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Savar stopped abruptly. His expression turned to one of disapproval. “That, Master Skywalker, does not constitute full cooperation.”

Leia turned a scornful look on the captain. “I'll wager you a month's salary—yours, not mine, since I don't receive a salary—that your warrant doesn't mention his lightsaber. Warrants almost never do. You know why? I suspect not. It's because the damage each one does is indistinguishable from the damage of any other, so they are of almost no use as forensic evidence. Now, does your warrant specify his lightsaber?”

Savar looked at her but ignored the question. He returned his attention to Luke. “Please turn around and place your hands behind your back. I have instructions to shackle you.”

Luke obliged, turning to face his companions. He kept up his cheerful demeanor. It wouldn't do for any of the holocams to see him looking irritable, for any recordings of such a response would appear on the news broadcasts.

Captain Savar grasped Luke's right wrist and snapped a stun cuff upon it.

Han was not as cordial as Luke. “Are you under orders to treat him like a common criminal, bantha-brain?”

Luke felt Savar stiffen, felt a rush of frustration, anger, and, yes, guilt from the officer. It startled Luke; clearly, this was no prosecutorial lackey enjoying the arrest, but someone who regretted it.

“He's resisting!” The voice was muffled and watery. Luke knew it had to be the Quarren speaking. Luke spun, his right arm still in the captain's grasp, in time to see the Quarren bringing his shoulder weapon into line, aiming at Luke.

From that moment, things moved fast. Five lightsabers, Luke's not among them, snaphissed into colorful, humming life and were raised against possible attacks. One security agent, who looked to be a boy about Ben's age, twitched and fired, probably inadvertently; the bolt sped toward Luke. He leaned away from it, not feeling threatened, but Kam caught it on his blade and bounced it almost straight down into the permacrete.

Han, a blaster suddenly in hand—a small, powerful civilian model, not his usual DL-44—fired, and the shot sheared through the boy's rifle, throwing the ruined weapon out of his hands.

The Quarren didn't fire. There was now a lightsaber tip poised directly beneath his neck. The blade belonged to none of the Jedi; the dark-haired woman held it, her hand rock-steady, a curious smile on her face. The Quarren's gaze was on her now rather than on Luke.

The security troops brought their weapons up, variously aiming at Han and the Jedi, but, disciplined operatives, they held their fire pending their captain's order.

Savar, his expression ugly, turned toward the Quarren. “Nyz, did you just not understand the words support role? Or are you stupid enough to violate my orders deliberately?”

The Quarren hesitated. “You stiffened. The only reasonable conclusion was that he used a Jedi technique on you.”

“The only reasonable conclusion is that you're an idiot. And I don't see you putting your weapon down.” At Savar's words, a half squad of operatives aimed at the Quarren, though it was clear the woman with the saber needed no help.

The Quarren, reluctant, lowered the device. He glanced between the woman and the troops covering him. “You shouldn't point weapons at me. It doesn't improve your prospects for survival.”

Savar's expression became disdainful. “Now you're on record for threats. Worn-out, petulant, whiny threats, come to think of it.” He turned to face Luke again.

The Jedi, at Luke's nod, deactivated and stowed their lightsabers. So did the dark-haired woman. Han tucked his blaster away into a sheath at the small of his back. The troops finally lowered their rifles, though several kept an eye on the Quarren.

“Nice shooting,” Luke whispered to Han.

Han's expression was sour. “Short-barreled piece of junk. I was aiming at his nose.”

“Sure you were.”

Savar led Luke to the personnel carrier that had landed directly in front. Its crew of security troopers, plus the woman