'Zonalmi.
Unfortunately, the native craft were piloted by a far less disciplined military than the Empire employed, and short work was made of the
arrow-shaped, sleek enemy starfighters. Once the first few initial waves of defense were destroyed, the heavy TIE bombers entered the atmosphere, escorted by a few TIE scouts who cleared the way of any stragglers. The bombers kept as much out of the gravity well as the could, and Han watched as the first few bombs fell from the large ships and created bright flashes of light on the auburn surface of the planet.

Thousands of people just died, Han thought. Perished in the fire of the Empire. And why? Because they resisted...because they didn't wish to become another supplier for the Imperial war machine. Han had long ago recognized just what the Empire stood for...and yet, he knew it could do so much for him, give him more wealth, recognition and power than he could imagine...

"Grand Moff..." Trawets suddenly said uncertainly.
"What is it, Commander?" Tarkin asked distractedly.
"There is a major energy buildup directly below us on the planet, sir...it appears they may be charging up some sort of weapon?"
The great white brow of the Grand Moff furrowed deeply. "What do you mean, Commander?"
"Sir...it looks like they're going to fire an ion cannon!"

Han knew what that meant...an ion blast would destabilize many of the Ghorman's systems, at best delaying the mission for some time. And at worst...at worst, the planet could fire some type of thermonuclear weapon or other such missile, and destroy the entire ship...

"Evasive maneuvers!" Tarkin barked at Han.

Startled into action, Han glanced at the tactical screen on his console to find the location of the cannon. It was dead center below the ship, and it almost certainly could rotate to accomodate a change in position. He would have to find a better way... A burst of inspiration hit him, and seconds before the cannon fired Han executed a series of commands on his console that altered only the Destroyer's position relative to the planet. The Ghorman angled itself, becoming a thinner target for the ion blast. Expecting a wider range, the ion blast flashed harmlessly past the main viewer, flying off into space even as Han manuevered the Ghorman back into its original position.

"Sir," Trawets said, his voice wavering, "Our bombers have isolated and destroyed the ion cannon."
"Too little, too late, Commander Trawets," Tarkin said in a cold voice, laden with anger seething just below the surface. "This is a grievous
error, I'm afraid."
"But sir--"
"Enough. I cannot tolerate this lack of efficiency. You are hereby demoted to lieutenant and assigned to engineering. Perhaps there you will
learn a skill that you can perform well."

Trawets was speechless. He stood dumbfounded for a few moments, his jaw hanging loosely on its hinges.

Tarkin's brow furrowed again. "Get off my bridge!" he shouted at the former tactical officer. Trawets quickly sped toward the lift, terrified.
The remaining crew were silent. No one wished to draw the attention of the angered Grand Moff. Han swallowed and watched his console diligently, noting that the TIE bombers had decimated five cities already.

"Lieutenant Solo," Tarkin said slowly, walking toward the piloting console.
"Yes, sir?" Han asked diligently, rising to his feet and saluting his commander.
"At ease, lieutenant. You have performed well, Han, marvelously well. I am quite pleased with this display of skill. Truly, I was accurate in
marking you as the best pilot in your class."
"Thank you, sir," was all Han could muster. Praise from the Grand Moff was praise, indeed. Only the Emperor himself, or perhaps Darth
Vader, could bestow a more reputable commendation.
"Thus, I hereby promote you to Commander Solo. Excellent work, Commander." And with that, the Grand Moff turned and walked off his
bridge, telling the captain to continue the invasion and that he would be in his quarters were he needed.

Now, it was Han's turn to be speechless. Once Tarkin was gone, the entire bridge crew now stared at Han. Somewhat self-conscious, he
allowed a small grin to escape his lips...and then the bridge crew erupted in applause, a rare thing on a Star Destroyer.

"Er, thanks," Han said, saluting the captain before turning and taking his place at the pilot seat again. The captain patted his shoulder in
approval as Han resumed his duties.
* * * *

Seven hours later, once the inhabitants of H'Zonalm were completely under Imperial control and the provincial governors were being set up within their new governments, Commander Han Solo left the bridge and returned to his quarters, elated with his new position and exhausted with the long day. He entered his quarters to a surprising site. Fenrell was sitting on Han's bunk, his face flustered and damp with tears.

"What--what happened?" was all Han could muster as he quickly stepped into the room, the doors swishing shut behind him.
"It's...it's Dorgan..." Fenrell managed through a choking sob.
"What? What happened to Dorgan?" Han demanded as Fenrell continued to cry.
"We were...we were in the middle of the sabacc game...and Tarkin walked in. Tarkin himself! He looked right at...at Dorgan, and told him
that they had been watching him as of late. They...Tarkin told him that the Empire knew what he had been saying, that he'd had...had loose lips, I guess. Damn, Slick, it must have been that thing about Tarkin's ambitions!"
"Well, what happened next?"
"Tarkin...Tarkin accused Dorgan of treason and...and sentenced him to death, right there. Death by vacuum! Then they took him away, and
they ejected him, Slick! Right into space. It was four hours ago. They made me watch...so that I wouldn't talk about what he'd said. It was
horrible! I saw him clutching his throat...he couldn't breathe...and then he just went limp, and floated away..."

Han was horrified. To think, right after Tarkin had promoted him, he'd gone to Han's quarters, accused Dorgan of treason, and sent him to
his death! Ever since his promotion, Han had been trying to justify the Empire to his mind, to see reason in the death and madness it propagated. But this act made him see that, for better or for worse, the Empire could never be what Han wished it was.

Fenrell was wiping the tears from his eyes.

"It was his own damn fault," he muttered. "I told Dorgan his big mouth would get him into trouble some day. Always going around, gossiping about what he heard from Tarkin. Stupid fool! He...he got what he deserved..."

Han was silent. He didn't particularly agree with Fenrell's statement, and knew that his fellow officer didn't really believe it...he was simply
trying to justify his friend's death in his own mind. But Han couldn't do that. He knew he would have to look at his career, at the Empire, at what he did each and every day. A profound sense of guilt began to form in his conscience, guilt that he was a participant in such a cold and cruel organization...and something in Han Solo began to change. The guilt, the incredible crushing wish for the atonement of the foul deeds he had been a part of or witnessed, began to gnaw at his very soul. This feeling would later fuel Han's wild and haphazard future, making him do unpredictable and sometimes near-suicidal acts that would cause many to believe he had some sort of death wish...which perhaps he had. Though he would be reborn in the fires of the Rebellion, the guilt which tortured him for such crimes as the conquest of H'Zonalm III would be a weight that Han would never quite free himself from.

Even as this new feeling began to grow in Han, Fenrell had hardened himself against it, as so many officers of the Empire did, and turned his mind to other matters. He was desensitized; he was an automaton now, a tool of the Empire.

"So, Slick," he said with an attempt at cheerfulness, "where to next?"
Han shook himself from his reverie. "Um, some place called, uh, Despayre, I think," he replied. "In the Horuz system. Some sort of labor
camp or penal colony or something."
"Oh yeah...I just heard about that," Fenrell said. "That's where the Empire's building some big 'secret weapon' or something. They must be
using the penal colony for laborers."
"What kind of criminals are they?" Han asked, trying to follow his friend's example by ignoring Dorgan's death.
"Wookies," Fenrell said with disgust. "I hear they've got lots of Wookies there."
"Wookies?" Han said with disdain, though not nearly as much as Fenrell's voice had contained. "Damn, those things smell. Big hairy things,
right?"
"Yeah," Fenrell replied. "I hate Wookies. I hope they're beating them to a pulp there."

Again, Han found he couldn't reply because he didn't agree. He knew that if he witnessed any extreme cruelty to the inmates of Despayre,
he'd have to rethink his career for certain.
* * * *

Alone once more in his quarters, Wilhulf Tarkin pondered the deeds he had performed in the last day. The execution of Lieutenant Dorgan had been an unfortunate affair, but one Tarkin had found necessary; the officer had known far too much about the Grand Moff's private plans and ambitions. It would have been a mistake to allow the boy to continue delving in such gossip. However, nothing could prevent the small twinge of guilt that touched Tarkin's soul at the slaying of one so young, so inexperienced in life. But that was the Empire, just as the conquest of the slowly turning aurburn planet below was. Tarkin had been performing his duties, though personal as they may seem externally; Tarkin's future goals would be beneficial for the Empire, of that he had no doubt. Thus, Tarkin justified the death of Lieutenant Dorgan as an essential measure for the good of the Empire.

For a moment, Tarkin's mind wandered to the excellent new pilot, Han. The young man would be an excellent addition to Tarkin's small,
tight-knit group of supporters...or conspirators, as some might call them. Tarkin would invite Han to be one of the pilots of the Death Star upon its completion, and until then he would always keep the officer with him as his personal pilot. Power and prestige would come to the man; and Tarkin's power would strengthen as well. Ackbar suddenly entered, pushing another lunch cart. It was time for dinner. Pushing away the mosaic of thoughts that swirled in his mind, Tarkin gave the alien a cold, lipless smile and welcomed his meal.

PART II

EIGHT YEARS LATER

THE MODO SYSTEM, NEAR MODO III

The Millenium Falcon screamed away from the surface of the blue-green planet below, its engines glowing with white flame as it made
its escape. In the out-rigger cockpit, Captain Han Solo and his "first mate," a Wookie named Chewbacca, were frantically trying to prepare for a jump to hyperspace.

"No! Keep going!" Han shouted in response to a cy from the Wookie. "They won't be able to scramble their patrol ships to this side of
the planet in time..."

Han knew that if he could just get the damned navcomputer to accept the course, they would be home free. Unfortunately the navcomputer, while quite advanced for its time, was still a little slow due to the droid logic circuits embedded in the computer core.

Chewbacca bellowed again, and this time Han stood up and took notice.

"Star Destroyers?" he exclaimed. "Star Destroyers? Where?"

The smuggler stared out the cockpit window and, sure enough, two gargantuan Imperial Star Destroyers loomed in the distance, slowly
powering toward Modo III behind them.

"Wonderful," Han said. Chewbacca wuffled a question at him.
"No, we can't change course," he replied. "Those Destroyers won't bother us, I don't think...they seem preoccupied with another ship, or something..." Han's brow furrowed as he stared at the small tactical screen. "Looks like some sort of
starliner or something...the Imperials have a tractor beam on it, and they're drawing it in..."

Chewbacca growled again.

"Yeah, you're right, it's probably Rebellion stuff, none of our business..."

Han shook his head. His intuition was gnawing at him, hinting at something. Something about one of those Star Destroyers...

"Chewie, can you get a fix on their transponder signals?" he asked, forgetting about the navcomputer for a moment. As he turned to stare out
the cockpit again, the tactical screen lit with small blips approaching from the far side of the planet below. Chewbacca played with the console a moment, trying to find the correct frequency. Though they usually stuck to the standard frequencies, certain Imperial ships, particularly those with special or powerful commanders, sometimes changed them...

Chewbacca finally isolated the frequency of the first Star Destroyer. It was called the Conquest; Han had never heard of it.

"What about the other one?"

Alarms suddenly blared across the Falcon, and Chewie howled in surprise as Han checked the tactical screen.

"Patrol ships," he explained as a laser blast rocked the freighter. "Damn. The navcomputer hasn't got the course set yet...I'll have to out-maneuver them."

Chewbacca growled a response, but Han shook his head and said,

"No, you keep working on that transponder. I want to know who that other ship is."

The Falcon spun into a dive, plunging away from the meager patrol fighters and executing a spiral maneuver that led them toward the two Star Destroyers.

Chewbacca again howled in alarm; but Han replied,

"Don't worry, Chewie! I know what I'm doing...those patrol ships won't follow us near those Destroyers..."

Now cognizant of Han's plan, the patrol ships began to pelt the Falcon with laser blasts. In response, Han again sent his freighter into a
complicated maneuver, leaving the patrol vessels to simply give up their pursuit. The Empire would deal with the suicidal smugglers.

The two Star Destroyers now filled the view of the entire cockpit. They loomed like floating mountains, peaked by the round attennae-like
shield generators. A Han banked the Falcon and brought it under the second Star Destroyer, the one they had yet to identify and had now nearly brought the starliner under its full control, the com panel crackled to life.

"Imperial Star Destroyer Conquest to unidentified freighter. You are interfering in Imperial business. Please identify yourselves and leave
the area before we are forced to capture and board you."
"I'd like to see you try," Han muttered under his breath as Chewbacca returned to his attempt to isolate the other vessel's transponder. "Ah, copy that, Conquest," Han said, activating the transceiver.

"This is Captain Crank Glesin, of the freighter Triple Threat. We were about to jump to hyperspace when we had a malfunction. We're
just fixing it now." Even as he spoke, the navcomputer beeped to inform Han that the course had been set.

There was a long pause from the other ship. Han waited, tense, wondering if the Imperials had noticed the patrol ships' pursuit of the
Falcon, or worse yet, were communicating with Modo III and asking about the situation. Besides that, he hadn't used the pseudonym of Crank Glesin and his Triple Threat in a long time, and he had no idea if the name would still be in the Imperials' massive list of personas.
Han was greatly relieved when the Imperial voice came back on and said,

"Copy that, Triple Threat. Do you require assistance?"
"No, that's all right," Han replied with relief. "It was a minor problem with the maneuvering thrusters. We'll be out of your way in no time."
"Understood, Triple Threat. Please leave the sector as soon as possible."

With pleasure, Han thought. "Understood, Conquest. Sol--I mean, Glesin out."
* * * *

On the bridge of the Ghorman, Captain Stem Fenrell frowned at the com panel.

"Something's not right here," he muttered to himself.
"Captain?" a cold, stern voiced asked behind him. "Is there a problem?"
Fenrell turned to face his superior. "Not exactly, Grand Moff," he replied. "It's just...there's something about that vessel, sir. The voice of the
captain sounded...vaguely familiar to me."
Tarkin cast a glance at the com panel screen. "Crank Glesin? Do you know this man?"
"No, sir...he's a small time smuggler, or so his file states. But I don't trust him, sir...and I think this may be a false name."

Tarkin considered the matter with a look of nonchalance. "Would you like to capture him for questioning?" he asked.
"No, it's all right," Fenrell said. "We have more important matters to attend to."
"Indeed," Tarkin nodded in assent. "The captured Rebel vessel is the more immediate matter. Has it been entirely accosted?"

Fenrell checked the tactical screen. "Nearly, sir," he replied. "It will be in our docking bay in two minutes."
* * * *

"Who are they?" Han asked again.

Chewbacca repeated his answer, and Han sat back in his chair. He was in disbelief; after so long, he'd finally run into them again.
The Ghorman. His old ship, back again. And he knew Tarkin was aboard. He remembered Dorgan. White-hot rage suddenly erupted in Han.

Grasping the controls, he rolled the Falcon and plunged below the Star Destroyers, turning upside-down and gliding along the bottom of the Ghorman.

"Get in the tunnel, Chewie!" Han said as he brought the Falcon near the captured Rebel ship. "Hurry!" he shouted.

At the time, Han had tried to follow Fenrell's lead, to ignore Dorgan's death. But despite this his hatred of Tarkin grew, even as he grew greater in prestige in the eyes of the Grand Moff. Now, years later, Han saw Dorgan's death through new eyes, from a perspective that
allowed him to fully comprehend the evil of the act. Han slammed his fist on the transceiver.

"Tarkin!" he shouted.
* * * *

Aboard the Ghorman, the entire bridge crew was startled by the sudden shout that came out of the communications panel. Grand Moff
Tarkin snapped to attention and whirled at the sudden call of his name.

"Who was that?" he demanded.
"The pilot of that freighter, sir..." the communications officer replied hesitantly. "Captain Glesin..."
"Tarkin! I know you're there!" the maniac screamed over the channel again. "And Fenrell! I bet you're there, too!"

Shaken, Captain Fenrell replied, "Er, yes, this is Captain Fenrell...and what do you think you're doing, addressing us in such a man--"
"Oh, shut up, Fenrell!" the man shouted again. "You're such a sell-out! Serving under the very man who killed Dorgan like that!"

Tarkin was outraged; he remembered Dorgan well, and the strange manner of this speaker and his knowledge of the past was maddeningly perplexing.

"Who are you?" Tarkin demanded.

But recognition had already dawned on Fenrell.

"Han..." The voice on the other end chuckled. "That's right, Fenrell," Han said. "I'm back, buddy. So, Captain now, eh? You must be cozy with the ol' Grand Moff now, huh? And you never worry about him tossing you out a bulkhead, like he did to Dorgan?"

At the mention of Han's name, Tarkin had immediately recalled the man.

"Han? Han Solo?" The wonder of recognition quickly faded under the scrutiny of the bridge crew; Tarkin's expression became smug. "So,
Solo, you're reduced to this now, eh? Smuggling just to stay alive. Are you still fond of Wookies?"
"Sir--" the tactical officer began, but Tarkin silenced him with a hand.
"Actually, I've got one as my co-pilot now," Han replied.
"Interesting," Tarkin said. "Is it the same one you threw away your career for?"
"Yep," was Han's terse reply.
"Indeed," Tarkin said, again raising a hand when the tactical officer tried to get his attention. "And so tell me, Captain Han...before we destroy
you for your impertinence...was it worth it? Do you regret your choice?"
"First of all, Tarkin, you'll never catch me...and second of all, not for a damn second."
"Sir!" the tactical officer cried.
"What is it?" Tarkin demanded, frustrated by Han's audacity.
"The freighter has destroyed our tractor beam! We've lost the Rebel ship!"

For a moment, the entire bridge was silent as Tarkin stood, his mouth trembling with rage. Then, a slow, quiet chuckle drifted over the
channel.

"You darn Imperials," Han said patronizingly. "So easily distracted. It's a shame, though...I'm sure capturing those Rebels would have really
made your day, wouldn't it've?"
* * * *

"Solo!" was the only word that came over the transceiver, but it was so loud that Han almost had to cover his ears. Han laughed again as he shut off the transceiver.

"Score one for ol' Han," he said as Chewbacca started to come out of the gun tunnel. "No, not yet, Chewie!" Han said. "Get back in there! That was some nice shooting, but I'm not done yet!"

Chewbacca growled a question, but Han waved him away and said,

"Don't worry, I know what I'm doing!"

The hyperspace course was already set...so there was nothing wrong with one last blast, Han thought. He angled the Falcon away from
the bottom of the Destroyer as the Rebel ship entered hyperspace. The Falcon came up and over the tapered bow of the Destroyer,
Han pouring on the speed as the freighter neared the head of the huge ship.

"Chewie," Han said over the comlink, "I'm going to send you some coordinates...aim for this spot, if you can..."

The Falcon crossed the mile-long distance in seconds, and an instant before striking the massive superstructure above the wedge-shaped
hull of the shape, Chewbacca fired a burst of lasers that struck the superstructure point-blank. At the last possible moment, Han pulled the
Falcon up and away from the Destroyer. TIE fighters were already surrounding them as Chewbacca returned to the co-pilot seat.

"Get ready," Han said, and he pulled on the hyperdrive lever, catapulting the Falcon into hyperspace and far out of reach of the pursuing Imperials.
* * * *

The bridge of the Ghorman was a wreck. A smoky haze filled the air, and small fires lit the shadows not touched by the red auxiliary
lighting. The large viewing window was shattered, and much of the artificial atmosphere had been lost before the protective shield had
activated, making the air rather thin. Bruised and battered, Grand Moff Tarkin pushed a large chunk of metal debris off his body, then pulled himself to his feet. Beyond the few minor abrasions and a pounding headache, he found himself in satisfactory condition.

Fenrell was another matter. As several officers tried to pull the large broken console off his body, Tarkin could plainly see that the captain's chest had been crushed by the blow...and the blood that covered the deck certainly wasn't a good sign either. No, Captain Fenrell had
finally met his untimely doom at the hands of a former fellow officer. Even through his anger, Tarkin could see some twisted justice, or perhaps simply fate, in the whole matter.

"Did we catch him?" Tarkin growled wearily, to no one in particular.

The tactical officer, who had managed to suffer no injuries, reported to him. "Negative, Grand Moff. The ship entered hyperspace and
escaped our fighters."

"Damn!" Tarkin cried out, in an out-of-character display of anger. Solo...Han Solo. The promising young pilot, seemingly destined for a stellar career in the Imperial Navy, who threw it all away for the life of a Wookie slave. Tarkin remembered watching the court-martial as the
tribunal carried out his explicit instructions that Solo was not to be executed, by simply drummed out of the service. He remembered watching the former commander, grim-faced and yet unrepetant, exit the court with a dignity that seemed out of place for his situation. And now, years later, that same man, a common smuggler, had managed not only to free a Rebel starliner from a Star Destroyer, but to kill the vessel's captain and nearly destroy the entire bridge. Indeed, Solo had known precisely where to strike the ship...

For a few moments, as he was led to sickbay by one of the medical officers, Tarkin toyed with the notion of placing a bounty on Solo's head.
No one would question it, after this act; but Tarkin found he had little desire to do so. He admired Solo's fortitude, and his strength in his beliefs, though misplaced, was admirable. Beyond that, his success in what seemed both impossible and suicidal merited a respect that Tarkin found he could not suppress; and so, the Grand Moff merely selected a new captain and continued on his way to the Horuz system, where his beloved Death Star was nearing completion. Despite his reputation, his demeanor, and his philosophy, Tarkin still found room for honor in life.
* * * *
On board the Milleniun Falcon, still soaring through the hyperspace tunnel, Han Solo was still chuckling to himself.

"Not a bad piece of work, eh, Chewie?" Han said as he got up to check the cargo manifest.

Chewie growled in agreement, then wuffled a question.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I suppose it was a nice thing to do..." Han said as he sat down in the pilot seat again. "But saving those Rebels was never my intention, Chewie. It was just something I did to get Tarkin all riled up, to get back at him, I guess."

Chewbacca expressed doubt at the statement.

"C'mon, Chewie, what would I want with the Rebellion?" Han said defensively. "The whole thing gets in the way of business. And somehow, I
doubt that a new Rebel government would have customs officials as easy to bribe as the Empire does."

Chewbacca acknowledged this, then became silent. Han knew that the Wookie still thought he'd saved the starliner out of the kindness of his heart, though. But Han knew better...like he said, what did he want with the Rebellion? He'd just wanted to get back at Tarkin...and Fenrell, too... for the death--and staining of the memory of--Hojn Dorgan.

Hadn't he?

PART III

TWENTY-FOUR YEARS LATER

THE ATHDEN SYSTEM, OUTER RIM TERRITORY

Slowly but surely, Han Solo piloted the Millenium Falcon through the deserted Athden system. The system contained one small red dwarf
star and two planets, neither of which supported any life, though there was evidence that one had once held a great and powerful civilization.

Now, the territory was little more than a galactic garbage dump. A special magnetic anomaly made the area particularly excellent for placing old, useless vessels, space stations, and any other assorted junk that the former owners didn't want any more, but found they couldn't simply annihilate. The system had once been a thriving home for scavengers, but a new New Republic outpost that charged for scavenged materials had somewhat diminished its popularity.

A-wing fighters patrolled the endless floating debris, watching out for any unauthorized scavenger vessels. But Han had pull within the New Republic, and many could recognize he and his vessel by sight. He had little trouble getting past the outpost and entering the massive collection of garbage.

Han had come to Athden on an anonymous tip. Someone had known something about his past, and he had received a transmission
telling him that the Star Destroyer Ghorman, now a useless hulk, had been dropped off at the Athden Dump just recently. Despite Leia's protests, Han had found the temptation to visit his old ship irresistable, as distasteful as his memories of it might be.

After confirming with Outpost Athden, Han had said good-bye to his kids and Leia and even told Chewbacca that he had to go on this one
alone. Flying the Falcon without a co-pilot was easier now, thanks to the constant upgrades to it that were fully funded by the New Republic. The ship was still nowhere near the standards of the new YT-class freighters, but it was much more powerful than it had been when he'd taken Luke and Ben Kenobi for that first ride.

Han slowly guided his old freighter through the wreckage, its powerful new systems responding quickly and easily to his touch. As he passed, he took note of several classes of vessels he recognized; an old Firespray-class patrol ship, heavily modified, now a worthless piece of trash; several Imperial shuttles, which reminded him of the Tyridium, the shuttle he had piloted undercover to Endor; untold hundreds of TIE fighters, now utterly useless; a battered Mon Calamari cruiser, half of its port side gone, now a dignified, inactive hulk; a few Corellian freighters that looked a little too much like the Falcon for Han's comfort; and there, floating near the planet of Athden II, were the Star Destroyers. There were three of the mile-long vessels here, bruised and battered from their long battles with the Rebellion. Besides the Ghorman, which sat in the center (Han recognized it by the distinctive lack of a finished bow, the wound the ship had suffered in the Battle of Endor), were the Gorbag and the Shagrat, both in far worse condition than the Ghorman.

The Falcon's sensors informed him that there was no life support active on board the Ghorman; this disappointed Han, but it was to be
expected, he supposed. All of the computer files on the ship had been downloaded by the Rebellion's techs long ago, but Han suspected their was something that the former Rebels had missed.

The computer of the Ghorman was still weakly operating, though it could do little more than react to what was asked of it. Han downloaded a
file from the central computer core through a brand-new device that had been installed on his ship less than a month ago. Thanking the Force for small favors, Han eyed his old vessel while the computer beeped and hummed at its task.

Years after his court-martial, when Han had been in a dreary bar somewhere in the Outer Rim territories, he'd found out where the name of
Tarkin's ship had come from. Ghorman was a planet located in the system of the same name in the Sern sector near the Core Worlds, and was the site of the infamous Ghorman Massacre, an early atrocity committed by the Empire. During a peaceful anti-tax demonstration, a warship sent to collect the taxes landed on top of the protesters-- killing and injuring hundreds. Tarkin, the warship's captain, was promoted to Moff for this action. The Ghorman Massacre was commemorated every year on its anniversary by those opposed to Palpatine's New Order, and it convinced Bail Organa of Alderaan to join the cause of the Rebellion. That Tarkin would commemorate the action as well...by naming a Star Destroyer after the planet...seemed to Han to be the product of a sick and twisted mind.

As he gazed at the huge vessel, old thoughts and feelings long suppressed gently entered Han's mind. He remembered piloting that huge
ship...that huge, wedge-shaped monstrosity, and the wonderful feeling of strength and power one felt at its controls. He recalled his few friends... smug Dorgan, and that slime devil Fenrell, and a few others whom he'd hung around with. Life had been...orderly, simple, in the Empire. Now, life was complicated...he had a wife and kids, a generalship, a Republic to think about. And who knew? Had he continued to pilot the Ghorman, he might have become captain, instead of Fenrell...

The computer suddenly beeped, shaking Han out of his reverie. He cleared his head and tried to open the long file he'd downloaded. It was
encrypted, of course; quite well, actually, for the time it had been a part of, but the computer quickly deciphered it. It then demanded a password, and Han stared at it, perplexed.

"Ghorman" he typed in. "Access Denied" flashed the screen. Too obvious.

He tried "Deathstar." Same result. He tried "Fear," "Empire," "Nikrat" (Tarkin backwards), and even "Grandmoff." All came up
negative.

Han sat back, stumped. He tried to recall everything he could about the long-dead Grand Moff, every little fact and figure about the man.
Suddenly, he slapped his forehead.

"Daala," he typed in. "Access Denied," the screen flashed.

He typed in "Alaad." Han let out a small breath of satisfaction as the personal log of the late Grand Moff Wilhulf Tarkin glowed on the
screen before him. Though he was sure the historians back on Coruscant would find the contents of the log invaluable, Han wasn't interested in most of it. He thought hard for a moment, trying to recall the day he'd gained his promotion, and the day he'd attacked the Ghorman in the Falcon. After a few minutes of searching, he found the files he was looking for.

He first looked at the log of the day of his promotion. For a moment he was taken aback; he'd forgotten that Admiral Ackbar had once
been Tarkin's servant. In fact, in all his years of knowing the admiral, he'd never even recalled that he'd actually served with him, in a way.

The log read:


Today went rather well. The conquest of H'Zonalm II has gone off without hindrance. There was some resistance in the form of an ion cannon, but thanks to the quick action of our new pilot, Lieutenant Han Solo, we were able to avoid the blast. I promoted Solo to commander right on the spot, and also demoted that worthless tactical officer, Trawets, to lieutenant. Also, Ackbar made the most wonderful dinner today.

There was...unpleasantness today, unfortunately. I had a communique with Vader, and still he threatens me, silently mocks my position. If I dare, I may speak to the Emperor about correcting that dark Jedi's attitude.

Worse yet, one of my officers, a Hojn Dorgan, was again running at the mouth today. He learned far too much of my ambitions, and worse yet, he spoke too much of them. I executed him through vacuum today, much to my own distaste. However, I cannot abide such impudence and gossip amongst my officers. I also cannot allow free knowledge of my plans throughout the ship, particularly when I aleady suffer so much from that boorish Motti.

Once we have finished this conquest, we are to proceed to the Horuz system, where I shall oversee the beginning of the Death Star project. My heart leaps slightly at the thought...the most powerful weapon ever known, to be under my command...

The log ended there. Han skipped over his court-martial; he didn't want to know Tarkin's thoughts on that. His court-martial had been a
grim, ugly time for him, and one he didn't care to remember. He located the file from the day he and Chewie had attacked the Ghorman.

A ghost from the past returned to haunt me today...a former officer, Commander Han Solo, now 'captain' of a meager light freighter, actually taught me a lesson today. I always knew that young man had potential, and indeed, his skill is even greater today than it was eight years
ago, when he was the pilot of this very ship.

In his little freighter, whilst I was distracted by his tough talk and cocky attitude, Solo managed to destroy our tractor beam emitter, freeing the Rebel ship we had been in the process of acquiring. What he did next both angers me to a rage and commands my respect as one of the most brave acts I have ever witnessed.

In that tiny vessel, Solo actually moved to an attack position and made a run at the Ghorman herself! I was astounded, but even more so when the ship's laser cannons struck the bridge, nearly obliterating it. I escaped more or less unharmed, but Captain Fenrell was killed in the incident.

I considered placing a hundred-thousand credit bounty on the man--after all, the Empire cannot allow such acts to go unpunished--but I find that I cannot completely blame Solo for his actions. Though his values, beliefs, and system of honor may be different than my own, he still followed it to the letter, as I would, and I respect him greatly for that.

Unless he should prove a greater disturbance, I shall allow Solo to go free for now.

Han was facinated by this log. At first, he found it troubling; he'd never known that he'd actually killed Fenrell in that attack run. The news
bothered him somewhat; a feeling of guilt slowly crept into his gut. But he shook it off; this was a long time ago, and Han couldn't help but feel that Fenrell had gotten what he deserved.

The rest of the files didn't interest him, though he kept them in the computer banks for the historians back home. Sighing, Han piloted the
Falcon out of the massive system of wreckage, transmitting a good-bye message to a passing A-Wing patroller. Once the Falcon had leapt into hyperspace, Han went to the back of the ship. He needed a strong drink, and all those New Republic government dinners had left him with a generous store of good vintage liquor.

Taking out a little Tatooine Binge Ale, Han sat down on the bunk of the small "quarters" of the Falcon and reflected for a while. He was still haunted by What Might Have Been...how his life would have gone had he stayed with the Empire. He'd never have met Leia, certainly...or Luke, for that matter, or Kenobi. He'd never have owed Jabba the Hutt and spent years hibernating while encased in carbonite. Greedo would be alive, and Chewie would be dead. The Empire would have the entire galaxy in its grip, with the Death Star as its glove...and there would be Han, perhaps an Admiral, perhaps even greater, wealthy beyond imagining, able to command fleets of ships and millions of troops, flourishing under the glitter and the glory of the Empire...

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD.

That odd thought came into Han's head even as he contemplated. Then he realized his mistake...the Empire would not have survived. Luke
and Kenobi would have found some other pilot--maybe Dash Rendar, or some other guy who'd been on Tatooine at the time...and _that_ guy would be married to Leia, and have three kids, and be a general in the New Republic...and where would he be? Dead, most likely, strangled by Vader or killed in the Battle of Endor, or captured as a prisoner and taken to one of the grim prison worlds the New Republic used to house the millions of former Imperial officers.

Feeling the smooth vibrations of the Falcon's new hyperdrive coursing through his body, Han finished the drink, programmed the computer to wake him shortly before exiting hyperspace, and lay down on the small bunk. His mind full of dreams, memories and hopes, General Han
Solo, pilot, officer, smuggler, scoundrel, husband, and father, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

© (copyright) Jason Clarke. All Rights Reserved