ELEVEN

Han sat in his new quarters holding the model of the Millennium Falcon in his lap, running his thumbs over its silky surface, peering into the dark holes of the cockpit canopy, hefting its substantial weight in his hands. Sure, the workmanship was good, and there was something hypnotic about rubbing your fingers over the spinglass. But he could not imagine where the Squibs were going to sell a billion of these things. The stuff was hardly art—and with the galaxy still struggling to recover from the war against the Yuuzhan Vong, there were only so many people with credits to throw away on kitsch.

Someone was definitely being played here. But was the Colony playing the Squibs, or the Squibs playing the Colony, or both of them playing someone else?

Luke entered from his quarters, his eyes closed and his hands pressed to the iridescent spinglass, using the Force to search for a stress point in the exterior wall of their two-room prison. He did the same thing every hour or so, stopping in a different place and having R2-D2 use his utility arm to scratch a small X in the hard surface.

A few minutes later, they always heard a crew of Killiks scurrying over the same spot, reinforcing the outside of the wall with more spinglass. The barrier had to be close to a meter thick in places, but Han did not suggest that the Xs were a waste of time. If Luke wanted to mess with Saras’s mind, that was his business.

They both knew that Luke could break them out of their prison anytime he wanted—and Han suspected that Raynar knew it, too. Escape would be the easy part. But it would do them no good until they thought of a way to find the Dark Nest, and so Han and Luke were being patient—being patient and thinking hard and doing their best to look very bored.

Han flipped the model of the Falcon over again. There was no shift of weight inside, but that didn’t mean anything. He had known a smuggler once who had molded his entire cargo of contraband explosives into landspeeder dashboards and walked them through Imperial customs with all the proper documentation.

Without opening his eyes, Luke said, “She’s all right, Han.”

“I know she is.” Han put his ear close to the model and shook it, but heard nothing. “I still worry about her. It’s not easy for her to be away from me this long.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Han said. “She has trouble sleeping if my snoring’s not there to drown out the banging in the climate control lines.”

Luke smiled. “Thanks for clearing that up.” He returned to running his hand over the wall. “I’ve been wondering what she sees in you.”

Though Han had not been dwelling on how much he missed Leia, he saw now that he had been thinking of her without realizing it—that he was always thinking of her, half expecting her to be there every time he turned around, imagining her voice in the distance whenever the tunnel-house fell silent, reaching out to her when he rolled over at night. And Luke had known all of that was going on in the back of Han’s mind—just as Han knew that something similar was going on the back of Luke’s.

Han spun around on his stool. “Did you just use a Jedi mind-reading trick on me?”

Luke stopped and looked puzzled. “We can’t really do that, Han.” he said. “Well, most of us can’t.”

Without having to ask, Han knew that Luke had been thinking of Jacen when he added that last bit. “I was afraid of that.”

“Afraid of—” Luke stopped, then shook his head. “I don’t think we’re reading each other’s minds, Han. We haven’t been here long enough to become Joiners.”

“Yeah? Then how come I know what you want for lunch today?”

“I don’t see how Master Skywalker can be hungry already,” C-3PO said from his place in the corner. “He just had breakfast.”

“Threepio’s right,” Luke said. “It’s too early to think about—”

“A nerfburger and hubba crisps,” Han interrupted. “With a lurol smoothie to wash it down.”

Luke furrowed his brow. “You’re right, that does sound good. But I wasn’t thinking about it until you . . . or was I?”

“It wasn’t me,” Han growled. “I hate hubba crisps.”

Luke’s face fell. “Raynar is trying to make Joiners of us.”

“You think so?”

Luke was so upset that he failed to notice the sarcasm in Han’s voice. “The Dark Nest must think the Colony will be able to dominate me and take control the Jedi order.”

“Dominate you, Master Skywalker? Why, that’s a perfectly absurd idea!” C-3PO cocked his head at the look of alarm on Luke’s face. “Isn’t it?”

Instead of answering, Luke went back to searching for stress points. “They’ve just been playing for time, Han. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Han flipped the model over. “And do what?”

“You know what,” Luke said. Find the Dark Nest.

Han remained on his stool. “How, exactly? The bugs know every move we make. The second we step outside our quarters, Saras is going to come running with about a thousand Killiks—and we don’t have any weapons. We’re better off just waiting until Leia and Mara get back.”

Luke frowned. “Are you feeling all right, Han?”

“Fine,” Han said. Actually, he was feeling great, now that he knew how they were going to find the Dark Nest, but he could not tell that to Luke. The walls had ears—well, something did. “Just in no mood to hear any ronto-brained escape plans.”

He rose and went over to the door membrane. It was opaque and bonded shut by some gooey fiber the bugs had spun over the outside, but the spinglass surrounding it was so thin and translucent that Han could see the silhouette of their Saras guard standing watch outside.

He waved an arm to get the guard’s attention. “Hey, open up! I need to talk to you.”

The guard came over to the wall and pressed its orange thorax to the spinglass. A muffled thrum reverberated through the wall.

“Saras says she can hear you through the wall,” C-3PO said, clunking over to translate. “And she is reluctant to open the door, since Master Skywalker was just talking about escaping.”

Han shot an irritated look over his shoulder.

Luke shrugged. “It’s not like they couldn’t figure it out on their own.”

“Yeah, okay.” Han raised the Falcon model up. “Can you get in touch with the Squibs who are buying these?”

“Mooroor oom.” The bug’s rumbling was so softened by the wall that the words seemed mumbled. “Oomoor ooo.”

“She seems to be saying that the Squibs aren’t purchasing the line—they’re handling it on consignment.” C-3PO turned to Han. “I don’t think that’s wise. From what I recall, the Squibs we met on Tatooine weren’t very trustworthy.”

“Ooorr?” Saras demanded. “Ooom?”

“Don’t worry,” Han said, addressing the bug through the wall. “They won’t pull anything on Raynar—”

“OoomoMoom.”

“Right, UnuThul has trading in his blood,” Han said. “Besides, with the idea I’ve got, we’re all going to make so much money the Squibs won’t want to cheat you.”

“I can’t believe this, Han,” Luke said, coming over to the door. “You’re thinking about money at a time like this?”

“Yeah,” Han said. When it came to money, Squibs could do the impossible. But he didn’t say that aloud—he tried not to even think it.

Luke rolled his eyes, and Han scowled at him, hoping he would finally get the message. “Why don’t you go input those code sequences Alema gave you or something?”

The anger that flashed in Luke’s eyes suggested their minds were not all that connected. “That was low, Han, even for you.”

“Sorry—didn’t mean to rattle your cage,” Han said. “Just let me make my deal. I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation here.”

“Fine.” Luke scowled at him, then stepped back shaking his head. “Don’t let me stand in your way.”

“When have I ever?” Han turned back to Saras. “Now, how long will it take you to get in touch with the Squibs?”

The bug drummed something short.

“She wants to know what your idea is,” C-3PO said.

Han shook his head. “No way. I deal directly with the furbags on this.”

“Ooomoor.”

The bug spread its four arms and began to back away from the wall.

“Okay, okay,” Han said. “But if you steal the credit—”

“Han, will you just tell it?” There was a glint in Luke’s eye that suggested he finally realized Han was up to something more useful than having R2-D2 scratch X’s in the spinglass. “You’re getting on my nerves.”

Saras returned to the wall.

“All right—you’re going to love this.” Han held the model of the Falcon up close to the wall. “You’re going to produce a billion of these, right?”

Saras nodded.

“What if I signed some of them?” Han asked. “They’d be worth five times as much, and the publicity would help launch the entire line.”

The bug was silent for a moment, then it clacked its mandibles and pointed at Luke. “Moomor?”

“She’s inquiring whether Master Skywalker would also sign his models,” C-3PO informed them.

“When Sarlaccs fly!” Luke said. “I’m a Jedi Master, not some cheap HoloNet personality.”

“Sure, he’ll sign,” Han said. “If the price is right.”

The bug thrummed something else.

“Oh, dear,” C-3PO said. “This may be a deal killer.”

“Let me decide that,” Han said. “What is it?”

“Saras says you’d have to sign one percent of the production run,” C-3PO said.

“No problem,” Han replied.

“Ten million units, Han?” Luke asked. “That would take you the rest of your life.”

“I said it’s no problem,” Han answered. Even if he were serious about the deal, he knew the Squibs were never going to sell ten million units. “Once we become Saras Joiners, anybody in the nest will be able to sign.”

“Joiners?” Luke cried. “Han, that’s not going—”

“Look, I’m as disgusted by the thought as you are,” Han said. “But it’s going to happen. We might as well take advantage of the situation.”

“Moom!” the bug boomed.

It clacked its mandibles and began to back away from the wall, but Han shook his head and motioned it to the wall again.

“Not so fast, fella,” he said. “I don’t come cheap, you know.”

“Could have fooled me,” Luke muttered.

Saras stopped in the middle of the corridor that ran past their quarters. “Oom morr?”

Han shook his head. “That, I talk about with the Squibs.” He backed away from the wall. “If they’re interested, tell them to come see me.”

The bug gave a noncommittal throb and retreated to the other side of the corridor.

Han returned to his stool, and Luke came and sat on the bunk next to him.

“You really think your autograph is worth that much?” Luke asked.

He held Han’s eye a little longer than was necessary, and Han thought he could sense something more in the question.

“A million credits, at least,” Han said. He passed the Falcon model to Luke, casually flipping it belly-up as he did so. “And your signature would go double that. Maybe triple.”

“Triple?” Luke looked genuinely flattered. “Really?”

“At least,” Han said. He had always been a little too repulsed to ask Jaina and Zekk much about how things had progressed when they started to become Joiners, but just in case Saras was starting to share his mind, too, he tried to keep his thoughts away from what he really intended to ask of the Squibs. “With all the ’Net the Jedi are getting regarding the Reconstruction, you’re going to be as hot as a blue star right now.”

“In that case, maybe I should consider it,” Luke said. He casually flipped the model back over, and Han thought he felt a little jolt of surprise in the back of his mind—or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “But first, I think I’ll take your other advice.”

Han frowned. “My other advice?”

“About the code sequence Alema gave me,” Luke said. “I think it’s time I had a look.”

Now Han knew Luke understood.

“You sure?” Han asked. He was fairly sure that Luke had not used the code sequence because he was afraid of what it might reveal about Mara—it might bolster Alema’s suggestion that Mara was hiding something terrible from him. “I thought you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.”

“I don’t,” Luke said. “That’s why I have to do it now—before we become Joiners.”

Han nodded. He knew what Luke was thinking because he was thinking it, too. It was almost a given that Gorog had spies watching them, and the last thing they wanted was for the Dark Nest to start thinking about what Han really wanted from the Squibs. So Luke was going to keep Gorog occupied by giving it something to gloat over.

Luke passed the model back to Han, then turned to R2-D2. “Artoo, come here.”

R2-D2 gave a sad whistle and started for Luke’s quarters.

“No, Artoo,” Luke said. “Come over here.”

R2-D2 disappeared through the door, quietly tweeting and beeping to himself.

“Artoo!” C-3PO called. “Are you ignoring Master Skywalker?”

R2-D2 gave a one-beep reply.

C-3PO recoiled as though he had been struck, then turned to Luke. “It appears that his compliance routines have failed completely. I’ll go see if I can reset them.”

“That’s okay,” Luke said. “I’ll handle this myself.”

He extended a hand toward his quarters, and an electronic squeal sounded from inside. A moment later, R2-D2 floated back into Han’s quarters, his treads whirring and his utility arm scratching along the wall.

“Artoo-Detoo!” C-3PO said. “This is Master Skywalker’s last request before he becomes a Joiner. The least you can do is honor it.”

R2-D2 shot back a string of whistles and trills.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” C-3PO said. “Of course I’ll recite the override sequence that Jedi Rar provided, if Master Skywalker asks me to. That’s what a protocol droid does. He facilitates.”

R2-D2 let out a long bleat as Luke lowered him the floor between the bunk and Han’s stool.

“Well, you’re certainly not doing him any favors by behaving this way,” C-3PO replied. “And don’t talk to me like that. I’ll trip your primary circuit breaker myself.”

“That’s enough, Threepio,” Luke said. “Just give him the sequence.”

R2-D2 screeched in protest and swung his holoprojector away from Luke, and it seemed to Han that he felt the Falcon replica give a faint shudder of anticipation, so soft and brief that it could have been a flutter in his own pulse. He pretended not to notice and put the model aside, turning the cockpit so that it was only partially facing Luke, and C-3PO dutifully recited the code sequence.

R2-D2 emitted a long, descending whistle, and the hologram of a large, fountain-filled chamber appeared on the floor in front of Han. The viewing angle was from high in one corner, where a security cam might be mounted, and the only movement in the room was the water falling from the fountains.

“What nonsense is this, Artoo?” C-3PO demanded. “You didn’t record this. You’re not that tall.”

R2-D2 tweedled a reply.

“A stolen file?” C-3PO cried. “Stolen on whose authority?”

R2-D2 answered with a short whistle.

“I don’t believe you,” C-3PO said. “Even Artoo units have restraints against that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” Luke asked.

“Artoo claims he downloaded this file on his own initiative,” C-3PO said. “But now I know he’s running us a corrupted feed. He claims this is from the internal security computer at the Jedi Temple, and we all know there is no room like this at the Jedi Temple.”

R2-D2 whistled a correction.

“Oh,” C-3PO said. “Now he claims it’s from the old Jedi Temple.”

“The Room of a Thousand Fountains,” Luke said. “I’ve seen it mentioned in some of those records we recovered from the Chu’unthor.”

R2-D2 began to trill a long, additional explanation.

“He adds that he had no choice,” C-3PO translated. “It was during the Jedi Revolt, and his owner had stopped talking to him. They were about to leave on a mission to Mustafar, and he needed to update his friend-or-foe data.”

The hologram continued to show the empty room, and Han began to think that the little droid had found one more clever way to keep his secret. Given the effect that secret was likely to have on Luke, Han almost hoped the droid had.

But R2-D2’s acoustic signaler began to emit the tinny pew-pew of recorded blasterfire. Stray dashes of blue began to streak through the hologram, blowing fountains apart, burning holes in the walls, vanishing into the heights of the vaulted ceiling.

Dozens of children, dressed in simple Jedi robes and wearing a single braid on the sides of their heads, began to retreat into the room. The youngest, those under six or seven, simply tried to run or find a place to hide. The older ones were attempting to fight, using the Force to hurl benches and pieces of broken fountain at their attackers. Some were firing captured blaster rifles, while a few were trying to use their newly constructed lightsabers to ricochet bolts at the unseen enemy. For the most part, they failed miserably but bravely, deflecting half a dozen or a dozen attacks before one sneaked through and knocked them off their feet.

The teenagers came next, backing into the room with their lightsabers whirling, weaving a wall of flashing energy before a column of advancing infantry. Dressed in what appeared to be early stormtrooper armor, the soldiers assaulted ruthlessly, cutting down fleeing four-year-olds with the same brutal efficiency with which they slaughtered the Padawans.

Han had been just a boy in Garris Shrike’s band of vagabonds when the Separatists tried to break away from the Old Republic, but he had seen enough of the war to recognize the finned helmets and independent joint covers on the white armor the soldiers wore.

“Clone troopers!”

R2-D2 gave a confirming tweet.

A huge Jedi with stooped shoulders and a gnarled face backed into view, anchoring the line of teenage defenders, his lightsaber sending bolt after bolt back at the attackers, lashing out to cut down one trooper after another. A pair of Padawans stepped in to support his flanks, and the entire line stopped falling back, the lightsabers of the young Jedi weaving an impenetrable wall of energy that—for a few short moments—allowed nothing past, not a blaster bolt, nor a clone trooper, nor even, it seemed to Han, a stray glance.

A blue lightsaber appeared at the edge of the holo, beating down the defense of the first Padawan and slashing through his torso, then slipping past the guard of the other one and cutting him down as well. The back of a blond head and a pair of caped shoulders appeared behind the blue blade and began to carry the attack to the stoop-shouldered Jedi.

The two stood battling toe-to-toe for only an instant before the caped figure slipped a strike and brought his own blade down on the defender’s stooped shoulder, cleaving him deep into the torso. The Jedi’s gnarled face paled with shock, and he collapsed in too much pain to scream.

The Padawans continued to battle on valiantly, but without the burly Jedi to anchor their line, they were no match for the sheer numbers assaulting them. Their defense collapsed, and the caped figure stepped aside, standing in seeming indifference as the clone troopers poured past to continue the slaughter of the children.

Han felt sickened and angered by what he was watching, but he also felt a little bit relieved. Mara would have been only a baby—and perhaps not even that—when the Jedi were slaughtered. Whatever Alema hoped to reveal with the code sequence, the scene they were watching could have nothing to do with Mara.

Finally, the last of the children had fallen, and the clones stopped firing. The caped figure studied the room for a moment, then gave a barely perceptible nod and turned back toward the entrance. The face that stared into the cam was clouded with anger, the eyes sunken and dark, the mouth set in a grim slash, but there was no mistaking who it belonged to.

Anakin Skywalker.

“That’s enough, Artoo,” Luke said. His face remained a mask of composure, but he rose and turned toward his own quarters. “Thank you.”

R2-D2 deactivated his holoprojector, then emitted a long descending whistle and started to follow Luke through the door.

Han quickly rose and blocked the little droid’s path. “Better stay put for a while,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”

R2-D2 spun his photoreceptor toward C-3PO and trilled a long string of notes.

“I don’t know why you’re blaming me,” C-3PO said. “I was only following instructions.”

Han went to the doorway connecting his quarters to Luke’s and found Luke floating cross-legged in the air, the backs of his wrists resting on his knees.

Without opening his eyes, Luke said, “I just need to center myself, Han.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” As Han spoke, he saw that Luke wasn’t the only thing floating in the room. So were the stool, the bunk, and the X-wing replica Raynar had presented to him. The replica seemed to be trembling with excitement. “That was kind of rough in there, even on me.”

“I’ll be okay, Han,” Luke said. “I just need to center myself.”

“I’ll bet,” Han said. “What I don’t get is how Alema knew what that code sequence was going to access. Even if she’s telling the truth about that Daxar Ies character, she didn’t say anything about him working on Artoo. There’s no way he should have known what’s in that memory sector Artoo’s hiding.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain he didn’t,” C-3PO said from behind Han. “The code Alema gave me was undoubtedly a universal key. Most droid-brain designers bury them in the circuitry architecture, as a safeguard against data lockouts and irreversible shutdowns. They simply force a unit to convert its most secure file to an open access file. In Artoo’s case, that file was one incriminating him in the worst sort of data theft. No wonder he didn’t want to reveal it!”

“That’s great.” Luke’s eyes were still closed, but he was sitting on the floor now—as were the bunk, the stool, and the replica. “But I really need—”

“You said the code was a universal key?” Han said, turning around to face C-3PO. “You mean it could unlock all of Artoo’s files?”

Artoo issued a sharp tweet, but C-3PO ignored him. “If we knew the basis for the code progression, of course. But not even Artoo knows that. It has self-changing variables, so unless we know the original algorithm and variables—”

“Okay, I get it.” Han glanced back into the room, where Luke had given up trying to meditate and was simply sitting on the floor looking up at the doorway. “It’s probably just as well.”

A furrow came to Luke’s brow. “Han—”

“All right, already.” Han turned and shooed C-3PO away from the door. “Will you give the man some room? He needs to center himself.”

“Han—”

“I’m going already.”

“Han, that’s not it.” Luke closed his eyes. “I think it’s time to close your deal.”

“Already?” Han turned toward the door membrane. “I thought the Squibs would play it a little cooler than that.”

Luke frowned. “I don’t think it’s the Squibs . . . You go on.” He glanced down at the replica of his X-wing, then motioned Han out his door. “I need a minute to finish my meditations, but I’ll be there when you need me.”

Han turned toward the interior wall of his quarters, where a group of silhouettes was just growing visible through the translucent spinglass. Most of the figures were obviously Killiks, with shadows in their hands that suggested electrobolt assault rifles and Verpine shatter guns. But the two silhouettes in the center had only two arms each and carried no visible weapons. They were about Squib height, but a little too stocky and flat-faced.

A Saras guard pressed its thorax to the wall and boomed an order.

“She’s ordering us to step away from the door,” C-3PO said.

Han looked around and held his arms out to his side. “Where do you expect us to go? We’re already in the back of the room.”

The guard drummed an acknowledgment, then it and several other bugs used their mandibles to snip and rip the outer seal away from the doorway. A moment later, the two silhouettes they were escorting pushed through the membrane into Han’s quarters, bringing with them a sweet-smelling cloud of the bond-inducing pheromones that pervaded the jail.

The first figure was a jug-eared Sullustan in a tidy white flight suit resembling that worn by the captains of commercial starliners. The second was a furry little Ewok with a white stripe running diagonally across a body that was otherwise as black as carbon.

“Tarfang?” Han gasped. He shifted his glance back to the Sullustan. “Juun?”

The Ewok chuttered something sharp at Han, while the Sullustan merely braced his hands on his hips and looked around the cell shaking his head.

“Tarfang suggests that since you’re an inmate and Captain Juun is the owner of a fine Damorian Ronto-class transport, you should address him as Captain Juun,” C-3PO reported.

“A Ronto?” Han did not bother to hide the disdain in his voice. Rontos were among the slowest, ugliest, and least efficient of the light transports crisscrossing the galaxy. He frowned at Captain Juun. “What happened to that Mon Cal Sailfish I set you up with?”

“She was too expensive,” Juun explained. “My weekly payments were customarily running a week and a half late.”

Han frowned. “But you were making them, right?”

“Yes,” Juun said. “With the appropriate interest, of course.”

“And Lando took her back for that?”

Tarfang jabbered an explanation.

“Captain Juun was too clever to give him the chance,” C-3PO translated. “He traded his equity for DR-Nine-one-nine-a—free and clear.”

“Someone got a real bargain.” Han did not bother to ask what the pair were doing on Woteba; Ronto-class transports were just too slow for the inventory-running contract he had talked Lando into giving Juun. “I don’t suppose the Second Mistake Squibs are the ones who gave you this steal?”

Juun looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“Because I sent for them and you showed up,” Han replied. “It doesn’t take a genius to know you’re in deep with them.”

Juun nodded proudly. “They gave us a ten-standard-year freighting contract.” In a softer voice, he added, “We’re exclusive.”

“No kidding,” Han said. “Let me guess, expenses included?”

Tarfang twitched his nose, then leaned toward Han and gibbered something suspicious.

“Tarfang requests—”

The Ewok whirled on C-3PO and barked a single word.

“—er, he warns you against discussing this with them,” the droid corrected. “It’s the Squibs’ own bad fortune if they agree to such a poor bargain.”

Han raised his palms to the Ewok. “Hey, that’s between you guys—and I don’t see why I should clue them in to anything, if they’re not interested in my deal.”

“Hold on!” Juun’s voice was alarmed. “What makes you think they’re not interested?”

Han made a show of looking around his quarters. “I don’t see them here.”

“Only because they are important business beings,” Juun explained, “and this is a detention center.”

Tarfang chittered an addendum.

“And they mustn’t let themselves be seen with a pair of . . . oh, my . . .” C-3PO paused, searching for a diplomatic interpretation, until the Ewok growled. “With a pair of dustcrusts like you and Master Skywalker.”

“That’s okay,” Han said. “I understand.”

“You do?” Juun’s cheek folds rose in relief. “In that case, they’ve authorized me to make you a very generous offer—they’ll pay you a millicredit for each replica you sign.”

“A whole millicredit?” Han repeated. “That much?”

Juun nodded eagerly. “That’s ten thousand credits in all,” he said. “And they’re even willing to pay a third in advance. Emala said to tell you they haven’t forgotten what you did for them on Pavo Prime.”

Han pretended to consider the offer. “I’m willing to talk about it—have a seat.” He motioned them to his bunk, then retrieved the Falcon replica and sat across from them on the stool. “But first, I want to make sure I’ve got this straight. You guys are running replicas like this one back into the Galactic Alliance?”

“We’ve already made our first run,” Juun said proudly, “a promotional delivery to the Fifth Fleet.”

“To the Fifth Fleet?” Han’s heart rose into his throat. What was the Dark Nest doing—going after the entire Galactic Alliance? “No kidding?”

Tarfang growled a few words.

“Tarfang warns you that their deal with Second Mistake is vac-sealed,” C-3PO translated. “He advises you that even thinking about moving in on them is a waste of time.”

Han turned to the Ewok. “Us moving in on you is the one thing you don’t have to worry about right now.”

Tarfang chortled a spiteful reply.

“That’s right!” C-3PO translated. “You’re stuck here in a rehab house getting—”

C-3PO broke off to shoot a question at Tarfang in Ewokese, then seemed to stiffen at the response.

“Oh, my—Tarfang says this is an acceleration facility! Saras brings criminals here to rehabilitate them quickly—by making them Joiners!”

The Ewok jumped up, standing on Han’s bed and chuckling so hard he had to hold his belly.

“Keep it up, fuzzball,” Han said. “This place is a vacation moon compared to where the Defense Force is going to lock you two.”

Tarfang stopped laughing, and Juun asked, “Why would they lock us up?”

Before he answered, Han hesitated and started to glance back toward Luke’s quarters.

“Go ahead, Han,” Luke said from the door. “Show them.”

Without saying anything more, Han raised the replica of the Falcon over his head and hurled it to the floor. The spinglass did not shatter so much as explode into a droning cloud of blue-black bugs about the size of Han’s thumb.

Juun and Tarfang yelled in surprise and pressed themselves against the wall. Even Han cried out and tumbled off the stool backward as the swarm boiled into the air before him—he had been expecting to find a single hand-sized Killik inside the replica, not dozens of smaller ones.

The cloud began to arc toward Han, tiny droplets of venom glistening on the proboscises between their curved mandibles. He grabbed the stool and started to swing it up to bat them away—then felt Luke’s hand on his shoulder.

“Stay down.”

Luke stretched his arm out, and the swarm went tumbling across the room and splattered against the wall, leaving the ivory spinglass flecked with palm-sized stars of gore. The room fell abruptly silent, and the air immediately grew sickening with the smell of insect methane.

Luke pointed to Han’s bag, sitting under his bunk. “Get some undershirts and wipe the wall down. I can only hold the illusion for a few minutes.”

“Why my shirts?” Han demanded.

“Because mine are in the other room,” Luke said. “And the illusion is only in here.”

“Yeah—I’ll bet you planned it that way.” Han pulled the bag out from under the bunk, then pulled out two undershirts—all he had—and passed them to Juun and Tarfang. “Get busy.”

Juun immediately went over to the wall, but Tarfang simply looked at the cloth and sneered.

Before the Ewok could ask the question that was almost certainly coming, Han pointed at him and said, “Because if you don’t, I’m not going to tell you two how to fix the mess you’ve made for yourselves.”

Tarfang chittered a long reply, which C-3PO translated as, “What mess?”

“Like the one we’re cleaning up here—only a whole lot worse.” Han pulled a spare tunic from his bag and went over to the wall. “I don’t think the Defense Force is going to be very happy with you two when they figure out you were the ones who delivered a whole Ronto-ful of Gorog assassin bugs to the Fifth Fleet.”

Juun’s eyes grew even larger. “Tarfang, get over here!” Once the Ewok had jumped off the bunk, he turned to Han. “You can tell us how to fix that?”

“Sure,” Han said. “Easiest thing in the galaxy—all you have to do is help us find the Dark Nest.”