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Whatever news Haako had for him was best heard in person, in the privacy of his sanctum. Even though there was supposedly no one on board the freighter who was not loyal to him and his cause, the viceroy was taking no chances. He knew very well just how easily the allegiance of his cohorts and underlings could be bought.

He dismissed the masseuse, donned a vermilion robe, and paced restlessly, awaiting Haako’s arrival. The intricacies of protocol dictated that he be sitting at ease in a couch or chair, his nonchalant attitude conveying the impression that, no matter what news Haako might be bearing, it could not possibly be important enough to cause him any concern. But he was beyond caring about such formalities at this point. There had been no word for nearly forty-eight hours from the bounty hunter they had engaged, and no news of Hath Monchar’s whereabouts or plans. At any moment he expected to see the holographic presence of Darth Sidious materialize again before him, demanding that he once more assemble his gang of four to continue discussions concerning the Naboo blockade. And what would happen when Gunray was still not able to account for Monchar’s absence? He winced as the mere thought of such a conversation with Sidious caused his gut sac to fill with acidic bile. He knew he was building a world-class ulcer in his lower abdomen, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do to stop it.

The door panel slid open, and Haako entered. A moment later Daultay Dofine entered, as well. Gunray steeled himself; one look at his compatriots’ hunched postures and furtive miens assured him that he was not about to hear good news.

“I have just heard from the consular representative at our embassy on Coruscant,” Haako said. His willingness to skip the preamble of verbal fencing and get right to the subject was ample evidence that his concern was just as great as Gunray’s. “One of our people has been killed there.”

Gunray had to will his salivary glands to moisten his palate before he was able to speak. “Was it Monchar?”

“At this point, we don’t know for certain,” Dofine said. “There was evidently an explosion, although the investigation is unclear as to whether that was the cause of death. Genetic ID verification is pending.”

“However,” Haako continued, lowering his voice and peering about as if he expected Darth Sidious to appear at any moment, “a piece of singed cloth that was once part of a miter of the office of deputy viceroy was found at the scene.”

Nute Gunray closed his eyes and tried to imagine what life as a mulch farmer back on Neimoidia would be like.

“In addition,” Dofine said, “several other bodies were discovered at the scene of the explosion. One has been conclusively identified: the bounty hunter Mahwi Lihnn.”

Mulch farming probably had its good points, Gunray told himself. For one thing, the possibility of having to deal with the Sith in his new occupation was very unlikely.

“I think we must admit the conclusion that Hath Monchar is no longer among the living,” Rune Haako said. He began to wring his hands as though he was twisting the life out of a swamp toad he planned to have for a snack.

“This is a disaster,” Dofine whined. “What will we tell Lord Sidious?”

What indeed? the viceroy of the Federation wondered. Oh, there was no shortage of lies that they could come up with—but would Sidious believe any of them? That was the all-important question. And the answer, much as Gunray hated to admit it, was, almost certainly not. The Sith Lord’s cowled face rose unbidden before his mental vision, and he could not help but shudder. Those eyes, hidden deep in that hooded cloak, could penetrate subterfuge and dissimulation as easily as X rays penetrated flesh and illuminated the bones within for all to see.

But what other option was there? Though the thought of doing so galled him on a very fundamental level, Gunray knew that they could simply admit the truth: that Monchar had absconded, to where and for what reason they did not know—although