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“Okay,” Den said. “That’s cryptic even for a giant floating four-dimensional sack of brains.” Glancing toward Laranth, he saw that she had read the Cephalon’s words as well. “Think you can translate the translation?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Let’s worry about one thing at a time. I have a feeling that this job isn’t going to be easy.”

Den sighed as he followed her out the door. “Are they ever?”

“Let’s review what we know,” Jax suggested.

“Easily done,” I-Five responded, “since at this point we know practically nothing.”

The droid, the Jedi, and the Zeltron were sitting in a Southern Underground saloon called the Dizzy Dewback Cantina. Actually, Jax and Dejah were sitting and I-Five was standing close to Jax, so as to better maintain the illusion of a properly servile droid. Jax knew it made no difference in terms of wear and tear on I-Five’s chassis whether he stood or sat. He could have held an erect posture until the building crumbled around him. But it was galling to the modified droid’s pride to have to subscribe to an inferior status, and the Jedi found it difficult to resist a grin.

Jax had come to this serviceable haunt more than a few times over the last several months. It was a good place to relax while plotting strategy: reasonably quiet and out of the way, plus the food was tolerable and the drinks cheap. Of course, having been raised a Jedi he had never really developed a taste for alcohol or similar ingestible stimulants, which was why he was currently nursing a cold slush of ice flavored with various exotic fruit juices mixed with supposedly healthy items such as powdered guroot and desiccated Kaminoan sponge. It wasn’t as palatable as it sounded, and it didn’t sound all that palatable to begin with.

Dejah, on the other hand, was staring moodily into the depths of a half-empty Arboite Twister. This was not the sort of liquid concoction one expected to see a refined creature such as her imbibing. Jax had once seen a couple of downed twisters almost embalm a two-meter-tall Weequay. The mere scent of the potion wafting across a room could make a Troig bang its heads together until binary unconsciousness resulted. He’d heard somewhere that Zeltrons had two livers. She’ll need them, he thought as he watched her drain the last of the high-octane blend.

He didn’t blame her, of course. From the little she had said before the discovery of her dead partner, it was apparent to anyone that Dejah had been, at the very least, deeply fond of the Caamasi. Jax didn’t get the feeling that their relationship had involved romance, but it didn’t have to for her to feel keenly the sting of his death. Zeltrons were flagrant in their passions; they seemed incapable of entering into any relationship, be it carnal or casual, with anything less than wholehearted fervor and abandon—a consequence due at least in part to their powerful empathic abilities. When tragedies happened, they felt all the searing pain that a sentient was capable of feeling.

Of course, the reverse could just as easily be true. Fiery love could transmute into icy hatred in the blink of an eye.

He abruptly realized that I-Five had just said something and was now waiting for a reply. The droid was projecting an attitude of patience mixed with slight resignation, as if he had expected having to wait for the Jedi to rouse from his quiet reverie.

“I’m sorry,” Jax murmured. “What?”

In the absence of having a throat to clear, I-Five emitted a terse electrical crackle. “To reiterate—if I may. Prefect Haus’s men have not found the murder weapon yet. I venture that its discovery may shed more light on this mystery.”

“It’s been three hours since we left the resiplex,” Jax pointed out. “How do you know the forensics droids haven’t turned it up by now?”

“Because,” the droid replied, “I’m monitoring the wavelengths reserved for sector law enforcement transmissions. There has been no mention of such a finding.”

Jax slowly shook his head in disbelief. “One of these days they’re going to home in on that illegal slicing you do and