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Those tenets were frequently offered as explanation as to how and why the Neimoidians had risen so rapidly to the fore of the Trade Federation, whose signature was callousness.

Neimoidia’s most able typically left home at an early age, opting for lives of itinerant trading aboard the vessels of the Trade Federation fleet. As a result, Neimoidia was scarcely populated by the weakest of the species, who tended to the planet’s vast insect hives, fungus farms, and beetle hatcheries.

Viceroy Nute Gunray shared with his fellow self-exiles a peculiar distaste for his homeworld. But circumstance had demanded that he meet with the members of his Inner Circle in a location that guaranteed protection from the prying eyes of Coruscant. And in that sense, Neimoidia provided the best possible sanctuary.

The problem inherent in returning home was that one couldn’t escape recalling—on some level of cellular memory—the seven formative years Neimoidians spent as puny, pale, wriggling grubs, in competition with every other grub for survival and the chance to mature into red-eyed, noseless, fish-lipped, and decidedly distrustful adults.

Adults, like Gunray, at any rate, who swathed their bodies in the finest raiment credits could buy, and who rarely, if ever, looked back.

The viceroy gave himself over to momentary reflection on such matters while the mechno-chair carried him to the meeting place, through cavernous halls of finely cut stone that mimicked the early hives, and past row after row of protocol droids standing at attention on both sides.

His ultimate destination was a dark, dank grotto, the antithesis of the gleaming bridges of Trade Federation freighters. On display were several examples of exotic flora left to fend for themselves in capturing what moisture they could from the stuffy air. The arching walls were graced with the twin emblems of piety and power: the Spherical Flame and the garhai—the armored fish that symbolized obedience and dedication to enlightened leadership.

Gunray’s key advisers were waiting: Deputy Viceroy Hath Monchar and legal counsel Rune Haako. Each affected a black headpiece appropriate to his status. Monchar’s was a triple-crested crown, similar to but smaller than the one Gunray wore; Haako’s was an elaborate cowl, with two horns in front, and a tall, rounded back.

The two advisers made deferential gestures to Gunray as the mechno-chair eased him onto his feet.

“Welcome, Viceroy,” Haako said, approaching him stooped and limping, his left arm crooked by his side. “We hope you have not come in vain.” Hollow-cheeked and somewhat spidery, he had a deeply lined face, bags under his eyes, and puckered flesh on his chin and thin neck.

Gunray made a harsh gesture of dismissal. “He said he would come. That is enough for me.”

“For you,” Monchar muttered.

Gunray glared at his deputy. “Events transpired just as he promised they would. Cohl’s mercenaries attacked, and the Revenue was destroyed.”

“And this is a reason to rejoice?” Haako asked, his prominent voice box bobbing. “This plan of yours has cost the Trade Federation a class-I freighter and billions in aurodium.”

Gunray’s nictitating membranes betrayed his seeming self-possession. He blinked repeatedly, then quickly regained his composure.

“One ship and a treasure box. If our benefactor really is who he claims to be, such losses are meaningless.”

Haako raised a palsied hand. “And if he is, he is a thing to fear, not to delight. And how can we be certain, in any case? What proof does he offer, Viceroy? He contacts you out of the ether, only by hologram. He can claim to be anyone.”

Gunray worked his jutting jaw. “Who would be brain-dead enough to make such a claim without being able to support it?”

He brought forth a portable holoprojector and set it down on a table.

When the Dark Lord of the Sith had first contacted him, months earlier, he seemed to know everything about Nute Gunray and his rise to personal power. How Gunray had testified to the Trade Federation