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“Parova.”

“Admiral?” It was Rynog Asokaji’s voice. “You need to come to the medcenter immediately. Admiral Buwa’tu is lucid. He wants to see you.”

Parova’s gut clenched. The old goat was tougher than any of them had thought. He’d survived an armed attack by two very accomplished pseudo-Jedi, had come out of a coma, and now, apparently, was no longer the convenient vegetable he had been.

Stang.

“Admiral?”

“Of course, I’ll be there at once.” She forced herself to add, “That’s wonderful news.”

“I’ve already sent a hovertaxi for you. It’ll be faster and … well, ma’am, you’ll want to hear what he has to say as soon as possible. He says he knows who sent the fake Jedi after him and why.”

Her heart sped up. “I see. It will be good to have him back. I’ll be there shortly.”

Her thumb was on the comm to warn Jaxton that Nek Bwua’tu, the Bothan Who Would Not Die, was on to him. Then she paused.

No one had gotten a good answer as to what had happened to Bramsin and then Treen. Fost Bramsin had been positively ancient, so natural causes were not at all suspicious. But Treen’s sudden—and complete—departure was. No one hungered for power more than that old she-krayt. There had been no contact from Lecersen, either.

Parova suspected that Treen had murdered Bramsin, then fled. The question was—fled what?

Or whom?

Was the conspiracy under attack from an outside source, or was it turning on itself? Parova couldn’t be sure. And until she was, she was not about to contact Jaxton or Thaal. She would find out exactly how much Nek Bwua’tu actually knew about his attack—if anything—and go from there. There would be time to contact the generals if it turned out they were still actually working together and not attempting to, perhaps literally, stab each other in the back.

Seven minutes later, she was dressed in full uniform and standing outside pacing. The hovertaxi pulled up and stopped right in front of her. She opened the door and climbed in.

“To the Galactic Senate Med—ow!” She jerked quickly to the left, one hand feeling the seat fabric where she had just been sitting. Something very sharp and not a little painful had stabbed her right buttock. She picked up a small needle. Obviously one of his former passengers had indulged in extremely unsavory pastimes. Good thing she was going directly to a medcenter.

“What—what the—look at this!” She shook the needle at the driver angrily. “I’m reporting you to your supervisor! I could have been injured!”

“Yeah, about that,” came a familiar voice. The driver turned and gave her a grin. “Sorry, but I’m afraid we’re not going to the Galactic Senate Medcenter.”

And as her vision began to blur and her body refused to obey her, Parova wondered if she had been injected by a hallucinogen, or if she really was being kidnapped by Han Solo.

Parova came to in what appeared to be a pleasant apartment, although the owners seemed to have a peculiar fondness for blue lighting. She lay on a comfortable sofa, bathed in blue light, blinking and trying to focus. For a moment, she couldn’t recall what had happened or why it was so hard to move. She pushed up with her arms and turned to look at two beings sitting in chairs across from her, a bolted-down caf table between them.

Rynog Asokaji … and Wynn Dorvan.

“You two are in so much trouble,” she said. Her voice slurred, as her tongue seemed to still be recovering from the paralyzing effects of whatever drug they had injected her with. “Assaulting and kidnapping the acting chief of naval operations? You think they won’t find me?”

“Actually, no, I don’t think they will,” said Dorvan calmly. He looked as if he were sitting in a staff meeting, not a hair out of place. Incredible. Asokaji, not unexpectedly, sat with his arms tightly folded, his entire posture bespeaking his hostility. “You’re in the Asylum Block of the Jedi Temple, Admiral,” Dorvan continued. “In, I believe, the very cell that used to house Seff Hellin.”

She recognized it now from the recordings she had