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“I understand,” Corran said stiffly.

Anakin did, too. It was a polite threat. Try to escape—suck vacuum. That was an equation it didn’t take a Givin to understand.

“That is well,” the dodecian replied.

Anakin caught something, then, from the dodecian, something so tangible it almost formed words. If it were put into words, it would go something like, We have Jedi to bargain with. That also is a factor.

THIRTY-FIVE

Though his mind and mood sped through an astonishing array of transmogrifications, the perfect-grutchin idea somehow remained fixed firmly in the faltering brain of Master Kae Kwaad. Nen Yim and all of her apprentices were pulled even from standard maintenance and set to the task of weeding through grutchin germ plasm in search of “perfect” structures, incubating larvae and discarding those that displayed any slight deviation of form or color that Kae Kwaad detected. During this time, the master became ever more offensive, at one point demanding that Nen Yim work in a state of complete undress. At another, he forced Suung to get down on hands and knees and act as his stool, a task fit only for a slave.

Nen Yim considered the inventory of toxins that one might accidentally ingest or accidents that might befall one in the business of shaping. Her plans began to form themselves.

Ona Shai gripped her hands into fists behind her back and shot Nen Yim a deep glare.

“The capillaries of the maw luur are belching half-digested wastes in the Toohi sector,” the prefect complained. “Many Shamed Ones have sickened from the fumes and cannot perform their tasks to full efficiency. A few have died.”

“That is regrettable,” Nen Yim replied. “However, I am uncertain why you discuss it with me.”

“Because your master will not admit me or speak to me via villip,” the prefect snarled.

“I am his adept. I can do nothing without his leave.”

“When you were the head shaper, things got done,” Ona Shai said. “Since this master has arrived, conditions have only gotten worse.”

“If I agreed with that, I wouldn’t be at liberty to say so,” Nen Yim told her.

“I don’t ask you to gossip with me as if we were a pair of slaves,” the prefect snapped. “I’m asking you to intercede, to place my words in the master’s ear. To release you, at least—or even Suung Aruh—to tend to this problem with the maw luur.”

“I will certainly mention your concern.”

Ona Shai nodded tersely and turned her back on Nen Yim. She could see the ridged muscles of the prefect’s back, as tight as the tendon-rigging of a landing sail. She also noticed that she had recently sacrificed three fingers to the gods.

“This ship must last another year, at least, Adept. If it does, some of our habitants may survive to be offloaded onto a new worldship.”

“I will speak to the master,” Nen Yim replied. “I can do no more.”

Ona Shai dropped her head. “Disgraced we may be, Nen Yim,” she murmured. “But the gods cannot intend for us to die out here, so near the glory of conquest, able to see our new worlds but not to ever touch them. Death is nothing, but the ignominy …”

“I shall speak to him,” Nen Yim repeated.

Her path back to the shapers’ quarters was a crowded one. The Toohi sector was not the only dispossessed part of the ship; the Phuur arm had become unlivably cold toward the tip. With nowhere else to go, Shamed Ones and slave refugees crowded the halls. Their rustle of conversation quieted where she passed, but behind her it began again, with an angrier note to it. Once or twice, she was certain she heard the word Jeedai, and felt a quiver run along her spine.

Tsavong Lah had killed nearly every slave and Shamed One who had been at Yavin 4, yet still somehow the legend of the Jeedai had spread even here.

Was this yet another thing she would take the blame for?

She found Kae Kwaad where she often did, clucking over the grutchin larvae, his useless hands drawn up onto his knees. He did not even glance at Nen Yim as she entered.

“I’ve spoken to the prefect,” she said. “Ona Shai