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“But Master Lando, if we disable the hyperdrive, we would be stranded,” Threepio protested.

“We don’t know how long the vagabond stays in hyperspace—weeks, months, years. The galaxy is one hundred twenty thousand light-years across. I like our chances better stranded.”

“Master Lando, would it not be more prudent to find the masters of this vessel and petition them to take us back to Coruscant?”

“Threepio, I think we’re the masters of this vessel now,” Lando said. “We have to be, if we’re going to survive.” He ticked off the priorities on his fingers. “First, we find some way to stop this ship. Second, we find out where that leaves us. Third, we find out who our nearest friend is. Fourth, we find some way to signal them. If we get that all done before Lobot and I run out of air and the droids run out of power, then we can worry about who built the vagabond, and why.”

“We may need to engage those questions in order to achieve those objectives,” said Lobot.

“Maybe,” said Lando. “But in my experience, you really don’t need to know much about a precision machine in order to smash it.” He pointed a finger to the left, then to the right. “What’s your best guess—hyperdrive aft, or forward?”

“Center of mass is the most efficient placement,” Lobot said. “Forward.”

Lando nodded. “Then let’s get going.”

Colonel Pakkpekatt hovered near the communications station as the cruiser Glorious dropped out of hyperspace. The chase armada was strung out along forty light-years, and Glorious was the second bead on the string. “Give them to me as fast as they come,” he said to the tech at the station.

“Yes, sir. I’m seeing six dispatches—an emergency action directive from the Fleet Office, copied to Captain Garch. A blue letter from the NRI, copied to Captain Hammax. A dispatch marked ‘Urgent’ from the Obroan Institute. Reports from Lightning, Pran, and Nagwa.”

“The three ships behind us,” said Pakkpekatt. “Very well. Make the dispatches available at my station.”

Crossing the bridge with long, light-footed strides, Pakkpekatt eased himself into his flak couch and brought up the secure display. Neither his face nor his carriage betrayed any emotion as he read through the dispatches one after another. When he was finished, he tipped the screen away and let out a long hiss.

“Major Legorburu.”

Ixidro Legorburu, the M’haeli intelligence officer who was serving as Pakkpekatt’s tactical aide, hurried to his station in response to the summons. “Colonel.”

“We have just received a Fleet-wide level one alert,” Pakkpekatt said, tipping his display upward so that the major could read the emergency action directive. “My request for additional ships for the search has been denied. I am under orders to release Marauder, Pran, and Nagwa from their duties here so that they may return to their respective commands at best possible speed.”

“That’s nearly half our remaining strength, sir,” Legorburu said, shaking his head. “What do they expect us to do?”

“Fail, apparently,” Pakkpekatt said curtly. “I have also been placed on notice that Glorious may be recalled as well. We are to remain on one-hour alert status, which means no jumps greater than one half light-year.”

“At least that allows us to proceed with the search,” said Legorburu. “But we should call Kettemoor forward to fill the gap in the line when Marauder pulls out. She should be finished with recovery work by now, anyway.”

“Kettemoor has already jumped to Nichen with the dead and injured from the Kauri,” said Pakkpekatt. “We will not have her back for another day at least—if they allow her to rejoin us at all.”

Legorburu peered intently at the display. “I don’t get it, Colonel. Why the sudden change of priorities? What’s happening back there? It must be something big if they can’t spare a thirty-year-old gunship and a couple of interdiction pickets.”

“That information was not made available to me,” said Pakkpekatt. His mouth curled in an unhappy threat-snarl.

“Maybe I can