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“I take that to mean no,” Jacen said dryly.

“What he means is,” Han explained, “it would take a long time—a very long time—and probably get us nowhere. Meanwhile, we’d be there instead of here, where we can actually stop the ships. If Shesh is behind this, we’ll hurt her more out here than on Coruscant.”

“The old man has it right,” Karrde said. “The tracks my slicer found are faint to begin with. They could be easily erased.”

“But we might find proof,” Jacen argued. “Real proof.”

“Maybe,” Han said. “Maybe at berths fifteen through eighteen.”

“Are we going to hit them?” Shada asked.

“Hit them? No. They’ll be easier pickings in space.”

“Shouldn’t we at least check them out?” Jacen said.

Shada nodded. “I’ll have look.”

Jacen straightened. “Mind if I tag along?”

“I do,” Han said. “Or didn’t you get that part about the bounty on your head?”

“Jealous, Solo?” Karrde asked Han.

“How’s that?”

“Well, your son is pulling down easily three times what you were ever worth.”

“Inflation. In Imperial credits it works out about the same. And don’t distract me—Jacen goes back to the Falcon.”

“Oh, no. You aren’t my captain on the ground, Dad.”

“Where did you pick up that nonsense?” Han growled.

“You wanted me to help with this business—I’m helping. If Shada will have me, I’m going with her.”

“A lady never minds the escort of a handsome gentleman. Especially one with Jedi powers.”

Han threw up his hands. “Fine. I give up. But you can make that two handsome escorts, because I’m not letting my son out of my sight. I know this slagheap too well.”

Karrde’s eyes narrowed, suddenly, and he drew his blaster. “This is, for the moment, an academic conversation, my friends.”

“Why?” Jacen asked.

His answer came as blasterfire.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Nom Anor, alone in his sleeping chamber, prodded the gablith masquer that gave him the appearance of a Givin, and it peeled off. A little more reluctantly, he coaxed the communication gnullith-villip hybrid from his throat. The sleeping quarters were always pressurized, no matter what, so he ought to be safe. Even Givin could not stand exposure to hard vacuum indefinitely.

Posing as a Givin had more unique challenges than any role he had assumed before, their language not the least. When speaking to one another, they expressed themselves in phrases that more resembled calculus than grammar, though of course the two had much in common. Even with the tizowyrm to translate for him, Nom Anor still often tripped on the language. For that reason alone, many of the Givin knew who and what he really was—it was only with the help of his local agents that he managed to remain disguised to the rest.

This he disliked. Long experience had taught him that Nom Anor could count only on Nom Anor. And if he were discovered by the wrong people …

He put the gnullith-villip back on. Why take chances?

Noting the time on the ridiculously complex Givin chronometer, he withdrew the box that housed his villip and prepared to stroke it to life. He found it already pulsing for attention, and in a few moments he regarded a facsimile of Commander Qurang Lah’s face.

“The Stalking Moon is in this system?” Nom Anor asked the warrior.

Qurang Lah’s features twisted into a glare.

“Your perfect plan develops clots of blood,” he growled.

“You mean the Rodian Jedi?” Nom Anor asked. “Our agents on Eriadu have dealt with him.”

“Yes? And the infidel ship that jumped into the midst of my fleet?”

Nom Anor didn’t blink. He couldn’t. It had rapidly become clear, working with Qurang Lah, that the warrior harbored a deep resentment toward him. This was not unexpected, but it was not trivial, either. Nom Anor had no warriors loyal to him; he had to rely on Qurang Lah to place his fleet and troops when the time came. There would come a moment when Nom Anor was truly vulnerable, and at that moment, Qurang Lah might hold the key to his survival.

That, to Nom Anor’s mind, was the only flaw in his plan, whatever trouble Qurang Lah thought he foresaw.

“Your fleet is on a major shipping route,” the executor