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“I said, what if they slap a restraining bolt on me?”

“Well …”

“Didn’t think of that, did you?” When Den made no reply, the droid continued, “Fortunately, one of the first things Lorn did when he rescued me from the nursery of doom was to install bootleg software that deactivates restraining bolts and other external inhibitory devices.”

“I knew that,” Den said hastily. The droid gave him a skeptical look as they rounded the corner and found themselves abruptly facing a very large and very intimidating droid. Den was unfamiliar with the model, but it was obvious that it hadn’t been designed as an accountant. It looked like what it was: a killing machine.

“How may I help you, friend?” the electronic voice inquired of Den. The tone was courteous, even solicitous, but Den wasn’t fooled; he knew that if the droid perceived anything remotely like a threat, it would cook him. Never mind that he was an unarmed Sullustan, which made him about as deadly as a hugglepup with a tummy full of blissroot; if he didn’t choose his reply carefully they’d be shipping his remains back to Sullust in a pouch.

The droid waited for an answer. It ignored I-Five, which wasn’t surprising—a mere protocol droid was no threat.

“I have an item of curiosity that I thought the great Rokko might find amusing,” Den said. He gestured at I-Five. “Ever seen a protocol droid play sabacc?”

The guard droid turned its photoreceptors on I-Five. It was Rokko’s voice that now issued through the vocabulator; though Den had never heard this particular Hutt speak, he was very familiar with the glottal pronunciation of Basic that characterized the species. “As a matter of fact, I have.” The gangster sounded bored.

“Ever seen one win nine out of ten games?” Den asked.

There was a pause; though the guard droid remained motionless, the reporter knew that inside his sanctum Rokko had just done a double take. “No,” the raspy voice said slowly. “That I have not seen.”

Nick Rostu knew darkness.

He had, after all, stood with the Jedi Master Mace Windu against Kar Vastor in the steaming jungles of Haruun Kal. Kar Vastor, leader of the Balawai resistance; Kar Vastor, with his arm-mounted vibroblade weapons and his almost supernatural strength. Kar Vastor, stronger in the Force than any of the Korunnai, stronger than any in the galaxy, perhaps, save for the Jedi. Kar Vastor, so submerged in the dark side that, even though Nick had been only a couple of meters away from him during that final battle, even though he could see the man as clearly as he could see Mace, or Iolu, the guard who’d sliced him from sternum to navel—still, looking back on it now, he realized he couldn’t visualize the guerrilla leader’s face. It was as if the Balawai commander had been shrouded in darkness, somehow, as if the dark side of the Force radiated a strange anti-light. Kar Vastor had been the essence, the personification, of primal power, jungle savagery, and bloodlust distilled into flesh. Nick had never seen anyone or anything to match him.

Until now.

Until he stood, unarmed, before Darth Vader.

As if being armed would make a difference, he thought. He could be tricked out with wrist rockets, a hold-out shooter, a pair of DL-44s, and a disruptor rifle, and he might just as well be carrying a pointed stick.

Vastor had been animal ferocity and menace, barely contained. He’d thrummed with the power of the dark side. His arms, legs, torso, and shoulders had been layered with striated muscle; he looked like he could have lifted a pregnant grasser over his head. One-handed.

Vader was as tall as Vastor had been, but probably massed a good twenty kilos less. He wasn’t physically impressive in the same way; no musculature was visible under the black armor. It didn’t matter. There was no doubt in Nick’s mind that, were Kar Vastor somehow to be pitted against Darth Vader, the feral Balawai renegade wouldn’t stand a chance.

The Force was powerful in Vader; even the dim wattage of Nick’s connection could feel that. It was far more powerful than it had