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He sat cross-legged on a console and took out Nen Yim’s qahsa, searching through it for the data on the Sekotan ship. There was a long entry on the engine moorings, the analog of which was certainly what he was looking for.

The ship had been grown around a sort of neural net. The hyperdrive was probably connected to something similar. So where would that be?

He suspected he had a long search ahead of him.

Halfway back to the camp, Corran heard a rustling in the underbrush and saw Tahiri, moving at a fast trot. She had her lightsaber in her hand, and he could sense her anger like a torch in the high wind.

“Tahiri,” he called.

She whirled at the sound of her name. Her eyes looked wild.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Nen Yim is dead,” she said, her voice as heavy and flat as a sheet of duracrete. “The Prophet killed her.”

“The Prophet?” Harrar asked. “Are you certain?”

She turned on Harrar almost as if she meant to attack him. “She told me so herself, before she died,” she snapped. “She’d just made some sort of discovery about Sekot, something important. She told me she wanted to be alone and think. She was gone for a long time, so I went looking for her. I found her. He’d done a pretty good job on her head with a rock. But she managed to tell me that he’s planning on killing Sekot.”

“Killing?…” Corran began, then put his hands on her shoulders. “Okay. Slow down. Tell me everything she told you. And start with this discovery of hers.”

He listened carefully as Tahiri went through the story. Telling it again did not seem to calm her down.

“But the Prophet believes this planet is the salvation of his followers,” Corran said. “Why would he want to destroy it?”

“Because he isn’t the Prophet,” Tahiri replied. “He’s Nom Anor.”

“Nom Anor?” Corran and Harrar repeated in unison.

Harrar closed his eyes and ground his knuckles into his forehead. “Nom Anor,” he muttered. “Of course.”

Corran certainly knew who Nom Anor was, and not just by reputation. The executor had very nearly killed him—and Tahiri and Anakin—in the Yag’Dhul system.

“What do you mean, of course?” he asked.

“Don’t you see?” Harrar said. “Nom Anor is the Prophet.”

“I don’t see at all,” Corran replied. “Nom Anor was the agent behind half the Yuuzhan Vong invasions in this galaxy. Why would he be a Prophet of the Shamed Ones?”

“Because he failed too often,” Harrar replied. “After the disaster at Ebaq Nine, Shimrra called for his sacrifice—after which he vanished.”

“And became the Prophet of the Shamed Ones, maybe in a bid to take the throne by revolution,” Tahiri guessed. “What does it matter? We have to find him.”

“No, wait,” Corran said. “Harrar, you acted as if you should have guessed his identity.”

“I didn’t know, if that’s what you mean,” Harrar replied. “But—he did not act like a Shamed One. I could tell he had once been an intendant, and suspected he wore the masquer for fear Nen Yim and I would recognize him from his former life. And he seemed, at times, familiar. I can’t believe he made such a fool of me.”

“He fooled us all,” Corran said. “The question is—why would he want to destroy Sekot?”

“To win back Shimrra’s good graces,” Harrar snarled.

“But he’ll be stuck here, with the rest of us,” Corran said, then immediately felt stupid. “No,” he said. “They’re coming after him, aren’t they?”

“The lump under his arm,” Harrar said. “If that was Nom Anor, it was no disfigurement. It must have been a villip.”

“But Nen Yim released a virus to destroy anything like that,” Tahiri pointed out.

“She did?” Harrar said. “I shouldn’t be surprised. She was resourceful, that one. But if it was sealed in a q’et—a sort of living bag for preserving other organisms—it may have survived.”

“Which means we have to find him fast,” Tahiri said. “So what are we waiting for?”

“For you to calm down, for one thing,” Corran said. “I’m not having an apprentice of mine run into battle in your state.”

“I’m okay,” Tahiri said, defensively.

“No, you’re angry. Remember our deal. Especially the part where you have to do