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A dart—if a meter-long shaft of polished durasteel could be termed a dart—flew from the closet, passing over her at waist level and burying itself in the wall opposite.

Luke’s tone was exactly what he’d use to order a meal he wasn’t interested in eating. “Look out, a trap.”

“Thank you.” Mara rose.

The doorway in the back of the closet opened onto blackness and admitted warm air, pungent with the smells of Coruscant’s undercity: native and Yuuzhan Vong plant life, standing water, plascrete so old that it was going to powder in places, distant sewage.

Luke and Mara lit glowrods and entered. The access led to a utilities and repair tunnel; the Jedi explored it for thirty meters in one direction, twenty in the other, just far enough to confirm that its connections to bigger, more traveled tunnels were blocked by new plascrete plugs that looked solid but featured hatches cunningly textured to look like surrounding materials.

“Her own private means into and out of the building,” Luke said. “Chiefly as escape route, probably, since we know she didn’t use it when she returned here after killing Master Lobi.”

“But knowing that doesn’t offer us anything.” Mara sounded annoyed. “The datacard had better give us something. Or we visit the Neimoidian and get our money back.”

CORUSCANT JEDI TEMPLE, OFFICE OF THE ALEMA RAR TASK FORCE

Curiously, considering the rigid militarism of his background, Jag Fel ran his task force very informally, and there were times when Jaina was quite pleased with the fact.

Such as now. The office Luke had assigned them was large enough for several desks, floor-to-ceiling displays, and other gear. There was even room for a speeder berth, had the office been equipped with a hatch to the outside, and Jag had filled it with exercise equipment. Today both he and Zekk were shirtless, doing chin-ups, while Jaina sat at a terminal and watched them surreptitiously.

The competition—and it was a competition, though neither man would ever have admitted it—was surprisingly even.

Zekk could draw on the Force to boost his reserves of vitality, but he was taller and, though lean, heavier than Jag—it took him a trifle more effort to perform each chin-up. And he was still recovering from his wounds. Surgery, bacta, Jedi healing techniques, and simple rest had worked wonders, leaving a broad, facing scar on his torso the only visible evidence of his injury, but the damage was not entirely healed.

Jag, shorter and more compact, was in better shape, his muscles more clearly defined, and though he could not call upon the Force, he could call upon the stubbornness for which his ancestors, the Fel and Antilles clans, were both known.

Jag paused at the top of a chin-up. “So. Time has gone by and we’ve seen no sign of Alema. We’ve added our monitoring program to the security systems of the Temple, the portions of the Senate Building that would permit it, the building where the Skywalkers keep their civilian quarters, and other places where they are occasionally seen, and we haven’t seen a single flag drop. Zekk, we’re doing this all wrong.”

“We should be doing sit-ups instead?”

Jag scowled, then lowered himself and began another ten repetitions. “Jedi humor. No, that’s not what I mean.”

“He means,” Jaina said, “that Uncle Luke isn’t Alema’s current target; otherwise she’d have been detected. Meaning that Mom’s the target.”

“Ah.” Zekk finished his set, then dropped to the floor and reached for a towel. “So we track your mother down.”

Jaina shook her head. “If it were that easy, Alema would have done it already.”

Jag, grunting his way through one more group of ten—which would put him, Jaina noted, exactly and deliberately ten ahead of Zekk—nodded, finished his set, and dropped to the floor. “We need to get the monitoring software installed in places where your parents might show up. Smugglers’ havens, casinos, and trouble spots—here, around the galaxy, even on Corellia.” He paused to consider that last