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“Then wouldn’t I be good?” he shot back.

Daala did allow herself to smile at that. It faded almost at once as she thought about what her own “doppelgänger” would be like. She’d lived that life for too brief a time. Happy, whole, in love with Liegeus Vorn, a good man who had been ripped away from her far, far too soon.

Daala had been chasing a hopeless ideal, trying to be a good, decent, fair leader of all the beings who made up the Galactic Alliance. All her attempts to restore order had failed. She was not the “Empress Palpatina” that some would paint her as. She was happy to work with any gender, any species, as long as they were willing to obey orders and uphold the law. She did not endorse slavery. Once she had brought the Jedi to heel and had them serving in their proper capacity, she would have been free to turn her attention to these burgeoning new governments. Would have employed due process of law.

But no one, it seemed, wanted that. Not the Jedi, not Dorvan—to whom she had given more trust than she really should have—and certainly not the Solos.

No, she realized, her resentment more bitter than the bad caf she sipped. She’d been fooling herself to think that. Had been fooling herself, too, in thinking that she just might, finally, be able to love someone who wouldn’t be ripped away from her by murder. First Wilhuff Tarkin, then Liegeus, then Nek Bwua’tu. Oh, Nek wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t sure he would call the lost, befuddled state in which he currently existed “living.” She certainly didn’t.

No happy doppelgänger Daala for her. And it was just as well.

She drained the cup and made a face. Turning to her rescuer, she said, “One of the first things I’m going to do when I come to power again is make sure you Mandos have the ability to make a decent cup of caf.”

Fett snorted slightly. “As long as it keeps me sharp, it can taste like poodoo for all I care. We’ve got a more pressing problem you can help with.”

Here it comes, thought Daala. She had known there would be a fee, she just hadn’t known what it was. “I owe you a great deal,” she admitted freely.

Again the helmet turned toward her. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel the intensity of his gaze.

“That you do. But before I name my price, I’m going to make it a bit sweeter for you to pay it. I’ve learned a few things you might be interested in hearing.”

She was intrigued. Her brooding and soul-searching was growing tiresome; she was ready to move forward. “Go on.”

“Moff Drikl Lecersen is not your friend.”

Now it was her turn to snort. “And Luke Skywalker is a Jedi. Are we through with the obvious?”

“Not yet.” He didn’t rise to the bait. Fett never did. “He’s been operating behind the scenes plotting your downfall for some time. Even gone to some pretty extraordinary measures and very complicated, long-simmering plans.”

“Sounds like a recipe for brogy stew.”

“It does at that. Maybe I’m hungry.” He shrugged. “He’s no friend of mine, either, but I’ll get to that in a minute. I’ve learned something very interesting about the Moff. He’s behind the Freedom Flight.”

Daala was glad she’d finished the bitter brew earlier; she was afraid if she’d been drinking, she’d have choked. Her brows drew together.

“That’s a poor joke, Fett,” she said in an icy voice. “That sleemo would rather have his hand cut off than do anything noble.”

“I think that was an unfortunate side effect as far as Lecersen is concerned,” Fett continued, completely unruffled by her reaction. “He didn’t set it up—or rather, hijack it—in order to help poor downtrodden species obtain their rights. He did it so there’d be too many situations you’d have to respond to, quickly, without thinking it through. Think of it as arson. He was lighting fires all over the galaxy.”

“And I rushed to put them out,” Daala said slowly. Comprehension dawned sickly over her, causing her stomach to clench hard. “That whole organization … it’s just a front?”

Fett shook his head. “Not at all. Most of the poor fools