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Now there would be no sign that any unauthorized person had been here.

He left the offices by the front way, summoned the turbolift, and descended to street level.

Two minutes after Ben’s departure, the protocol droid in the reception area came alive. Its optics lit up, and its head swiveled to look at the display case. The image its visual sensors picked up was compressed and transmitted over a specific comm frequency.

Kilometers away, at the Drewwa Spaceport, a hundred-meter-long bulk freighter rested in one of the outlying hangars. In the days it had been in port, the inoffensive-looking vessel had attracted little attention, her minimal crew carrying on a small-scale disinterested trade in droids from discontinued lines.

But the squat, inelegant vessel would have attracted more interest had anyone gone aboard to examine her. Inspectors would have found that half the cargo bays had been converted to starfighter bays, and that the black-and-bronze starfighters were well known on the space lanes as pirate vehicles.

The freighter’s name of record was false. Her transponder indicated that she was the High Tide, while her crew, and victims, knew her as the Boneyard Rendezvous.

The comm board’s computer received the distant droid’s message, interpreted it, and popped a text message onto the display of its captain, whose name was Byalfin Dyur. Dyur, an underfed-looking Bothan with lovely bronze-colored fur, looked away from his holodrama and read aloud to the other crew members on the bridge: “Red Braid in motion. Tracker activated. Confirm handoff.” He sat back and sighed, glad that the stopover on this overly law-abiding moon would not be protracted.

Hirrtu, his comm officer, tail gunner, and cook—a Rodian who spent every spare credit having every fifth scale on his body dyed from a light green to a dark blue, giving him a curiously dotted appearance—jabbered a question.

“Yes, answer,” Dyur said. “‘The captain and crew of the Boneyard Rendezvous acknowledge that your safe, undemanding part in this escapade is at an end, and accept handover of responsibility. Sleep untroubled, and know that parties far more interesting than you shall carry this torch evermore.’ Got it?”

Hirrtu stared at him for a few moments. Then he typed HANDOVER ACKNOWLEDGED on his comm board and sent the message.

Dyur sighed and returned his attention to the holodrama. “There is no immortal spark within you.”

Hirrtu nodded, admission that the captain was correct.

“Track the boy. I want to know where he is every minute of the day.”

chapter twelve

BOTHAWUI SYSTEM GALACTIC ALLIANCE FRIGATE SHAMUNAAR

The door into the command center slid open and the admiral, a paunchy, middle-aged man who nonetheless looked commanding in his white uniform, entered, flanked by two junior-officer escorts. One of them called out, “Admiral on the bridge!”

Shamunaar’s commander, a stocky Devaronian, leapt up from his chair and saluted. “Admiral Klauskin. Happy to have you aboard.”

Klauskin returned the salute, his gesture as crisp as his uniform. “Captain Biurk. Good to meet you.” He shook the captain’s hand and glanced around the bridge. “We need to speak in private.”

“At once.”

Biurk led the admiral through another door into his private office, which was decorated in shades of deep brown and tan. Rather than take his customary chair behind the desk, he stood by one of the two chairs in front of it and gestured for the admiral to take the other.

Klauskin sat and, as Biurk seated himself, handed the captain a data card. “These aren’t exactly orders,” he said, “but authorization for you to take my verbal orders. Shamunaar has been detached from ordinary fleet activities and assigned to the Galactic Alliance Guard on a special assignment.”

“Sir, I don’t understand. Shamunaar’s current assignment is anything but ordinary. We’re coordinating all the Alliance’s reconnaissance and fighting forces in the Bothawui system, and we’re charged with preventing the Bothan fleets from secretly leaving the system. Our assignment