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There was no reply. Of course there wasn’t. There was no Survivor Cell Thirty-Eight. There was no Target Zone A-Nineteen. No one was monitoring this comm frequency.

“Sensors show frigate analog incoming,” YVH 1-1A said.

“Shields up. Commence firing.” Lando plotted a course revision that would carry them away from the other Yuuzhan Vong command ships in the area, a course that would, in theory, get them to the vicinity of the edge of Coruscant’s atmosphere. He ran the numbers and winced. The incoming frigate would be on them before they could get into position. Record Time was going to soak up some damage.

He keyed the comm unit again. “Survivor Cell Thirty-Eight, this is Rescue Two. Why don’t you answer? Why don’t you answer?” He clicked it off and grinned at 1-1A. “What did you think of that?”

One-One-A began firing, meticulous shots with the ship’s turbolasers at too great a distance to be effective. “Stress analysis of your transmitted words suggests high emotional content. From a search-and-rescue perspective, you sound like an emotional civilian.”

“Good. How about the repetition? Too clichéd, or did it work for you?”

“That is outside the scope of my programming.” One-One-A continued firing. “The frigate is launching coralskippers. I have destroyed one.”

“I suggest you destroy a second one.”

“I have destroyed a second one.”

“I suggest you destroy a third one.”

“If I may ask, are you managing a subordinate, or taunting me?”

“I’m taunting you, One-One-A. All in the spirit of fun.”

“I have destroyed a third one.”

“I suggest—”

“I have destroyed a fourth one.”

Luke waited in the darkness of the cargo hold.

Strapped to his feet was the descent unit the Wraiths had given him. Its bottom was attached with adhesive to his descent pod, a portion of a coralskipper reshaped into an oblong spheroid by creative application of duracrete and paint. Its hatch was dogged shut.

He wore a set of Yuuzhan Vong–styled armor—not one of the true vonduun crab sets, one of the artful simulations. He’d suspected that it might not be appropriate for a man with a mechanical hand and an all-too-useful lightsaber to make use of one of the authentic sets; he suspected he’d have to shed any Yuuzhan Vong disguise too often and too quickly.

Over the Yuuzhan Vong armor, he wore an environment suit, a big, bulky, ancient one no one would miss when he had to shred it upon landing.

He reached out to Mara, felt her in the Force, felt her living presence. She reached back, an absent gesture; he knew her mind had to be elsewhere, on their mission, on their child.

Lando’s voice came over his helmet speakers. “We’re getting into range.” The ship, and everything in the cargo area, shuddered. “Sorry about that. Little bit of plasma goo.” His voice was replaced by 1-1A’s for a moment: “I have destroyed a sixth one.” Then Lando was back: “Knock off the running tally, would you? Um, we’ll go into a lateral maneuver in just a minute and punch you out. If you find yourselves in vacuum before then, just go on without me.”

“I have destroyed a seventh one.”

“I told you—”

“I am teaching myself to taunt you.”

Lando pulled a pilot’s helmet on. His fancy tunic and cloak concealed a far more ordinary pilot’s jumpsuit, and he checked its connections to make sure it was ready to seal him off in case of pressure loss. A piece of plasma had already burned its way through the transparisteel of the forward viewport, and air was hissing out through it.

The Record Time shook every few seconds now. Its tail section was taking the brunt of the damage—plasma cannon fire, barely reduced by the failing shields, from both pursuing coralskippers and the trailing frigate analog—while the forward section was suffering from hit after hit launched by a single coralskipper.

But they were almost in position. Lando keyed his helmet microphone. “Coming up on launch zone in fifteen seconds. There’s not going to be a countdown. When we’re there, I’m going to punch you out.”

“Force be with you, Lando.”

“Luck be with you, Luke.” Lando switched off the comlink and returned