3

The polar regions of Coruscant reminded Han Solo of the ice planet Hoth—with one crucial difference. Han was here by choice with his young friend Kyp Durron for a vacation while Leia went off with Admiral Ackbar on yet another diplomatic mission.

Han stood atop the crumpled blue-white ice cliffs, feeling warm in his insulated charcoal-gray parka and red heater gloves. The ever-present auroras in the purplish skies sent rainbow curtains flickering and refracting off the ice. He drew in a deep breath of crackling cold air that seemed to curl his nostril hairs.

He turned to Kyp beside him. “About ready to go, kid?”

For the fifth time the dark-haired eighteen-year-old bent over to adjust the fastenings on his turbo-skis. “Uh, almost,” Kyp said.

Han leaned forward to peer down the steep turbo-ski run of rippled ice, feeling a lump form in his throat but unwilling to show it.

Blue and white glaciers shone in dim light from the months-long twilight. Below, ice-boring machines had chewed deep tunnels into the thick ice caps; other excavators had chopped broad terraces on the cliffs as they mined centuries-old snowpack, melting it with fusion furnaces to be delivered via titanic water pipelines to the dense metropolitan areas in the temperate zones.

“You really think I can do this?” Kyp said, straightening and gripping his deflector poles.

Han laughed. “Kid, if you can pilot us single-handed through a black hole cluster, I think you can handle a turbo-ski slope on the most civilized planet in the galaxy.”

Kyp looked at Han with a smile in his dark eyes. The boy reminded Han of a young Luke Skywalker. Ever since Han had rescued Kyp from his slavery in the spice mines of Kessel, the young man had clung to him. After years of wrongful Imperial imprisonment, Kyp had missed the best years of his life. Han vowed to make up for that.

“Come on, kid,” he said, leaning forward and igniting the motors of his turbo-skis. With thickly gloved hands Han held on to the deflector poles and flicked them on. He felt the cushioning repulsorfield emanating from each point, making the poles bob in the air to keep his balance.

“You’re on,” Kyp said, and fired up his own skis. “But not the kiddie slope.” He turned from the wide ice pathway and pointed instead to a side run that branched off over several treacherous ledges, across the scabby ice of a rotten glacier, and finally over a frozen waterfall to a receiving-and-rescue area. Winking red laser beacons clearly marked the dangerous path.

“No way, Kyp! It’s much too—” But Kyp launched himself forward and blasted down the slope.

“Hey!” Han said. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach, sure he would have to pick up Kyp’s broken body somewhere along the path. But now he had no choice but to blast after the boy. “Kid, this is really a stupid thing to do.”

Crystals of powdery snow sprayed behind Kyp’s turbo-skis as he bent forward, touching the ground at occasional intervals with his deflector poles. He kept his balance like an expert, intuitively knowing what to do. After only a second of the thundering descent, Han realized that Kyp might be more likely to survive this ride than he was.

As Han rocketed down the slope, the snow and ice hissed beneath him like a jet of compressed air. Han hit a frozen outcropping that sent him flying, and he somersaulted through the air, flailing with his deflector poles. Stabilizer jets on his belt righted him just in time as he slammed into the snow again. He continued down the slope with the speed of a stampeding bantha.

He squinted behind ice goggles, concentrating intensely on keeping himself upright. The landscape seemed too sharp—every razor-edged drift of snow, the glittering sheared-off face of ice—as if every single detail might be his last.

Kyp let out a loud whoop of delight as he slewed left onto the dangerous offshoot turbo-ski path. The whoop echoed three times around the sharp-edged cliffs.

Han began cursing the young man’s recklessness, then experienced a sudden inner warmth as he realized he had expected little else from Kyp. Making the best of it, Han let out an answering whoop of his own and turned to follow.

Red laser beacons flared, warning and guiding the foolish turbo-skiers along the path. The rippled surface whispered beneath the soft cushioning fields of his turbo-skis.

Ahead, the icy roadway seemed foreshortened and continued at a different elevation. Han realized the danger an instant before he reached the precipice. “Cliff!”

Kyp bent low, as if he had simply become another component of his turbo-skis. He tucked his deflector poles close to his sides, then fired up the rear jets of his skis. He rocketed over the edge of the cliff, arcing down in a long smooth curve to the resumption of the trail.

Barely in time, Han activated his own jets and launched himself over empty space. His stomach dropped even faster than gravity could tug him down. Wind ruffled the edges of his parka hood.

In front of him Kyp landed smoothly without so much as a wobble and shot downslope.

Han had time to take only one gulping breath as the plateau of ice rushed up to meet his turbo-skis with a loud crack. He gripped his deflector poles, desperate to maintain his balance.

A powdery ribbon of drifted snow curled across their path. Kyp jammed down with his deflector poles, hopping up into the air and cleanly missing the drift—but Han plowed straight through.

Snow flew into his goggles, blinding him. He wobbled and jabbed from side to side with his poles. He managed to swipe a gloved hand across his goggles just in time to swerve left and avoid smashing into a monolithic ice outcropping.

Before he had recovered his balance, Han launched over a yawning chasm in the rotten glacier that fell out beneath him. For a timeless instant he stared down at a drop of about a million kilometers, and then he landed on the far side. Behind him, he heard a whump as a block of age-old snow lost its precarious grip on the wall and plunged into the crevasse.

Ahead, Kyp encountered a blocky, rubble-strewn glacier field. More widely spaced now, the laser beacons seemed to give up and let foolhardy turbo-skiers choose their own path. Kyp wobbled as he struck hummocks of ice and snow. He raised the repulsorfield to skim higher over the surface.

As the crusty glacier grew rougher, clogged with grainy blown snow, Han muttered complaints and curses through gritted teeth. He kept his balance somehow, but Kyp had lost ground. Han found himself breathing the boy’s wake, pushing closer and faster—and suddenly the race meant something to him again. Afterward, while sitting around in a cantina and swapping stories, he would somehow convince himself that the whole thing had been a great deal of fun.

Feeling a bit of the recklessness he had just cursed Kyp for, Han pulsed the jets, lunging forward in an adrenaline-filled burst of speed that brought him side by side with Kyp.

A snowfield sprawled in front of them, sparkling white and unsullied by other turbo-ski tracks—even though it had not snowed for more than a month in this arid frigid climate—demonstrating exactly how few people had been foolish enough to attempt the dangerous path.

Ahead, the roped-off receiving-and-rescue area lay like a sanctuary: communications gear, warming huts, powered-down medical droids that could be reactivated at a moment’s notice, and an old hot-beverage shop that had long since gone out of business. Home free—they had made it!

Kyp glanced sideways at him, his dark eyes crinkled at the corners. He crouched down and blasted his skis at full power. Han hunched over to decrease his air resistance. Pristine snow flew around him, hissing in his ears.

The line of laser beacons switched off like metallic eyes blinking shut. Han had no time to wonder about it before the smooth blanket of snow ahead bulged, then sloughed inward.

A crunching, grinding sound accompanied the straining of massive engines. Gouts of steam erupted from the collapsed snowfield as the glowing red nose of a mechanical thermal borer thrust into the open air. The screw-shaped tip continued to turn as it chewed its way out of the solid ice.

“Look out!” Han yelled, but Kyp had already veered off to the left side, leaning hard on one deflector pole and jabbing at the air with his other. Han punched his stabilizing jets and streaked to the right as the mammoth ice-processing machine chewed the opening of its tunnel wider, clutching the walls with clawed tractor treads.

Han skimmed past the gaping pit, feeling a blast of hot steam across his cheeks. His goggles fogged again, but he found his way to the steep ice waterfall, the final obstacle before the finish line. The edge of the precipice flowed with long tendrils of icicles like dangling cables that had built up over centuries during the brief spring thaws.

Kyp launched himself over the edge of the frozen river, igniting both ski jets. Han did the same, tucking his poles against his ribs, watching the packed snow fly up to strike the bottoms of his skis with a loud slap that echoed along the ice fields in unison with the sound of Kyp’s landing.

They both charged forward, then slewed to a stop in front of the cluster of prefab huts. Kyp peeled down the hood of his parka and started laughing. Han held on to his deflector poles, feeling his body tremble with relief and an overdose of excitement. Then he, too, began chuckling.

“That was really stupid, kid,” Han managed at last.

“Oh?” Kyp shrugged. “Who was stupid enough to follow me? After the spice mines of Kessel, I wouldn’t consider a little turbo-ski slope too dangerous. Hey, maybe we could ask Threepio to tell us the odds of successfully negotiating that slope when we get back.”

Han shook his head and gave a lopsided grin. “I’m not interested in odds. We did it. That’s what counts.”

Kyp stared across the frozen distance. His eyes seemed to follow the arrow-straight lines of nonreflective water conduits ringed with pressure joints and pumping stations.

“I’m glad we’ve had so much fun, Han,” he said, staring into something only he seemed to see. “I’ve done a lifetime’s worth of healing since you rescued me.”

Han felt uncomfortable at the thick emotion he heard in Kyp’s voice. He tried to lighten the mood. “Well, kid, you had as much to do with our escape as I did.”

Kyp didn’t seem to hear. “I’ve been thinking about what Luke Skywalker said when he found my ability to use the Force. I only know a little bit about it, but it seems to be calling me. I could do a huge service to the New Republic. The Empire ruined my life and destroyed my family—I wouldn’t mind getting a chance to strike back.”

Han swallowed, knowing what the boy was trying to say. “So you think you’re ready to go study with Luke and the other Jedi trainees?”

Kyp nodded. “I’d rather stay here and have fun for the rest of my life, but—”

Han said in a soft voice, “You deserve it, you know.”

But Kyp shook his head. “I think it’s time I start taking myself seriously. If I do have this gift of using the Force, I can’t let it go to waste.”

Han gripped the young man’s shoulder and squeezed hard, feeling Kyp’s rangy frame through his bulky gloves. “I’ll see that you get a good flight to Yavin 4.”

The whirring hum of repulsorlifts broke the quiet moment. Han looked up as a messenger droid approached, streaking like a chromium projectile over the ice fields. The droid arrowed straight for them.

Han muttered, “If that’s a representative from the turbo-ski resort, I’m going to file a complaint about that ice-mining machine. We could have been killed.”

But as the messenger droid hovered over them, lowering itself to Han’s eye level, it snapped open a scanning panel and spoke in a genderless monotone. “General Solo, please confirm identification. Voice match will be sufficient.”

Han groaned. “Aww, I’m on vacation. I don’t want to bother with any diplomatic mess right now.”

“Voice match confirmed. Thank you,” the droid said. “Prepare to receive encoded message.”

The droid hovered as it projected a holographic image onto the clean snow. Han recognized the auburn-haired figure of Mon Mothma. He straightened in surprise—the Chief of State rarely communicated with him directly.

“Han,” Mon Mothma said in a quiet, troubled voice. He noticed immediately that she had called him by his first name instead of his more formal rank. A fist of sudden dread clenched his stomach.

“I’m sending you this message because there has been an accident. Admiral Ackbar’s shuttle crashed on the planet Vortex. Leia was with him, but she’s safe and unharmed. The admiral ejected her to safety before his ship flew out of control, directly into a large cultural center. Admiral Ackbar managed to power up his crash shields, but the entire structure was destroyed. So far at least 358 Vors are confirmed dead in the wreckage.

“This is a tragic day for us, Han. Come home to Imperial City. I think Leia might need you as soon as she returns.” Mon Mothma’s image wavered, then dissolved into staticky snowflakes that faded in the air.

The messenger droid said, “Thank you. Here is your receipt.” It spat out a tiny blue chit that landed in a puff of snow at Han’s feet.

Han stared as the droid turned and streaked back toward the base camp. He squashed the blue chit into the snow with the base of his turbo-ski. He felt sick. The excitement he had just experienced, all the joy with Kyp, had evaporated, leaving only a leaden dread inside him.

“Come on, Kyp. Let’s go.”

See-Threepio thought that if his fine-motor control had allowed it, his entire golden body would be chattering with cold. His internal thermal units were no match for the frozen polar regions of Coruscant.

He was a protocol droid, fluent in over six million forms of communication. He was able to perform an incredible number of diverse tasks—all of which seemed more appealing at the moment than baby-sitting a pair of wild two-and-a-half-year-olds who saw him as their plaything.

Threepio had taken the twins to the snow-play area at the bottom of the ice slopes, where they could ride tame tauntauns. Little Jacen and his sister Jaina seemed to enjoy the spitting, cumbersome creatures—and the Umgullian rancher who had brought the furry animals to Coruscant seemed delighted to have the business.

Afterward Threepio had stoically endured as the twins insisted on making a “snow droid” of him, packing layers of snow around his shiny body. He still felt ice crystals caked inside his joints. As he enhanced the output from his optical sensors, Threepio thought that his golden alloy had taken on a decidedly bluish tinge from the low temperature.

On a sledding slope the twins spun around, giggling and shrieking as they bounced against padded restraints in a child’s snow skimmer. Threepio waited for them at the bottom, then began the long trudge back up the hill so the children could do it all over again. He felt like a low-capacity labor droid with too little computing power to understand the drudgery of its own existence. “Oh, how I wish Master Solo would get back soon,” he said.

At the top of the ramp he secured Jacen and Jaina snugly into their seats. In tandem they looked up at him with rosy-cheeked faces. Humans claimed to find the winter chill exhilarating; Threepio wished he had outfitted himself with more efficient low-temperature lubricants.

“Now, you children be careful on the ride down,” he said. “I shall meet you at the bottom and bring you back up.” He paused. “Again.”

He launched the children in the spinning snow skimmer. Jacen and Jaina laughed and squealed as feathers of snow sprayed down the slope. Threepio began to move with a rapid gait down the long ramp.

When he reached the bottom, the twins were already attempting to unstrap themselves. Jaina had managed to disconnect one buckle, though the attendant at the equipment-rental station had assured Threepio that the restraints were utterly childproof.

“Children, leave that alone!” he said. He refastened Jaina’s restraint and switched on the hoverfield beneath the snow skimmer. He grasped the handles and began to climb back up the slope to the launching platform.

When he reached the top, both twins shouted, “Again!” in unison, as if their minds were linked. Threepio decided it was time to lecture the children about overindulgence in enjoyment, but before he could formulate a speech with the appropriate levels of sternness and vocabulary, a crowded shuttle skimmer arrived. Han Solo emerged, pulling back the hood of his gray parka and balancing his turbo-skis on his left shoulder. Kyp Durron followed him out of the transport.

Threepio raised a golden arm. “Over here,” he said. “Master Solo, over here!”

“Daddy!” Jaina said. Jacen echoed her a fraction of a second later.

“Thank heavens,” Threepio said, and started to unfasten the restraints.

“Get ready to go,” Han said as he marched forward, his expression unaccountably troubled. Threepio reached forward, about to begin his litany of complaints, but Han dropped the bulky turbo-skis into the droid’s arms.

“Master Solo, is something wrong?” Threepio tried to balance the heavy skis.

“Sorry to cut your vacation short, kids, but we have to get back home,” Han said, ignoring the droid.

Threepio straightened. “I’m very glad to hear that, sir. I don’t mean to complain, but I was not designed for temperature extremes.”

He felt an impact against the back of his head as a large lump of snow splattered him. “Oh!” he said, raising his arms in alarm, barely managing to keep hold of the skis. “Master Solo, I must protest!” he said.

Jacen and Jaina giggled as they each picked up another snowball to throw at the droid.

Han turned to the twins. “Stop playing with Threepio, you two. We have to get back home.”

Down in the repair bays of the revamped Imperial Palace on Coruscant, Lando Calrissian couldn’t imagine how Chewbacca managed to cram his enormous furry body inside the Falcon’s narrow maintenance crawlway. Standing in the corridor, Lando saw the Wookiee as a tangle of brown fur wedged between the emergency power generator, the acceleration compensator, and the anticoncussion field generator.

Chewbacca let out a yowl as he dropped a hydrospanner. The tool bounced and fell with a series of ricocheting clangs until it landed in a completely inaccessible spot. The Wookiee snarled and then let out a yelp as he banged his shaggy head on a coolant pipe.

“No, no, Chewbacca!” Lando said, brushing back his sleek cape and sticking his arm into the maintenance crawlway. He tried to point toward the circuitry. “That goes here, and this goes there!” Chewbacca grumbled back, disagreeing.

“Look, Chewie, I know this ship like the back of my hand, too. I owned her for quite a few years, you know.”

Chewbacca made a string of ululating sounds that echoed inside the enclosed chamber.

“All right, have it your way. I can work the access hatches on the outside hull. I’ll retrieve your hydrospanner. Who knows what other junk we’ll find there?”

Lando turned and made his way to the entry ramp, stomping down into the cacophony of shouted requests and engine noises in the starship mechanic bay. The air smelled oily and stifling, tainted with gaseous coolants and exhaust fumes from small diplomatic shuttles to large freighters. Human and alien engineers worked on their ships. Stubby Ugnaughts clambered inside access hatches and chattered at each other, requesting tools and diagrams for fixing troublesome engines.

Admiral Ackbar’s carefully picked crew of Calamarian starship mechanics oversaw special modifications to small vessels in the New Republic fleet. Terpfen, Ackbar’s chief mechanic, wandered from ship to ship, status board in hand, verifying requested repairs and scrutinizing the work with his glassy fish eyes.

Lando pried open the access hatch on the Falcon’s outer hull. The hydrospanner clattered out and fell into his outstretched hands, along with burned-out cyberfuses, a discarded hyperdrive shunt, and the wrapper from a package of dehydrated food.

“Got it, Chewbacca,” he shouted. The Wookiee’s answer was muffled inside the cramped access hatch.

Lando looked at the scorch marks along the Falcon’s battered hull. The ship seemed to be one massive collection of patches and repairs. He ran a callused hand along the hull, caressing the metal.

“Hey! What are you doing to my ship?”

Lando jerked his hand away from the Falcon and looked around guiltily to see Han Solo approaching. Chewbacca bellowed a greeting from the maintenance crawlway.

Han’s face reflected a thunderstorm of bad moods as he strode across the debris-strewn floor of the mechanic bay. “I need my ship right now. Is she ready to fly?” Han said.

Lando put his hands at his side. “I was just making some repairs and modifications, old buddy. What’s the problem?”

“Who told you you could make any modifications?” Han looked unaccountably angry. “Chewie, we’ve got to fly right away. Why did you let this clown mess around with my engines?”

“Wait a minute, Han! This used to be my ship, you know,” Lando said, not knowing what had provoked such anger in his friend. “Besides, who rescued this ship from Kessel? Who saved your tail from the Imperial fleet?”

See-Threepio hastened stiffly into the mechanic bay. “Ah, greetings, General Calrissian,” he said.

Lando ignored the droid. “I lost the Lady Luck rescuing your ship. I’d think that deserves a little gratitude, don’t you? In fact, since I sacrificed my own ship to save your hide, I thought maybe you’d be grateful enough to give me back the Falcon.”

“Oh, my!” Threepio said. “That is an idea that might warrant some consideration, Master Solo.”

“Shut up, Threepio,” Han said without glancing in the droid’s direction.

“Looks like you’ve got an attitude problem, Han,” Lando said with a grin he knew would annoy his friend. But Han had stepped over the bounds of common courtesy with his snappish accusations, and Lando had no intention of letting him get away with it.

Han looked ready to explode. Lando couldn’t figure out what was bothering him. “My problem is you’ve been sabotaging my ship. I don’t ever want you touching her again, do you understand? Get your own ship. Seems to me that with the million-credit reward you got at the blob races on Umgul, you could buy just about any ship you want and stop messing around with mine.”

“An excellent idea, sir,” Threepio added helpfully. “With that amount of money, General Calrissian, you could indeed buy a fine ship.”

“Be quiet, Threepio,” Lando said, putting his hands on his hips. “I don’t want to buy another ship, old buddy.” He stressed the last two words with thick sarcasm. “If I can’t have the Lady Luck, I want the Falcon. Your wife is the Minister of State, Han. You can have the government provide you with any sort of transport you want—why not get yourself a new fighter right from the Calamarian shipyards?”

“I’m certain that could be arranged, sir,” Threepio agreed.

“Shut up, Threepio,” Han said again, keeping his eyes on Lando. “I don’t want any old ship. The Falcon is mine.”

Lando glowered at Han. “You won her from me in a sabacc game, and to tell you the truth—old buddy—I’ve always suspected you cheated in that game.”

Han became livid, backing away. “You’re accusing me of cheating? I’ve been called a scoundrel before, but never a cheat! In fact, it seems to me,” he said in a low, threatening voice, “that you won the Falcon yourself in a sabacc game before I came along. Didn’t you also win the Cloud City Tibanna gas mines from the former Baron Administrator in a sabacc game? What could you possibly have used as collateral for a bet like that? You’re a dirty no-good swindler, Lando. Admit it.”

“And you’re a pirate!” Lando said, stalking forward, his fists bunched at his side. He had made his reputation as an expert gambler.

Chewbacca growled from within the Falcon, making loud clangs and thumps as he extricated himself from the cramped passage. He stumbled down the entry ramp and stood gripping the piston supports.

As Han and Lando closed to within striking distance, Threepio wriggled in between them. “Excuse me, sirs, but might I make a suggestion? If indeed you both won the ship in a sabacc game, and if you are contesting the results, could you perhaps simply play another game of sabacc to settle this issue once and for all?” Threepio turned his glowing optical sensors first at Lando, then at Han.

“I just came down here to get my ship,” Han said, “but now you’ve made it into a point of honor.”

Lando glared at Han without flinching. “I can beat you any day of the week, Han Solo.”

“Not this day,” Han said, lowering his voice even further. “But not just sabacc. We’ll make it random sabacc.”

Lando raised his eyebrows, but met Han’s gaze stare for stare. “Who’s going to keep track of the plays?”

Han jerked his chin to the side. “We’ll use Threepio as our modulator. Goldenrod doesn’t have enough brains to cheat.”

“But, sir, I really don’t have the programming to—” Threepio said.

Han and Lando snapped in unison, “Shut up, Threepio!”

“All right, Han,” Lando said, “let’s do it before you lose your nerve.”

“You’re going to lose more than nerve before this game is over,” Han said.

As Lando set up the cards and the sabacc table, Han Solo ushered the last of the off-duty bureaucrats toward the door of the small lounge. “Out. Come on! We need to use this place for a while.”

They grumbled and objected in a variety of languages, but Han assisted them through the entryway with gentle shoves. “File a complaint with the New Republic.” Then he closed and sealed the door, turning to Lando. “You ready yet?”

This was far different from the stuffy, smoke-filled parlors where he used to play sabacc, such as the underground game where he had once won a planet for Leia in an attempt to buy her affections.

At the sabacc table Lando spread out a handful of rectangular cards with crystalline screens sandwiched between metal layers. “Ready when you are, buddy.” But he looked uneasy. “Han, we don’t really have to do this—”

Han sniffed the air, frowning at the cloying smells of deodorizing mists and ambassadorial perfumes. “Yes, I do. Leia’s been in an accident on one of her diplomatic missions, and I want to escort her back home, not some hospital ship.”

“Leia’s hurt?” Lando said, standing up in surprise. “So that’s what has been bothering you. Forget it, take the ship. I was just kidding anyway. We’ll do this some other time.”

“No! We do it now, or you’ll never be off my case. Threepio, get in here. What’s taking so long?” Han said.

The golden droid scooted in from the back-room computer station, looking flustered, as usual. “I’m here, Master Solo. I was just reviewing the sabacc-rules programming.”

Han punched his selections into the console of the bartender droid, smiling as he selected a fruity, prissy drink for Lando—complete with a blue tropical flower as a garnish—and a spiced ale for himself. He sat down, slid the drink across the surface to Lando, and sipped his ale.

Lando took a swallow of the mixture, winced, and forced a smile. “Thanks, Han. Should I deal?” He held the sabacc cards in his hand, leaning over the table’s projecting field.

“Not yet.” Han held up a hand. “Threepio, double-check to make sure those card surfaces are completely randomized.”

“But, sir, surely—”

“Just do it. We want to make sure nobody gets an unfair advantage—don’t we, old buddy?”

Lando managed to retain his forced smile as he handed the deck to Threepio, who ran the cards through a scrambler at the side of the table. “They are completely mixed, sir.”

Threepio meticulously dealt five of the flat metallic cards each to Lando and to Han. “As you know, this is random sabacc, a combination of variant forms of the game,” Threepio said, as if reciting the programming he had just uploaded. “There are five different sets of rules, shifted by chance, and changed at random time intervals as determined by the computer’s random generator—that’s me!”

“We know the rules!” Han growled, but he wasn’t so certain. “And we also know the stakes.”

Lando’s deep, flinty eyes met his across the table. “Winner takes the Falcon. Loser takes Coruscant public transit from now on.”

“Very well, sirs,” Threepio said, “activate your cards. The first player to reach a score of one hundred points will be declared the winner. Our first round will be played according to …” He paused briefly as his randomizing function made a selection from the scrambled list of rules. “—Cloud City Casino alternate rules.”

Han stared at the images appearing on his cards as his mind raced to remember how Cloud City Casino rules differed from the Bespin Standard form of the game. He stared at a mixed-up assortment of the four suits in sabacc—sabres, coins, flasks, and staves, with various positive and negative scores on each.

“Each player may select one and only one of his cards for a spin-change, and then we tally to see who comes closest to a score of positive or negative twenty-three, or zero.”

Han scanned his cards, concentrating, but found no set that would add up to an appropriate tally. Lando wore a broad smile—but Lando always carried such an expression when he gambled. Han took a sip of his bitter spiced ale, swallowed hard, and chose a card. “Ready?” He raised his eyes to look at Lando.

Lando pushed the small scrambler button on the bottom left corner of a card. Han did the same, watching the image of the eight of coins flicker and re-form into a twelve of flasks. Together with a nine of flasks in his hand, he added to twenty-one. Not great. But when he saw Lando scowl at his own new card, he hoped it would be good enough.

“Twenty-one,” Han said, slapping his cards on the table.

“Eighteen,” Lando answered with a scowl. “You get the difference.”

“Change of rules! Time has elapsed!” Threepio said. “Three points in favor of Master Solo. Next round is by … Empress Teta Preferred system.”

Han looked at his new hand of cards, delighted to see a firm straight—but, if he remembered right, under Empress Teta rules the players swapped one card at random, and when Lando reached over to pluck a card from the right side, Han hoped to replace it with a Commander of Sabers—but the hand failed. Lando won the round and came out with a small lead, but before they could tally the scores, Threepio chimed in with another “Change of rules!” This time, scored under the Bespin Standard system, Lando’s lead doubled.

Han cursed to himself as he stared at a chaotic mess in the next hand, not knowing what to bid, what to throw away. Before he made his decision, though, the random clock in Threepio’s electronic brain forced him to call another rules change. “Corellian Gambit this time, sirs.”

Han whooped in delight, for under the new rules the suits fit together with a completely different pattern. “Gotcha!” he cried, laying down his hand.

Lando grumbled, showing a wild card that, while valuable only moments before, now cost him fourteen points under the new scoring system.

Han crept ahead over the next several hands, then lost ground when rules changed back to Cloud City Casino style, which deemed all wild cards forfeit. Han reached forward to snatch one of Lando’s cards, just as Lando selected one of his cards to change at random. They both froze. “Threepio, tell us again which rules we’re playing under.”

“New time interval anyway,” the golden droid said. “Change to Bespin Standard. No, wait—new time interval again! Back to Empress Teta Preferred.”

Han and Lando looked at their new cards again, minds whirling in confusion. Han took another sip of his spiced ale, and Lando drained his fruity concoction with a grimace. At the bottom the bright-colored flower had begun to sprout writhing roots that crawled on the bottom of his glass.

“Threepio, tell us the scores one more time,” Lando said.

“Calculating for the last rules change, sirs, the total is ninety-three points for Master Solo and eighty-seven for General Calrissian.”

Han and Lando glared at each other. “Last hand, buddy,” Han said.

“Enjoy your remaining few seconds of ownership, Han,” Lando said.

“Corellian Gambit rules, last-hand special case,” Threepio announced.

Han felt his head pounding, trying to remember what happened in the last hand of the Corellian Gambit. Then he saw Lando locking in the denomination of only one of his cards, making ready to place his hand into the flux field in the center of the sabacc table.

Han studied his high-ranking face cards, Balance and Moderation, either of which would nudge him over the total score of a hundred. He pushed the retainer button on Balance, for eleven points, then thrust the rest of his hand into the flux field.

Han and Lando leaned over, staring in suspense as the images on the cards swirled and changed, flickering from one value to another in a blur until they stabilized, one by one.

Lando stared at low-demonination numeric cards, nothing at all spectacular, while Han got the best deal he had seen throughout the entire game. All face cards, Demise, Endurance, The Star, and The Queen of Air and Darkness, along with the Balance card he had kept. His score handily passed the goal, leaving Lando in the dust.

He cheered at the same instant Threepio declared another “Change of rules!” Han glared at the golden droid, waiting.

“This hand will be scored under the Ecclessis Figg Variation,” Threepio said.

Han and Lando looked at each other, mouthing the words. “What is the Figg Variation?”

“In the final round the scores of all odd-numbered face cards are subtracted instead of added to the final score. This means, Master Solo, that while you gain ten points for Endurance and The Queen of Air and Darkness, you forfeit a total of forty-one for Balance, The Star, and Demise.”

Threepio paused. “I’m afraid you lose, sir. General Calrissian gains sixteen points for a total score of one hundred three, while you are left with a final score of sixty-two.”

Han blinked in shock at his half-empty glass of spiced ale as Lando pounded the tabletop in triumph. “Good game, Han. Now go on off to fetch Leia. Want me to come with you?”

Han kept staring at the table, at his ale, at anything but Lando. He felt hollow inside. Not only had he learned of Leia’s tragedy today, but he had also lost the ship he had owned for more than a decade.

“Take her, she’s yours,” Han mumbled. He finally looked up to meet Lando’s eyes.

“Come on, Han. You’re distraught. You never should have made the bet in the first place. Just—”

“No, the Falcon is yours, Lando. I’m not a cheat, and I made the deal going into the game.” Han stood, turning his back on Lando, leaving the rest of his ale untouched. “Threepio, authorize a change of registration for the Falcon. And you’d better get in touch with central transportation control. Arrange a diplomatic transport for Leia. I won’t be picking her up after all.”

Lando shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, I’ll take good care of her, Han. Not a scratch.”

Without another word Han went to the door of the lounge, unsealed it, and walked out into the echoing halls.