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It was her choice to make. Her destiny was no more clear to him than it was to her. But whatever that destiny was, it seemed that she was fighting it rather than following it.

And it was certain she would learn nothing from an errant Knight’s well-intentioned but unnecessary rescue—if she would even allow it to happen. Knowing her streak of aristocratic, self-reliant pride, Luke was not at all confident he could count on her to ask for help, even if she needed it—not after the fight they had had the night he left Coruscant.

No, those around her, the others who loved her, would urge Luke to return to her side, no matter what the circumstances. And Leia herself would insist that he stay away, no matter what the circumstances. It was essential that Luke make his own assessment of the situation, that the decision be his alone. And it was better that Luke stay out of sight and out of reach until the decision was made.

Ackbar, especially, would never understand, Luke thought in passing. He’s as devoted to her as a good father to a beloved child—I wonder how clearly she sees it.

Still, he needed more information—information that could only come from Coruscant. He began by retrieving his registered hypercomm messages from the master archive maintained by the Communications Office.

As a hedge against the vagaries of hyperspace transmission, the archive kept a copy of every registered-recipient message sent out over the New Republic system. Undeliverable messages were held until their intended recipients requested an update—something most people did routinely every time they emerged from hyperspace. But save for those few hours while outbound from Teyr, Luke had been off the system since leaving Yavin 4.

The update took nearly twenty minutes to spill into Mud Sloth’s comm bank. As always, there were hundreds of blind messages—love letters and propositions, requests for personal favors, questions from amateur and would-be Jedi, the occasional diatribe from an Imperialist stubbornly resisting the idea that his world had changed.

Luke almost never looked at any of it. The novelty value of blatant proposals had long ago faded, and the one-two punch of praise and begging had worn thin even faster—it was as uncomfortable as being surrounded by a crowd in which everyone wanted to touch him.

The priority queue contained a copy of the message from Streen, which Luke realized he had never viewed and released, and a second message from him time-stamped a day later. But there were no other messages from the twenty or so senders on his priority list—and that was something of a surprise. By and large, he had not announced his hermitage to his friends, so he could only suppose that the word had spread from the few who did know of his self-imposed isolation.

“Show me number one,” said Luke.

Streen’s face appeared. “Master Luke,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I received your latest instructions for Artoo and Threepio. But I regret to say that so far, I’ve been unable to deliver them. Perhaps it slipped your mind that the droids are now with Lando Calrissian? I’ll try to locate them and forward your message to them.”

“Lando,” Luke said, shaking his head in surprise. “What would the droids be doing with him? Show me number two.”

Streen’s face shifted to the right, and his caftan changed from goldenrod to rust. “Master Luke,” he said, bowing his head once more. “I’ve tried to contact Lando Calrissian by every means available to me, without any success. I not only can’t get a message through, I can’t find anyone who’ll admit to knowing where he or the droids are. It’s possible that they’re simply in hyperspace somewhere, but I’m guessing that there’s more to this, and you probably know more about it than I do. I’m afraid you’d better see to this on your own.”

The combination of the two messages left Luke mystified, but he did not devote much time or energy to penetrating the mystery. Apparently Lando had absconded with the two droids, probably in furtherance of some scheme—any deeper understanding would have to wait. The droids