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“You understand this much, yet you run from destiny?”

She inclined her head in a bow. A look of surprise flickered over the villip-reflected face, indicating that her gesture of respect had somehow been translated.

“You are right, Warmaster. Nom Anor’s ship is disabled. I can run no farther.”

“What is your position?” he demanded. “Obviously you are wearing the pilot’s hood. Ask the ship.”

“A moment, please.” She put the villip down carefully, then looked at Ganner and mouthed the words, Get Lowbacca.

The big Jedi nodded and sprinted off in search of the Wookiee. A few moments later a big, hairy fist thrust out into the central corridor and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Here goes,” Jaina muttered, and turned back to the villip.

“I can’t get an answer from the ship,” she said, her tone defensive and edged with a bit of a whine. “Is there some way the ship could be traced through the yammosk that controls it?”

“Nom Anor is an independent agent. His ship answers to no yammosk. But sometimes a yammosk can pick up a stranded ship; the dovin basals are strongly inclined to link.”

“This dovin basal is ailing,” Jaina said eagerly. “Linking might keep it alive long enough for me to …”

She let her words trail off. A sneer crossed Tsavong Lah’s reflected face as he read the meaning Jaina intended to portray. Obviously, he thought she was stalling for time, gaining needed repairs in hope of fleeing capture.

“I have sent agents to oversee the sacrifice. No doubt they are in close pursuit. You will be meeting them shortly.”

Before Jaina could respond, the villip shifted back to its formless state.

“What now?” Ganner demanded.

Jaina’s smile was thin and feral. “They’ll come to us.”

The warmaster set aside the offending villip and bellowed an order. A subordinate came at a near run, bearing a second, larger villip.

Tsavong Lah stroked the globe. No response. “Your other hand, Warmaster,” the aide suggested.

He quickly did so, ignoring this latest reminder of how tenuous his new implant was. A villip, duly attuned, did not recognize the touch of his transplanted limb!

The globe shifted to reveal a face similar to his own in shape and expression. The reflected warrior was younger, his flesh taut and clear, but not less scarred. Elaborate black tattoos covered an angular gray face. A small horn protruded from a high, broad forehead.

“Warmaster,” Khalee Lah proclaimed, inclining his head in respect.

“I have found the female,” the warmaster said without preamble. “She has offered to surrender—a ploy, of course, a pitiful attempt to buy time to escape. You will persuade the yammosk aboard the priestship to link with the frigate and accept this additional ship in its communication family.”

“Of course, Warmaster.”

“Inform Harrar that he may contact the Jeedai directly through the Ksstarr’s ship’s villip.”

An expression of surprise crossed the young warrior’s face. “He possesses a commander’s villip?”

“He holds it in trust,” Tsavong Lah corrected. “When the Jeedai sacrifice is completed, he will pass it to you, along with the rank and honors that attend it. See to it that this day comes soon.”

His son inclined his head in a deep bow. “I am honored, Warmaster, but I would do so regardless of reward. My personal advancement is a pale thing compared to the service due our gods.”

The warmaster received this pious speech in silence. “Go, and do.”

Again the young warrior bowed, and the villip quickly inverted. Tsavong Lah’s lip curled as he regarded the villip. “Harrar seems to be failing,” he said softly, “in more ways than one.”

Jaina flew steadily toward Tenel Ka, following the directions Tahiri gave. She did not notice when the villip began to change. Zekk’s soft, grim oath drew her attention back to the living communication sphere.

It depicted a thin, almost aesthetic-looking visage, not quite as garishly scarred as the warmaster’s. An elaborately wound cloth swathed his head.

“Harrar, a priest of Yun-Harla, the Trickster goddess,” the image said curtly. “It will be my