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“Executor,” the subaltern’s facsimile began, “a group of your agents—those enlisted in the Peace Brigade—have apparently taken it upon themselves to return something seemingly lost to us.”

Nom Anor’s eyes grew wide. “Not Elan,” he said in false hope.

“She, Executor.”

“What?” Harrar said in alarm. “What’s this?”

“How is this possible?” Nom Anor asked. “The Peace Brigade was never made aware of Elan’s feigned defection. What’s more, you yourself informed me that the Peace Brigade was occupied in Hutt space.”

“As they were, Executor—at least until they learned of Elan’s defection and capture.”

Nom Anor’s face contorted in mortification. “From whom?”

“I have not been able to ascertain.”

“This is ludicrous,” Harrar shouted. “How do they plan to retrieve her?”

“Apparently they have been apprised of the means by which she is to be relocated to Coruscant.”

Nom Anor’s villip mirrored his rancorous expression. “Impossible. Even I had difficulty sorting through the New Republic’s subterfuges. Even within the Intelligence division the route is a closely guarded secret.”

“I know only that the Peace Brigade is planning to move against a passenger ship bound for Bilbringi,” the subaltern said. “They have persuaded at least one of their immediate controllers to assist them. And they have a dovin basal in their possession.”

“We must see to it that they are prevented from interfering.” Harrar became angrier as he spoke. “At any cost.”

Nom Anor induced his own villip to return to normal and dismissed the herald. Commanders Tla and Malik Carr were watching him and the priest closely.

“Is anything wrong, Executor?” Malik Carr asked at last, raising a faint eyebrow.

Nom Anor traded quick glances with Harrar. “A possible setback involving our operative,” he conceded. Regaining control of his indignation, he gestured negatively and fixed his gaze on Malik Carr. “Nothing we can’t handle. Though I may have need of your swiftest frigate, Commander.”

“We’re husband and wife,” Showolter told the Askajian officer stationed at the most forward of the Queen of Empire’s starboard boarding gates. The starliner was in stationary orbit above the planet Vortex. “Recently displaced from Sernpidal.”

“Where the moon came down?” the officer asked.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What was it you folks called that moon? I remember hearing on the newsnet …”

“Tosi-karu.”

“That was it.” The stout near-human regarded Vergere. “Is … he with you?”

“She,” Showolter amended. “Our servant.”

The boarding officer nodded uncertainly, then returned the identity documents and tickets Showolter had provided. “Your stateroom is located on deck twenty-four, berthing space twelve. Welcome aboard, and safe journey.”

Showolter took Elan’s hand and led her and Vergere to the nearest bank of interdeck transfer tubes—broad cylinders that functioned like turbolifts, but without cars. Buoyed by repulsorlift fields, riders could ascend or descend as necessary, in lift tubes or drop shafts respectively.

The Queen was just waking from relative night, and clamorous throngs of refugees were lined up at the species-specific refreshers or searching for food. Droids rushed about performing tasks that were assumed to be beneath the dignity of living beings.

Despite the ease of the trip from Myrkr to Vortex and the smooth boarding, Showolter remained alert for signs that they were being watched or followed—by inplace NRI operatives or by unknowns. Vergere drew a few curious looks, but most folks were too preoccupied guarding their claims to deck space to take much interest in her. Still, Showolter knew that he wouldn’t relax until his backup agents made contact.

The stateroom was more spacious than he had expected, with a sitting area of couch, table, and chairs, and four pull-down beds. Ushering the two defectors inside, Showolter checked the passageway before securing the door.

“Home sweet home,” he said. “Until tomorrow, at least.”

“What happens then?” Elan asked as she sat down on one of the platform beds.

“I’ll tell you when the time