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"I have something to finish here," the man said. "Then I'll have to track down a ship."

His voice was empty of emotion. Like his face, it was blank, almost machine-like. As if he were a droid pretending to be human, and doing a poor job of it. But Soresh, who knew him better than anyone, knew there were no mechanical parts hiding beneath the surface.

Beneath the surface there was…nothing. He sounded hollow because he was. Soresh knew this—he'd made sure of it.

"I can be there in three days," the man said.

"Make it one." Soresh flipped off the comlink without waiting for an answer. He knew the man would obey. Soon he would arrive on Coruscant, and then Soresh would sic the hunter on his prey.

At the thought of it, an odd shiver of foreboding ran up his spine. There was no reason for concern. It was a foolproof plan, guaranteed to work. And yet…

He had the dark feeling that he had just sealed his own doom. The man with the hollow eyes was trained to kill—he knew nothing else but the joy of the hunt. And soon he would have the pilot who'd destroyed the Death Star in his blaster sight. So why did Soresh feel he'd just signed his own death warrant?

So be it, he thought, imagining his inner voice traveling across the dark emptiness of the galaxy and whispering in the pilot's ear. Then you and I shall die together.

CHAPTER FOUR

"We are nothing," he repeats, as he is told. The light blinds him. He opens his eyes wide against the pain. "We are no one."

"You belong to me," the Commander says.

"We belong to you."

They are seven. But they are one.

One in mind. One in obedience. One in life.

They are no one.

"Count off," the Commander says.

The young men obey. "X-1!" shouts the first. "X-2!" second. And down the line.

He waits. And then, "X-7!" he shouts.

The lights blink out. Darkness.

"Time to sleep," the Commander says.

X-7 braces for the blow. It is always sooner than he expects, always harder. Pain blossoms from the back of his head, blots out the world.

Time to sleep.

* * *

Once he'd plotted the course to Coruscant, X-7 stretched out on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. The Preybird starfighter had seen better days, and it wasn't much for comfort or show, but the autopilot would take him where he needed to go. At least, that's what the Rodian had boasted, before he died.

No need to go anywhere now, my friend, X-7 had told the Rodian lying lifeless at his feet. So I'm sure you won't mind if I take her for a spin. Then he'd holstered the blaster and lifted off.

The Commander wanted him on Coruscant within a day. And what the Commander wanted, the Commander received.

For X-7, these were words to live by.

Literally.

The stun cuffs pin him against the durasteel wall. The light pierces his eyeballs, and the figure facing him is nothing more than a shadow.

But he knows it is the Commander. It is always the Commander.

He does not struggle. He only waits for this moment to pass, and then the next. He dreads the future; the past is forbidden. The present is his only home.

"Who are you?" the Commander asks.

"I am X-7."

"What is your purpose?" the Commander asks.

"To serve you."

"To what end?" the Commander asks.

"To serve the Empire."

"Where do you come from?" the Commander asks.

"From nowhere."

Pain. Everywhere at once. It is born inside of him, exploding out of him, and then it is gone.

"Where do you come from?" the Commander asks again.

"I cannot remember." He gives the answer the Commander wants to hear.

Pain. Greater now, more intense, like a knife hollowing him out.

"Liar!" the Commander roars. "Have you not yet learned it is impossible to lie to me?"

The sensors on his forehead take measure of his thoughts, his emotions. He has no secrets from the Commander. He has no secrets.

"What do you remember of your past?" the Commander presses him.

"Nothing," he gasps, already anticipating the pain that follows in the next instant.

The explosion in his brain casts a shadow of darkness, and for a blissful moment, he is lost.