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A current from the vent on the far wall carried air to Jaina, and she wrinkled her nose. “It won’t take Intelligence to figure out where that smell comes from. You both need to head to the refresher for a sanisteam. Not to put it too delicately, you stink.”

Jag looked at Zekk and gestured toward the door. “After you.”

“No, after you.”

“I’m smaller, so I stink less. A logical calculation. After you.”

Zekk frowned but—obviously seeing no way to slide past Jag’s stubbornness or superior rank—wrapped the towel around his neck and left.

Jaina sighed to herself. Zekk had declared that he was over her, but as he’d recovered, he had grown increasingly reluctant to leave her alone in Jag’s company. He didn’t need to bother. Jag clearly tolerated her only because it was his job; he had as much told her so the day Luke had assigned her to him.

And yet, since the discomfort of their first couple of meetings, he had grown less icy, his words less punitive. She wondered if he had begun to forgive her for her role in costing him—well, everything. About the only things he still possessed were his body and his skills—

—not that she hadn’t always admired both—

She stomped on that intrusive thought as though it were a bug in the kitchen. Things were finished with Zekk except for friendship, partnership. Things were finished with Jag except for professional cooperation—and, she hoped, a respect that would someday overcome the resentment he felt.

She was done with men. She was lucky in war, unlucky in love. And she was the Sword of the Jedi. It might take her a lifetime to learn what that meant, what her destiny was, and she couldn’t afford to lose her focus just because she was tempted to jump into another doomed love affair.

She became aware that Jag was still standing, waiting. “Was there something else, Colonel?” Inwardly, she winced. Even to her own ears her tone sounded dismissive—and she’d addressed him by the military rank that had been stripped from him, as if it had been her intent to rub salt into an injury.

Jag flipped his towel across his neck, his action mimicking Zekk’s, and showed her a forced smile. “Colonel. I suppose not, Jedi Solo.” He turned and strode from the room.

She rose to follow, then stopped herself. She hadn’t meant to sting him–she had inherited her mother’s sharp tongue but lacked the diplomatic skills that Leia used to keep it in check when appropriate. But perhaps it was better this way.

She needed to keep him at bay. But she didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t know how to achieve both goals.

She didn’t even know whether she wanted to achieve both goals, or either. Sometimes she wanted to hurt him. Sometimes she didn’t want to keep him at bay.

Blast him for getting past her armor.

COMMENOR PRESIDENT’S RESIDENCE

The holotransmission was in the image of a woman—a beautiful woman, her features aristocratic and refined in the inbred Hapan fashion, almost to the point of anonymity. She’s a generic Hapan, Fyor Rodan told himself, and the startling thought made him more suspicious of her.

“Your War and Intelligence Ministers argue and delay,” the woman was saying. She shook her head in sad sympathy, sending her golden curls swaying. “Knowing that your fleet will be wiped out by the Galactic Alliance forces if they make a misstep. And that would be catastrophic. But delaying will also be disastrous. Corellia will fall soon, and then attacking would be suicide. Soon the GA will turn its attention to Commenor, to what it perceives as Corellia’s treason, and you will fall, too.”

Rodan snorted. “You’re clearly proficient at cutting through the layers of disinformation we surround ourselves with to keep people like you from taking up too much of our time, but that doesn’t make you correct in your assumptions. Yes, the government of Commenor has spoken out against Alliance aggression and for Corellian independence. That’s not an act of war—as readying a fleet would be.”

The unnamed woman gave him a slightly superior smile. “For