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“Copy, Dad.”

Ben, his step bouncy despite his injured shoulder, rejoined them within moments. He glanced at his father, and his expression became one of concern. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.” Luke turned to Fala. “Keep a close eye on yourself for the next few months. Look for sensations, emotions that seem out of place, dreams that aren’t quite right. If you begin to experience them, set your scruples aside and go consult a Jedi. Your life and your future may depend on it.”

Hallaf rose from his daughter’s side, his expression confused. “You’re not going to bring in the authorities?”

“Currently we don’t represent them, and we have bigger issues to deal with. Such as the kind of being who could do that to your daughter just to distract her pursuers.” Luke let a touch of durasteel creep into his voice. “A little smuggling does not offend me. But the kind of individual who uses others—and uses up others—invites me to retaliate. You understand?”

Hallaf nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”

Luke spun away, his cloak fluttering, and, ignoring the pain in his knee, led the way back toward Jade Shadow.

“Where are we going, Dad?”

“Nam Chorios. We have to hurry. I could sense that she’s calling to the Shelter Jedi Knights, to renew her bonds with them. She’s too weak now to reestablish those severed bonds, but if she becomes stronger …”

ERRANT VENTURE, ALMANIA SYSTEM

Raynar Thul’s StealthX, its S-foils locked together in standard flight configuration, rose into the belly bay of the red Star Destroyer orbiting the planet Almania. His fighter had a little scoring along the port side, the result of cruising just a trifle too near a missile detonation, and it would have to be patched if he hoped to retain full stealth capability in time for the next engagement—wherever that might be.

Rising into the bay, he could see the majority of the other Jedi StealthX fighters already at their landing spots. He nudged his craft in the direction of an empty spot, marked off by yellow reflective tape laid down on a temporary basis, and settled in beside the fighter of Master Kyp Durron. Moments later, canopy raised, he ignored the offer of a ladder from a support worker; he merely dropped over the side and landed between his fighter and Kyp’s.

Kyp stood there with his astromech, scrutinizing his starboard S-foils. Of average height, handsome, with graying brown hair worn long and currently matted by sweat and hours under a helmet, Kyp did not look much like the Jedi Master he was; his dark StealthX pilot’s jumpsuit was rumpled and he had a faint reddening of skin on his face, similar to a sunburn, suggesting that a laser volley had been stopped—mostly stopped—by his forward shields.

Still, he looked normal, and Raynar felt a small pang of envy. His own features had been restored to nearly normal by numerous surgeries, the extensive burns he had experienced years ago detectable only as a few patches of slightly glossy skin resembling textured plastic. His face would no longer cause children to scream, and he had much to be grateful for—especially the fact that the Jedi had once again accepted him as one of their own.

But occasionally he did feel a distant longing for an even greater degree of normalcy.

He pulled off his helmet, then removed his gloves and dropped them into it. “Master.”

Kyp looked his way. “Jedi Thul. You did well out there today.” It was the sort of encouragement a Master tended to offer an apprentice or a newly elevated Jedi Knight, not one of Raynar’s experience, but Raynar knew what it meant. You’ve come back a long way from your own dark times. You’re doing fine. Keep it up.

“Thank you. Master, is there any update?”

Kyp shrugged. “We’re recovering EV pilots now. The Sith force has regrouped in a tight defensive formation, very disciplined. They apparently got one of their disabled frigates moving again just before we took out the seventh, so their net loss is six. We expect them to enter hyperspace at any moment.”

“The Grand Master?”

Kyp became just a little more somber. There were, of course, two Grand