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The admiral had checked and rechecked the codes, thinking there had to be some mistake. But they all checked out. This message came from the very highest echelons of Imperial Intelligence. Excomm was the branch of Imperial security that was answerable only to the Emperor himself, or to his top-ranking aide, Lord Vader.

Greelanx had never received such a message before in his career—and he had served over thirty years in the Navy.

He had memorized the message, and that was easy, for it had been short. The message had read:

Admiral Winstel Greelanx, eyes only, destroy after reading. Regarding Nar Shaddaa/Nal Hutta engagement.

You are advised for the good of your Empire to engage the enemy and suffer a strategic defeat. Minimize Imperial losses, and withdraw in good order.

Repeat: you are to LOSE, Admiral. Do not attempt to confirm these orders. Do not discuss them with anyone. If you fail to comply, no excuses will be accepted.

Do NOT fail.

What did it all mean? Greelanx wondered. Someone very high up wanted Sarn Shild’s foray against the Hutts to fail. Who? And why?

Greelanx was not a particularly imaginative or intelligent man, but he was smart enough to realize that if he told Sarn Shild about those orders, he would sound like a madman. He had no proof that he had received them. The encoded message had been “time-sensitive”—impossible to copy, except manually, and designed to vanish within minutes after being downloaded.

And then had come the Hutt bribe. What a supreme irony, under the circumstances! A chance to increase his retirement nest egg by a thousandfold or more. Even if he hadn’t gotten those secret orders, Greelanx would have found the Hutt offer difficult to reject.

Could the two things be related somehow? he wondered. Or was it just an incredible coincidence?

Greelanx had no way to tell.

The admiral was edgy and nervous about the entire venture. Schemes ran through his head, only to be discarded as too risky. Should he try to contact the High Command? Tell the Moff? Take the Imperial Destiny to some remote location, then abscond in an Imperial shuttle?

That last option seemed the most likely to ensure his continued existence. He could go to the Corporate Sector, perhaps. Somewhere far, far away.

But if he did that, Greelanx had soon realized, his family would pay for his escape. His son and daughter, his wife. Perhaps even his two mistresses.

Greelanx was not particularly fond of his wife, but he wished her no harm. And he loved his children, who were grown and married. He had a grandchild on the way.

No, the admiral decided, he could not risk them. If he’d kept the flimsy and showed it to the Moff, Greelanx knew that he’d have signed his and their death warrants. The Imperial security forces were swift and ruthless. Greelanx and his family could run to the ends of the universe, and the storm troopers would still hunt them down.

All he could do was obey, and hope for the best.

As he stood on the bridge of his ship, Admiral Winstel Greelanx thought of the young smuggler who had brought the Hutt offer. An offer he hadn’t been able to refuse. Had the young man sensed there was more going on than Greelanx was telling?

He’d seemed like an intelligent young fellow. Greelanx would have been willing to bet he’d worn an Imperial uniform before. Why had he left the service to become an outlaw?

The admiral hated to think that young smuggler might be one of the sentients he’d have to kill in order to make his attack on Nar Shaddaa appear legitimate.

Greelanx watched the star trails, thinking … and worrying. How did I get myself into this? he wondered. And how in the name of all that’s sacred do I get myself out of it?

Durga the Hutt was working in his office when a servitor droid rolled rapidly in. “Sir! Sir! The Lord Aruk has been taken ill! Please come!”

The young Hutt Lord abandoned his datapad and wriggled quickly after the droid, down endless corridors in the huge Besadii enclave. He found his parent lying limp, eyes rolled back in his head, sprawled across his