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X-7 stripped him of his uniform, then slid his body into a crevice in the generator pile where, with any luck, it wouldn't be discovered for days. "Problem solved."

It took only a few minutes to slip aboard the Millennium Falcon and access the navigational computer, which had been programmed on a course for Muunilinst. Now he knew where they were headed—and, after making a few modifications to the ship's systems, he knew exactly how he would intercept them.

After that, he needed only to find himself a way off the moon. And what could be simpler? He had the Preybird. He had his blaster.

And moments later, he had a young, terrified Rebel pilot willing to do anything he asked. A blaster muzzle digging into the ribcage tended to have that effect on people. A more experienced soldier might have turned the situation to his advantage, realizing that X-7 couldn't afford to shoot. Not if he wanted to get out alive. A more experienced soldier certainly would have known better than to climb into the Preybird as ordered, and relay the series of codes necessary to gain departure clearance.

A more experienced soldier likely would not have believed X-7's promise. "Do as I say, and I'll let you live."

But X-7 had chosen well, and this soldier was no soldier at all. He was little more than a scared boy, wearing his uniform like a costume.

And, once he'd served his purpose, he was disposable.

There was no need to use the blaster. The vacuum of space did the job just fine, without leaving behind a bloody mess. As the pilot's body drifted away into the black, X-7

set a course for Muunilinst. It was time to put his plan in motion.

* * *

The man he needed proved easy to track down. Soon his pinched, grizzled face was looming on the communicator screen.

"It'll cost you," the pilot said, once he heard X-7's proposal.

"Name your price," X-7 suggested. "My employer has rather deep pockets."

"And you're sure it's safe? Solo's got a reputation, you know. You'd have to be crazy to go up against the Millennium Falcon. Especially in a TIE fighter. Those things practically explode if you sneeze on them."

"I've taken care of the Falcon. Just show up at the coordinates I've given you. It's completely safe." X-7 smiled, offering up a perfect simulation of candid sincerity. "You have my personal guarantee."

The Muunilinst system was still hours away when X-7 began his transformation. He began with the physical—X-7 had been taught to believe that change happened from the outside in. And his specialized medpac made change easy.

Painful, but easy.

Ignoring the localized nerve anesthetic, he used a small durasteel mallet to crush his nasal bones. He set them with the bone fuser, adding a bump and a slight curve that gave his face a completely different look. Colored lenses turned his eyes a bright green, and a black tattoo across his neck marked him as a member of the A'mari. This was the former ruling class of Malano III, the planet he would claim as his own.

The chances of Leia knowing anything about Malano III or the A'mari were low, but X-7 left nothing to chance.

His new identity was that of a warrior, and a warrior needed scars. He raked the sonic scalpel in a jagged line from his left eye to his chin, pleasuring in the pain.

There were easier ways, but he preferred the pain. It kept his mind clear. Reminded him of the stakes.

Reminded him of the Commander, and the only home he'd ever known.

A blaster set on stun, aimed at the chest, the back, the shoulders.

A simple application of bacta, and his false identity was complete: a battle-scarred warrior, fresh from the front lines.

X-7 called up the details of his new persona on the datapad, running his eyes over and over them, although they were already stored in his head.

"Tobin Elad," he repeated aloud, testing the new name on his tongue.

"I am Tobin Elad." He watched himself saying it in a plane of mirrored transparisteel, mastering every twitch of the eye, every