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Two more troopers moved into view, heading his way but separating as they came—Jag guessed they were part of a small formation fanning out as they approached. He fired at the one on the left, who would have had an easier time ducking out of sight. But Jag’s shot caught him in the unarmored inner thigh, spinning him down to the carpeted floor. The man’s scream choked off before he fell. The second trooper threw himself to the floor, narrowing his profile considerably, and opened fire. Jag rolled to position himself more fully behind the body of the nearest trooper, and that trooper’s body caught the one stun bolt that came near. Jag fired once, twice, three times, and the trooper in the next room lay still, his helmet a charred, smoking mess.

In a conversational tone, not loud enough to be heard over the alarm and through trooper helmets but loud enough for the nearest suite microphones to pick up, Jag said, “Door, unlock. Door, disengage all safety governors. Door …” He waited before issuing another command, and wriggled backward, dragging with him the trooper he was using for cover.

Two troopers appeared in the doorway, side by side, clearly having leapt into place from outside Jag’s field of view.

Jag said, “Shut.”

The door slammed down, hammering both troopers to the floor. The door, not meant for use as a weapon, bent and accordioned around its two victims.

Jag shot one trooper, then the other, in the neck. He said, “Door, open.” The ruined remains of the door rose, jamming in the up position with half its length still in view.

Then there was more blasterfire, a lot of it, and Jag could see the antechamber being illuminated as if by a fireworks display, but only a couple of blaster bolts entered the simulator chamber; one burned through the side of the simulator and the other ricocheted from the walls, flashing back into the antechamber.

The blasterfire stopped. The alarm cut out, leaving a ringing silence in Jag’s ears. Finally, he heard, “Sir? Sir, are you here?”

The voice, normally soft-spoken, now held both worry and rage. It belonged to Ashik, formally known as Kthira’shi’ktarloo. Ashik was a Chiss who was Jag’s devoted assistant, attendant, and head of personal security. And who, no doubt, was probably more agitated at a possible failure of that last duty than Jag himself was.

“I’m fine, Ashik.” Jag stood, winced at the smell of burned flesh and armor, and smoothed his tunic. “Hold your fire.” He ducked and stepped through the doorway, blaster rifle in hand.

The antechamber was a ruin of eight or nine downed stormtroopers; blackened, destroyed furniture; and fumes. Still standing were Ashik and a complement of Imperial security men and women. Ashik’s blue face was set in anger; his piercing eyes were hard, and his full lips pressed together.

Jag nodded at Ashik. “Yes. I’d like some answers. Right away.”

Answers were slow in coming.

The first stormtrooper Jag had shot, the first of six he had killed, was no stormtrooper at all, but Lieutenant Oln Pressig, Ashik’s day-shift opposite number. The other armored intruders were also, in a sense, fakes; they had all seen active service with the Galactic Empire, some of them as long ago as before the Yuuzhan Vong War, and all had either been discharged dishonorably or had entered dubious professions after their tours. In the last few weeks, all had traveled to Coruscant on funds transferred to their accounts from a dummy company on Borleias, which had been in Imperial hands since the Second Galactic Civil War.

The guards outside Jag’s quarters were alive, felled by stun bolts. After recovering, they told Ashik that they had been approached by an armored trooper carrying and broadcasting proper credentials, and had been gunned down.

While Jag’s theoretically more secure embassy chambers were being cleaned and repaired, he relocated to the hotel suite he often engaged in order to spend time with Jaina. Jaina sat while Jag paced. “It’s all pretty much according to formula.”