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He stopped abruptly, paralyzed by shock. I-Five looked at his face, then quickly dragged him out of the stream of foot traffic. “What is it?”

“No blood,” Lorn said.

I-Five said nothing. He waited.

“Whoever did Monchar cut off his head. One of the Quarren bodyguards got the same treatment. But there was no blood to speak of. You understand? No blood. That means—”

“Cauterization. Fusion of the tissues by sudden intense heat.” I-Five paused, and Lorn knew the droid had reached the same conclusion that he had. “Perhaps a quick lateral movement of a blaster on continuous fire—”

“The particle beam from a hand blaster—even a DL-44 — isn’t that hot, and you know it. On a straight line, yeah, it can seal as it burns, but to cauterize something the size of a neck would take several seconds. It would have to have been done after Monchar was dead, and what’s the sense of that?

“There’s only one weapon capable of doing it instantaneously. The same weapon that was used to cut the lock out of the durasteel door.”

“A lightsaber.” I-Five glanced about as if to assure himself that no one was listening. “Are you saying a Jedi killed Monchar?”

“Much as I hate to admit it, executions aren’t their style.” Lorn’s mouth was suddenly very dry; he had to swallow several times before he could continue. “Which leaves only one other logical choice.”

“The Sith? Impossible. The last one died over a thousand years ago.”

“That’s what everyone believes. But it’s the only conclusion that makes any sense. The Jedi have kept the details of lightsaber manufacture secret for millennia. To create and use one, you have to be adept in the Force. And the Sith were the only other order of Force-sensitives the galaxy has ever known.”

“And why couldn’t it just as easily be a rogue Jedi? One who has succumbed to some kind of psychosis—a failing organic beings are often prone to, I’ve noticed. I think you’re jumping to conclusions,” I-Five said.

“No, I’m not.” Lorn grabbed the droid and pulled him along as he started to walk faster. “I’m jumping on that spice transport and getting off this overbuilt rock—and so are you.” He spied a public trash disintegrator across the street and changed course, with I-Five still in tow. “And we’re getting rid of this holocron, right now.”

They stopped before the disintegrator receptacle. Lorn pulled the information crystal from a pocket, but before he could throw it in, I-Five grabbed his arm.

“Now I know you’re crazy,” the droid said. “That holocron is our only chance to build a new life. And how will we pay our passage on the spice freighter? We can’t just—”

Lorn shoved the droid up against the graffiti-frescoed wall of a large hydro-reclamation processor. Pedestrians of various and sundry species passed them, paying little or no attention to the altercation.

“Listen to me,” Lorn said through clenched teeth. “If I’m right, there’s a Sith out there. He’s probably looking for this.” He held up the holocron. “He can’t be bought off, scared off, or thrown off the trail, and he’ll stop at nothing to get it. I don’t fancy having my neck cauterized.”

“Let’s say you’re right,” I-Five said. “Let’s say Monchar’s mysterious assassin is a Sith. Let’s say he wants the crystal, and he knows we have it. Let’s say he corners us before we reach the Hutt and demands we give it to him. Which will make him happier with us—handing him the crystal, or telling him we destroyed it?”

Lorn paused, trying to quell his panic. He knew he wasn’t using his brain—at least, not the part parked directly behind his forehead. He was thinking with the organ’s hindquarters, the primal fight-or-flight component.

But fight-or-flight—or, more precisely, just flight—was the only option that made any sense in this case. In his previous life Lorn had researched the Sith thoroughly, and he knew they were fanatics, pure and simple. If a Sith was on their trail, the only prudent thing to do was to put half a galaxy between them and their stalker as quickly as possible.

Nevertheless, he had to admit