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It was an odd question, one Dengar had never been asked before. There was a time in his life when he would have said yes. But the Empire had cut away part of his brain, the part that let him distinguish good from evil, and he wondered … He reached up, unconsciously pulling the wraps up above his neck—not to hide the scars from his burns, but to make sure that his cybernetic links were covered. “Ma’am, how could I be a good man? I’m not even sure if I’m a man anymore.”

Dengar crested the hill, hit the next valley, turned off the road toward a stand of trees. His own ship was secreted ahead, up through the brush. He’d known he’d have to evacuate quickly.

He’d planned to just drop this woman off in the brush. To do anything more would be inconvenient. But his ship—an old Corellian JumpMaster 5000—did have some extra space. He could drop her off somewhere, if it was worth the effort.

He pulled up behind a screen of trees. His ship, Punishing One, sat in the dark under the limbs, sheltered by a camouflage net. The JumpMaster had been built as a scouting and service vehicle for untamed worlds. It was small—designed for a single pilot, with enough room for a passenger or a bit of freight. The U-shaped vessel had some decent weaponry—proton torpedoes, a quad blaster, and a mini ion cannon. Dengar had been flying it for ten years. For a long time he had imagined that he was used to being alone, and he often defended his solitary tendencies by claiming to himself that he was not fit company anyway. But right now he ached, and he realized that he would appreciate company.

“Let’s go,” Dengar said. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where?” she asked, looking for his ship, unable to spot it in the dark.

“Anywhere but here. We’ll figure it out later.”

He grabbed her wrist, hurried to the Punishing One. He didn’t bother ripping off the camouflage netting. Instead he dodged under it, opened a door, pulled the girl in with him. In a moment, he was at the controls. He had to break free of this planet’s gravity well with-getting shot down. He hoped that no one knew of the assassination yet.

He fired his engines, screamed low over the trees, building speed. He checked the heads-up holo display. A single Star Destroyer sat in orbit, and he could see it up ahead over the horizon on his left. He accelerated away from it at full speed, ordered his navicomputer to set a course for his first jump.

“Better get back to the stateroom and buckle in,” Dengar said over his shoulder. “We could be in for a rough ride.”

The Star Destroyer sent a squadron of TIE interceptors scrambling after him, and Dengar raised his rear deflectors. But the Punishing One had more speed than outside appearances could account for, and he accelerated into the blue-white depths of hyperspace just as the TIE interceptors broke into firing range.

Then they were soaring free. Dengar went to the stateroom, found Manaroo on her knees, slumped halfway into her bunk. She was weeping.

Dengar stood watching her, testing himself for feeling, trying to remember why people cried. “There’s food and drink if you want them.” He waved toward the food unit and beverage dispenser.

“Can we call my parents? Tell them where I’ve gone?”

“Yes,” Dengar said.

He stood for a minute, thinking he should say more.

“Dengar,” she said, looking up at him curiously. Her face was round, and in the lights he saw that her skin and hair were a paler blue than most Aruzans’. Her tattoos still glittered, and she was lightly perfumed. Her body was a dancer’s body, lithe and strong. “Why did you kill Kritkeen tonight? If the Empire will keep on destroying our people, then what does this avail? It changes nothing.”

Dengar could think of a dozen reasons: He did it for the money he’d been paid. He did it because Kritkeen was scum who deserved to die. He did it because the man looked like Han Solo. He chose to tell part of the truth, perhaps because he was so seldom free to do so. In his line of