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You will bring it to me, Lord Vader had commanded them. Do not fail.

They didn't intend to.

Div stretched out, struggling to get comfortable. At least they'd given him a mattress, so he didn't have to sleep on the floor. In fact, there was little to complain about. The room the Rebels had locked him in was relatively clean, with no borrats nibbling at his toes as he slept. He was alone, safe from the snoring or sneak attacks of a hostile roommate.

Food appeared regularly and was usually warm, sometimes even edible. As cells went, this one was nearly pleasant.

But it was still a cell.

It was still four walls and a locked door, caging him inside: And so it was still intolerable.

Div closed his eyes, drawing in slow, even breaths. It was important to sleep when he could. He had to stay sharp so that when his chance for escape came, he could seize it.

Breaking out of a Rebel jail cell, Div thought wryly. Wonder what Trever would think of that.

But he didn't have to wonder; he knew. His adopted brother would have been ashamed that Div had ended up there in the first place. No, not ashamed. Disgusted. Hired by an Imperial agent to kill a key member of the resistance? If Trever were here, he probably would have been the first to throw Div into a cell.

Except that I have no proof that he was an Imperial agent, Div told himself. Although he'd had his suspicions—and ignored them.

And I wasn't hired to kill Luke. I was hired to face him in a fair fight, pilot to pilot, may the best man win, Div thought. Even though the "fair fight" had been an ambush.

Trever can't judge me anymore, Div told himself. He's dead.

He had no answer to that. Trever was dead, just like everyone else he'd ever cared about. That was where standing up to the Empire landed you. If Div hadn't wised up, he'd be in an Imperial cell right then. And the Imperials didn't give you mattresses or hot food or showers. They gave you interrogation droids and firing squads.

Div also told himself that he had good reasons for refusing to answer Luke's questions.

Divulging information about an employer—no matter how little he had—was bad for business. But a small buried part of him knew that that cold, dangerous man had been an Imperial. And that if Div helped the Rebels track him down, there would be no mercy.

Trever would want me to survive, Div thought. No matter what it took.

He wasn't sure it was true. But Trever wasn't around to argue.

Div sat up. He'd heard something.

No, that wasn't quite right. He'd felt something. It was a not-quite-right feeling, like an icy puff of air against the back of his neck. Trusting his instincts, he leapt to his feet. As a child, he'd had a fine-tuned radar for impending danger. His Jedi teachers, Ry-Gaul and Garen Muln, had shown him how to detect disturbances in the Force, tiny fluctuations that meant darkness was near. Those skills were gone now, along with Ry-Gaul and Garen Muln, along with the boy he'd been, the one everyone thought could become a Jedi. But he still knew when it was time to run. Not that he could run, not through a locked durasteel door. But he jumped to his feet, assuming a fighting stance. When trouble showed its face, he would be ready.

But there were some things you couldn't fight.

A thick yellow gas wafted into the cell from beneath the door. Div pressed his shirt over his nose and mouth, taking quick, shallow breaths. The room filled with the gas.

There was nowhere to hide and nothing he could do but inhale the foul, acrid smoke.

A fog swept across his brain, making him woozy. Stay alert, he ordered himself, wobbling on his feet. Red spots swam in front of his eyes. His limbs grew heavy, and his head lolled on his shoulders. Must…not…breathe, he thought, leaning against the wall, fighting to stay upright. But as the gas burned his throat and lungs, his legs gave out beneath him. He slid to the floor, helpless.

An explosion shook the cell, and the door blew inward.

Fight, Div told himself. Two masked men stepped into the cell. Run. Escape.

But the fog filling