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“Of course. To explain: we Ruurians go through three separate forms after leaving the egg. There is the larva, that which you see before you; the cycle of the chrysalis, in which we undergo changes while in pupa form; and the endlife stage, in which we become chroma-wing fliers and ensure the survival of our species. The pupae are rather helpless, you’ll understand, and the chroma-wings are, um, preoccupied, caring only for flight, mating, and egg-laying.”

“There better be no cocoons or eggs on this ship,” Han warned darkly.

“He promises,” Badure said impatiently. “Now will you listen?”

Skynx resumed. “All that leaves for us larval-stage Ruurians is to protect the pupae and ensure that the simple-minded chroma-wings don’t get into trouble—and to run our planet. We are very busy, right from birth.”

“What’s that got to do with a nice larva like you raising ship for lost treasure?” Han asked.

“I studied the histories of your own scattered species, and I came to be fascinated with this concept, adventure,” Skynx confessed as if unburdening himself of some dark perversity. “Of all the races who gamble their well-being on uncertain returns—and there aren’t that many, statistically—the trait’s most noticeable in humans, one of the most successful life forms.”

Skynx tried to frame his next words carefully. “The stories, the legends, the songs, and holo-thrillers held such appeal. Once, before I spin my chrysalis, to sleep deeply and emerge a chroma-wing who will no longer be Skynx, I wish to cast aside good sense and try a human-style adventure.” Saying the last, he sounded happy.

There was a silence. “Play him the song you played for me, Skynx,” Badure finally invited. In the upholstered nook he had occupied for most of the trip, Skynx had set up his species’ version of a storage apparatus, a treelike framework used in lieu of boxes or bags. From its various branches hung Skynx’s personal possessions and items he wished to have close to him. Each artifact was an enigma, but among them was apparently at least one musical instrument.

Han had heard enough nonhuman music to want to forgo listening. Though he might be passing up decent entertainment, he might also be avoiding sounds resembling somebody’s unoiled groundcoach. He changed the subject hurriedly.

“Why don’t you show us what’s in the crates instead?” Han looked around. “Where’s Hasti? She should be in on this.”

“We’ll be making planetfall soon, and she has preparations to make,” Badure said. “Skynx, show him those remains; they should interest him.”

Skynx rose, shook out his amber coat to fluff it, and flowed smoothly out of his nook. Hoping that “remains” didn’t refer to the sort of unappetizing objects he had seen in museums, Han stepped up to the crates with a power prybar. At Skynx’s direction, he opened a container and whistled softly in astonishment. “Badure, give me a hand getting this thing out of the crate, will you?” Between them they strained and lifted out the object, setting it on the gameboard.

It was an automaton’s head. More correctly, it was the cranial turret of some robot out of ancient history. Its optical lenses were darkened by long radiation exposure. It was armored like a dreadnought with a coarse, heavy gray alloy Han didn’t recognize. The assorted insignia and tech markings engraved into its surface were still visible and readable. Han expected the speaker grille to spew a challenge.

“It’s a war-robot. Xim the Despot built a brigade of them to serve as his absolutely faithful royal guard,” Skynx explained. “They were, at that time, the most formidable human-form fighting machines in the galaxy. This one’s remains were recovered from the floating ruins of Xim’s orbital fortress, possibly the only one that wasn’t vaporized in the Third Battle of Vontor, Xim’s final defeat. There are more pieces in those other crates. There were at least a thousand just like this one traveling onboard the Queen of Ranroon and guarding Xim’s treasure when the ship vanished.”

Han opened another crate. It contained a huge chestplate; Han knew he