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“Pydyr Control,” he commed again, “this is the transport shuttle Emiax on approach to Corocus. Please advise entry procedures.”

After a moment, a raspy voice replied over the cockpit speaker. “Negative, Emiax.” Even by the standards of an avian species, the Pydyrian’s voice sounded thin and reedy. “Discontinue approach … divert to Almania. Pydyr is under … quarantine.”

“Quarantine?” Ben pushed back into the pilot’s seat, contemplating the instructions without obeying them. The Pydyrian certainly sounded sick, but that was easy enough to fake over a comm unit. Still, Ben found himself inclined to accept what he was hearing. Something just felt right about the stress in the Pydyrian’s voice, and about the way he had paused to catch his breath. “Why?”

“Your own … protection,” Control said. “This is a cross-species epidemic … very virulent. Divert at once.”

As the Pydyrian spoke, Luke and Vestara returned to the flight deck. Instead of assuming her usual seat, Vestara came forward to take the navigator’s seat, no doubt hoping for an opportunity to check the latest settings on the subspace transceiver. Ben saw the hint of a smile cross his father’s lips and knew she would learn only what he intended her to learn.

“So, do we divert?” Ben asked. A sense of dread began to settle over him. He had read about some of the plagues that had ravaged the galaxy in the past, wiping out entire civilizations and leaving whole worlds devoid of sentient life. The last thing Ben wanted was to be responsible for spreading another one. “Maybe someone on Almania can tell us what happened.”

Luke shook his head. “Stay on course.”

“Uh, are you sure about that, Master Skywalker?” Vestara asked. Her Force aura was taut with the same fear that Ben felt, and there was an edge to her voice that suggested she would not allow herself to be taken to a plague world without a fight. “That guy sounds pretty sick.”

Luke did not bother replying, and the Pydyrian’s voice came over the cockpit speaker again. “Shuttle Emiax, be advised that our spaceport is closed to all traffic. You will not be allowed—”

“Pydyr Control,” Luke interrupted. “You be advised that this is Grand Master Luke Skywalker of the Jedi Order, in pursuit of a stolen vessel of great personal significance, and we are going to land and recover it.”

“Master Skywalker?” The Pydyrian sounded healthy for an instant, but quickly lapsed back into his reedy voice. “I assure you, no star yachts … have landed on Pydyr in the last week. You would be condemning yourself and your companions to a long and …”

The words trailed off into a fit of coughing, and Ben felt more convinced than ever that the poor fellow was mere hours from death. But when he looked over at his father, he found no hint of concern or fear, only a knowing smirk and a jaw set in determination.

Ben realized then that nothing was going to dissuade his father from landing on the plague moon, not fear for their own safety or that of the galaxy, and his heart began to climb into his throat.

“We’re not going to turn away, are we?” he asked.

Luke shook his head. “We’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“Why should we?” This question came from Vestara. “I can feel in the Force that something terrible is happening down there. How can you be so sure we won’t be affected?”

To Ben’s surprise, his father’s smile grew wider, and it did not vanish as he turned to face Vestara directly.

“To begin with, I never mentioned what kind of vessel we were chasing.” Luke looked back toward Pydyr. “And Control knew it was a star yacht.”

WITH A CLOUD OF DUST MOTES SWIRLING THROUGH ITS CAVERNOUS hangar and a long line of berthing bays sitting empty and dark along the back wall, the Corocus Spaceport looked more like a narglatch den than a planetary transit station. The giant maintenance cranes were bleeding orange corrosion from their rivets and weld-seams, and the faint wheeze of a leaky pressure coupling was whispering somewhere in the back