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She had scanned through several hundred names, recognizing none, when she felt a flicker in the Force.

Then it was more than a flicker. It was a light, a signal. She looked toward its source.

Entering the grand lobby was a human man—unusually tall, light-skinned, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore dressy civilian clothes—black slacks and boots, a dark blue tunic with yellow striping angled across the chest, a black vest and belt.

Alema knew him at once. He had once been a Joiner, had once belonged to a Killik nest. He was Zekk.

But his actions confused her. He moved slowly through the lobby, smiling and nodding at everyone he passed, speaking briefly to several, especially young females. As he passed, a few of them turned in his wake, moving to keep him in sight.

Alema thought she understood, but it made no more sense than before. Zekk was radiating vitality and power through the Force, in a fashion that would be appealing to just about everyone but the most Force-blind. And if there were any Force-sensitives in the crowd, they might be drawn especially strongly to him.

She gaped. He was using his Jedi abilities to attract females. It scarcely seemed possible. He had always been quiet and reserved—not to mention pathetically infatuated with Jaina Solo. Alema wondered what had caused the change.

She also wondered whether she should kill him. He had nothing to do with her current plans. But it was inevitable that when Alema killed Han, Jaina would vow vengeance—or at least seek it, pretending it was just a dispassionate desire for justice. And if Jaina came hunting, Zekk would come with her. If Alema eliminated him now, that was one less thing for her to worry about.

She, too, drifted toward Zekk.

She came to a stop twenty meters from him, fingering her blowgun and still undecided. Zekk and two new female friends had paused to watch a fire-breathing Devaronian juggler perform his act for the patrons in the lobby when she became aware of another presence, this one much closer.

She turned her head to see a thick-chested man with a trim, graying beard and startling green eyes. He stood two meters from her, staring at her, smiling. He wore Jedi robes.

“Horn,” she said.

“I’ll say this once,” Corran said. “Give up now.”

She raised her blowgun and fired.

Horn plucked the dart from the air. He opened a datapad, dropped the dart onto the screen, and snapped the device closed.

That gave Alema time to ignite her lightsaber. Corran drew and followed suit, his silver blade contrasting sharply with her blue-black blade.

Alema became aware of applause. Corran, too, glanced around, not moving his head.

Patrons of the Errant Venture were drawing back from their standoff, but not very far. Many were clapping. Some were putting down bets. Alema saw Corran silently offer a curse at their stupidity.

And now Zekk was moving toward the two of them, his lightsaber hilt in hand.

This was a trap, and Alema cursed her own stupidity.

And then she disarmed herself. She hurled her lightsaber high into the air, giving it a touch through the Force to direct its flight, to keep the blade ignited.

Corran and Zekk followed its progress in the second it took to reach the ceiling and shear through the struts holding a huge, elaborate chandelier in place. It dropped toward the crowd beneath, its glows starting to fade, to plunge the lobby into comparative darkness.

Alema turned and ran as fast as her crippled foot and damaged body could manage. She let her lightsaber turn itself off but continued to pull at it, and a moment later its hilt slapped into her outstretched hand.

She felt a massive surge in the Force behind her—Zekk reaching for the chandelier, checking its fall. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see Corran coming after her, but she was alone; he must have remained behind, yanking people to safety from beneath the falling fixture. She smiled. Her enemies weren’t functioning as a team. Had they been, Corran would have attacked her while Zekk