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Caedus looked at her.

“My apologies, sir.” She stooped to pick up the datapad. She glanced at its screen. Caedus could see that it was undamaged. Tebut snapped it shut, saluted, and turned away.

Two steps later, she skidded to a stop and looked back at him.

“Lieutenant?”

Her voice was distant. “New anomaly.” She moved toward him again. “Sir, this is perhaps none of my business, but it has been my observation that you get rid of clothes when they become worn or stop being able to hold creases.”

Caedus nodded. “Not just clothes.”

“Yes, sir. So why are you wearing a patched cloak? If I may ask.”

“Patched?” He looked down at himself.

Tebut stooped again, then rose, bringing up the lower hem of his cloak, turning it so Caedus could see the backside. There, placed in a slightly crooked fashion, was a square cloth patch, five centimeters on a side, identical in color and texture to the surrounding cloak material.

Caedus took the hem and stared at it. He tugged at the corner of the patch. Reluctantly, it yielded, coming up from the cloak material, revealing glue and flexible circuitry beneath.

Though his good mood was spoiled, he kept the fact from his face. “We all make mistakes, Lieutenant, and it appears that one of mine was to let someone plant a beacon on me.” He undid his cloak clasps, folded the garment, and handed it to her along with the black patch. “Get that to our security technicians. I want to know its range of abilities. Soonest.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted again and left.

Once she was through the doors at the stern end of the bridge, Caedus looked around and found Captain Nevil. “Did you see?”

“I did, sir.”

“I run a meritocracy, and the lieutenant shows merit. Put this incident on her record.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

TWO LIGHT-YEARS OUTSIDE THE CORELLIAN SYSTEM, ABOARD THE ERRANT VENTURE

The giant pleasure ship—once an Imperial Star Destroyer named Virulence, later a haven for gamblers, shoppers, and vacationers of all species and economic brackets—was oddly quiet, Han decided. Its main hangar bay was comparatively empty, devoid of the usual collection of privately owned yachts, shuttles, and transports that crowded the chamber from wall to wall. Now the only vehicles it hosted were one transport, large enough to evacuate the ship’s current skeleton crew, plus a couple of starfighter squadrons, two shuttles, and the Millennium Falcon.

Han slouched in the Falcon’s copilot’s seat. There were more comfortable places to be, but none was very interesting at the moment; the Errant Venture’s gambling halls were all temporarily closed. The ship was serving as a staging platform for Luke’s Centerpoint mission, and until this mission was done, her owner, Booster Terrik, had chosen to limit staff to the minimum number of tight-lipped crew members necessary for basic functions.

Below the Falcon’s cockpit were spread the other operation vehicles. Mechanics and some of the other pilots, many of them Jedi, worked among the starfighters. The Antilles and Horn clans sat at a folding table between two StealthXs, playing what looked like a cutthroat game of sabacc. Luke Skywalker walked among all the starfighters, trailed by R2-D2.

Han looked at the man in the pilot’s seat. He scowled. He really didn’t like seeing anything from this perspective. “Think you’ve got it, kid?”

Jag straightened up from his latest simulation run. “I’ve got it.”

“You know, there have never been many people I’d let fly this baby. Chewbacca. Leia. Lando. Now you.”

“She’s Corellian by design. I’m full-blooded Corellian by ancestry. We’ll get along just fine.”

“Make sure you do.” Restless, Han turned away. This was the fifth time they’d had this conversation, or one much like it, in the last few days.

Oh, well. The kid wouldn’t resent it too much. Jag had to understand the love of a man for his ship. Didn’t he?

A button on the comm board lit, and Booster Terrik’s voice, aged and hoarse, came across the speakers. “Jedi Recon Three reports the Anakin