Log Date:
	7/21/98

Log Cast:
	Han Solo, Leia Organa-Solo, Lando Calrissian

Log Intro:
	It's official -- Han Solo has been named the new acting
commanding officer of the Ground Operations branch of the New Republic
military. After days and days on Calamari of being briefed, counterbriefed,
and in general inundated in more meetings than he can remember ever having
attended in his entire life, the Corellian is at last ready to rendezvous
with the rest of the military forces currently stationed on Sluis Van.
It is the night before his final departure, when Princess Leia and Chewbacca
will fly him to meet with the rest of the military... and Han and Leia are
having a quiet night together in their suite on the NR base in Coral City.
	Or what _would_ be a quiet night, if Han weren't nervous.
	Just a little nervous.
	Okay, a _lot_ nervous.....

----------
_What,_ Han demands of himself for the thousandth time, _is the big problem 
  here, Solo?_ Exiled into the living room by the Princess, for the nervous 
  restless energy that's gripped him has rendered him useless for constructive 
  packing, the Corellian paces back and forth along the length of the living 
  room, smacking one hand into the other as he goes, and sometimes shoving a 
  hand through hair that somehow manages to look scruffy despite the 
  respectable haircut he let Leia talk him into. _You've done this before. 
  Said 'Sure, I'll be a General, no problem'. Been here done that. No reason 
  to be nervous, no reason at all!_ The mental litany, however, does not help. 
  Like it or not, Han Solo is nervous.

From the Solos' bedroom comes Leia's voice, strident and ever-so-slightly 
  tetched. "You'll wear a path in the carpet, and we can't ask for them to 
  change it again after you and Chewie damaged the last carpeting rebuilding 
  that stupid droid in the living room. Calm down, will you?"

"I'm calm!" Han hollers back indignantly, though he does stop pacing.  Mostly. 
  It takes him a second or two to actually halt, and his hands pick up again 
  where his feet left off, fidgeting at the air, with each other, and at the 
  collar of the uniform shirt he's wearing in place of his usual older 
  garments. "I'm _perfectly_, perfectly calm!"

Leia pokes her head out, hair ever so slightly mussed from its normally kempt 
  state, as she counters, "You sound like a tauntaun getting its tail crushed, 
  Han. What's the matter with you, anyway? It isn't as if you've never done 
  this before, and it isn't as if you're going off for some suicidal 
  assignment to blow up the Death Star. It isn't even as though we'll never 
  see each other again." And just who is the princess trying to convince?

"Right!" affirms Han immediately. Perhaps too immediately. Now that the 
  Princess is actually looking, the Corellian promptly flops down onto the 
  couch, flinging khaki-clad arms out along its upholstered back.  Striving to 
  look at ease, he repeats, "Absolutely right!" See? He's calm!

A pillow comes out of the bedroom with near-perfect aim to smack Han in 
  the back of the head.

"Hey...!" Han whirls where he sits, glaring petulantly in Leia's direction. 
  "What's that for?"

"For being so infantile about what others would think is a great honor and 
  service to the Republic and for behaving like it's a terrible thing to get a 
  position Obi-Wan Kenobi once held!" Leia answers from her corner in the 
  bedroom.

For a few moments, Han gapes, not sure how exactly Leia's comment hit the 
  mark, but feeling the sting of it nevertheless. Then he seizes on the 
  easiest avenue of response -- surging up to grab the pillow and send it 
  winging right back at his wife. "I am _not_ being infantile," he growls. The 
  pillow doesn't strike home, though. Probably because Han is avoiding his 
  beloved's eyes.

Leia hurtles back a verbal retort this time. "If you're not being infantile," 
  she demands archly, "why are you throwing things at me?! Just simmer down 
  and let me finish, will you?"

Sulkily, Han settles back down on the couch, and grumbles, "You threw it 
  first." For a man who's taking over the planetside forces of a sizeable 
  portion of the galaxy, he's doing a very good job of sounding like he's 
  eight years old.

Leia counters with the patented Princess-in-a-high-temper stiffness, "You 
  deserved it." Then something else is thrown, and the door to their bedroom 
  hisses back into a closed position.

Han winces as the little figurine, hurled, clips him right on the side of the 
  head before tumbling down to rest beside him on the couch. Probably 
  fortunately, the thing's not breakable, but it hits with enough force to be 
  noticed. Aggravated, Han storms to his feet, intending to burst into the 
  bedroom and shout something. But en route, the storm finds itself checked. 
  His steps slow a little, the aggravation draining down to a grumpy 
  uneasiness. Hoping to seven or eight different cultures' versions of hell 
  that he isn't blushing, Han pokes at the door control, to get it to open.

Leia is standing beside the bed, one of his shirts -- in fact, one of the ones 
  she often wears first thing in the morning -- being thrown into the silver 
  case in which his belongings are stowed. Her cheeks are scarlet, her 
  breathing accelerated, thanks to the high temper in which she has found 
  herself. "...can't understand...damned stubborn...thinks only HE..." she is 
  muttering to herself until the door opens, then she shushes herself and 
  stoically resumes packing.

Han takes in the sight of his flustered wife, and after a beat, feeling that 
  suspected blush coming on, he mumbles, "'Msorry."

Unable to meet Han's gaze, Leia simply replies resentfully, "You should be. It 
  isn't as if it's the end of the world, Han."

The Corellian's features tauten at that, his lean mouth drawing together into 
  a short, brusque line that accentuates the scar across his chin. For a 
  moment he's tempted to stalk back off into the living room, but better sense 
  and tenderer feelings prevail, and he approaches Leia, lifting a hand to her 
  shoulder. Parking his hazel regard on the shoulder in question, he confesses 
  roughly, "'Mjust... a little scared, is all." His voice comes out small, the 
  admission a tough one, even to the woman he loves.

"I know," Leia concedes gently, then turns to give her husband the softest of 
  smiles, the kind of expression that hints at a vulnerability she would just 
  as soon not reveal or admit to owning. "Just don't let anyone else know, 
  Han. People love you for what you are, not for who you are. You're a good 
  man, a proven leader, and all you have to do to succeed is to be yourself." 
  As she resumes packing she adds mildly, "And avoid getting publically drunk 
  and remniscing about the last Kessel Run..."

"Hrmph," is the General's muttered reply. "That last Run was the one that got 
  me in hot water with Jabba, sweetheart." He slides his arms around her, 
  never mind that Leia is trying to pack. "Just as soon put that one behind 
  me."

Leia leans against her husband as she remonstrates, "You know what I mean. 
  Just don't be the cocky Corellian trying to impress. Be Han Solo. And you'll 
  be fine."

"Hrmph," grumbles Han, again. He turns his beloved around, then, and peers 
  down at her, asking gruffly, "When was the last time you saw me bein' cocky 
  to anybody anyway?"

Leia answers crisply, "Two days ago, when you and Chewie were trying to one-up 
  each other over a glass of ale, thank you."

"That's different," Han points out, shooting out a finger into Leia's dainty 
  face. "Chewie's my friend."

Leia grasps the protruding finger as she insists quietly, "No, Han, it's not. 
  These men and women will want to think of you as something of a friend. 
  Eventually you'll get more casual with them, but you can't. Don't forget 
  you're their general, don't forget they have to look up to you and respect 
  you. You have to maintain a distance. Even a small one."

Han lets his finger be gripped, and takes the opportunity to curl it and the 
  other four that go with it around Leia's smaller, paler hand. "I know all 
  that," he tells her. "I _have_ done this before, y'know, sweetheart.  That... 
  isn't what scares me." He tries to smile, and somewhat succeeds, one end of 
  his mouth quirking upward.

"Then what does?" Leia makes use of her unoccupied hand to touch his cheek 
  tenderly. "What does?"

"It's.... scale," explains Han, meeting Leia's gaze with his own steadily 
  enough, though his expression's a trifle plaintive. "Bein' a lieutenant's 
  one thing. So's bein' General of a strike force... but hells, honey.... 
  General of a whole damned army....? Last time I saw myself in _those_ boots, 
  I was nineteen." He pauses, then adds sheepishly, "And do you hafta keep 
  reminding me Kenobi had this job?"

Leia murmurs, trying to smile, "It's to keep you humble," before that 
  half-hearted attempt at humor gives way to a more serious tonality.  "As I 
  said before. Be Han Solo. Follow your instincts. They're *good* instincts, 
  Han. And you'll be fine. I promise."

"Hey," rumbles Han softly, "I know my instincts just fine, sweetheart.  I'll do 
  alright, I guess." He cracks a smile, and adds, leaning down to brush a kiss 
  along royal lips, "Even if I hate leaving you. Promise me you won't tell 
  anybody I'm nervous. I got a rep to uphold."

"As long as you don't tell anyone," Leia counteroffers as her body curves 
  alongside his torso, her arrestingly brown eyes searching those twinkling 
  hazel irises above her, "that I might work myself to pieces so I don't miss 
  you?"

A resounding, firm knock is at the door. The deliberate avoidance of the 
  doorbell is a sure sign as any that the person on the other side of the door 
  is avoiding imposition.

"Got yourself a deal, sweetheart," murmurs Han huskily, claiming another kiss. 
  He hears the distant knock halfway through, and breathes out an irritated 
  wordless response, pausing just long enough that he manages to throw his 
  gesture of affection off-kilter.

Leia kisses Han's nose and, with a glance toward the door, notes with 
  asperity, "That had better not be Threepio." She relinquishes her hold on 
  the Corellian to move toward the front door and opens it without much 
  enthusiasm.

Lando enters the suite from outside.
Lando has arrived.

The door to the Solo apartment opens, revealing an ever-so-slightly 
  dishevelled princess; she is fully attired, thank you, and comes up with a 
  sincerely pleased smile to greet her friend. "Hello, Lando." Then, behind 
  her, "Han, it's Lando."

Lando enters, head lowered slightly, though not so low that his eyes don't 
  move to meet his friends. He says in a rush, "I know... I know...  you two 
  probably would rather be alone this night, but I'm running out of options, 
  and I need your advice." He pauses then, to stop and take an honest 
  look at the Princess and her scoundrel husband, then says to the latter, 
  "You look like a mess."

Having stepped out of the bedroom, his grumpy expression easing somewhat when 
  he sees the actual cause of the interruption at the door, Han blinks and 
  then peers down at himself. He's wearing an actual uniform tunic, though, 
  granted, it's not tucked into his usual military, stripe-bedecked trousers, 
  and his sleeves are pushed up on his arms, and his collar is askew. Despite 
  the haircut Leia's talked him into, his hair still manages to look scruffy. 
  Still, Han's brows wing down over hazel eyes, and he echoes petulantly, "A 
  mess? Hey, pal, I'm tryin' to look like an officer here!"

Leia takes Lando's arm to draw him inside the dwelling proper, lines of 
  apparent stress easing, then vanishing, as she tells the gambler, "Actually, 
  Chewie and I are dropping the General off at Sluis Van; tonight is just our 
  last evening at home. It's always good to see you. Did you eat? I think 
  there's some Corellian caffa stew left..."

Lando holds up his hands, shaking his head as a broad smile crosses his lips 
  at Leia's offer. He says, giving her a warm look, "Oh, no thank you, I've 
  just come from a business meeting over dinner. I couldn't eat another bite." 
  Brown eyes move toward Han once more, followed by the gambler himself. Brow 
  dropping into a very slight frown, Lando reaches to straighten the 
  'General's' collar as he says, "You look like an officer, all right.  One 
  that's been roughing it out doors for a few weeks. You're not nervous, are 
  you?"

Han's brows wing down further, and his mouth tightens up into that same short 
  line that Leia's been seeing much of the night. His voice, however, is 
  rock-steady as he manages to claim, "Nervous? Naah!" with a straight face.

Leia's left eyebrow takes the opposite tack and arches toward her hairline. 
  "Right." She turns away, angling toward the line of flasks and glasses on 
  the sideboard. "So...Corellian brandy thrice around, gentlemen?"

Lando can turn down food, but... "That sounds wonderful, Leia." Smiling once 
  more back at Han, he continues, "Well, I wouldn't be too worried about 
  appearances, if I were you. With thousands of troops looking up to you, 
  you'll likely address them from a pedastal or maybe even a balcony, 
  over-looking your gathered men. Far enough away, and anyone looks the part."

Han flicks a wan lopsided grin at the Princess -- she said the magic word, 
  'brandy' -- and then glances back to Calrissian. "Or over the HoloNet," he 
  mutters gruffly. "Yeah, well. I'm _not_ worried, though!" This is delivered 
  with a sharply gestured finger at his friend, as Han straightens up to his 
  full height.

Snorting to herself, Leia pours out three equal measures of brandy, not 
  stiffing herself one drop, and offers each man a glass. "He'll be fine, I'm 
  sure. Lando, you said something about needing advice?"

Lando, still donning his mischievous grin, looks about ready to prod his 
  friend a little further, but stops as Leia reminds him of the reason he'd 
  come to the Solo's home in the first place. He sighs, then says, "Well... if 
  advice is to be had. What I really need, ultimately, is a large ship and 
  crew, but all of my contacts are coming up short now."

Still looking gruff, Han accepts his brandy, and wrestles with the urge to 
  gulp it down in one shot. He wins over the urge and manages to merely sip 
  it, though he does it grumpily, thinking to himself that General or no, he 
  ought to be able to drink whatever the nine hells he wants, how fast he 
  wants it... but. He considers Lando, a glint of interest flaring in his 
  hazel eyes, and asks, "New business venture, or are you just going to go 
  looking?"

Leia assumes a silent posture, leaning her diminutive frame against the edge 
  of the sofa as she cradles her brandy, untouched, in one hand and watches 
  the two men talk. Silently supportive of each, she for the time being is 
  willing to see what manly cameraderie first draws from Lando, courtesy of 
  Han.

"It's a new venture, though it's nothing more than just a variation of a 
  theme," Lando says, the twinkle of new money entering his eye and his smile. 
  He continues, "I'm hoping to retry the idea of a flying casino. Talon Karrde 
  and I once attempted to make it happen a while back, but the whole thing 
  crashed. Literally. I'd like to try it again, on my own."

The mention of Karrde persuades Han to gulp down the rest of his shot of 
  brandy anyway, General's shirt on or no. His mouth curling in a slight smirk, 
  he nevertheless says amiably enough, "Well pal, if anybody can 
  attract gamblers to a vessel, it'd be you."

As if nothing at all were amiss or wrong with the picture, Leia confiscates 
  Han's empty glass and replaces it with the untouched one earlier cradled in 
  her fingers. Then she resumes her leaning pose and waits.

Lando shrugs slightly, perhaps with humility, though anyone looking at the 
  gambler would likely see more smug than humble. He says, talking with his 
  hands, "I've actually got some other ideas lined up for it. Full resort 
  accomodations... first class treatment... the works." His tone lowers, and 
  he glances left and right as he continues, "And if I can keep the whole 
  thing in an independent's name, perhaps I can even fill the waiter positions 
  with NRI employees."

Han notes Leia's wordless switch of his glass, glances sidelong and with 
  quirked brow at his wife, and starts in on this second shot with renewed 
  decorum. Or at least, as much decorum as Han ever displays. He grins 
  crookedly to Lando, saying approvingly, "Sounds like a plan, pal, but do you 
  have any hint whose name to put it in? You're not exactly unknown in your 
  allegiances these days."

Having fallen into the mode of hearing all before commenting, Leia simply 
  counters Han's sidelong gaze with a inscrutable uplifting of one brow and 
  resumes watching Lando.

Lando draws in a long breath through his nostrils, shaking his head like the 
  fisherman recollecting the big one that got away. His tone as he speaks, 
  however, is full of nothing but sincerity, unlike a fisherman's story. "I'll 
  tell you, Han. I had the perfect man lined up for the job. Ex Admiral Dubmax 
  from Pride-1. He had just resigned his commission and was taking his ship, 
  _The Windrunner_ on its maiden voyage when I caught him. I couldn't have 
  asked for a better set up. I almost cried for three nights straight when 
  that deal fell through."

Han gives a low rumbling chuckle and abruptly hands the glass he's holding out 
  to his friend. "Sounds like you need this more than I do," he remarks dryly.

Leia's brown eyes, those expressive orbs that so often project intelligence 
  and wit and compassion, have narrowed to half-slits as her gaze goes between 
  Lando and Han, and her unoccupied hand lifts so that her forefinger taps 
  against pursed lips. Gaze unfocusses, eyes glazing over: she is ruminating 
  seriously over something, that much is certain.

Lando accepts the glass without thinking, then looks at the liquor in his hand 
  a moment. He shrugs slightly, then follows Han's lead with the first glass; 
  one quick gulp, followed by a satisfied sigh. He says, "Well, I'm sure I'll 
  find another ship, even if I've got to buy one." At this point, his brown 
  eyes move toward the silent third in the room, to which he says, "Something 
  wrong, Leia?"

"I'd offer ya a ship, Lando, but for one thing, that ain't my branch, and for 
  another, they'd probably frown on generals handing out ships to their 
  friends, even respectable ones," Han drawls. Then his gaze slides back to 
  his wife, eyebrows going back up.

"So now that you have no occupation, Lando," Leia asks shrewdly, "and that 
  casino deal's fallen through...what *will* you be doing?"

Lando's eyes were fixed on Han as he spoke, then followed General's gaze 
  toward the Princess as she speaks. At first, the gambler seems slightly 
  taken aback by the question. Then, he responds, "I had been planning on 
  trying to find another, but from that look in your eye, I suspect I'll be 
  doing something else." _Like flying a freighter up against a squadron of 
  Ties or something._, he thinks with a mischievous smile.

"Better be careful, Lando, or else you'll wind up runnin' StarOps," murmurs 
  Han, lean face guileless.

Leia ambles toward the flask of brandy and removes the stopper to refill 
  glasses: Han's and Lando's, at least. "No," she says smilingly to Han's 
  teasing suggestion, "but I do remember certain comments about the Battle of 
  Tanab and the Battle of Endor, General Calrissian."

Lando laughs, amused at the suggestion. He says, "Well, just keep those 
  comments to yourself if you would. You wouldn't be doing anyone any favors 
  by putting that sort of bug in Mon Mothma's ear." Amused he might be at the 
  thought, but he's not taking any chances.

Han lifts his eyebrows, actively surprised as Leia gives him more alcohol. 
  This he doesn't drink yet; he merely holds it, loping over to the couch and 
  settling down on it, studying Lando as he goes.

Leia's smile is melancholy as she replaces the stopper in the bottle and the 
  bottle on the bar. "It's a pity, you know..." she muses and pads toward the 
  bedroom to resume packing. "You and Han worked so well together and Ground 
  Ops could use more proven leaders at Han's side...and heros, we know, 
  attract people to their interests. Could be a good selfless way to promote 
  yourself for future ventures..."

Han blinks.

Lando holds onto the refilled glass like a dead thing, looking towards Leia as 
  if she'd just suggested something unthinkable... like shaving off his 
  mustache and swearing off gambling. He says, looking toward Han for support, 
  "She's not serious, is she?"

Han stares back at Lando, wide-eyed and startled, and then says blankly, 
  "Since when have we worked well together?"

"Never," Lando says, flatly. "You're always late, and hardly ever fulfill your 
  part of the bargains."

Leia's voice floats back from the direction of the bedroom. "You two blew up 
  the Death Star together. And Han could use a good right-hand man.  Besides," 
  she adds, poking her head out of the bedroom to regard both men, "I'd 
  consider it a personal favor. So would the Council. So would Mon Mothma and 
  the business licensing bureaus who work for us."

"But," blurts Han. That's about all he manages to say, in between Leia's 
  calmly voiced reasonings. Once she's done, however, he finally succeeds in 
  blurting out, "Do _I_ get a say in this?"

Lando doesn't wait to give Han a say in it. He says, frowning, "I'm sure the 
  business licensing bureaus and Mon Mothma and every other person of with a 
  shred of honest decency in them would be willing to work with me, regardless 
  of whether I paid them further favors." That said, Lando looks toward Han, 
  his frown still prominent. After all, why should _Han_ have an objection to 
  getting his help?

"Certainly they'll work with you," Leia acknowledges as she leans on the door 
  jamb to study Lando, "but you're a businessman. You appreciate what quid pro 
  quo means. You get a lot more for something than for nothing, after all. 
  Just an obseravation." Smiling, she steps back and lets the door slide 
  closed, effectively removing her from their discussion.

The Corellian's mouth works in a fair measure of astonished indignation. 
  Finally, looking at Leia, he points a finger sideways at his friend, and 
  protests, "He's _still_ a civilian!" His gaze snaps back to Lando, and he 
  goes on without missing a beat, "You're still a civilian. No reason both of 
  us ought to be shackled to desks, pal, I mean, hells, you've got businesses 
  to found, right?" His voice is losing a little of its volume, though, and as 
  Leia adroitly removes herself from the room, he trails off, looking 
  shellshocked.

Lando nods slowly, still eyeing his friend. "That's right. I haven't written 
  Nkllon off yet, though everyone's been telling me to. But Han... if you need 
  the help..." The words slip out of Lando's lips, and his jaw clamps shut, as 
  if to clamp down and recage his traitorous tongue.

Han doesn't quite frown, and he doesn't quite scowl; instead, his face slips 
  into a half-stoic, half-plaintive expression, and he sneaks a wary glance 
  off towards the bedroom to which Leia has discreetly withdrawn.  "I'll be 
  okay," he says immediately, gruffly. "Help? Who needs help?"

It sounds like a voice inside the bedroom says, "You do, stubborn nerf 
  herder," but...then again, could just be one's imagination.

"That's right," Lando says, nodding once as if to seal the deal. He glances 
  warilly toward the bedroom door, then shakes his head. "She proposed the 
  idea like she was asking me to tend to some gardening."

Han eyes his friend, then lowers his voice, and asks disbelievingly, "You're, 
  um... serious?"
The Corellian does grin a little, but most of his expression still is made up 
  of astonishment.

Lando licks his lips, then decides his mouth is too dry and wets it with some 
  of the fluid in his glass. He says, brown eyes still fixed on the closed 
  door, and voice lowered in hopes that it wouldn't travel further than his 
  friend's ears, "You know I'd watch your back at the drop of a hat, Han. I 
  was actually thinking of heading to Sluis Van anyway. I suspect there are 
  more ships meeting my needs there than here."

The Corellian considers this, remembers he's still holding a glass full of 
  brandy, and then uncomfortably glances at the windows, a nice safe place to 
  look as he attempts a casual tone. "Well, if you wanna enslave yourself that 
  way, buddy, I could hardly stop ya..." He trails off, glances back, and 
  grins a little. "We could give you a ride anyhow. If you need time to think 
  about this." He hasn't actually come out and accepted the offer, mind you.

"I'll come out to Sluis Van," Lando says convincingly, though which man in the 
  room he's trying to convince it's anyone's guess. "There's no need to make 
  any hasty decisions about this, but I'll at least come out to Sluis Van. As 
  for riding with you... I think I'll pass. You refuse to rig the _Falcon_ 
  with a slave circuit, and I'm not about to leave the _Lady Luck_ to rust 
  here."

"Right," says Han briskly, shot glass emptied. "Right. So... well then..." 
  Finding his conversational skills faltering, not to mention his earlier 
  restlessness launching a sneak attack while his defenses are down, he 
  flashes another hazel glance off after his departed wife, a rather more 
  nervous gaze than he's liable to admit to anybody, including himself. "Guess 
  this wasn't the advice you were lookin' for, but hey..."

Lando shrugs, then puts away the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down at 
  the bar behind him and adjusts his collar as he says, "I didn't really think 
  that one of you was going to pull a capital ship out of their back pocket. 
  I'm sure I'll find what I'm looking for on Sluis Van, if I don't find it 
  here on Calamari before I leave."

Solo nods, fidgeting, turning the glass around one hand's fingers.  "Good luck, 
  anyway. I ain't exactly sure how many strings I can pull -- hells, I ain't 
  exactly sure what I'm doing... aaaaaahhhh...." He trails off, and shoves the 
  other hand through his hair, slumping back along the couch. "What the hells 
  _am_ I doin', buddy?"

Lando moves across the room to take a seat across from the Corellian.  He 
  shakes his head as he says, "You'll do fine, buddy. Don't worry, 
  everything's going to be fine. You'll see."

Han looks up, though he doesn't lift out of his slouch. He might be in command 
  of the NR's entire army now, but this hasn't, it seems, cured him of 
  slouching. "Yeah, that's what _she_ keeps saying," he frets brusquely, 
  nodding his tousled head off towards the bedroom again.

"Well, it's not like you've never been in command before," Lando says, casting 
  a casual glance toward the still closed bedroom door. "You did pretty well 
  with those fellows on Endor. And everyone that knew you back on Hoth that 
  I've spoken to says you had them jumping like new recruits."

Han gives a short, sharp, bark of a laugh. "Ah, hell, pal, you and I both know 
  leading a small group's one thing. Leading a whole frekkin' _army_?  Gaaah." 
  He sits up then, setting the glass on the table before him, and shakes his 
  head, looking suspiciously nervous for a man who's been known to bluff his 
  way through sabacc tourneys with entire moons at stake. "I might have ego, 
  but this ain't exactly my _style_, ya know?"

Lando sits up as well, looking for a moment at the empty glass on the table in 
  front of him, though it's his mind's eye that his focus. After a few 
  heartbeats, Lando looks back up at his friend and says, "A few years ago, if 
  someone had asked me, I'd have told them that marrying Princesses wasn't 
  your style, either. Don't get me wrong... I'm not saying that being married 
  to Leia is like running an army..." He pauses, as though to give that 
  comparison some further thought, then continues, "...but we all change. A 
  few years ago, I might have also said that you couldn't lead a jawa to a 
  pile of used parts... but now, I'm not so sure. People will follow you, Han."

The Corellian gives another sharp little laugh at his friend's comparison, 
  though he manages to modulate it down to a cough halfway through.  His 
  expression turns more sober as Lando continues, and at last, hazel eyes meet 
  brown eyes squarely. Solo's mouth quirks up on one end, with a wry kind of 
  affection, and then he admits bluntly, "Yeah, that's what scares me." A 
  beat, then he fires a finger at Lando and sternly appends, "Don't you 
  frekkin' _dare_ tell her I said that."

Lando lets out a short round of laughter, holding up his hands and saying, 
  "Don't worry! If I told her that, I'd probably find myself with general bars 
  right next to you, wondering what happened." The mirth fades, and Lando 
  leans back in his seat once more, resting his hands on his knees. He says, a 
  smile on his lips though his voice is serious, "What sort of plans do you 
  have for your armies? Not that I intend to help, of course."

"Well, for starters, I gotta figure out what the hell kinda armies we have 
  these days," Han says, slouching back again, restlessly fidgeting with the 
  shiny little New Republic sigil on his undone collar. "I'll find Dodonna and 
  Madine -- they've already sent me messages across the Net. Hopefully StarOps 
  and NRI can help get me up to speed on where exactly we are and what the 
  Empire's doing. _Then_ I'll decide if we have to go shoot something, I 
  guess."

Lando brings a hand to his mouth and smooths his mustache thoughtfully. He 
  draws a deep breath, and his eyes narrows as though his current line of 
  thoughts leave a sour taste in his mouth, and he says, "Have you given any 
  sort of preleminary thought toward the Griffons and Pride-1?"

"They're part of what I wanna know," Han answers readily. "I gotta tell you, 
  pal, I hate knowing the Empire just up and took them..." The Corellian 
  rises, and resumes his earlier pacing, though at a less frenetic pace than 
  the one which had nearly driven Leia up the wall. "And I'm not lookin' 
  forward to having to argue with the rest of the brass as to whether we can 
  actually take the Empire in a fight when we all _know_ what the right thing 
  to do is."

Lando rises. While Han's pacing probably doesn't annoy Calrissian as much as 
  it does Leia, the gambler does start to get a little dizzy tracing Solo's 
  movements from a sitting position. He says, folding his arms in front of 
  him, "Why do you think they'll argue?"

"You don't see us working very hard to kick the Imperials off Tatooine, do 
  you?" is Han's dry reply.

"Just because a man holds his cards above the table doesn't mean he doesn't 
  have others up his sleave," Lando replies with a grin. "At least, that's how 
  I surmised when you took off with the _Falcon_." Calrissian quickly throws 
  up his hands, hoping to cut short the further beating of that dead taun 
  taun, and continues quickly, "I know... I know... you won it fair and 
  square. I was just saying... there may be things going on right now that we 
  just haven't heard about yet."

Han turns round, starting to look indignant, then manages to relax. Some. 
  "Yeah," he allows. "'Swhy I'm gonna have to go to..." And a visible shudder 
  wracks his rangy frame as he finishes in a long-suffering mumble, "... 
  meetings."

A sympathetic expression crosses the gambler's face as he thinks about the 
  uneventful and dull business meeting he'd endurred just that evening. He 
  shakes his head as he says, "Not all meetings are dry and depressing. Most 
  of them are, though."

Han's mouth curves up into another faint lopsided grin. "Yeah. I can't say I 
  liked all the meetings I ever had with good ol' Jabba, but I'll say one 
  thing for the slug, he was never boring." He stops pacing, at least for a 
  few moments, reaching the window and propping a hand up against it.

"Look," Lando says, walking over to stand behind the Corellian.  "You've got a 
  big day ahead of you tomorrow, and you're going to want to be rested. You 
  ought to go make sure Leia hasn't over looked anything you're going to want 
  on Sluis Van, and then get some sleep. I'll meet up with you at Sluis Van... 
  if not tomorrow, then in the next few days."

Han turns to consider his friend, aware that Lando's speaking sage advice, and 
  doing his best to accept it gracefully. Somehow, it's easier done this way, 
  than it is with the Princess's rather more forceful encouragements; often, 
  in the last few weeks, Han has found himself wondering when the woman he 
  married transmogrified into a cyclone. "Yeah," he says at last, managing an 
  actual smile, crooked and fleeting though it might be. "I'd better. Look, 
  Lando..."

Lando holds up his hands again, smiling and shaking his head as he says, "It's 
  okay. I know you'd do the same for me if the roles were reversed.  Just get 
  some sleep and take care of yourself. Maybe when I catch up to you on Sluis 
  Van, we can place another friendly wager on a game of Sabacc.  There's a 
  certain light freighter out there that I wouldn't mind having back..." He 
  trails off with a broading of his impish grin and a quick wink.

"Not on your life, pal, I'm leavin' her with Leia and Chewie," Han says 
  warningly, though there's a hint of a grin still about his mouth.  Inwardly 
  relieved that Calrissian got the message he wanted to get across -- these 
  things are so much easier when you don't have to actually -say- them -- he 
  waves the other man towards the door, and finishes amiably, "But this won't 
  stop me from winning every credit you own."

Lando says as he moves gracefully toward the door, "Being that you're married 
  to a rich Princess, I'm sure I'll be able to win enough off of you to buy 
  two capital ships." He opens the door to let himself out, then pauses to 
  fasten Han with a grin, saying, "Good night, buddy."

"Get the hells outta my living room," replies Han with an edgy kind of 
  cheeriness, but it's cheeriness, and that's an improvement over his earlier 
  mood.

Lando departs the suite.
Lando has left.

[End log.]