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She realized now why Ta’a Chume had not been nudging her toward the throne of Hapes. She had found another young woman who suited her purposes even better.

The guards parted to allow Jag access to the ship. He walked up to the ramp, a simple incline similar in design to that of most frigate-class ships. But there all similarity ended. The alien vessel looked more like an asteroid than like any ship he’d ever seen. He placed a tentative hand on the hull. The surface was as rough and irregular as the coral reefs in the oceans on Rhigar 3, the near-tropical blue moon that circled the Syndic Mitth’raw’nuruodo training academy.

Jag couldn’t imagine how the Yuuzhan Vong had coaxed a colony of tiny creatures into forming a space-going vessel. It was said that these ships were alive, almost sentient. He cautiously tapped on the hull.

The response was immediate and vehement. Jaina Solo burst into view, her pretty face dark with frustration. She stopped short when she saw him, and stood framed in the open portal, her hands braced against the sides.

For a moment all Jag could do was stare. She was liberally daubed with pale green gel, and several wisps of hair stood up in shining spikes.

“I’ve come at a bad time,” he said at last.

“That depends,” she retorted. “If you’re interested in having a shower, you’re in luck. There’s one on this ship and I just figured out how to start it.”

“Ah,” he observed.

Her brown eyes raked over him. “On second thought, the last thing you need is more spit and polish. And when I say ‘spit,’ you have no idea how literally I’m speaking.”

A long-buried emotion stirred, one so unfamiliar that it took him a moment to find a name for it. Chiss, as a rule, did not get angry, and Jag had learned to model his reactions accordingly. “And what is it, precisely, that I do need?”

His cool tone had a paradoxical effect on the young woman. Jaina’s eyes flamed. “You tell me. You’re the one who’s barging in here and interrupting my work.”

“I came to offer you a ship, and a place in the Vanguard Squadron.”

“Thanks,” she said flatly, “but I’ve got a ship. It just needs a few adjustments.”

His eyes skimmed over her, taking in her disheveled appearance. Humor stirred, and his irritation receded. “And how is that going?” he inquired politely.

Her chin came up. “Great. No problems.”

Fierce brown eyes dared him to contradict her. To his surprise, Jag wished he could linger and do precisely that. The prospect of fighting with Jaina Solo was surprisingly intriguing. His squadron, however, would soon be expecting him.

“I should leave you to your work.”

“Fine. Good. You do that.”

She looked as eager for him to leave as Jag was to linger. That stung. He inclined his head in a curt farewell, left at a crisp pace, and didn’t look back.

Only one thing kept Jaina from scraping a handful of goo off herself and hurling it at the retreating pilot: her dignity had suffered enough for one day.

She shrugged and turned back to the ship. Lowbacca stood just inside the door, a broad grin on his ginger-furred face.

“I don’t see what’s so amusing,” she told him coldly.

He had the nerve to chuckle.

On impulse, she reached high and fisted both hands in the long fur on the Wookiee’s head. Dragging his head down to her level, she planted a kiss on his forehead and then plastered herself against him in a quick, hard hug. She backed away, considerably cleaner than she’d been only a moment before.

Lowbacca looked at her with puzzlement. A large gob of gel dripped from his chin and landed on the duracrete floor with an audible splat. He looked down at his goo-matted fur and yelped in outrage.

“Now that,” Jaina told him, “is funny.”

The planet known as Hapes had rotated twice since Harrar’s priestship emerged from darkspace. During that time, the priest’s commander and crew had worked without rest or pause to track the stolen ship.

When finally Khalee Lah came to the priest’s chambers, Harrar suspected, quite correctly, that