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“You’re Ni’Korish,” the man said simply, as if that explained all.

And in a way, it did. With war on the horizon and an ailing queen mother on the throne, Hapes was a hive of political intrigue. The anti-Jedi movement was as good a rallying point as any for an ambitious woman on her path to power, and Hapes had no shortage of such women. Crimpler wondered, briefly, which one of them owned this particular pawn.

His curiosity was short-lived, and so was the guard. Crimpler tossed the man’s body aside and patted it down. The promised codes were there, and several knives and a small stun baton had been tucked into his boots and sleeves.

Crimpler quickly passed out the weapons and then squinted at the barred transparisteel window placed high on the wall of their cell.

“This one was an idiot, but someone’s planning is right on the money,” he mused. “It’s nearly time for the evening meal. Most of the guards should be doing rounds. Let’s go.”

He stepped over the body and sent a glance up and down the hall. The three men hurried down the quiet corridor. As they came to a turn, the laughter of a pair of approaching guards gave sudden warning. They flattened themselves against a wall and waited for the moment to strike.

Crimpler leapt out to meet the guards, both feet snapping out high and slamming into the men’s throats. He kicked off, bending his body back and landing lightly on his hands. A quick push changed his momentum into a graceful back flip. He landed on his feet, bounced once, and then charged forward.

But the guards were down, silenced by the first attack and finished by the other pirates, who put to good use the knives the Ni’Korish traitor had thoughtfully left them.

The two pirates quickly stripped off the guards’ uniforms and donned them. Crimpler walked between them, playing the role of prisoner as they hurried to the guard house.

Six guards sat around a sabacc table. With a quick kick, Crimpler upended the table and pinned down three of them. The rest of the battle went nearly as quickly. Stepping over bodies, the pirates made their way out to the landing.

“Three ships,” one of the men muttered. “Seems to me this is a bit too neat and tidy.”

The same thing had occurred to Crimpler, but there was no turning back. “Save it for your memoirs. Go!”

The men scrambled to the ships. Crimpler hoisted himself into a battered E-wing and began to power up. But his movements felt oddly slowed, as if he were moving through water, or caught in the throes of a nightmare.

With growing dread, he watched the other pirates take off, unopposed. His own fingers had stopped as if they’d been stuck to the controls with the Yuuzhan Vong’s blorash jelly.

The E-wing hatch opened, and Crimpler stared into the face of a lean, green-eyed man.

“This the one you wanted?” the man asked someone beyond Crimpler’s limited field of vision.

Small fingers probed his neck, and found the tiny lump where the Yuuzhan Vong had placed the bit of coral—the thing that marked him like a prize bantha and identified him as a trusted collaborator.

“He’ll do.”

The voice was young and female, and Crimpler caught a glimpse of a pretty face with large brandy-brown eyes peering out from under a fringe of shiny brown hair. There was nothing in that face, those eyes, to explain the shiver of dread that passed through Crimpler’s immobile body.

Then the pain came, and darkness began to squeeze at his mind like a huge and pitiless fist.

His reaction, oddly enough, was one of relief. At least this time, his instincts had not betrayed him! The girl was trouble, that was plain enough. Crimpler could still size up an opponent with the best of them. He savored that thought, and took it into the darkness with him.

Ta’a Chume dropped the report into a carafe of deep purple wine and watched as the delicate flimsiplast dissolved into a sodden mess. It was unlikely that anyone could decipher the message, which was written as if from an admirer, styled into a highly formalized poem filled with high-flown language and elaborate code.

To the former queen,