Cloak Of Deception

Luxuriating in the unfailing light of countless stars, the Trade Federation freighter Revenue lazed at the edge of Dorvalla's veil of alabaster clouds.

Indistinguishable from its myriad brethren, the freighter resembled a saucer, whose center had been pared away to create two massive hangar arms and a stalked centersphere that housed the great ship's hyperdrive reactors.

Forward, the curving arms fell short of each other, as if in a failed attempt to close the circle. But, in fact, the gap was there by design, with each arm terminating in colossal docking claws and gaping hangar portals.

Like some gluttonous beast, a Trade Federation vessel didn't so much load as gobble cargo, and for close to three standard days, the Revenue had been feeding at Dorvalla.

The outlying planet's principal commodity was lommite ore, a major component in the production of transparisteel viewports and starfighter canopies. Ungainly transports ferried the strip — mined ore into high orbit, where the payloads were transferred to a fleet of self-propelled barges, tenders, and cargo pods, many of them as large as shuttles, and all bearing the Spherical Flame sigil of the Trade Federation.

By the hundreds the unpiloted crafts streamed between the Dorvallan transports and the ring-shaped freighter, lured to the breach in the curving arms by powerful tractor beams. There the docking claws nudged the crafts through the magnetic containment fields that sealed the rectangular maws of the hangars.

Safeguarding the herd from attacks by pirates or other raiders flew patrols of bullet-nosed, quad-thruster starfighters, wanting shields but armed with rapid-fire laser cannons. The droids that piloted the ships answered to a central control computer located in the freighter's centersphere.

At the aft curve of the centersphere stood a command and control tower.

The ship's bridge occupied the summit, where a robed figure paced nervously before an array of inwardly inclined viewports. The interrupted view encompassed the distal ends of the hangar arms and the seemingly ceaseless flow of pods, their dorsal surfaces aglow with sunlight. Beyond the arms and the rust-brown pods spun translucent-white Dorvalla.

"Status," the robed figure hissed.

The Revenue's Neimoidian navigator responded from a throne-like chair set below the burnished floor of the bridge walkway.

"The last of the cargo pods is being taken aboard, Commander Dofine."

Neimoidian speech, while lilting, favored first syllables and elongated words.

"Very well, then," Dofine replied. "Recall the starfighters." The navigator swiveled in his chair to face the walkway. "So soon, Commander?"

Dofine ceased his relentless pacing to cast a dubious look at his shipmate.

Months in deep space had so honed Dofine's natur-ral distrust that he was no longer certain of the navigator's intent. Was the navigator questioning his command in the hope of gaining status, or was there some good reason to delay recalling the starfighters? The distinction troubled Dofine, since he risked losing face by airing his suspicions and being proven wrong.

He decided to gamble that the question had been prompted by concern and contained no hidden challenges.

"I want those fighters recalled. The sooner we leave Dor — valla, the better." The navigator nodded. "As you will, Commander." Captain of the Revenue's skeleton crew of living beings, Dofine had a pair of front-facing red oval eyes, a prominent muzzle, and a fish-lipped slash of mouth.

Veins and arteries pulsed visibly beneath the surface of puckered and mottled pale-green skin.

Small for his species-the runt of his hive, some said behind his back- his thin frame was draped in blue robes and a tufted, shoulder-padded mantle more appropriate for a cleric than a ship's commander.

A tall cone of black fabric, even his headpiece suggested wealth and high office.

The navigator was similarly attired in robes and headpiece, though his floor-length mantle was solid black and of a simpler design. He communicated with the devices that encircled the shell-like pilot's chair by means of data readout goggles that cupped his eyes and a disk-shaped comlink that hid his mouth.

The Revenue's communications technician was a jowled and limpid-eyed Sullustan. The officer who interfaced with the central control computer was a Gran — comthree-eyed, with a hircine face. Beaked and green-complexioned, the ship's assistant bursar was an Ishi Tib.

Dofine hated having to suffer aliens aboard his bridge, but he was compelled to do so as an accommodation to the lesser shipping concerns that had allied with the Trade Federation; small companies like Viraxo Shipping, and powerful shipbuilders like TaggeCo and HoerschKessel.

Humaniform droids saw to all other tasks on the bridge.

Dofine had resumed his pacing when the Sullustan spoke.

"Commander, Dorvalla Mining reports that the payment they received is short one hundred thousand Republic credits." Dofine waved his long-fingered hand in dismissal.

"Tell her to recheck her figures." The Sullustan relayed Dofine's words and waited for a reply. "She claims that you said the same thing the last time we were here." Dofine exhaled theatrically and gestured to a large circular screen at the rear of the bridge.

"Display her." The magnified image of a red-haired, freckle-faced human woman was resolving on the screen by the time Dofine reached it.

"I am not aware of any missing credits," he said without preamble.

The woman's blue eyes flashed. "Don't lie to me, Dofine. First it was twenty thousand, then fifty, now one hundred. How much will we have to forfeit the next time the Trade Federation graces Dorvalla with a visit?" Dofine glanced knowingly at the Ishi Tib, who returned a faint grin. "Your world is far removed from normal space lanes," he said calmly toward the screen. "As far from the Rimma Trade Route as from the Corellian Trade Spine. Your situation, therefore, demands additional expenditures.

Of course, if you are displeased, you could always do business with some other concern." The woman snorted a rueful laugh. "Other concern? The Trade Federation has put everyone else under." Dofine spread his large hands. "Then what is a hundred thousand credits, more or less?" "Extortion is what it is."

The sour expression Dofine adopted came naturally to his slack features. "I suggest you file a complaint with the Trade Commission on Coruscant." The woman fumed; her nostrils flared and her cheeks reddened. "You haven't heard the last of this, Dofine." Dofine's mouth approximated a smile. "Ah, once again, you are mistaken." Abruptly, he ended the transmission, then swung back to face his fellow Neimoidian. "Inform me when the loading process is concluded." Deep in the hangar arms, droids supervised the disposition of the cargo pods from traffic stations located high above the deck. Humpbacked craft with bulbous noses that gave them an animated appearance, the pods entered through the hangars" magcon orifices on repulsorlift power and were routed according to contents and destination, as designated by codes stenciled on the hulls. Each hangar arm was divided into three zones, partitioned by sliding bulkhead doors, twenty stories high.

Normally, zone three, closest to the centersphere, was filled first. But pods containing goods bound for destinations other than Coruscant or other Core worlds were directed to berthing bays in zones one or two, regardless of when they were brought aboard.

Scattered throughout the hangars were security automata toting modified BlasTech combat rifles, some with dispersal tips. Where the worker droids might be hollow-bodied asps, limber — necked PK'S, boxy GNK'S, or flat-footed binary loadlifters, the security droids appeared to have been inspired by the skeletal structure of any number of the galaxy's bipedal Life forms.

Lacking both the rounded head and alloy musculature of its near cousin, the protocol droid, the security droid had a narrow, half-cylindrical head that tapered forward to a speech processor and, at the opposite end, curved down over a stiff, backwardly canted neck. What distinguished the droid, however, was its signal boost backpack and the retractable antennae that sprouted from it.

The majority of the droids that comprised the Revenue's security force were simply appendages of the freighter's central control computer, but a few had been equipped with a small measure of intelligence.

The foreheads and chest plastrons of these lanky commanders were emblazoned with yellow markings similar to military unit flashes, though less for the sake of other droids than for the flesh and bloods to whom the commanders ultimately answered.

OLR-4 was one such commander.

Blaster rifle gripped in both hands and angled across his chest, the droid stood in zone two of the ship's starboard hangar arm, halfway between the bulkheads that defined the immense space.

OLR-4 was aware of the activity around him-the current of cargo pods moving toward zone three, the noise of other pods settling to the deck, the incessant whirrs and clicks of machines in motion — comb only in a vague way.

Rather, OLR-4 had been tasked by the central control computer to watch for anything out of the ordinary-for any event that fell outside performance parameters denned by the computer itself.

The resounding thud that accompanied the roosting of a nearby cargo pod was, given the size of the craft, well within those parameters. So, too, were the sounds emanating from inside the pod, which could be ascribed to a shifting of whatever cargo the pod contained. But the same couldn't be said for the hissing of pressure relief valves or the metallic clanks and stridencies that prefaced the slow rise of the pod's uncommonly large, circular forward hatch.

OLR-4'S long head pivoted and his oblique optical sensors fixed on the pod.

Magnified and sharpened, the captured image was transmitted to the central control computer, which instantly compared it to a catalog of similar images.

Discrepancies were noted.

Even as OLR-4'S photoreceptors were scrutinizing the rising hatch, additional security droids were already hurrying to assume positions on all sides of the suspect pod. OLR-4 planted his bootlike feet in a combat stance and leveled his blaster rifle.

The open hatch should have revealed the interior of the pod, but instead it exposed what seemed to be yet another hatch, sealed shut. OLR-4 did succeed in identifying the composition of the inner hatch, but the droid's puny processor was not up to the task of making sense of what it was seeing. That was the province of the central control computer, which was quick to solve the puzzle-though not quick enough.

Before OLR-4 could move, the inner hatch had telescoped from the pod with enough force to launch two security droids and three worker droids halfway across the hangar. Immediately, OLR-4 and three others opened fire on the battering ram and the cargo pod itself, but the blaster bolts were deflected and sent ricocheting through the hold.

A pair of droids leapt onto the wide-bodied pod, hoping to attack the striking device from behind, but their efforts were in vain. Blaster bolts found them first, quartering one, and all but obliterating the other.

It was only then that OLR-4 realized, in his limited capacity, that there were unfrlies behind the battering ram. And judging by the precision of the bolts, the intruders were flesh and bloods.

With cargo pods gliding overhead and a hundred labor droids continuing to tend to their tasks, oblivious to the firefight occurring in their midst, OLR- 4 rushed to one side, firing steadily and intent on gaining a better vantage on the intruders. Bolts sought him as he moved, sizzling past his head and shoulders, and streaking between his pumping legs.

In front of him two security droids lost their heads to well — placed shots. A third droid remained intact, but dropped to the deck nevertheless, hopelessly dazzled by untamed, coruscating electrical charges.

OLR-4'S internal monitors told him that his blaster was overheating and close to depletion.

Though obviously aware of the droid's predicament, the central control computer did not countermand its orders; so OLR-4 kept firing while he attempted to angle behind the battering ram.

Off to his right another droid was blasted from the top of the pod, its torso sent twirling in clumsy circles as it flew off into the hangar, only to collide with a settling cargo pod. A droid with a missing leg hopped as it shot, until its sound leg was blown out from under it, and it fell, skidding across the deck, sparks flying from its vocoder chin.

OLR-4 shifted left and right, dodging blaster bolts. He had almost reached the pod when a bolt caught him in the left shoulder, spinning him through a complete circle. He staggered, but somehow managed to remain upright, until a second bolt struck him in the opposite shoulder. Spun through another circle, he landed on his back, with his legs wedged beneath the pod.

Looking up, he had a glimpse of the armed force that had infiltrated the freighter: a dozen or so bipedal flesh and bloods, sheathed in mimetic suits and black body armor, their faces hidden behind rebreather masks, whose oxygen recyclers resembled fangs.

OLR-4'S photoreceptors focused on a human with long black hair that fell in thick coils to his broad shoulders. The servomotors of the droid's right hand tightened on the blaster's trigger bar, but the fatigued and overheated weapon's only response was a mournful whirr, as it powered down and shut off.

"Uh-oh," OLR-4 said.

Glimpsing him, the long-haired human swung and fired.

OLR-4'S heat sensors redlined and his overloaded systems wailed. Circuits melting, he relayed a final image to the central control computer, then winked out of existence.

The reassuring hum of machines on the Revenue's bridge was interrupted by a grating tone from the scanner array. Gliding across the command walkway, Daultay Dofine queried the droid stationed at the scanner.

"Long-range monitors report a cluster of small ships advancing all speed on our position," the droid answered in a metallic monotone.

"What? What did you say?" The Sullustan elaborated.

"Authenticators identify the ships as CloakShapes and one Tempest-class gunship." Dofine's jaw dropped. "An attack?" "Commander," the droid intoned, "the ships are continuing to advance." Dofine gestured wildly to the outsize display screen. "I want to see them!" He had started for the screen when another worrisome tone sounded, this time from the station of the systems officer, which was also set below the walkway.

"The central control computer is reporting a disturbance in zone two of the starboard hangar arm." Dofine gaped at the Gran. "What sort of disturbance?" "The droids are firing on one of the cargo pods." "Those brainless machines! If they ruin any of the cargo-was "Commander, starfighters are onscreen," the Sullustan reported.

"It could be nothing more than a glitch," the Gran went on.

Dofine's blinking red orbs darted from one alien to the other in mounting concern.

"Starfighters changing vector. Breaking into two elements." The Sullustan turned to Dofine.

"Flying the imprint of the Nebula Front." "The Nebula Front!" Dofine rushed to the display screen, then raised his long, fat forefinger to indicate the jet-black gunship. "That ship-was "The Hawk-Bat" the Sullustan said in a rush. "The ship of Captain Cohl." "Impossible!" Dofine snapped. "Cohl was reported to be at Malastare only yesterday." Jowls quivering slightly, the Sullustan regarded the screen. "But that is his ship. And where the Hawk-Bat ventures, Cohl is not far behind!" "Starfighters are forming up for attack,"

the droid updated.

Dofine turned to the navigator. "Enable defense systems!" "Central control computer reports continued blasterfire in the starboard hangar. Eight security droids destroyed." "Destroyed?" "Defense system has the Nebula Front starfighters in target lock. Deflector shields are raised-was "Starfighters firing!" Intense light exploded behind the rectangular viewports and shook the bridge hard enough to rattle a droid off its feet.

"Turbolasers responding!" Dofine swung to the viewports in time to see hyphens of pulsed, red light streak from the freighter's equatorially mounted batteries.

"Where is our closest reinforcement?" "One star system distant," the navigator said.

"The Acquisitor.

More heavily armed than the Revenue." "Send a distress call!" "Is that wise, Commander?" Dofine understood the implication. Rescue was always a belittling event. But Dofine was certain that he could offset the humiliation by protecting the Revenue's cargo.

"Just do as I say," he told the navigator.

"Starfighter elements are forming up for a second run," the Sullustan updated.

"Where are the starfighters? Why aren't they moving in to engage?" "You recalled them, Commander," the navigator reminded.

Dofine gestured wildly. "Well, relaunch them, relaunch them!" "Central control computer requests permission to isolate zone two of starboard hangar."

"Seal it!" Dofine sputtered. "Seal it now!" The masked group that had infiltrated the Revenue were a diverse lot-as varied as the starfighters that were flying support- humans and nonhumans, male and female, stocky and slender. Protected by camouflage suits and matte-black armorply, and sporting gripsole deckboots and combat goggles, they emerged from behind the battering ram that had afforded them an element of surprise, firing state-of-the-art assault rifles and shoulder-slung field disrupters.

The handful of security droids that were still standing collapsed to the deck, limbs splayed or hopelessly entwined.

The human OLR-4 had nearly gotten the drop on strode fearlessly to the center of the yawning hangar, checked a readout on his wrist comm, and tugged the rebreather and goggles from his face.

The firefight had left a vagrant tang in the air, the smell of ozone and scorched alloy.

"Atmosphere is ena4," he told the rest of his band. "But oxygen levels are equivalent to what you'd find at four thousand meters. Off your masks, but keep them handy-especially you t'bac addicts." With some muffled laughter, the team complied.

Beneath the apparatus, the human's dark-complexioned face was still a mask: thickly bearded with coarse black hair, and rashed from temple to temple with small diamond-shaped tattoos. His violet eyes surveyed the damage with obvious dispassion.

There wasn't a security droid in sight, but the deck was littered with their remains. Labor droids of several varieties continued to route a few pods to berthing spaces.

A human member of the team kicked aside the severed arm of a security droid. "These things could be dangerous if they ever learn to think straight."

"Shoot straight," the bearded man amended.

"Tell that to Rasper, Captain Cohl," another said-Boiny, a Rodian. "It was a droid that sent Rasper on his way." A green — skinned and round-eyed male, Boiny had a tapered snout and a crest of pliant yellow spines.

"A lucky droid, a luckier shot," a Rodian female remarked.

"That doesn't mean we treat this like an exercise," Cohl warned, eyeing everyone. "The central control computer will be deploying backup units soon enough, and we've got a kilometer to go before we hit the centersphere." The infiltrators glanced down the curved hangar toward a bulkhead that loomed in the distance. High overhead were massive box girders and I-beams, cranes, maintenance gantries, and hoists, a puzzle of atmosphere and vectoring ducts.

A human female-the only among them-whichistled softly. "Stars' end, you could hide an invasion force in here." As dark-complexioned as Cohl, she had short brown hair and an elegantly angular face. Even the mimetic suit could not camouflage her shapeliness.

"That would mean spending some of the profits, Rella," a male human said.

"And the Neimoidians don't do that unless they can spend it on new robes."

Boiny loosed a high-pitched laugh. "You grow up a half — starved Neimoidian grub, that's what happens." Cohl raised his bearded chin to two of his band.

"Stay with the pod. We'll make contact when we have the bridge." He swung to the others. "Team one, take the outer rim corridor. The rest of you are with me." The Revenue shuddered slightly. Muted explosions could be heard in the distance.

Cohl cocked an ear. "That'll be our ships." Sirens began to blare throughout the hangar. The labor droids stopped in their tracks, as a basso rumble gathered underfoot.

Rella gazed at the far-off bulkhead. "They're sealing off the hangar."

Cohl waved a gesture to the first team. "Move out.

We'll rendezvous at the starboard turbolifts.

Set your suits to pulse-that ought to confuse the droids-and use the concussion grenades sparingly. And remember to monitor your oxygen levels." He took a few steps, then stopped. "One more thing: You get blasted by a droid, bacta rehabilitation comes out of your pay." Daultay Dofine stood rigidly on the bridge's walkway, watching in arrant horror as the Nebula Front showed his ship no mercy.

The motley starfighters fell on the Revenue in full force, pick ing away at the freighter's fat arms and triple-thrustered hindquarters like ravenous birds of prey. Many of the unshielded droid ships were annihilated as soon as they emerged from the vessel's protective force field.

Emboldened by their effortless mastery, the enemy craft violated the embrace the hangar arms threw about the centersphere by strafing the command tower at close quarter. Ion cannon fire from the gunship sent waves of aggravation through the Revenue's deflector shield. Violent light washed against the bridge viewports.

It was all Define could do to keep himself rooted on the walkway, as he cursed the terrorists under his breath.

In return for having been awarded what amounted to exclusive rights to trade in the outlying star systems, the Trade Federation had pledged to the Galactic Senate on Coruscant that it would content itself with remaining a mercantile power, and refrain from becoming a naval power through the accumulation of war machines. However, the further the giant ships traveled from the Core, the more often they fell victim to attacks by pirates, privateers, and terrorist groups like the Nebula Front, whose broad membership had grievances not only with the Trade Federation, but also with distant Coruscant itself.

As a result, the senate had granted permission for the freighters to be equipped with weapons of defense, to safeguard them in the unpoliced systems strewn between the major trade routes and hyperlanes. But that had only forced the raiders to upgrade their armaments and, in turn, prepared the way for periodic strengthenings of Trade Federation defenses.

Skirmishes in the Mid and Outer Rims-throughout the so — called free trade zones-had since become commonplace. But Coruscant was a long way off, even by lightspeed, and it was not always easy to ascertain who was at fault and who had fired first. By the time matters reached the courts, it often came down to the word of one party against the word of another, without resolution.

Things might have gone differently for the Trade Federation but for the Neimoidians, who were as penurious as they were avaricious. When it had come to fortifying the giant ships, they had sought out the most cut-rate suppliers, and they had insisted that protecting the cargo was their paramount concern.

Against all sound judgment, it was the Neimoidians who had dictated the placement of quad laser batteries around the outer wall of the hangar arms.

While the equatorial arrangement was adequate for repelling lateral attacks, it proved completely ineffective for countering attacks launched from above or below, where nearly all the freighters' crucial systems were located: tractor beam and deflector shield generators, hyperdrive reactors, and the central control computer.

Thus the Trade Federation had been forced to invest in bigger and better shield generators, thicker armor plating, and, ultimately, in squadrons of starfighters. But starfighter allotments were subject to senate sanction, and freighters like the Revenue frequently found themselves defenseless against fighter craft piloted by seasoned raiders.

Well aware of these shortcomings, Daultay Dofine saw the ship and its cargo of precious lommite rapidly slipping from his grasp.

"Shields holding at fifty percent," the Gran reported from across the bridge, "but we are imperiled. A few more strikes and we'll be disa4." "Where is the Acquisitor?" Dofine whined. "It should have arrived by now!" A volley from the Nebula Front's gunship-Captain Gobi's personal gunship-rocked the bridge. As Dofine had learned in previous engagements, sheer size was no guarantee of protection, much less victory, and the freighter's three- kilometer diameter only made it a target that couldn't be missed.

"Shields marginal at forty percent." "Quad lasers one through six are not responding," the Sullustan added. "The starfighters are concentrating fire on the deflector shield generator and drive reactors." Dofine firmed his fleshy lips in anger.

"Instruct the central control computer to activate all droids, all ship defenses, and prepare to repel boarders," he brayed. "Over my dead body will Captain Cohl set foot on this bridge." In the starboard hangar arm, Cohl's team had barely made it through the bulkhead door when every device in zone three conspired to prevent them from getting one meter closer to the acceleration compensator shaft that connected the centersphere to its embracing arms.

Overhead cranes threw grappling claws at them; towering derricks toppled in their path; binary loadlifters dogged them like mechanical nightmares; and oxygen levels plummeted. Even worker droids joined the fray, brandishing fusioncutters and power calibrators as if they were flame projectors and vibroblades.

"Central control's turned the entire ship against us," Cohl yelled.

Rella squeezed off bolts at a posse of hydrospanner-wielding PK droids.

"What did you expect, Cohl-the royal welcome?" Cohl gestured Boiny, Rella, and the rest of his team toward the final bulkhead that stood between them and the centersphere turbolifts. Sirens shrieked and howled in the thin air. Crisscrossing and ricocheting blaster bolts created a pyrotechnic display worthy of a Republic Day parade on Coruscant.

Cohl fired on the run, losing count of how many droids he had dropped and how many blaster gas cartridges his weapon had expended. Two of his band were pinned down by droid fire, but there was little he or anyone else could do to help them. With luck they would get to the rendezvous point, even if they had to drag themselves there.

Pursued by three binary loadlifters, the team raced through the final bulkhead door and fought their way to the closest bank of turbolifts.

The hatch that accessed the transfer tubes was locked down.

"Boiny!" Cohl shouted.

The Rodian holstered his blaster and hurried forward, eyeing the hatch up and down, then moved to the control panel set into the wall. Preparing to slice the code, he rubbed his palms together and cracked his long, suction- tip-equipped fingers. Before he could lay a hand on the panel keys, Cohl slapped him in the back of the head.

"What is this, amateur night?" Cohl asked with a menacing scowl. "Blow the thing." Define was pacing the walkway when the bridge hatch blew inward, loosing a brief storm of paralyzing heat that tumbled him to the deck.

Cohl's band of six hurried in behind a roiling cloud of smoke, their mimetic suits allowing them to blend even with the burnished bulkheads of the bridge.

Quickly and efficiently, they disarmed the Gran and shot restraining bolts onto the chest plastrons of the droids.

Cohl waved one of his men toward the communications station.

"Contact the Hawk-Bat.

Tell them we've secured the bridge. Have the starfighters deploy for defense, and stand by to cover our exfiltration." He waved another of his cohorts toward the Gran's duty station. "Order the central control computer to stand down. Have it open all bulkheads in the hangar arms." The human nodded and dropped down below the walkway.

Cohl tapped a code into his wrist comlink and raised it to his mouth.

"Base team, we have the bridge. Move the pod into zone three and set it down as close as possible to the inner wall hangar portal. We'll be here soon enough." Cohl zeroed the comlink. His eyes roamed over the faces of his five living captives, settling finally on Dofine. Then he drew his blaster.

Spreading his arms wide in a gesture of surrender, Dofine took two backward steps as Cohl approached.

"You would shoot an unarmed individual, Captain Cohl?" Cohl pressed the barrel of the weapon to Dofine's ribcage. "I'd shoot an unarmed Neimoidian — comand I'd sleep better for it." He glared at Dofine for a long moment, then holstered the blaster and turned to the Rodian member of his band.

"Boiny, get to work. And be quick about it." Cohl swung back to Dofine.

"Where's the rest of your crew, Commander?" Dofine swallowed and found his voice. "Returning by shuttle from Dorvalla." Cohl nodded. "Good, that'll simplify things." Repeatedly poking Dofine in the chest with his forefinger, Cohl moved him backwards along the walkway until they reached the navigator's chair. A final poke sent Define off the walkway and into the seat.

Cohl jumped down to face him. "We need to discuss your cargo, Commander."

"The cargo?" Dofine stammered. "Lommite-destined for SluisVan." "To the depths with the ore," Cohl snarled. "I'm talking about the aurodium." Dofine tried to keep his red eyes from bulging. His nictitating membranes spasmed, and he blinked half a dozen times. "Aurodium?" Cohl leaned toward him. "You're carrying two billion in aurodium ingots." Dofine stiffened under Cohl's gaze.

"You-you must be mistaken, Captain. The Revenue is carrying ore." Cohl raised himself to his considerable height.

"I'll say it once more. You're carrying aurodium ingots-butribes proffered by Outer Rim worlds to ensure the continued blessing of the Trade Federation." Dofine sneered, in spite of himself. "So it is currency you seek.

I had always heard that the notorious Captain Cohl was an idealist. Now I see that he is a simple thief." Cohl almost grinned. "We can't all be licensed thieves like you and the rest of your bunch." "The Trade Federation does not deal in violence and death, Captain." Cohl grabbed two fistfuls of Dofine's rich raiment and yanked him halfway out of the chair. "Not yet you don't." He pushed Dofine back into the seat. "But we'll save that for another day. What matters now is the aurodium." "And should I refuse to submit?" Without taking his eyes from Dofine, Cohl pointed to his Rodian comrade. "Boiny, there, is affixing a thermal detonator to the Revenue's fuel-driver control system. As I understand it, the device will trigger an explosion large enough to destroy your ship in… Boiny?" "Sixty minutes, Captain," Boiny shouted, holding aloft a metallic sphere the size of a stinkmelon.

Cohl pulled an object from the thigh pouch pocket of his mimetic suit and slapped it against the back of Dofine's left hand. Dofine saw that it was a timer, already counting down from sixty minutes. He raised his eyes to Cohl's steadfast gaze.

"About the ingots," Cohl said.

Dofine nodded. "Yes, all right-if you promise to spare the ship." Cohl laughed shortly. "The Revenue is history. But you have my word I'll spare your life if you do as you're told." Again, Dofine nodded. "That way I'll at least live to see you executed." Cohl shrugged. "You never know, Commander." He straightened and grinned at Rella. "What did I tell you? Easy as-was "Captain," Cohls man at the communications station cut him off. "Vessel emerging from hyperspace.

Authenticators paint her as the TradeFed freighter Acquisitor." Rella made a plosive sound. "You were saying, Cohl?" The look Cohl directed at Dofine was one of genuine surprise. "Maybe you're not as thick-skulled as you look." He leapt up onto the walkway and turned to the viewport array.

Rella joined him.

"The scenario has changed," Cohl announced to everyone. "The Acquisitor will launch starfighters as soon as it's within range.

Order the Hawk-Bat to take the fight to the freighter." Dofine allowed a smile of satisfaction. "Perhaps you will have to forgo your treasure, after all, Captain Cohl." Cohl shot him a withering glance. "I'm not leaving without it, Commander-and neither are you." He reached for Dofine's right wrist to regard the countdown timer.

"Fifty-five minutes." "Cohl," Rella said leadingly.

He looked at her askance. "Without the aurodium, we don't get paid, sweetheart." She took her lower lip between her perfect teeth.

"Yes, but we have to be alive to spend it." He shook his head. "Death's not in the cards-at least not in this hand." Close to the bridge, a Nebula Front starfighter, chased down by packets of lethal energy, vanished in a nimbus of white-hot gas and debris.

"Fire from the Acquisitor" one of the mercenaries reported.

Sudden disquiet tugged at Rella's features.

Cohl ignored the look she sent him. Plucking Dofine from the command chair and standing him on the walkway, Cohl shoved him toward the bridge's ruined hatch.

"Double time, Commander. Our departure window has just narrowed." I n the chaotic gloom of the starboard hangar arm, a final pod moving on repulsorlift toward a zone three docking bay didn't draw much attention.

Somewhat turnip shaped, it was larger than most of the pods that had been routed into zone three, though not as large as the one the Nebula Front had infiltrated, and nowhere near the size of some of the ore barges. More, the pod gave no hint that, like the terrorists' craft, it carried a living cargo.

Strapped into back-to-back seats were two human males who, in dress, were the polar opposite of Daultay Dofine. Their light-colored tunics and trousers were loose fitting and unadorned, their knee-high boots were made of nerf hide, and they affected neither headpieces nor jewelry.

Their modest garments only made their obvious guile all the more mysterious.

The fraudulent cargo pod lacked viewports of any sort, but vidcams concealed in the hull transmitted assorted views of the hangar to display screens inside the craft.

On observing the disorder Cohl's band had left in its wake, the young man in the forward seat remarked in a nasal voice, "Captain Cohl has left us an easy trail to follow, Master." "He has indeed, Padawan. But the trail you take into the forest may not be the one you wish to follow when leaving. Stretch out with your feelings, Obi-Wan." Fairly squeezed into the aft seat, the older man was also the larger of the pair. His broad face was fully bearded, and his thick mane of graying hair was pulled back from a gently sloping, noble brow.

His eyes were a sharp blue, and the bridge of his strong nose was flattened, as if it had been broken beyond the repair of bacta treatments.

His name was Qui-Gon Jinn.

His counterpart at the controls of the pod, Obi-Wan Kenobi, had a youthful, clean-shaven face, a cleft chin, and a high, straight forehead. His brown hair was cropped short, save for a short tail at the rear of his head, and a single, thin plait that fell behind his ear to his right shoulder, a sign of his Padawan rank. Peculiar to the order to which Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan belonged, the word meant apprentice or protege.

That order was known as the Jedi Knights.

"Master, do you see any sign of their craft?" Obi-Wan asked over his shoulder.

Qui-Gon turned in his seat to indicate an open pod at the lower left of Obi-Wan's heads-up display screen.

"That one. They must be planning to launch from the inner rim hangar portal. Set us down nearby, with our hatch facing away from their pod. But be mindful not to draw attention. Cohl is sure to have posted sentries." "Would you like to assume the piloting, Master?" Obi-Wan asked peevishly.

Qui-Gon smiled to himself. "Only if you're tiring, Padawan." Obi-Wan compressed his lips. "I'm anything but tired, Master." He regarded the display screen for a moment. "I've found us a good place." As if under the guidance of droids in the hangar traffic stations, the pod settled on its quartet of disk- shaped landing gear. The two Jedi fell silent while they watched the vidcam feeds. After a long moment, a pair of human males emerged from Cohl's pod, oxygen masks covering their faces and disrupter rifles cradled in their arms.

"You were right, Master," Obi-Wan said softly.

"Cohl is becoming predictable." "We can hope, Obi-Wan." One of the sentries circled the pod, then returned to the open hatch, where the other was waiting.

"Now's our chance," Qui-Gon said. "You know-was "I know what to do, Master. But I still don't understand your reasoning. We could surprise Cohl here and now." "It's more important that we discover the location of the Nebula Front's base, Padawan. There'll be time then to put an end to Captain Cohl's exploits." Qui-Gon inserted a small breathing device into his mouth and flipped a switch that opened the circular front hatch. A cacophony of skirling sirens greeted them. The two Jedi climbed out into the red glow of emergency lighting that suffused the hold.

No object was more symbolic of the Jedi Knights than the polished alloy cylinders Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan wore on the hide belts that cinched their tunics. With the belts' abundance of utility pouches, the thirty-centimeter- long cylinders might have been tools of a sort-and, indeed, the Jedi viewed them as such- but, in fact, they were weapons of light, actual and figurative, and had been employed by the Jedi for thousands of generations in their self-appointed mandate to serve the Galactic Republic as the stewards of peace and justice.

The crystal-focused lightsaber, however, was not the true source of a Jedi's power, for that sprang from the omnipresent energy field that permeated all life and bound the galaxy together, an energy field the Jedi knew as the Force.

Tens of thousands of years the order had devoted to the study and contemplation of the Force, and as by-products of that devotion had come powers beyond the ken of ordinary folks: the power to move objects at will, to cloud the thoughts of lesser minds, to peer forward in time. But most of all, the ability to live in symbiotic accord with all life, and thus be allied to the Force itself.

Moving with preternatural silence and swiftness, Qui-Gon advanced on Cohl's pod, the lightsaber gripped in his right hand, concealing himself at every opportunity behind other pods. With all the noise in the hangar, he knew that it wasn't going to be easy to distract the two guards. But he had to buy Obi-Wan at least a few moments.

Sprawled atop the curving nose of one of the pods was what remained of a battle droid's upper torso and elongated head. Glancing at Cohl's sentries, Qui-Gon thumbed the activator button above the lightsaber's ridged handgrip.

A rod of brilliant green energy hissed from the sword's alloy hilt, thrumming as it came in contact with the thin air. With a single one-handed swipe of his lightsaber, Qui-Gon cleaved the droid's head from its thin neck.

At the same time, he extended his left hand, palm outward, andwitha blast of Force power sent the severed head hurtling across the hangar, where it struck the deck with a strident clank, not five meters from where the terrorists stood.

The pair swung to the sound, with weapons raised.

And in that instant, Obi-Wan disappeared in a blur, headed for Cohls pod.

Midlevel in the freighter's centersphere, Cohl, Rella, Boiny, and the rest of Cohl's band gazed wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the cache of aurodium ingots, which had been removed from the Revenue's security cabin and piled- lovingly-atop a repulsor sled. Hypnotic in their beauty, the ingots glowed with a constantly shifting inner light that summoned all colors of the rainbow.

Even Dofine and his four bridge officers could scarcely tear their eyes away.

"Take my breath and call me wheezy," Boiny said. "Now I've seen it all."

Cohl snapped out of his reverie and turned to Dofine, whose thin wrists were secured in shiny stun cuffs.

"You have our gratitude, Commander. Most Neimoidians wouldn't have been so obliging." Dofine glowered. "You go too far, Captain." Cohl's broad shoulders heaved in dismissal. "Tell that to the members of the Trade Federation Directorate." He nodded to Rella to get the sled under way, then took Boiny by the shoulders and steered him toward an inset control panel.

"Patch into the central control computer and tell it to run a diagnostic on the fuel-drivers. When the computer locates the thermal detonator, it should order an abandon ship." Boiny nodded in comprehension.

"Be sure to convince it to jettison all the cargo pods and barges," Cohl added.

Dofine's eyes widened in revelation. "So, the lommite is important, after all." Cohl turned to him. "You're confusing me with someone who cares one way or another what goes on between the Trade Federation and the Nebula Front."

Dofine was confused. "Then why are you saving the cargo?" "Saving it?" Cohl put his hands on his hips and laughed heartily. "I'm merely providing the Acquisitor with a target-rich environment, Commander." With the same extraordinary nimbleness that had guided him to the terrorists' pod, Obi-Wan returned to the Jedi craft.

"Everything is in place, Master," he said, just loudly enough to be heard over the wailing sirens.

Qui-Gon motioned him toward the hatch. But Obi-Wan hadn't even raised a foot when all the pods in the hangar began to levitate and wheel toward one hangar portal or another.

"What's happening?" Qui-Gon looked around in mild perplexity.

"They're jettisoning the cargo." "Hardly the act of terrorists, Master."

Qui-Gon's brow furrowed in thought. "The central control computer wouldn't allow this unless the freighter was in serious jeopardy." "Perhaps it is, Master." Qui-Gon agreed. "Either way, Padawan, we're better off inside our craft. Unless Cohl has failed in his mission, he should be arriving at any moment." Barely keeping pace with the ingot-heaped repulsor sled, Cohl's band jogged down the broad avenue of the starboard hangar toward the rendezvous point. The Revenue's bridge crew struggled to keep up, despite being equipped with rebreather masks and even when prodded in the back by the emitter nozzles of the terrorists' blasters. To all sides of them hovered cargo pods and tenders, moving toward inner and outer wall hangar portals.

Even Cohl was out of breath by the time everyone reached zone three and the waiting pod. Only one member of the first team-a blond-furred Bothan-had made it back, but Cohl refused to concern himself just then with the fate of the rest. Every member chosen for the operation had been apprised of the risks.

"Get the aurodium stowed," he shouted to Boiny through the rebreather's communicator. "Rella, do a head count and get everyone aboard." Daultay Dofine glanced worriedly at the countdown timer still affixed to the back of his hand. "What is to become of us?" he yelled.

A human member of Cohl's band motioned broadly toward a large, nearby pod that had yet to lift off. "I suggest you unload that one and cram yourvs inside." Dofine blinked back panic. "We'll die in there." The human laughed scornfully. "That's the idea." Dofine looked at Cohl. "Your word…" Cohl twisted his head to one side to read the display on the countdown timer, then cut his eyes to Dofine.

"If you hurry, you'll make it to the escape pods in time." o bi-Wan waited for the terrorists' pod to rise from the hangar deck before activating the repulsorlift engines. In addition to the huge portals at the ends of the hangar arms, magnetic containment portals along the inner curve of the arms had opened up in each zone. Scores of cargo pods and barges had begun to converge on these smaller egresses, but bottlenecks were forming quickly, despite the supervisory efforts of the central control computer.

Obi-Wan understood that if they were too late in reaching the portal, he and Qui-Gon would be forced to resort to some other means of abandoning ship.

But the young Jedi was nothing if not methodical. He spent a long moment studying the flow of traffic and anticipating where jams were likely to occur before deciding on a course.

That course took them straight up into the hangar's lofty reaches of hoists and cranes, before descending acutely for the zone three portal.

Grazing three pods on the way down, Obi Wan neatly avoided a collision with a barge that was fast becoming lodged in the opening.

Cohl had exited the hangar arm minutes earlier, but the tracker Obi-Wan had affixed assured that the Jedi would be able to single Cohl's pod out from the now stampeding herd.

"We have them, Master," he told Qui-Gon, who was studying the rear display screens. "They're heading straight for the centersphere. I'm not certain if they intend to climb over it or dive beneath it, but they are accelerating." "Stay with them, Obi-Wan. But keep a fixed distance. We don't want to reveal ourselves just yet." With the bone-white centersphere looming and the broad sweep of the immense arms to either side, the inner district of the annular freighter was a sight to behold — comespecially with crafts of all size and shape pouring from the holds. But the erratic motion of those same pods and barges left Obi-Wan little time to appreciate the view. He divided his attention between the flashing bezel that was Cohl's pod on the heads-up display, and the console screens, which showed exterior views to either side.

With most of the pods streaming toward the lower portion of the centersphere, even slight encounters were causing chain reactions within the bunch. Many pods were already spinning out of control, and a few were on collision courses for the hangar arms.

It all began to remind Obi-Wan of some of the exercises he had endured during his youth in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, where the goal of a student was to remain unswervingly attentive to a single task, while as many as five teachers did all they could to distract.

"Watch our stern, Padawan," Qui-Gon warned.

A pod had emerged from below them, catching them aft on its ascent. In danger of being tipped end over end, Obi-Wan applied power to the nose attitude jets and managed just in time to stabilize their craft.

But the brush had knocked them off course, and suddenly they were closing on the thick structural stalk that wedded the immense centersphere to the hangar arms.

Obi-Wan glanced at the heads-up display, but found no pulsing bezel.

"Master, I've lost them." "Focus on where you want to go, Obi-Wan," Qui- Gon said in a calm voice.

"Forget the display screen, and let the Force guide you." Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a moment, then, following his instincts, adjusted their course.

Glancing at the display, he saw Cohl's pod ahead of them, off to starboard.

"I see them, Master. They're angling for the top of the centersphere."

"Captain Cohl was never one to remain long in the herd." Obi-Wan fired the pod's attitude jets to adjust course and soon saw the reassuring blinking of the bezel.

The centersphere filled the display screens linked to the pod's nose vidcams, revealing level after level of what Obi-Wan knew had once been conference rooms and living spaces for the ship's crew, before the Trade Federation had turned to droid labor. They were almost to the crown of the centersphere when a lone starfighter streaked across one of the display screens, dual laser cannons loosing bursts at some unseen target.

"A Nebula Front CloakShape," Qui-Gon said in mild surprise.

A sturdy, low-profile starfighter with downsloping wings, CloakShapes had been designed for atmospheric combat. But the terrorist group had retrofitted this one with rear-mounted maneuvering fins and a strap-on hyperdrive.

"But what are they firing at?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Cohl's pilots must have destroyed the Revenue's starfighters by now." "I suspect we'll know soon enough, Padawan.

In the meantime, stay focused on the matter at hand." Obi-Wan bristled slightly at the mild reprimand, but it was deserved. He had a habit of looking forward, as opposed to staying in the moment, as Qui-Gon preferred-of attending to what the Jedi called the living Force.

Well above the bald crown of the centersphere and the boxy scanners that topped the freighter's command tower, Cohl's pod was gathering speed and, with bold maneuvers, was emerging from the cloud of pods within which it had hidden. In danger of falling too far behind, Obi-Wan called on the drives for added power.

By the time they were coming around the top curve of the centersphere, Obi-Wan had greatly reduced the distance between the two pods. He was preparing to follow Cohl into space when another starfighter-a modified Z-95 Headhunter-flashed into view on the display screens and exploded.

"The battle continues," Qui-Gon said.

Emerged from the embrace of the arms, the two Jedi saw the source of the return fire. Floating like a ring above Dorvalla's nightside was a second freighter, engulfed in blossoms of fire sown by the Nebula Front ships.

"Trade Federation reinforcements," Obi-Wan said.

"That freighter could complicate matters," Qui-Gon mused.

"But surely we have Cohl this time." "Cohl is a sly one, Obi-Wan. He would have anticipated this. He doesn't make a move without a contingency plan." "But, Master, without his support ships-was "Expect nothing," Qui-Gon interrupted.

"Simply stay your course." Inside the equally cramped quarters of the terrorists' pod, Cohl's band of eight carried out their preassigned tasks.

"Outer and inner hatches sealed, Captain," Boiny reported from his wedge of space at the curved instrument console. "All systems nominal." "Prepare to convert from repulsorlift to fusial propulsion," Cohl said, snugging his seat harness.

"Preparing to convert," Rella relayed.

"Comm is ena4," another said. "Switching to priority frequency." "Clear space, Captain. Passing the thousand-meter mark from the centersphere." "Easy does it," Cohl said, aware of a certain tension in the recirculating air.

"We'll maintain a low profile until ten thousand meters. Then we go for broke.

" Rella cast him an approving glance. "Plan precisely; perform faultlessly- was "And avoid detection-before, during, and after," Boiny completed.

"Set course for one-one-seven, freighter's bow," Cohl told them.

"Accelerate to point five.

Fusial thrust on standby." He reclined his chair and switched on the starboard display. The Hawk-Bat and the support ships had managed to hold the Acquisitor at bay. But the TradeFed's starfighters were all over the arena, harried by Nebula Front pilots and confounded by the torrents of cargo gushing from the Revenue's hangar bays.

Still, it was just a matter of rendezvousing with the Hawk-Bat and putting a couple of parsecs between the gunship and the Acquisitor.

Rella leaned toward him to whisper. "Cohl, if we survive this, I forgive you for saying yes to this operation to begin with." Cohl had his mouth open to respond when Boiny said, "Captain, something peculiar. Could be a fluke, but we've got one cargo pod hanging dead on our six." "Show me," Cohl said, cutting his violet eyes to the screen.

"Smack in the center. The one with the pointed snout." Cohl fell silent for a moment, then said, "Alter our course to one-one-nine." Rella set herself to the task.

Boiny squeaked a nervous laugh. "The pod's changing course to one-one- nine." "Some kind of gravity drag?" one of the others asked — coma human named Jalan.

"Gravity drag?" Rella said in obvious derision. "What in the moons of Bodgen is gravity drag?" "It's what keeps Jalan from thinking straight," Boiny muttered.

"Fasten it, the bunch of you," Cohl said, stroking his bearded jaw in thought. "Can we scan that pod?" "We can try." Cohl forced a breath and folded his arms across his chest. "Let's play this safe. Steer us back into the thick of things." "Master, they're scanning us," Obi-Wan said.

"They're altering course, as well." "They're planning to hide in that cluster of cargo pods," Qui-Gon said, mostly to himself. "It's time we give them something else to worry about, Obi-Wan.

Activate the thermal detonator as soon as they're a bit farther from the freighter." Cohl gripped the armrests of his narrow seat as the terrorists'

pod took a buffeting from its neighbors in the throng that was pouring into the space between the two Trade Federation freighters.

"We can't take much more of this," Boiny warned, his sucker — fingered hands gripped on the instrument console.

"Cohl," Rella said harshly. "Unless we get out now, we're going to end up in the middle of a starfighter engagement." Cohl kept his eyes glued to the overhead display screen. "What's the pod doing?" "Matching our every maneuver.

" One of the humans cursed under his breath. "What's in that thing?" "Or who?"

another put in.

"Something's not right," Cohl said, shaking his head.

"I smell a womp rat." Boiny glanced at him. "Never met one that could pilot a pod like that, Captain." Cohl slapped the armrests in a gesture of finality. "No more wasting time. Engage the primary fusials." "Now you're talking," Rella remarked, carrying out the command.

Without warning, Boiny all but shot from his seat, gesticulating madly at one of the console sensors and tripping over his own words.

"Boiny!" Cohl shouted, as if to break whatever spell the Rodian was under. "Out with it!" Boiny swung about, his black orbs radiating incredulity.

"Captain, we've got a thermal detonator affixed to the pod's drive core!" Cohl stared at him in similar disbelief. "How long to detonation?" "Five minutes and counting!" W ith its sterile surfaces, sunken control stations, and circular plasma screens that shone like aquariums, the bridge of the Acquisitor was identical to that of her sister ship, save that it held a full complement of bridge officers, and all eight were Neimoidians.

Commander Nap Lagard gazed out the forward viewports at the distant Revenue.

At this remove, the bulbous-nosed pods and barges flooding from her cargo holds were mere specks glinting in the sunlight, but magnified views had revealed hundreds of burst pods-the result of collisions and of starfighter laser bolts- their payloads of lommite surrendered to space. A heartrending sight to behold; but Lagard had already decided that he would retrieve as much of the cargo as possible-assuming that the terrorists could be chased off.

The stamp of the Nebula Front was all over the crippled Revenue, in the form of blistered durasteel, erose penetrations in the hull, pieces of twisted superstructure.

Recently strengthened and overlapping deflector shields had prevented the terrorists from inflicting similar damage on the Acquisitor.

More, the Acquisitor carried twice the usual number of droid-piloted craft.

No sooner had the freighter decanted from hyperspace than the Nebula Front ships had flown against her. In concert with the freighters' quad lasers, the starfighters had succeeded in warding off the attack and forcing the terrorists back toward the Revenue, where the conflict was still raging.

Countless droid ships had disappeared in globular explosions, but the Nebula Front had not been spared casualties, having lost two CloakShapes and one Z-95 Headhunter.

Only the Hawk-Bat-the light-freighter-size gunship of the mercenary known as Captain Cohl-had been a continuing menace to the Acquisitor, trying the fortitude of the freighter's new shields with disabling runs.

Just now, however, even the Hawk-Bat was in retreat, streaking off in the direction of Dorvalla's polar ice cap, the blue vortices of the gunship's thrusters visible from the Acquisitor backslash bridge.

"It seems we have driven them off," one of Lagard's subalterns remarked in the Neimoidian tongue.

Lagard grunted noncommittally.

"Captain Cohl must have issued the abandon-ship order," the subaltern continued. "The Nebula Front would rather see our lommite lost to space than allow it to reach our customers on Sluis Van." Lagard grunted again. "They may think they have struck a blow against the Trade Federation. But they will think again when Dor valla is forced to make restitution to us." The subaltern nodded. "The courts will stand with us." Lagard turned briefly from the view.

"Yes. But these acts of terrorism cannot be allowed to continue." "Commander,"

the communications officer intruded. "We are receiving a coded transmission from Commander Dofine." "From the Revenue?" "From an escape pod, Commander."

"Put the message through the annunciators, and ready the tractor beam to retrieve the escape pod." The bridge's speakers crackled to life. his Acquisitor, this is Commander Daultay Dofine." Lagard hastened to the center of the walkway. "Dofine, this is Commander Lagard. We will have you safely on board as quickly as possible." "Lagard, listen closely," Dofine said.

"Contact Viceroy Gun — ray. It is urgent that I speak with him immediately." "Viceroy Gunray? What is so urgent?" "That is for the viceroy alone to hear," Dofine hissed.

Realizing that he had suffered a loss of face, Lagard stung back. "And what of Captain Cohl, Commander Dofine? Is he in possession of your ship?"

Dofine's brief silence assured Lagard that the barb had found its mark.

"Captain Cohl fled the ship in a facsimile cargo pod." Lagard turned to the viewports. "Can you identify it?" "Identify it?" Dofine asked sharply. "It was a pod like all the others." "And the Revenue?

his "The Revenue is about to blow to pieces!" In the terrorists' pod, Boiny studied the instrument console in dismay. "Thirty seconds to detonation.

" "Cohl!" Rella yelled when he failed to respond. "Do something!" Cohl glanced at her, tight-lipped. "All right, jettison the husk." To a one, the terrorists settled back in relief, while Boiny tapped a flurry of commands into the console keypad.

"Charges activated," the Rodian reported.

"Separation in ten seconds." Cohl sniffed. "Times like this, you wish you could see the faces of your adversaries." Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan watched Cohl's pod on their separate screens. Abruptly, a series of small explosions ringed the humpbacked craft along its equator, and it split into two parts, revealing an oblate shuttle concealed inside.

The shuttle's fusial thrust engines ignited, and the craft rocketed away from the pieces of its discarded husk. Then the lower half exploded.

"That would be our thermal detonator," Qui-Gon said. "And the tracking device?" "Affixed to the hull of the shuttle and still functioning, Master,"

Obi-Wan reported, gazing at the flashing bezel. "Again, you have anticipated Captain Cohl." "Not without help, Padawan. You know what to do." Obi-Wan smiled as he reached for the controls. "I only wish I could see Cohl's face."

Cohl's mouth fell open as he watched the pursuing pod burst apart along a midline seam. Inside was a wingless Corellian Lancet, painted a telltale crimson from pointed nose to sleek-finned tail.

"It's flying Coruscant colors!" Boiny said in astonishment. "Judicial Department." "Matching us maneuver for maneuver," Rella reported as she wove the terrorist's shuttle through a swarm of cargo pods and clusters of loosed lommite ore.

"Gaining on us," Boiny updated.

Rella refused to accept it. "Since when do judicials pilot like that?"

"Who else could be piloting?" one of the humans asked. "It sure isn't Neimoidians." Cohl locked eyes with Rella.

"Jedi?" they said in unison.

Cohl considered it, then shook his head. "What would the Jedi be doing out here? This isn't Republic space. Besides, no one-and I mean no one-knew about this operation." Boiny and the rest were quick to agree. "The captain's right. No one knew about this operation." But the uncertainty in the Rodian's voice was glaring, and Cohl was suddenly aware that everyone was watching him.

"No one, Cohl?" Rella said leadingly.

He frowned at her. "Outside the Nebula Front, anyway." "Maybe the Force told them," Boiny mumbled.

Rella studied the displays. "We might still make the Hawk — Bat" Cohl leaned toward the shuttle's wraparound viewport. "Where is she?" "Holding at the rendezvous point above Dorvalla's pole." When, after a long moment, Cohl still hadn't responded, she added, "I'll just keep flying in circles while you make your mind up about what to do." Cohl looked at Boiny. "Run a surface scan of the shuttle hull." "Surface scan?" the Rodian asked dubiously.

"Now," Cohl said sharply.

Boiny bent over the console, then straightened in his seat.

"We're hosting a locator!" Cohl's eyes narrowed. "They're hoping to track us." "Correction, Cohl," Rella said. "They are tracking us." Cohl ignored the remark and glanced at Boiny again. "How much time before the Revenue blows?"

"Seven minutes." "Can you calculate the shape of the freighter's explosion?"

Boiny and Rella swapped troubled glances. "To a certain extent," the Rodian said in a tentative voice.

"Do it. Then give me your best estimate of the blast radius and the extent of the debris cloud." Boiny swallowed hard. "Even my best estimate is going to be plus or minus a couple of hundred kilometers, Captain." Cohl mulled it over in silence, then glanced at Rella. "Come about-hard." She stared at him. "It's confirmed: You've lost your mind." "You heard me," Cohl snapped. "It's back to the freighter for us." Just inside the magcon portal of the Acquisitor's portside hangar arm, Daultay Dofine crawled indecorously from the barrel-shaped escape pod the freighter's powerful tractor beam had retrieved.

The navigator and the rest followed him out.

Commander Lagard was on hand to meet them.

"It is an honor to rescue so celebrated a person," Lagard said.

Dofine adjusted the fit of his robes and straightened his command miter.

"Yes, I'm sure it is," he replied. "Did you do as I asked and contact Viceroy Gunray?" Lagard indicated the Neimoidian mechno-chair that had probably conveyed him from the bridge. "The viceroy is eager to hear what you have to report. As am I, Commander." Dofine pushed past Lagard to get to the chair, which immediately began to move off in the direction of the centersphere- no doubt at Lagard's remote behest.

A product of Affodies Crafthouse of Pure Neimoidia, the curious and prohibitively costly device had two sickle-shaped rear legs that terminated in single-claw feet, and a pair of double — clawed articulated guidance limbs.

The laser-etched designs that covered its metallic surface were modeled after the shell ornamentation of Neimoidia's sovereign beetle. Gyroscopically balanced, the high-backed chair was more status symbol than practical mode of transport, but Dofine had grasped that the chair had not been provided for his benefit.

Where one would have sat was a circular hologram plate, from which projected the miniature holopresence of Viceroy Nute Gunray himself, leader of the Neimoidian Inner Circle and a member of the seven-person Trade Federation Directorate. Impediments of interstellar origin dazed the feed with diagonal lines of noise.

"Viceroy," Dofine said, bowing in obeisance before he hurried to catch up with the slowly scuttling chair.

Gunray had a jutting lower jaw, and his thick lower lip was uncompanioned. A deep fissure separated his bulging forehead into two lateral lobes. His skin was kept a healthy gray-blue by means of frequent massages and meals of the finest fungus. Red and orange robes of exquisite hand fell from his narrow shoulders, along with a round-collared brown surplice that reached his knees.

Around his neck hung a pectoral of elongated teardrops of electrum, and a black tiara-triple-crested, with a pair of dangling tails-sat atop his regal head.

"What is so urgent, Commander Dofine?" Gunray asked.

"Viceroy, it is my sad duty to report that the Revenue has been seized by members of the Nebula Front.

The cargo of lom — mite ore floats in space, and, even as we speak, an explosive device counts down the moments to the ship's destruction." Realizing that he had forgotten to peel the timer from the back of his hand, Dofine retracted his hand into the loose sleeve of his robe.

"So Captain Cohl strikes again," Gunray said.

"Yes, Viceroy. But I bring news of an even more distressing nature."

Dofine glanced around him, in the hope that Lagard was out of earshot, but, of course, he wasn't. "The cache of au — rodium ingots," he said at last. "Cohl somehow knew about it. I had no recourse but to turn it over to him."

Expecting rebuke or worse, Dofine hung his head in shame as he trailed the mechno-chair. But the viceroy surprised him.

"The lives of you and your crew were at stake." "Just so, Excellency."

"Then stand tall, Commander Dofine," Gunray said.

"For what has happened today may well prove a boon for the Trade Federation, and a blessing for all Neimoidians." "A boon, Viceroy?" Gunray nodded. "I order you to assume command of the Acquisitor.

Recall the starfighters and withdraw the freighter from combat." "Cohl is headed back to the freighter," Obi-Wan said from the controls of the Judicial Department starfighter. "Could he have tricked the freighter into abandoning its cargo, even though it wasn't in jeopardy?" "I doubt it," Qui-Gon said. He pressed his face close to the Lancet's transparisteel canopy. "All of Gobi's support ships- — even the corvette-are distancing themselves from the Revenue.His""" "It's true, Master. Even the Aequisitor is under way." "Then we're safe in concluding that the freighter is marked for destruction. And yet, Captain Cohl is speeding toward it." "As we are, Master," Obi-Wan thought to point out.

"What could Cohl have in mind?" Qui-Gon asked himself aloud. "He's not a man to undertake desperate acts, Obi-Wan, let alone suicidal ones." "The shuttle isn't decelerating or changing course. Cohl is shooting straight for the starboard hangar arm." "Just where we started." Obi-Wan's brow began to furrow in concern.

"Master, we're getting awfully close. If the freighter is truly marked for destruction…" "I realize that, Padawan. Perhaps Captain Cohl is merely testing us." Obi-Wan waited a long moment before he allowed concern to show in his voice. "Master?" Qui-Gon watched the shuttle angle down toward the center of the circle that was the Revenue.

Stretching out with his feelings, he did not like what he found.

"Abort the pursuit, Obi-Wan," he said suddenly. "Quickly!" Obi-Wan fed full power to the Lancet's drives and pulled the yoke sharply toward him. At full boost, the ship climbed in a long loop away from the freighter.

Suddenly, the Revenue exploded. In the Lancet's cockpit, it was as if someone had draped a bright white curtain over the canopy. The small craft received a punch in the tail that sent it rocking forward, riding the crest of the detonation wave. Great hunks of molten durasteel streaked like comets to all sides. The Lancet shook to the breaking point, systems shorting out with showers of sparks, and displays showing nothing but noise before they darkened.

Glancing over his shoulder, Obi-Wan watched the Revenue burst into sections, the massive hangar arms making brief, fist — first contact, then rolling off to opposite sides, as two loosed crescents.

The centersphere and bridge tower spun away from the destroyed acceleration compensator stalk and what was left of the ship's trio of gaping exhaust ports.

Some distance away the Acquisitor was moving for the safety of Dorvalla's dark side.

Cohl's corvette and two of the support starfighters streaked away from the planet and made the jump to hyperspace.

"Dorvalla is either about to gain a moonlet or fall victim to a devastating meteor," Obi-Wan said when he could.

"I fear the latter," Qui-Gon said. "Contact Coruscant. Inform the Reconciliation Council that Dorvalla needs immediate emergency relief." "I'll try, Master." Obi-Wan began to flip switches on the console, hoping that at least some of the communications systems had survived the electronic storm that had accompanied the explosion.

"Is there any sign of Cohl's shuttle?" Obi-Wan glanced at the display screen. "No signal from the tracking device." Qui-Gon didn't reply.

"Master, I know Cohl hated the Trade Federation. But could he have cared so little about his own life?" Qui-Gon took a long moment to respond.

"What are the sixth and seventh Rules of Engagement, Padawan?" Obi-Wan tried to recall them. "The sixth is, Understand the dark and light in all things." "That is the fifth rule." Obi-Wan thought again. "Exercise caution, even in trivial matters." "That is the eighth." "Learn to see accurately."

"Yes," Qui-Gon said, "that is the sixth. And the seventh?" Obi-Wan shook his head. "I'm sorry, Master. I cannot recall it." "Open your eyes to what is not evident." Obi-Wan considered it. "Then this isn't the end of it." "Hardly, young Padawan. I sense instead a menacing beginning." CORUSCANT r The four walls of Finis Valorum's office, at the summit of the governmental district's stateliest if not most statuesque edifice, were made of transparisteel, paneled by structural members into a continuous band of regular and inverted triangles.

The city-planet that was Coruscant-was Scintillant Orb," "Jewel of the Core," choked heart of the Galactic Republic-spread to all sides in a welter of lustrous domes, knife-edged spires, and terraced superstructures that climbed to the sky. The taller buildings resembled outsize rocketships that had never left their launch pads, or the wind-eroded lava tors of long-dead volcanoes. Some of the domes were flattened hemispheres perched on cylindrical bases, while others had the look of shallow, hand-thrown ceramic bowls with finialed lids.

Striations of magnetically guided sky traffic moved swiftly above the cityscape-streams of transports, air buses, taxis, and limousines, coursing between the tall spires and over the measureless chasms like schools of exotic fish.

Instead of feeding, however, they were the feeders, distributing the galaxy's wealth among the greedy trillion to whom Coruscant was home.

As often as Valorum had beheld the view-which was to say, nearly every day of his now seven years as Supreme Chancellor of the Republic-he had yet to grow indifferent to the spectacle of Coruscant. As worlds went, it was neither large nor especially rugged, but history had transformed it into a uniquely vertical place, a vertical experience more common to ocean than atmospheric life.

Valorum's principal office was located in the lower level of the Galactic Senate dome, but he was generally so swamped by requests and business there that he reserved this lofty perch for meetings of a more private nature.

Pale hands clasped at his back, he stood at the bank of transparisteel windows that faced the dawn, though daybreak was hours behind him. He wore a magenta tunic that was high — collared and double-breasted, with matching trousers and a wide cummerbund. Southern light, polarized by the transparisteel panels, flooded the room. But Valorum's sole guest had taken a seat well out of the light's reach.

"I fear, Supreme Chancellor, that we face a monumental challenge,"

Senator Palpatine was saying from the shadows. "Frayed at its far-flung borders and hollowed at its very heart by corruption, the Republic is in grave danger of unraveling.

Order is needed, directives that will restore balance. Even the most desperate remedies should not be overlooked." Although such opinions had become the common sentiment, Palpatine's words pierced Valorum like a sword.

The fact that he knew them to be true made them all the more difficult to hear. He turned his back to the view and returned to his desk, where he sat heavily into his padded chair.

Aging with distinction, Valorum had a receding cap of shorn silver hair, pouches under piercing blue eyes, and dark, bushy brows. His stern features and deep voice belied a compassionate spirit and questing intellect. But as the latest in the line of a political dynasty that stretched back thousands of years-a dynasty many thought weakened by its uncommon longevity-he had never been fully successful at overcoming an innate patrician aloofness.

"Where have we gone wrong?" he asked in a firm but sad voice. "How did we manage to miss the portents along the way?" Palpatine showed him an understanding look. "The fault is not in ourselves, Supreme Chancellor. The fault lies in the outlying star systems, and the civil strife iniquity has engendered there." His voice was carefully modulated, occasionally world — weary, seemingly immune to anger or alarm. "This most recent situation at Dorvalla, for example." Valorum nodded soberly. "The Judicial Department has requested that I meet with them later today, so they can brief me on the latest developments." "Perhaps I could save you the trouble, Supreme Chancellor. As least in terms of what I've been hearing in the senate." "Rumor or facts?" "A bit of both, I suspect. The senate is filled with delegates who interpret matters as they will, regardless of facts." Palpatine paused, as if to gather his thoughts.

Prominent in a kind if somewhat doughy face were his heavy — lidded, watery blue eyes and rudder of a nose. Red hair that had lost its youth he wore in the provincial style of the outlying systems: combed back from his high forehead but left thick and long behind his low-set ears. In dress, too, he demonstrated singular allegiance to his home system, favoring embroidered tunics with V-shaped double collars and outmoded cloaks of quilted fabric.

A sectorial senator representing the outlying world of Na — boo, along with thirty-six other inhabited planets, Palpatine had earned a reputation for integrity and frankness that had set him high in the hearts of many of his senatorial peers. As he had made clear to Valorum in numerous meetings, both public and private, he was more interested in doing whatever needed to be done than in blind obedience to the rules and regulations that had made the senate such a tangle of procedures.

"As the Judicial Department is certain to tell you," he began at last, "the mercenaries who assaulted and destroyed the Trade Federation vessel Revenue were in the employ of the Nebula Front terrorist group. It seems likely that they gained access to the freighter with the complicity of dockworkers at Dorvalla. How the Nebula Front learned that the freighter was carrying a fortune in aurodium ingots has yet to be established. But clearly the Nebula Front planned to use the aurodium to finance additional acts of terrorism directed against the Trade Federation, and perhaps against Republic colonies in the Outer Rim." "Planned?" Valorum said.

"All indications are that Captain Cohl and his team of assassins perished in the explosion that destroyed the Revenue.

But the incident has had wide-ranging repercussions, nevertheless." "I'm well aware of some of those," Valorum said, with a note of disgust. "As a result of continuing raids and harassment, the Trade Federation plans to demand Republic intervention, or, failing that, senate approval to further augment their droid contingent." Palpatine made his lips a thin line and nodded.

"I must confess, Supreme Chancellor, that my first instinct was to refuse their requests out of hand. The Trade Federation is already too powerful-in wealth and in military might. However, I've since reassessed my position."

Valorum regarded him with interest. "I'd appreciate hearing your thoughts."

"Well, to begin with, the Trade Federation is made up of entrepreneurs, not warriors. The Neimoidians, especially, are cowards in any theater other than commerce. So granting them permission to enlarge their droid defenses- slightly, at any rate- doesn't concern me unduly. More important, there may be some advantage to doing so." Valorum interlocked his fingers and leaned forward.

"What possible advantage?" Palpatine took a breath. "In exchange for honoring their requests for intervention and additional defenses, the senate would be in a position to demand that all trade in the outlying systems would henceforth be subject to Republic taxation." Valorum sat back in his chair, clearly disappointed. "We've been through all this before, Senator. You and I both know that a majority of the senate has no interest in what happens in the outer systems, much less in the free trade zones. But they do care about what happens to the Trade Federation." "Yes, because the shimmersilk pockets of many a senatorial robe are being lined with graft from the Neimoidians."

Valorum snorted. "Self-indulgence is the order of the day." "Undeniably so, Supreme Chancellor," Palpatine said tolerantly. "But that, in itself, is no reason to allow the practice to continue." "Of course not," Valorum said. "For both my terms of office I have sought to end the corruption that plagues the senate, and to unravel the knot of policies and procedures that thwart us. We enact legislation, only to find that we cannot implement it. The committees proliferate like viruses, without leadership. No fewer than twenty committees are needed just to determine the decor of the senate corridors.

"The Trade Federation has prospered by taking advantage of the very bureaucracy we've created.

Grievances brought against the Federation languish in the courts, while commissions belabor each and every aspect. It's little wonder that Dorvalla and many of the worlds along the Rimma Trade Route support terrorist groups like the Nebula Front.

"But taxation isn't likely to solve anything. In fact, such a move could prompt the Trade Federation to abandon the outlying systems entirely, in favor of more lucrative markets closer to the Core." "Thus depriving Coruscant and its neighbors of important outer system resources and luxury goods," Palpatine interjected, seemingly by rote.

"Certainly the Neimoidians will see taxation as a betrayal, if for no other reason than the Trade Federation blazed many of the hyperspace routes that link the Core to the outlying systems. Regardless, this could be the opportunity many of us have waited for-the chance to exercise senate control over those very trade routes." Valorum mulled it over briefly. "It could be political suicide." "Oh, I'm well aware of that, Supreme Chancellor.

Proponents of taxation would suffer merciless attacks from the Commerce Guild, the Techno Union, and the rest of the shipping conglomerates awarded franchises to operate in the free trade zones. But it is the appropriate measure." Valorum shook his head slowly, then got to his feet and moved to the windows. "Nothing would cheer me more than getting the upper hand on the Trade Federation." "Then now is the time to act," Palpatine said.

Valorum kept his gaze fixed on the distant towers. "I could count on your support?" Palpatine rose and joined him at the view.

"Let me be frank about that. My position as representative of an outlying sector places me in an awkward situation. Make no mistake about it, Supreme Chancellor, I stand with you in advocating central control and taxation. But Naboo and other outlying systems will undoubtedly be forced to assume the burden of taxation by paying more for Trade Federation services." He paused briefly. "I would be compelled to act with utmost circumspection." Valorum merely nodded.

"That much said," Palpatine was quick to add, "rest assured that I would do all in my power to rally senate support for taxation." Valorum turned slightly in Palpatine's direction and smiled lightly. "As always, I'm grateful for your counsel, Senator. Particularly now, what with troubles erupting in your home system." Palpatine sighed with purpose. "Sadly, King Veruna finds himself enmeshed in a scandal.

While he and I have never seen eye to eye with regard to expanding Naboo's influence in the Republic, I am concerned for him, for his predicament has not only cast a pall over Naboo, but also over many neighboring worlds."

Valorum clasped his hands behind his back and paced to the center of the spacious room. When he swung to face Palpatine, his expression made clear that his thoughts had returned to issues of wider concern.

"Is it conceivable that the Trade Federation would accept taxation in exchange for a loosening of the defense restraints we have placed them under?"

Palpatine steepled his long fingers and brought them to his chin.

"Merchandise-of whatever nature-is precious to the Neimoidians. The continuing assaults on their vessels by pirates and terrorists have made them desperate. They will rail against taxation, but in the end they will tolerate it. Our only other option would be to take direct action against the groups that are harassing them, and I know that you're opposed to doing that."

Valorum confirmed it with a determined nod. "The Republic hasn't had a standing military in generations, and I certainly won't be the person to reinstate one. Coruscant must remain a place where groups can come together to find peaceful solutions to conflicts." He took a breath. "A better course would be to allow the Trade Federation adequate protection to defend itself against acts of terrorism. After all, the Judicial Department can't very well suggest the Jedi dedicate themselves to solving the Neimoidians' problems."

"No," Palpatine said. "The judicials and the Jedi Knights have more important matters to attend to than keeping the space lanes safe for commerce." "At least some constants remain," Valorum mused. "Just think where we might be without the Jedi." "I can only imagine." Valorum advanced a few steps and laid his hands on Palpatine's shoulders. "You're a good friend, Senator." Palpatine returned the gesture. "My interests are the interests of the Republic, Supreme Chancellor." caret Diu Sheathed from pole to pole in duracrete, plasteel, and a thousand other impervious materials, Coruscant seemed invulnerable to the vagaries of time or assaults by any would-be agents of entropy.

It was said that a person could live out his entire life on Coruscant without once leaving the building he called home. And that even if someone devoted his life to exploring as much of Coruscant as possible, he would scarcely be able to take in a few square kilometers; that he would be better off trying to visit all the far-flung worlds of the Republic.

The planet's original surface was so long forgotten and so seldom visited that it had become an underworld of mythic dimension, whose denizens actually boasted of the fact that their subterranean realm hadn't seen the sun in twenty-five thousand standard years.

Closer to the sky, however, where the air was continually scrubbed and giant mirrors lit the floor of shallower canyons, wealth and privilege ruled.

Here, kilometers above the murky depths, resided those who fashioned their own rarified atmospheres; who moved about by private skylimo, and watched the diffuse sun set blazing red around the curve of the planet; and who ventured below the two-kilometer level only to conduct transactions of a sinister sort, or to visit the statuary-studded squares that fronted those landmark structures whose sublime architecture hadn't been razed, buried, or walled in by mediocrity.

One such landmark was the Jedi Temple.

A kilometer-high truncated pyramid crowned by five elegant towers, it soared above its surroundings, purposefully isolated from the babble of Coruscant's overlapping electromagnetic fields, and holding forth against the blight of modernization. Below it stretched a plain of rooftops, skybridges, and aerial thoroughfares that had conspired to create a mosaic of sumptuous geometries-colossal spirals and concentricities, crosses and triangles, quilts and diamonds-great mandalas aimed at the stars, or perhaps the temporal complements of the constellations to be found there.

At once, though, there was something comforting and forbidding about the Temple. For while it was a constant reminder of an older, less complicated world, the Temple was also somewhat austere and unapproachable, off-limits to tourists or any whose desire to visit was inspired by mere curiosity.

The design of the Temple was said to be symbolic of the Padawan's path to enlightenment-to unity with the Force, through fealty to the Jedi Codes. But the design artfully concealed a secondary and more practical purpose, in that the quincunx of towers — comfour oriented to the cardinal directions, with a taller one rising from the center-were whiskered with antennae and transmitters that kept the Jedi abreast of circumstances and crises throughout the galaxy they served.

Thus had contemplation and social responsibility been given equal voice.

Nowhere in the Temple was that wedding of purposes more evident than in the elevated chamber of the Reconciliation Council. Like the High Council Chamber, at the summit of an adjacent tower, the room was circular, with an arched ceiling and tall windows all around. But, less formal, it lacked the ring of seats occupied only by the twelve members of the High Council, who presided over matters of momentous concern.

Qui-Gon Jinn had been back on Coruscant for three standard days before the Reconciliation Council had asked him to appear before it. During that time, he had done little more than meditate, peruse ancient texts, pace the Temple's dimly lighted hallways, or engage in lightsaber training sessions with other Jedi Knights and Padawans.

Through acquaintances employed in the Galactic Senate, he had been apprised of the Trade Federation's requests for Republic intervention in repressing acts of terrorism, and for permission to augment their droid defenses, in the face of continuing harassment. Although those requests were nothing new, Qui — Gon had been surprised to learn of the Trade Federation's claim that Captain Cohl, in addition to destroying the Revenue, had made off with a secret cache of aurodium ingots, rumored to be worth billions of credits.

The revelation was much on his mind as he went before the members of the Reconciliation Council, unaware that they, too, were interested in discussing the incident at Dorvalla.

Many held the opinion that Qui-Gon would have been seated on the council, if not for his penchant for bending the rules and following his own instincts- even when those instincts conflicted with the combined wisdom of the council members. This had not endeared him to his loftier peers. In fact, rather than treat him like a peer, they viewed his unwillingness to amend his ways and accept a seat on the council as a further sign of his incorrigibility.

The Reconciliation Council was made up of five members- though rarely the same five-and today there were only four on hand: Jedi Masters Plo Koon, Oppo Rancisis, Adi Gallia, and Yoda.

Qui-Gon fielded their questions from the center of the room, where he would have been permitted to sit but had elected to stand.

"How knew you, Qui-Gon, of Captain Cohl's designs on the Revenue, eh?"

Yoda asked as he paced the polished-stone floor, supported by his gimer stick cane.

"I have a contact in the Nebula Front," Qui-Gon replied.

Yoda stopped moving to regard him. "A contact, you say?" "A Bith," Qui- Gon said. "He made contact with me on Mala — stare, and later apprised me of Cohl's plan to attack the Revenue at Dorvalla. On Dorvalla, I was able to learn that Cohl had altered a cargo pod to suit his ends. Obi-Wan and I did the same." Yoda shook his head back and forth in seeming astonishment. "News, this is. One of Qui-Gon's many surprises." An ancient and diminutive alien-a patriarch, of sorts-Yoda had an almost human face, with large knowing eyes, a small nose, and a thin-lipped mouth. But most similarities to the human species ended there, for he was green from hairless crown to triple-digited feet, and his ears were large and pointed, extending from the sides of his wizened head like small wings.

A senior member of the High Council, he was something of a trickster, who preferred to teach by means of thought-puzzles and conundrums, rather than by lecture and recitation.

Yoda and Qui-Gon had a long-standing relationship, but Yoda was one of those who sometimes took issue with Qui — Gon's focus on the living Force over the unifying Force. As Qui-Gon explained it, he was simply built that way.

Even in lightsaber training, he rarely entered into a match with a strategy in mind. Instead he allowed himself to improvise, and to alter his technique according to the demands of the moment-even when the longer view might have helped him.

"Qui-Gon," Adi Gallia said, "we were given to understand that the Nebula Front had hired Captain Cohl. What was your contact's purpose in sabotaging an operation the Nebula Front itself had sanctioned?" She was a young and handsome human woman from Corellia, with exotic eyes, a long slender neck, and full lips. Tall and dark-complexioned, she wore a tight-fitting skullcap, from which dangled eight tails, resembling seed pods.

Qui-Gon turned to her. "The operation was not sanctioned. That's why my Padawan and I were there." Yoda lifted his gimer stick to point at Qui-Gon.

"Explain this, you must." Qui-Gon folded his thick arms across his chest.

"The Nebula Front speaks for many worlds in the Mid and Outer Rims, which contest the prohibitive practices and strong-arm tactics of the Trade Federation. Some of those worlds were originally colonized by species who fled the civilized repression of the Core. Fiercely independent, they want no part of the Republic. And yet, in order to trade, they are forced to do business with consortiums like the Federation.

Worlds that have attempted to ship with other enterprises have found themselves cut off from trade entirely." "The Nebula Front may have laudable goals, but their methods are ruthless," Oppo Rancisis commented, breaking a brief silence.

A scion of royalty from Thisspias, he had red-rimmed eyes and a tiny mouth in a large head that was otherwise covered entirely by dense white hair- piled high at the crown, and extending from his hidden chin in a long beard.

"Go on, Qui-Gon," Plo Koon told him from beneath the mask he was forced to wear in oxygen-rich environments. Like Rancisis, Koon had a keen mind for military strategy.

Qui-Gon tipped his head in a bow of acknowledgment. "Without trying to justify the actions of the Nebula Front, I will say that they tried to reason with the Trade federation before turning to acts of terrorism. Where they might have financed their operations by smuggling spice for the Hutts, they refused to deal with any species that condoned slavery. Even when they finally did turn to violence, they restricted their actions to interfering with Trade Federation shipments or delaying their vessels whenever possible." "Destroying a freighter is certainly one way to delay it," Rancisis said.

Qui-Gon glanced at him. "Gobi's actions were something new." "Then what drove the Nebula Front to escalate the violence?" Gallia asked.

Qui-Gon sensed that she was asking as much for the sake of the council as for Supreme Chancellor Valorum, with whom she had close ties. "My contact claims that the Nebula Front has grown a radical wing, and it is those militants who contracted with Captain Cohl. The Bith and many others were opposed to employing mercenaries, but the militants have assumed command of the organization." Yoda rubbed his chin in thought. "After the aurodium ingots, were they not?" Qui-Gon shook his head. "Frankly, Master, I'm not sure if I accept the Federation's claim." "You have reason to doubt it?" Koon asked.

"It's a question of method. The Trade Federation concedes a preoccupation with safeguarding their cargos.

Why, then, would they entrust a shipment of aurodium to a poorly defended freighter like the Revenue, when the more heavily armed Acquisitor was only a star system away?" "A point, he has," Yoda said.

"I consider the reason obvious," Rancisis disagreed. "The Trade Federation falsely assumed that no one would suspect the Revenue of harboring such wealth." "The question is of little consequence," Gallia said. "The use of mercenaries like Cohl signals the beginning of a coordinated campaign to counter the Trade Federation's droid defenses by force, and ultimately to overthrow Trade Federation influence in the outlying systems." "Fortunately, Captain Cohl is no longer a concern," Plo Koon remarked.

Yoda adopted a wide-eyed look. "Concern Qui-Gon, Cohl does." Qui-Gon felt the council's close scrutiny.

"I don't believe that he perished with the freighter," he said at last.

"You were there, were you not?" Rancisis asked.

"Saw it with his own eyes, he did," Yoda said, with a twinkle in his eye.

Qui-Gon compressed his lips. "Cohl planned for every eventuality. He wouldn't have piloted his craft into an explosion just to evade pursuit."

"Then why didn't you capture him as you hoped to do?" Rancisis asked.

Qui-Gon planted his hands on his hips, thumbs pointed behind him. "As Master Gallia has said, Cohl is only the beginning. My Padawan and I attached a tracking device to Cohl's ship, in the hope of tracking it to the Nebula Front's current base, which could be on one of the Rimma worlds that support the terrorists. After the explosion, the tracker failed to return a signal."

Gallia stared at him for a moment. "You searched for Cohl, Qui-Gon?" "Obi-Wan and I found no signs of his shuttle.

For all we know, he rode the leading edge of the explosion right down Dorvalla's gravity well." "You have informed the Judicial Department of your suspicions?" Rancisis asked.

"Some of Cohl's better-known haunts are under surveillance," Gallia answered for Qui-Gon.

Koon left his chair to stand alongside Qui-Gon. "Captain Cohl may be the best of his ilk, but there are many more like him, just as heartless, just as rapacious. The Nebula Front militants will have no trouble finding eager replacements." Rancisis nodded gravely. "This is something we need to watch closely." Yoda crossed the room, shaking his head back and forth. "Avoid a conflict with the Nebula Front, we must. Speak for many, they do. Compromise us, they will." "I agree," Rancisis said. "We can't afford to take sides."

"But we have to take sides," Qui-Gon blurted.

"I'm not an ally of the Trade Federation. But acts of terrorism by the Nebula Front won't be limited to freighters. Innocent beings will be endangered." Everyone fell silent, except for Yoda.

"A true Knight, Qui-Gon is," he said, with a note of gentle rebuke.

"Forever on his own quest." small, humid world disdained by an aging sun, ationei — moidia was a place to be avoided-even by Neimoidians. Instead of profiting from its relative proximity to self-reliant Corellia and industrialized Kuat, Neimoidia had actually suffered for its placement, having been passed over, time and again, by the fraternity of Core worlds. That heritage of being shunned had informed Neimoidian society.

Scorn had imparted to the species a conviction that progress came to only those who proved themselves not merely capable but predatory. Reaching the top of the food chain required that the bodies of the weak be used as stepping- stones. Once the summit was attained, it was held by seizing whatever resources were available and preventing others from grabbing them.

Those tenets were frequently offered as explanation as to how and why the Neimoidians had risen so rapidly to the fore of the Trade Federation, whose signature was callousness.

Neimoidia's most able typically left home at an early age, opting for lives of itinerant trading aboard the vessels of the Trade Federation fleet.

As a result, Neimoidia was scarcely populated by the weakest of the species, who tended to the planet's vast insect hives, fungus farms, and beetle hatcheries.

Viceroy Nute Gunray shared with his fellow self-exiles a peculiar distaste for his homeworld.

But circumstance had demanded that he meet with the members of his Inner Circle in a location that guaranteed protection from the prying eyes of Coruscant. And in that sense, Neimoidia provided the best possible sanctuary.

The problem inherent in returning home was that one couldn't escape recalling-on some level of cellular memory- — the seven formative years Neimoidians spent as puny, pale, wriggling grubs, in competition with every other grub for survival and the chance to mature into red-eyed, noseless, fish-lipped, and decidedly distrustful adults.

Adults, like Gunray, at any rate, who swathed their bodies in the finest raiment credits could buy, and who rarely, if ever, looked back.

The viceroy gave himself over to momentary reflection on such matters while the mechno-chair carried him to the meeting place, through cavernous halls of finely cut stone that mimicked the early hives, and past row after row of protocol droids standing at attention on both sides.

His ultimate destination was a dark, dank grotto, the antithesis of the gleaming bridges of Trade Federation freighters. On display were several examples of exotic flora left to fend for themselves in capturing what moisture they could from the stuffy air. The arching walls were graced with the twin emblems of piety and power: the Spherical Flame and the garhai-the armored fish that symbolized obedience and dedication to enlightened leadership.

Gunray's key advisers were waiting: Deputy Viceroy Hath Monchar and legal counsel Rune Haako. Each affected a black headpiece appropriate to his status.

Monchar's was a triple — crested crown, similar to but smaller than the one Gunray wore; Haako's was an elaborate cowl, with two horns in front, and a tall, rounded back.

The two advisers made deferential gestures to Gunray as the mechno-chair eased him onto his feet.

"Welcome, Viceroy," Haako said, approaching him stooped and limping, his left arm crooked by his side. "We hope you have not come in vain." Hollow- cheeked and somewhat spidery, he had a deeply lined face, bags under his eyes, and puckered flesh on his chin and thin neck.

Gunray made a harsh gesture of dismissal.

"He said he would come. That is enough for me." "For you," Monchar muttered.

Gunray glared at his deputy. "Events transpired just as he promised they would. Cohl's mercenaries attacked, and the Revenue was destroyed." "And this is a reason to rejoice?" Haako asked, his prominent voice box bobbing. "This plan of yours has cost the Trade Federation a class-I freighter and billions in aurodium." Gunray's nictitating membranes betrayed his seeming self — possession. He blinked repeatedly, then quickly regained his composure.

"One ship and a treasure box. If our benefactor really is who he claims to be, such losses are meaningless." Haako raised a palsied hand. "And if he is, he is a thing to fear, not to delight. And how can we be certain, in any case? What proof does he offer, Viceroy? He contacts you out of the ether, only by hologram. He can claim to be anyone." Gunray worked his jutting jaw.

"Who would be brain-dead enough to make such a claim without being able to support it?" He brought forth a portable holoprojector and set it down on a table.

When the Dark Lord of the Sith had first contacted him, months earlier, he seemed to know everything about Nute Gun — ray and his rise to personal power. How Gunray had testified to the Trade Federation Directorate against Pulsar Supertanker-at the time a participatory company within the conglomerate-accusing Pulsar of "malicious disregard for profit" and "charitable donations lacking discernible reward." Indeed, it appeared to have been that testimony and similar declarations of avidity that had first attracted the notice of Darth Sidious.

Even so, Gunray had remained as skeptical then as his advisers were now, despite demonstrations by Darth Sidious of his wide-ranging influence and sway. Secretly, Sidious had arranged for several key resource worlds to join the Trade Federation as signatory members, abdicating their representation in the Galactic Senate in exchange for lucrative trade opportunities, and, where possible, protection from smuggling concerns and pirates. And at each turn Sidious had made the procurements appear the doing of Gunray, thus helping to consolidate Gunray's increasing authority and assuring his appointment to the directorate.

As to whether Sidious's influence truly owed to Sith powers, Gunray could not say, nor did he care to know, based on what little he knew of the Sith-an ancient, perhaps legendary order of black mages, absent from the galaxy for the past thousand years.

Some referred to the Sith as the dark side of the Jedi; others claimed that it was the Jedi who had ended the reign of the Sith, in a war that had pitted dark and light against each other. Still others said the Sith, greedy for power, killed one another. But Gunray knew nothing of the truth of these things, and he hoped to keep it that way.

He stared pointedly at the holoprojector; the appointed moment was close at hand.

Gunray hadn't finished the thought when the head and shoulders of a cloaked apparition rose from the device, the cowl of his dark garment pulled down over his eyes, revealing a deeply furrowed chin and a jowly, aged face.

An elaborate broach closed the cloak at the neck.

When the figure spoke, his voice was a prolonged rasp.

"I see, Viceroy, that you have assembled your underlings, as I asked,"

Darth Sidious began.

Gunray knew that the word underlines wasn't going to find favor among Monchar and Haako. Though there was little he could do about that, he thought it best at least to attempt to rectify matters.

"My advisors, Lord Sidious." Sidious's face betrayed nothing. "Of course- your advisors." He paused for a moment, as if probing the incalculable distance that separated them. "I perceive an atmosphere of misgiving, Viceroy.

Has the aftermath of our plan failed to please you?" "No, not at all, Lord Sidious," Gunray stammered. "It's only that the loss of the freighter and the aurodium ingots is a matter of concern to some." He glanced with purpose at his two counselors.

"The others lack your grasp of the larger purpose, Viceroy," Sidious said with a note of disdain.

"Perhaps we need to reacquaint them with our intent to stir sympathy for the Trade Federation in the senate.

That is why we informed the Nebula Front militants of the shipment of aurodium. The loss of the ingots will further our cause. Soon you will have the politicians and bureaucrats eating out of your hands, and then the Trade Federation will at last have the droid army it needs. Baktoid, Haor Chall Engineering, and the Colicoids are waiting to fill your orders." Gunray began to fidget. "Army, Lord Sidious?" "The riches of the Outer Rim await those with the courage to grab them." Gunray gulped. "But, Lord Sidious, perhaps the time isn't right to take such actions-was "Not right? It is your destiny.

With a droid army to support you, who would dare question Neimoidia's authority to rule the space lanes?" "We would welcome the ability to defend ourselves against pirates and agitators," Rune Haako risked saying. "But we don't wish to break the terms of our trade treaty with the Republic. Not when the price of a droid army is taxation of the free trade zones." "So you've heard about Chancellor Valorum's intentions," Sidious said.

"Only that he is likely to give his full weight to the proposal," Gunray said.

Sidious nodded. "Rest assured, Viceroy, Supreme Chancellor Valorum is our strongest ally in the senate." "Lord Sidious has some influence in the senate?

" Haako asked carefully.

But Sidious was too clever to take the bait.

"You will come to learn that there are many that do my bidding," he said.

"They understand, as you will understand, that they serve themselves best by serving me." Haako and Monchar traded quick looks.

"The ruling members of the Trade Federation Directorate are not likely to sanction spending hard-earned profits on droids," Monchar said. "As it is, they consider us Neimoidians to be unnecessarily suspicious." "I am well aware of the opinions of your partners," Sidious rasped. "Be advised that foolish friends are no better than enemies." "Nevertheless, they will oppose this arrangement." "Then we will just have to find some way to convince them." "He doesn't mean to sound unappreciative, Lord Sidious," Gunray apologized. "It's simply that… It's simply that we don't really know who you are, and what you are capable of providing. You could be a powerful Jedi, hoping to entrap us."

"A. Jedi" Sidious said. "Now you do mock me. But you will see that I am a forgiving master. As to your concerns about my identity-my heritage, let us say-my actions will speak for me." The Neimoidians exchanged perplexed looks.

"What about the Jedi?" Haako asked. "They won't simply stand by." "The Jedi will do only what the senate bids them to do," Sidious said. "You are woefully mistaken if you believe they would jeopardize their lofty real estate on Coruscant to challenge the Trade Federation without Senate approval."

Gunray glanced meaningfully at his advisors before replying. "We place ourselves in your hands, Lord Sidious." Sidious almost smiled. "I thought you might see things my way, Viceroy. I know that you will not fail me in the future." The apparition vanished as abruptly as it arrived, leaving the three Neimoidians to ponder the nature of the shadowy alliance they had just entered into.

Sunlight was a stranger to Coruscant. The sun set as ever, but so ambient was the light from the cityscape's forest of sky — scraping towers that true darkness was a thing that prowled only the deepest canyons, or was summoned with purpose by those residents who could afford blackout transparisteel. From space, the planet's dark side sparkled like a finely wrought ornament strung with bioluminescent life-forms, such as might be displayed in an heirloom cabinet or a museum devoted to folk art.

The stars never appeared in the sky, except to those who resided in the tallest buildings. But stars of a different sort turned up nightly at Coruscant's celebrated entertainment complexes- — singers, performers, artists, and politicians. As a rule more faddish than the rest, the latter group had taken lately to attending the opera, following the lead of Supreme Chancellor Valorum, whose renowned family had been patrons of the arts for as long as anyone could remember.

In a galaxy boasting millions of species and a thousand times as many worlds, cultural arts were never in short supply. At any given moment a performance was debating somewhere on Coruscant. But few companies or troupes of any sort had the privilege of performing at the Coruscant Opera.

The building was a marvel of pre-Republic baroque, all frosting and embellishment, with an old-fashioned orchestra pit, tiered seating, and private balconies in the time-honored design.

As a nod to Coruscant's citizens, there was even a warren of lower-level galleries where common folks could view the performance via real-time hologram and pretend to be hobnobbing with celebrities seated overhead.

The opera of the moment was The Brief Reign of Future Wraiths, a production that had originated on Corellia, but was being performed by a company of Bith, who had been touring the opera world to world for the past twenty standard years.

A bipedal species with large rounded craniums, lidless black eyes, receding noses, and baggy epidermal folds beneath their jaws, Bith were native to the outlying world of Clak'dor VII, and were known to perceive sounds as humans perceived colors.

Considering that it was Finis Valorum's parents who had underwritten Brief Reign to begin with, it was only fitting that the supreme chancellor be on hand for the opera's long-awaited return to Coruscant. The mere fact that he would be attending had driven up the price of tickets and made them as difficult to procure as Adegan crystals. As a result, the building was more packed with luminaries than it had been in a long while.

As was customary, Valorum delayed his arrival, so as to ensure that he would be last to be seated.

Restless for a glance at him, the audience came to its feet in prolonged applause as he stepped onto the elaborate balcony that had been reserved for Valorum family members for well over five hundred years.

Eschewing his usual surround of blue-caped and helmeted Senate Guards, Valorum was accompanied only by his administrative aide, Sei Taria-in matching burgundy septsilk-a petite young woman half his age, with oblique eyes and skin the color of burrmillet grain.

In true Coruscant manner, rumors began circulating even before Valorum took his seat. But the Supreme Chancellor was inured to innuendo, not merely as an effect of his aristocratic upbringing, but also because of the fact that nearly every sectorial senator-marital status notwithstanding-had made it their practice to appear in public with attractive young consorts.

Valorum waved graciously and inclined his head in a show of benign sufferance. Then, before sitting down, he directed a second bow to a private balcony directly across the amphitheater.

The dozen or so prosperous-looking patrons in the balcony Valorum singled out returned the bow, and remained standing until Sei Taria was also seated- no small feat for the owner of the box, Senator Orn Free Taa, who had grown so corpulent during his tenure on Coruscant that his bulk filled the space of what had once been three separate seats.

Cerulean, with pouty red lips and eyelids, Taa had a huge oval face and a double chin the size of a bantha's feed bag. He was a Twi'lek of Rutian descent; his lekku head-tails, engorged with fat, hung like sated snakes to his massive chest. His gaudy robe was the size of a tent. Prominently on display was his Lethan Twi'lek consort, nubile and high-cheekboned, her red body draped in bolts of pure shimmersilk.

A member of the Appropriations Committee, Taa was a vocal opponent of Valorum, since his spice-producing homeworld of Ryloth had, time and again, been denied favored-world status.

Taa's guests in the box included Senators Toonbuck Toora, Passcl Argente, Edcel Bar Gane, and Palpatine, along with two of Palpatine's personal aides, Kinman Doriana and Sate Pestage.

"Do you know why Valorum loves to attend the opera?" Taa asked in Basic, out of the corner of his huge mouth. "Because it's the only place on Coruscant where an entire audience will applaud him." "And he does little more here than he does in the senate," Toora said. "He merely observes the protocols and feigns interest." Fabulously wealthy, she was a hairy biped with a wide mouth, a triple-bearded chin, and beady eyes and a pug nose squeezed onto the bony ridge that capped her squat head.

"Valorum is toothless," Passel Argente chimed in. A sallow — complexioned humanoid affiliated with the Corporate Alliance, he wore a black turban and bib that revealed only his face and the swirling horn that emerged from the crown of his head. "At a time when we need vigor, direction, unity, Valorum insists on taking the tried-and-true route. The route guaranteed not to upset the status quo." "Much to our enjoyment," Toora murmured.

"But a confidential bow," Taa said, as he was maneuvering into the chair that had been specially made to conform to his girth. "To what could we possibly owe the honor?" Toora gestured in dismissal. "This nonsense about the Trade Federation's requests. Valorum needs all the support he can muster if he's to succeed in convincing us to enact taxation of the free trade zones."

"Then it is even more curious that he should acknowledge us," Taa remarked. He motioned broadly to other balconies. "There, all but in Valorum's lap, sit Senators Antilles, Horox Ryyder, Tendau Bendon… Any of them, more than worthy of a bow." Taa raised his fat hand in a wave when the group in the box realized that they were being observed.

"Then the gesture must have been solely for Senator Palpatine," Toora remarked meaningfully. "From what I hear, our delegate from Naboo has the Supreme Chancellor's ear." Taa turned to Palpatine. "Is that so, Senator?"

Palpatine smiled lightly. "Not in the manner you imagine, I can assure you.

The Supreme Chancellor met with me to solicit my opinion as to how taxation might be received by the outlying systems.

We spoke of little else. In any event, Valorum scarcely needs my support to see the proposal through. He is not as ineffectual as many seem to think."

"Nonsense," Taa said. "It will come down to partisanship- a contest between the factions of Bail Antilles, and those who allow Ainlee Teem to speak for them. As ever, the Core worlds will stand with Valorum; the near colonies, against." "He's going to polarize the senate further," Edcel Bar Gane opined in a sibilant voice.

Representing the world of Roona, Bar Gane had a bulbous head and eyes that narrowed and slanted upward at their outer corners.

Toora absorbed the remark without comment. Once more, she eyed Palpatine.

"I'm curious, Senator.

Just what did you tell Valorum, with regard to the impact of taxation on the outer systems?" "Activate the balcony's noise cancellation feature, and I might be inclined to tell you," Palpatine said.

"Oh, do it, Taa," Toora enthused. "I so love intrigue." Taa flipped a switch on the balcony railing, activating a containment field that effectively sealed the box from audio surveillance. But Palpatine didn't speak until Sate Pestage-a trim human with pointed features and thinning black hair-had double-checked that the field was indeed functioning.

Pestage's actions impressed Argente. "Is everyone on Naboo as careful as you are, Senator?" Palpatine shrugged. "Consider it a personal flaw." Argente nodded soberly. "I'll remember that." "So tell us," Toora said, "is the Supreme Chancellor embarking on a dangerous course by taking on the Trade Federation?" "The danger is that he sees only half the picture," Palpatine began. "Though he would be the first to deny it, Valorum is essentially a bureaucrat at heart, just as his ancestors were.

He favors rules and procedure over direct action. He lacks judgment. The Valorum dynasty was largely responsible for granting the Trade Federation free rein decades ago. How do you think they accumulated their vast holdings?

Certainly not by favoring the outer systems. But by making gainful deals with the InterGalactic Bank Clan and corporations like TaggeCo. That this latest crisis should revolve around the Nebula Front is especially ironic, since Valorum's father had an opportunity to eradicate the group, and he failed, chastising them rather than disbanding them." "You surprise me, Senator," Toora said.

"In a good way, I think. Do go on." Palpatine crossed his legs and sat tall in his chair. "The Supreme Chancellor fails to grasp that the future of the Republic very much depends on what occurs in the Mid and Outer Rims. As corrupt as Coruscant has become, the real corrosion-the sort that can eventually eat away at the center-always begins on the edges. It progresses from the outside in.

"Unless Valorum does something to stay the tide, Coruscant itself will someday be a slave to those systems, unable to enact any legislation without their consent. Unless we placate them now, we'll be forced to bring them under central authority at some later date. They are the key to the survival of the Republic." Taa huffed. "Unless I misread you, you're saying that the Trade Federation is our link with those systems — comCoruscant's ambassador, if you will-and that therefore we can't afford to alienate the Neimoidians and the rest." "You are misreading me," Palpatine said firmly.

"The Trade Federation needs to be brought under control. Valorum is correct to push for taxation, because the Trade Federation already has too much influence in the outlying sectors. Desperate to conduct trade with the Core, hundreds of outer systems have joined the Federation as signatory members, yielding their rights to individual representation in the senate.

At the moment, the Neimoidians and their partners lack enough votes to block taxation. But in a year, in two years, they could have adequate backing to overrule the senate at every opportunity." "Then you'll stand with Valorum, " Toora said.

"You'll support taxation." "Not yet," Palpatine said carefully. "He views taxation as a means of punishing the Trade Federation and, at the same time, of enriching Coruscant-an approach that will alienate not only the Trade Federation members, but also the outlying systems. Before I cast Naboo's support with one side or the other, I want to see how the votes stack up. Just now, those who hold the middle ground stand to reap the most. Those who see all sides clearly will be in the best position to guide the Republic through this critical transition. If Valorum has sufficient support without the backing of my sector, so much the better. But I won't flinch in my obligation to do what is ultimately best for the general good." "Spoken like a future party whip," Taa said, with a guffaw.

"Indeed," Argente said, in all seriousness.

Toora appraised Palpatine openly. "A few more questions, if you wouldn't mind." Palpatine gestured toward the stage. "While I'd be glad to discuss these matters at greater length, the performance is about to begin." Outfitted in lackluster tunics and soft boots, the Jedi students stood in two opposing lines, two dozen lightsabers ignited in brilliant cast, raised in twice as many hands.

At a word from the lightsaber Master, the twelve students comprising one line took three backward steps in unison and set themselves in defensive postures-feet planted wide and lightsabers held straight out from their midsections.

Custom-built by each student, to suit hands of varying size and dexterousness, no two of the lightsabers were alike, though they did share some features in common: charging ports, blade projection plates, actuators, diatium power cells, and the rare and remarkable Adegan crystals that gave birth to the blade itself. There were few known materials in the galaxy that a lightsaber could not cut. Fully powered, and in the right hands, a lightsaber could cleave duracrete or burn its way slowly though a starship's durasteel blast doors.

At the next word from the Master, the second line set themselves in attack stances, giving their shoulders a quarter turn, lowering their center of gravity by bending slightly at the knees, and raising their lightsabers in two-fisted grips, as if to swat a pitched ball.

At the instructor's final word, the second line advanced in earnest. The students in the first line set their lightsabers to defend and, with choreographed precision, retreated purposefully as they allowed their opponents to hammer repeatedly at their elevated blades.

When the defenders had been driven halfway across the room, the lightsaber Master called the exercise to a halt and had the groups reverse positions.

Now it was those who had defended who attacked, the blades of light thrumming and grating riotously against one another, auras merging, filling the air of the training room with blinding flashes of illumination.

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan watched from an observation gallery set slightly above the room's padded floor, deep within the pyramid that was the Jedi Temple's towering base. The exercise had been going on all morning, but only a few of the students showed signs of fatigue.

"I can remember this like yesterday," Obi-Wan said.

Qui-Gon quirked a smile. "It's a good deal of yesterdays for me, Padawan.

" Though separated by more than a score of years, they had both passed their youths in the Temple, as was the case with all Jedi, whether students, Padawans, Jedi Knights, or Masters. The Force revealed itself in infancy, and most potential Jedi were residents of the Temple by the age of six months, either discovered on Coruscant or distant worlds by full-fledged Jedi, or delivered to the Temple by family members. Tests were frequently used to establish the relative vitality of the Force residing in candidates, but those tests didn't necessarily forecast where a candidate might end up; whether he or she, human or alien, might take up the lightsaber in defense of peace and justice, or pass a lifetime of service in the Agricultural Corps, helping to feed the galaxy's poor or deprived.

"As often as I trained, I always worried that I lacked the temperament to become a Padawan, let alone a Jedi Knight," Obi-Wan added. "I fought harder than anyone to mask my self-doubt." Qui-Gon glanced at him askance, his arms folded. "If you had fought a bit harder, Padawan, you surely would have remained in the Agricultural Corps. It was when you stopped trying so hard that you found your path." "I couldn't keep my mind in the moment." "And you still can't." Twelve years earlier, Obi-Wan had been assigned to the Agricultural Corps on the planet Bandomeer, and it was there that he had formed a connection with Qui-Gon, whose previous Padawan had fallen to the dark side of the Force and left the Jedi Order. But despite the bond he and Qui-Gon had formed, there were times when he wondered if he had the makings of a Jedi Knight.

"How do I know that the Agricultural Corps wasn't my intended path, Master? Perhaps our meeting on Bandomeer was a fork in the path I shouldn't have taken." Qui-Gon finally turned to him. "There are many paths to take, Obi-Wan. Not all of us are fortunate enough to find the one with heart, the path the Force has set before us. What do you find when you search your feelings about the choices you have made?" "I feel that I've found the right path, Master." "I agree." Qui-Gon clapped Obi-Wan on the shoulders, then smiled as he turned to regard the students. "Even so, I think you would have made a good field hand." The students were kneeling in two rows, legs tucked underneath, with feet crossed behind them. The room was still, save for the sound of the lightsaber Master's bare feet adhering to the floor mat as he sauntered between the two rows, appraising each of his students.

A Twi'lek, with slender head-tails and a heavily muscled upper body, his name was Anoon Bondara, a duelist of unparalleled skill. Qui-Gon engaged him in matches at every opportunity. For a match with Bondara, no matter how brief, was more instructive than twenty contests against lesser opponents.

The lightsaber Master stopped in front of a female human student named Darsha Assant, who happened also to be his Padawan. Bondara squatted down on his haunches to regard her at eye level.

"What were you thinking when you attacked?" "What was I thinking, Master?

" "What was in your thoughts? What was your intent?" "Merely to be as forceful as possible, Master." "You wanted to win." "Not to win, Master. I wanted to strike impeccably." Bondara made a face. "Rid yourself of thinking.

Don't expect to win; don't expect to lose.

Expect nothing." Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon. "Now where have I heard that before?" Qui-Gon shushed him, without taking his eyes from Bondara, who was in motion once more.

"The lightsaber is not a weapon with which to vanquish foes or rivals,"

Bondara said. "With it, you destroy your own greed, anger, and folly. The forger and wielder of a lightsaber must live in such a manner as to represent the annihilation of anything that impedes the path of justice and peace." He stopped and glanced at everyone. "Do you understand?" "Yes, Master," They replied in one voice.

Bondara clapped his hands together loudly. "No, you don't.

You must learn to hold the lightsaber by loosening your grip on it. You must learn to advance rhythmically so that you will learn to produce formless rhythms. Do you understand?" "Yes, Master," they replied.

"No, you don't." He scowled and sat down at the end of the rows. "I will tell you a story.

"A human, wrongly accused of a crime, was being transported by repulsorlift vehicle across the desert wastes of a remote world, to a prison, located even deeper in the wastes. Without warning, the vehicle experienced a malfunction directly over a pit that was, in fact, the huge and ravenous mouth of a creature that inhabited the wastes.

"The sudden malfunction catapulted the human's escorts down into the mucus-coated maw of the creature. The human was also thrown from his perch.

But at the last instant he was able to grab on to the vehicle's landing strut.

Not with hands, however- for they were shackled in stun cuffs behind him- but with his teeth.

"Shortly a caravan of travelers happened by.

Lost and hungry, the travelers inquired to know the whereabouts of the closest settlement, so they might replenish their meager stores.

"The human found himself in a quandary. By failing to respond, he understood that he might be sentencing the lost travelers to certain death in the sand wastes. But merely by opening his mouth and uttering a word, he would be sentencing himself to certain death in the digestive tract of the sand creature." Bondara paused. "Under such circumstances, what must the human do?"

The students knew in advance that they were not likely to hear the answer from Anoon Bondara.

Getting to his feet, the lightsaber Master added, "I will hear your responses tomorrow." The students bowed at the waist and kept their foreheads to the mat until Bondara had left the room. Then they rose, eager to compare opinions of the training session, though not a one spoke of possible solutions to the instructor's thought-puzzle.

Qui-Gon tapped Obi-Wan on the shoulder.

"Come, Padawan, there's someone I wish to speak with." Obi-Wan trailed him down the steps and onto the soft floor. There, several Jedi Masters were conferring with their Padawans. Obi-Wan knew some of the Masters slightly, but the person Qui-Gon steered them toward was not someone he had ever met.

She was perhaps one of the most exotic women Obi-Wan had ever seen. Her eyes were oblique and widely spaced, with large blue irises that seemed to favor her upper lids. Her nose was broad and flat, and her skin was the color of fruitwood.

"Obi-Wan, I want you to meet Master Luminara Unduli." "Master Jinn," the woman said, taken by surprise, and inclining her head in a bow of respect.

Qui-Gon returned the gesture. "Luminara, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi, my Padawan." She bowed her head to Obi-Wan, as well. Her face was triangular in shape, and the lower portion was tattooed in small diamond shapes that formed a vertical stripe from her lush, blue — black lower lip to the tip of her round chin. The backs of her hands also bore tattoos, atop each knuckle joint.

Qui-Gon's expression became serious.

"Luminara, Obi-Wan and I have had a recent encounter with someone who bears markings similar to yours." "Arwen Cohl," Luminara said before Qui-Gon could go on. She smiled faintly. "Had I grown up on my homeworld and not in the Temple, I'm certain I would have heard tales of Arwen Cohl throughout my youth." She met Qui-Gon?ness curious gaze. "He was a freedom fighter, a hero to our people during a war fought with a neighboring world. He was a great warrior, and he made many sacrifices. But soon after our people won their freedom, he was accused of being a conspirator by the very people on whose side he had fought.

That was their way of assuring that Cohl would not be elevated to the position of authority our people wished him to assume. He spent many years in prison, subjected to cruel punishments and harsh conditions, and those further hardened a man who already had been hardened by war.

"When he left those conditions-whichenough he escaped that awful place, with the help of some of his former confederates-he avenged himself on those who did him wrong, and he swore that he would have nothing more to do with the world that he had fought so hard to liberate.

"He became a mercenary, boasting openly that he would never make the mistakes he had once made. That he now understood the nature of the cosmos, and would always be one step ahead of those who would seek to bring him down, capture him, or in any way thwart him." Qui-Gon inhaled through his nose. "Did he bear any special grudge against the Trade Federation?" Luminara shook her head. "No more than anyone else in my home system. The Trade Federation brought us into the Republic, though they did so at the expense of my world's resources.

"In the beginning, Arwen Cohl would hire himself out only to those whose cause he felt was justified. But over time-noto doubt because of the blood he shed-he became nothing more than a pirate and a contract killer. He was said never to have betrayed a friend or an ally." She paused for a moment, then added, "It is regrettable that history will remember the criminal Cohl rather than the exemplary Cohl. I was sad to hear that he had perished at Dorvalla."

When Qui-Gon didn't respond, Luminara asked, "Did he not?" Qui-Gon appeared preoccupied. "For now, I'll grant that he vanished at Dorvalla." Luminara nodded uncertainly. "Whether Cohl is dead or alive, the matter is in the hands of the Judicial Department, is it not?" Again, Qui-Gon took a moment to respond.

"All that is certain is that Cohl's destiny is in hands other than mine."

c arbon scored and blistered by the explosion that had sundered the freighter, an arc of the Revenue's starboard hangar arm hung over Dorvalla's wan polar cap. Just outside the reach of the planet's shadow, the great curve of durasteel appeared to have been there forever. Perpetual sunlight poured in through the main hangar portal-where the arm's hand might have been- — illuminating a shambles of cargo pods and barges.

Affixed like a barnacle to the inner hull, however, sat a lone battered shuttle. Inside the shuttle, and even the worse for wear, sat her crew of eight.

"I'm still waiting for that pardon you promised," Cohl said to Rella.

She shot him a look. "If and when you get us out of this, and not a moment before." They were each in their chairs, as were the others, some of them asleep, heads pillowed on folded arms or hung backwards with mouths ajar.

Lighting was faint, the air was frigid, and the scrubbed and rescrubbed oxygen had a distinctly metallic taste.

The much-abused refresher was rank.

They had been inside the arm for almost four standard days, subsisting on food pellets and relieving the boredom by putting on EVA suits and venturing out into the hangar. Where the shuttle had artificial gravity, moving about in the arm was like exploring a deep — sea wreck. Many of the cargo pods had massed along the outer wall of the arm, but clouds of lommite and tangles of droids drifted about like flotsam and jetsam. Boiny had even discovered the body of one of the Twi'leks who hadn't made it back to the rendezvous point, burned almost beyond recognition by blaster fire.

They hadn't planned on remaining in the hangar arm after the explosion.

But once it had been determined that the arm was just outside the tug of Dorvalla's gravity, Cohl had decided that the hangar would be the best place to bide their time. The Hawk — Bat and the Nebula Front support ships had fled, and even the Acquisitor had disappeared-a fact that Cohl found curious, since it was unlike the Neimoidians to leave cargo behind, jettisoned or otherwise.

Another option would have been to race for Dorvalla's surface, to what had been their base before the boarding operation. But Cohl suspected that the base had been discovered and would probably be under surveillance.

When Rella and some of the others had suggested striking out instead for nearby Dorvalla IV, it was Cohl who reminded them that salvage and relief ships would be on their way to Dorvalla, and a lone shuttle, crawling through space, would certainly attract unwanted attention.

In fact, salvage crews had arrived within local hours of the explosion.

Since then, Dorvalla Mining had been employing their ferries to gather up what cargo pods they could, though much of the lommite had plunged into the atmosphere, as if bent on returning home. The detached centersphere and the other hangar arm had been hauled off, in advance of Dorvalla's bringing them down. Soon the salvagers would turn their efforts to the starboard arm.

For Cohl, the long days were no more than tedious; nothing like the years of confinement he had endured after being imprisoned on false conspiracy charges by people he had fought beside and had counted as friends. Because the rest of the shuttle's crew trusted him implicitly, they, too, suffered the monotony without complaint. Most of them were stoic by nature and no strangers to privation, in any case. Anyone who wasn't wouldn't have been selected for the operation.

Only Rella was inclined to speak her mind. But she and Cohl had an understanding.

"Anything on the comm?" Cohl asked Boiny.

"Not a peep, Captain." Rella snorted. "Who are you expecting to hear from, Cohl? The Hawk-Batis long gone." Cohl looked past her to the Rodian.

"What's the status of the systems?" "Nominal." Rella growled impatiently. "You know, I can last in here as long as any of you, but this litany is driving me space happy." She mimicked Cohl's voice, "Systems status," then Boiny's, "Nominal." She gave her head a shake. "Can't you at least come up with other ways of saying it?" "Here's something that will cheer you up, Rella," Jalan said irritably. "The arm's orbit is deteriorating." She forced her eyes wide open. "If you mean we're actually in danger of falling from the sky, you're right: I'm thrilled!" Jalan looked at Cohl. "No imminent danger, Captain. But we should probably begin to think about leaving." Cohl nodded. "You're right.

It's time we bid good-bye to this place. Served us well, though." Rella raised her eyes to the low ceiling. "Thank the stars." "Where are we off to, Captain?

" Boiny asked.

"Downside." "Captain, I hope you're not thinking of riding this thing down to Dorvalla," Jalan said. "The salvage crews will-was Cohl shook his head negatively. "We're returning to base under our own power." The crew members traded uneasy looks.

"Begging your pardon, Captain," Jalan said, "but didn't you say the base was probably being watched?" "I'm sure it is being watched." Rella stared at him for a moment. "Are you scrambled, Cohl? We've been monitoring Judicial Department ships for the past four days, not to mention Dorvalla Space Corps corvettes.

If you wanted to be caught, why did you make us sit through-was She gestured broadly. his-comth?" The others muttered in agreement.

"Even if we make it to the base in one piece," Rella went on, "what happens then?

Without a spaceworthy ship, we'll be stranded." "Maybe Dorvalla IV'S worth a shot, after all, Captain," Jalan interjected. "If we manage to make it… I mean, with the Nebula Front likely thinking that we're dead, and all that au — rodium right here with us…" Rella cast Cohl a sly glance. "Are you listening?" Cohl firmed his lips. "And when the Nebula Front learns that we survived? You don't think they'll move planets to hunt us down?" "Might not matter, Captain," Boiny said guardedly. "That much aurodium could buy all of us new lives in the Corporate Sector or somewhere." Cohl's gaze darkened.

"That's not going to happen.

We took this job on, and we'll see it through. Then we collect our pay."

He swung angrily to Rella. "Begin your preflight. The rest of you, prepare for launch." The small ship burned its way through sunlit Dorvalla's nebulous envelope, red nose aglow and losing pieces of itself to the thin air. The crew cinched their harnesses tighter and focused silently on their separate tasks, even as items broke loose from the consoles and began to carom around the cramped cabin-space like deadly missiles.

Rella aimed the trembling shuttle for a broad valley in the equatorial region, defined by two steep escarpments. There, where ancient seas had once ruled and plate tectonics had wreaked havoc with the terrain, the land was blanketed by thick forest, with trees and ferns primeval in scale.

Massive, sheer-faced tors, crowned with rampant vegetation, rose like islands from the forest floor.

Blinding white in the sunlight, the tors were the birthplace of waterfalls that plunged thousands of meters to turbulent turquoise pools.

But for all the wildness, it wasn't a wilderness.

Dorvalla Mining had carved wide roads to the bases of most of the larger cliffs, and two circular landing fields, expansive enough to accommodate ferries, had been hollowed out of the forest. The tors were gouged and honeycombed with mines, and a thick layer of lom — mite dust blanketed much of the vegetation.

Likewise the product of outsize machines, deep craters filled with polluted runoff water reflected the sun and sky like fogged mirrors.

It was from here, with an assist from several disenfranchised employees of Dorvalla Mining, that Cohl had finalized his plans for boarding the Revenue.

But not all of Dorvalla expressed a loathing for the Trade Federation, much less a tolerance for mercenaries; certainly not those who saw the Trade Federation as Dorvalla's salvation, as the planet's only link to the Core Worlds.

The shuttle was leveling out of its bone-rattling ride down the well when a blunt-nosed ship tore past to port, intent on making its presence known.

"Who was that?" Rella asked, reflexively ducking as the sonic boom of the ship's passing overtook the shuttle.

"Dorvalla Space Corps," Boiny reported, his black orbs fixed on the authenticators. "Coming about for another pass." Cohl swiveled his chair to the viewport to watch the ship's lightning-fast approach. It was a fixed-wing picket ship, single — piloted but packing dual laser cannons.

"Incoming transmission, Captain," Boiny said.

"They're ordering us to set down." "Did they ask us to identify ourselves?" "Negative. They just want us on the ground." Cohl frowned. "Then they already know who we are." "That Judicial Department Lancet," Rella said, turning to Cohl. "Whoever was piloting it probably registered our drive signature." The picket ship screamed overhead, closer this time.

"Another pass like that and they're going to knock us to the ground, Captain," Jalan warned.

"Stay on course for the base," Cohl ordered.

The picket barrel-rolled through a tight loop and came back at them once more, this time firing a burst from its forward laser cannons. Red hyphens streaked across the shuttle's rounded nose.

"They mean business, Captain!" Boiny said.

Cohl swung to Rella. "Keep an eye out for a place to crash." She gaped at him. "You mean land, don't you?" "As I said," Cohl emphasized. "Until then, all speed. Get us as close to the base as you can." She gritted her teeth.

"There had better be an aurodium ring at the end of this thrill ride, Cohl."

"The picket's firing." "Evasive," Cohl said.

"No good, Captain. We can't outmaneuver it!" The picket's lasers stitched a ragged line across the shuttle's tail, flipping it through a complete rotation. What had been a steady roar from the engines became a distressed whine. Flames licked their way through the aft bulkhead, and the cabin began to fill with thick, coiling smoke.

"We're dirtbound!" Rella shouted.

Cohl clamped his right hand on her shoulder. "Hold her steady! Fire repulsors and brace for impact." Trailing black smoke as it swept past one of the tors, the shuttle clipped the top of the forest canopy, pruning huge branches from the tallest trees. Rella managed to keep them horizontal for a moment more, then they began to nosedive. The ship slammed into a massive tree and slued to starboard, spinning like a disk as it buzz-sawed through the upper reaches of the canopy.

Birds flew screeching from the crowns, as wood splintered to all sides.

Seat restraints snapped, and two of the crew were flung like dolls into the starboard bulkhead. Rolled over on its back, the shuttle rocketed toward the forest floor.

The viewports cracked, spiderwebbed, then blew into the cabin.

Contact with the ground was even harsher than any of them had anticipated. The starboard stabilizer plowed into the leaf — littered soil at an acute angle, causing the ship to flip like a tossed coin. Seats tore loose from the deck, and instrumentation ripped away from the bulkheads. The roll seemed to go on forever, punctuated by the deafening clamor of collisions. The hull caved in, and conduits burst, loosing noxious fluids and gases.

All at once it was over.

New sounds rilled the air: the pinging of cooling metal, the hiss of punctured pipes, the boisterous calls of frightened birds, the tattoo of falling limbs, fruits, and whatever else, striking the hull. Coughs, whimpers, moans…

Gravity told Cohl that they were still upside down.

He unclipped his harness and allowed himself to drop to the ceiling of the shuttle. Rella and Boiny were already there, bruised and bleeding, but regaining consciousness even as Cohl went to them. He put an arm under Rella's shoulders and took a quick look around.

The rest of the crew were surely dead, or dying.

Satisfied that Rella would be all right, Cohl sprang the portside hatch.

Moisture-saturated heat rushed in on everyone, but blessed oxygen, as well. Cohl bellied outside and immediately consulted his comlink's compass display.

Unaccustomed to standard gravity, he felt twice his weight. Every motion was laborious.

"Did Jalan make it?" Rella asked weakly.

The human answered for himself. "Barely." Cohl squirmed back inside.

Jalan was hopelessly wedged beneath the console. He placed a hand on Jalan's shoulder. "We can't take you with us," he said quietly.

Jalan nodded. "Then let me take a few of them with me, Captain." Rella crawled over to Jalan. "You don't have to do this," she started to say.

"I'm most-wanted in three systems," he cut her off. "If they find me alive, they're only going to make me wish I was dead anyway." Boiny looked at Cohl, who nodded.

"Give him the destruct code. Rella, separate the ingots into four equal allotments.

Put two allotments in my pack, one in yours, and one in Boiny's." He glanced back at Boiny. "Weapons and aurodium only. No need for food or water, because if we don't make it to the base, Dorvalla Penal will be providing all of that for us. If that isn't inspiration enough for you, I don't know what to tell you." Moments later the three of them exited the ship.

Cohl shouldered his weighty pack, took a final compass reading, and set off toward a nearby tor at a resolute clip. Rella and Boiny kept up as best they could, climbing steadily under thick canopy for the first quarter hour while the picket ship made pass after pass in search of some sign of them.

From the high ground, at the base of the lommite cliff, they could see the picket ship hovering over the treetops.

Rella grimaced. "He found the shuttle." "Unlucky for him," Cohl said.

No sooner had the words left Cohl's mouth than an explosion ripped from the forest floor, catching the picket ship unawares. The pilot managed to evade the roiling fireball, but the damage had already been done. Engines slagged, the fighter listed to port and dropped like a stone.

A second picket ship roared overhead, just as the first was exploding. A third followed, angling directly for the base of the tor where Cohl and the others were concealed.

The picket poured fire at the tor, blowing boulder-size chunks of lommite from the cliff face. Cohl watched the ship complete its turn and set itself on course for a second run. As it approached, a deeper, more dangerous sound rolled through the humid air. Without warning, crimson energy lanced from the underbelly of the clouds, clipping the picket's wings in midnight.

Unable to maneuver, the fighter flew nose first into the cliff face and came apart.

"That's another one we won't have to worry about," Cohl said, loud enough to be heard over the roar in the sky.

Rella raised her head in time to see a large ship tear overhead.

"The Hawk-Bat!" She glanced at Cohl in surprise. "You knew.

You knew she would be down here." He shook his head. "The contingency plan called for her to be here. But I didn't know for sure." She almost smiled. "You may get that pardon yet." "Save it for when we're safely aboard."

The three of them scampered to their feet and began a hurried descent of a scree field skirting the cliff face. Not far away, her weapons blazing, the Hawk-Bat was setting down at the center of a Muddy and befouled catch basin.

T Thousands of sentient species had a home on Coruscant, though it might be only a kilometer-high block of nondescript building.

And nearly all those species had a voice there, though it might be only that of a representative long corrupted by the diverse pleasures Coruscant offered.

Those manifold voices had their say in the Galactic Senate, which sprouted like a squat mushroom from the heart of Corus — cant's governmental district. Surrounded by lesser domes and buttressed buildings whose summits disappeared into the busy sky, the senate was fronted by an expansive pedestrian plaza. The plaza itself lorded over a sprawl of spired skyscrapers and was studded with impressionistic statues thirty meters high, dedicated to the Core World founders. Angular and humaniform in design, the long-limbed and genderless sculptures stood on tall duracrete bases and held slender ceremonial staffs.

The iconic motif was continued inside the senate, where many of the public corridors that encircled the rotunda featured statues of similar spindly design.

Proceeding briskly along one of those corridors, Senator Pal — patine marveled at the fact that the senate had yet to commission and display sculptures of nonhumanoid configuration. Where some delegates were willing to dismiss the lack of nonhuman representation as a simple oversight, others viewed it as an outright slight. To still others, the decor was a matter of small concern, either way. But with nonhumanoid species dominant in the Mid and Outer Rims, and their delegations fast overwhelming the senate-to the secret dismay of many a Core World human delegate-changes were certainly in order.

With its multilevel walkways, corridors, and vertical and horizontal turbolifts, the hemispherical building was as labyrinthine as the inner workings of the senate itself. Courtesy of Supreme Chancellor Valorum's announcement of a special session, the corridors were even more jammed than usual, but Palpatine was heartened to find that the delegates could still be motivated to set aside their personal affairs for matters of broader import.

Flanked by his two aides, Doriana and Pestage, he smiled pleasantly as he threaded his way toward the rotunda, easing past the blue-robed Senate Guard stationed at the doorway and stepping down into ationaboo's balcony platform in the vast amphitheater.

One of 1,024 identical balconies that lined the inner wall of the dome, the platform was circular and spacious enough to accommodate half a dozen or more humans. Each balcony was actually the apex of a wedge-shaped slice of the building- stretching from the rotunda clear to the outer rim of the hemisphere-in which the separate delegations were quartered, and where most of the senate's mundane affairs and illicit business were transacted.

Adjusting the fall of his elaborate cloak, Palpatine stepped to the podiumlike console at the front lip of the platform. Given Naboo's elevated position in the rotunda, the view to the floor was vertiginous.

The amphitheater was purposely sealed off from natural light, as well as from Coruscant's dubious atmosphere, to minimize the effects of nightfall on the delegates; that is, to encourage everyone to remain focused on the matters at hand, despite the possibility that the sessions might continue late into the evening. But more and more citizens had come to view the rotunda's unnatural circumstances as symbolic of the senate's insularity — comxs separation from reality. The senate was thought to exist apart, debating issues of minor or occult concern, save for those that touched directly on the illegal enrichment of its membership.

Nevertheless, Palpatine sensed renewed intensity in the recycled air.

Gossip had alerted everyone to the topics Valorum planned to discuss, but many were eager to hear for themselves and hungry to respond.

In an effort to take a measure of senatorial opinion regarding taxation of the outlying trade routes, Palpatine had spent the past few days meeting with as many senators as possible. Gently, he had attempted to persuade the undecided into backing Valorum, so that the Supreme Chancellor might carry the day without the support of Naboo and its neighboring worlds. At the same time, Palpatine had devised alternative plans, sufficient for dealing with a host of eventualities.

His own sense of urgency took him by surprise; the buzz in the rotunda was that infectious. But just as he had done at the opera, Valorum delayed his arrival. By the time the Supreme Chancellor finally showed himself, the atmosphere was agitated.

Valorum's perch was a thirty-meter-tall dais that rose from the center of the floor like the stalk of a flower. Conveyed to the bud of the flower by turbolift, Valorum stood alone, with the senate's sergeant-at-arms, parlimentarian, journal clerk, and official reporter seated below him in a round dish that cradled the bud. Echoing the predominant color scheme of the amphitheater, he wore a lavender brocade cloak, with voluminous sleeves and matching cummerbund.

It occurred to Palpatine as he applauded that the Supreme Chancellor's lofty position made him as much a center of attention as target of opportunity.

When the clapping and the occasional verbal accolades had gone on long enough, Valorum held up his hands in a gesture that begged silence.

His first words brought a faint smile to Pal-patine's lips.

"Delegates of the Galactic Senate, we find ourselves beset by a confluence of sobering challenges.

Frayed at its far-flung borders by internecine skirmishes and hollowed at its very heart by corruption, the Republic is in grave danger of unraveling.

Recent events in the Mid and Outer Rim demand that we stem the rising tide of strife by restoring order and balance. So dire is our plight, that even extreme measures should not be dismissed out of hand." Valorum paused briefly to allow his words to sink in.

"The free trade zones were originally created to foster exchange between the Core Worlds and the outlying systems of the Mid and Outer Rims. At the time, it was thought that free and open trade would prove a benefit to all concerned. But those zones have since become a haven not only for smugglers and pirates, but also for shipping and trading cartels that have availed themselves of the liberties we ensured, by setting themselves up as entities of political and military leverage." Murmurs of concurrence and discord stirred the already impassioned air.

"The Trade Federation comes before us with a request that we do something to safeguard commerce in the outlying sectors. They are within their rights to request this, and we are obliged by our covenant to respond. But in a very real sense it is the questionable practices of the Trade Federation that have made it a target for thieves and terrorists." Valorum raised his voice to be heard over hundreds of separate conversations, in as many tongues.

"In the same way, we must accept some of the blame for this, since it was this body that granted the Trade Federation such latitude, and it is this body that has chosen to turn a deaf ear time and again to what transpires in the outlying systems. This practice cannot be allowed to continue. The Trade Federation has become a bloated creature, ingesting lesser concerns and refusing to do business with worlds that seek to ship with its few remaining competitors. It would not be overstatement to say that these trade zones are no longer free.

"And yet the Trade Federation comes before us to solicit our help in putting an end to the disorder it has fashioned.

"The Federation asks for protection-as if this body can blithely deploy a military force against the pirates and terrorists who prey on the Federation's freighters. As if this body could provide starfighters and Dreadnaughts and, in so doing, turn the free trade zones inffcctested space-a battleground.

"There is, however, a solution to all this. If the Trade Federation wants us to ensure that the outlying systems be made safe for commerce-a task that will require action from this body, as well as from the many systems that lie within the free trade zones- then those planetary systems must be brought into the Republic as member worlds. Those worlds that the Trade Federation currently represents in the senate must abjure their affiliation with the Federation and bring their individual voices to this hall, to be heard as autonomous systems once more." Valorum allowed the grumbling to go on for several moments before he gestured again for silence.

"We urge that the worlds of the free trade zones move quickly and decisively. Terrorist groups like the Nebula Front are merely the tip of a more deep-seated discontent. By working in accordance, the volunteer militaries and space corps of the affected systems can quell local insurrections before they swell to widespread revolution.

"The direct consequence of this will be the abolition of the free trade zones. The trade routes to those outlying systems that join the Republic would henceforth be subject to the same taxation that applies to routes in the Core, the Colonies, and the Inner Rim. I urge you to consider that such action is long overdue.

For free trade is no longer that when all trade is controlled by one cartel." Clamorous cheers and boos punctuated the air, but reaction was not as mixed as Palpatine had feared it might be. Still, he was disappointed. Valorum had made a case for taxation without addressing any of the consequences or the possible compromises that might be made.

Before such a motion could be enacted as legislation, special interest groups-on the payroll of the Trade Federation or similar concerns-would register their protests. Then the motion would move to committee, where it would be further weakened. After that, it would be burdened with ancillary legislation, aimed at appeasing the special interest groups and lobbyists.

Finally, it would be endlessly debated, in the hope of continued deferral.

But there were ways to cut through the bureaucratic tangle. Exasperated, Palpatine glanced around the amphitheater, wondering who would make the first move — comfiguratively and literally.

It was the Neimoidians who acted, loosing their balcony from the inner wall and directing it to the center of the rotunda. Detached, the platforms resembled sleeker versions of the repulsorlift air taxis that filled Coruscant's skies. Word had it that some of the platforms moved more rapidly than others-even on autopilot-which was crucial, since delegates frequently raced to be recognized by the Supreme Chancellor.

"We recognize Delegate Lott Dod," Valorum said, "representing the Trade Federation." Lott Dod wore rich robes and a tall, black miter. A saucer — shaped hovercam with a single antenna rushed in to broadcast his flat-faced likeness to the screens built into the display consoles of the balconies.

"We submit that the senate does not have the right or the authority to enact taxation of the outlying trade zones.

This is nothing more than a ploy to break up our consortium.

"It was the Trade Federation who opened the hyperlanes to the outlying systems, who risked the lives of its space-faring captains to bring formerly primitive worlds into the Republic, and new resources into the Core.

"Now we learn that we are expected to defend ourselves against the mercenaries and pirates who masquerade as freedom fighters, merely to enrich themselves at our expense. We come before you asking for aid, and instead become the victim of an indirect attack." From delegations representing the Commerce Guild and the Techno Union came loud shouts of encouragement.

"If the senate does not wish to intercede with the Nebula Front-or, indeed, if it is incapable of doing so," Dod continued, "then it must at least grant us what we need to defend ourselves. As it is, we are defenseless in the face of far superior fighters." Where some cheered and some booed, Valorum merely nodded. "Commissions can be appointed to determine if additional defense capabilities are warranted at this time," he said sternly.

Another balcony dropped from the curved wall.

"We recognize Ainlee Teem, delegate of Malastare," Valorum said.

A Gran, Teem had a trio of eyestalks that were thick and closely set.

"Since the Trade Federation is willing to defend itself, at its own expense, there is no justification for taxing the trade routes." Teem's voice was deep and abrasive. "We have precedent in the Corporate Alliance.

Otherwise, it appears that the Republic is interested in nothing more than skimming profits from those who endangered themselves to blaze the hyperspace routes now used by one and all." Half the amphitheater applauded. But even in the midst of it, a third platform was floating to the center.

"We recognize Bail Antilles of Alderaan." "Supreme Chancellor," the human said with great emotion, "under no circumstances should the senate allow the Trade Federation to augment its droid defenses.

If the Nebula Front has succeeded in making certain sectors dangerous, then the Federation should avoid those trouble spots until such time as the involved sectors find a way to counter terrorism. By sanctioning increases to the Trade Federation's defenses, we imperil the balance of power throughout the Outer Rim." "And what becomes of the worlds in those contested sec tors?"

Senator Orn Free Taa of Ryloth asked, his blue head-tails draped over the bodice of an exorbitant cloak. "How do we trade with the Core? With whom do we ship?" Rejoinders flew fast and furious from all sides of the chamber- from the Wookiee delegation, the Sullustans, the Bimms, and Bothans.

Valorum attempted to quote the rules, but many of the senators had had enough of the rules, and shouted him down.

"The Trade Federation will seek to offset the taxes by charging more for their services," the Bothan delegate argued. "The outlying systems will, in turn, be forced to assume the burden of taxation." Palpatine saw what was coming and quickly dispatched black-cloaked Sate Pestage to deliver a handwritten note to the sergeant-at-arms, who relayed the note to the Supreme Chancellor.

Valorum received the message a moment after the Bothan delegate had demanded to know how the credits garnered from taxation would be allocated.

Lifting his eyes from the note, Valorum glanced at the Na — boo balcony before responding. "I propose that a percentage of the revenues garnered through taxation be allocated for relief and development of the outlying systems." Cheers roared from most of the upper-tier balconies, and many of the senators in the platforms there came to their feet to applaud. Closer to the floor, encouragement came from Wookiee Senator Yarua, Tendau Bendon of Ithor, and Horox Ryyder, who represented thousands of worlds in the Raioballo sector.

Palpatine made a mental note of the naysayers, including Toonbuck Toora, Po Nudo, Wat Tambor, and other delegates. Then he detached the platform and dropped for the center of the rotunda, chased by two hovercams.

"We recognize the senator from the sovereign system of Na — boo," Valorum said.

"Supreme Chancellor," Palpatine said, "may I suggest that, while many important points have been made, these issues are far from resolved, and should perhaps be explored in greater depth in a different forum, after everyone has had an opportunity to reflect on what has been said." Valorum appeared confused for a moment. "What sort of forum, Senator Palpatine?"

"Before the motion goes to committee, I propose that a summit be held, where delegates from the Trade Federation and its signatory members can meet openly to offer their solutions to these… "sobering challenges," as you say." The same senators who had cheered Valorum, now applauded Palpatine.

Uncertainty and perhaps vague misgiving drained some of the color from Valorum's face. "Do you have some specific location in mind, Senator?" he asked.

Palpatine considered it. "May I suggest…

Eriadu?" A platform joined Palpatine's at the center of the rotunda. The delegation's dark-complexioned human members wore loose — fitting garments and cloth turbans.

"Supreme Chancellor," their spokesman said, "Eriadu would be honored to host such a summit." Senator Toora seconded the motion and moved to enact a moratorium on the taxation proposal.

Valorum had no choice but to comply.

"I will confer with all relevant parties and set a date for the summit,"

he said when the furor had abated. "With regard to taxation of the outlying trade routes, there will be a moratorium on the voting process until the summit concludes and all view points have been expressed. Furthermore, as a sign of the senate's commitment to foster peace and stability, I shall attend the summit personally." Many in the rotunda rose and applauded.

Valorum's gaze found Palpatine and lingered on him for a moment.

Palpatine smiled and nodded conspiratorially.

s porting jagged wounds it hadn't had when it had first appeared over Dorvalla, or later, when it had settled down to retrieve Cohl and what was left of his team, the Hawk-Bat floated in space, gravitationally anchored to a buff-colored world of arid mountain ranges and ice-blue seas. Five CloakShape starfighters surrounded her, with a sixth nuzzled up to the gunship's starboard airlock. Far beyond the ships spread a band of space mines, made to resemble asteroids.

On the Hawk-Bat's side of the airlock, Cohl waited vigilantly for his visitors to board. His bare arms were lacerated from the razor ferns he had been forced to forge through on Dorvalla, and his dark face, with its eye mask of diamond-shaped tattoos, was bruised black and blue beneath his beard.

Adding severity to features many thought ferocious to begin with, his coiled hair framed his countenance like the hood of a serpent.

The airlock's indicator light flashed.

"Do you want me to disappear?" Rella asked from behind him.

She was in even worse shape than Cohl. Her left eye was con cealed by a bacta patch and her left forearm wore a plascast. Boiny remained in a bacta tank.

Cohl shook his head without taking his gaze from the airlock. "Stick around. Keep your blaster handy." Rella drew the weapon from the holster on her right hip and checked the charge.

The airlock hissed opened, and a slim human and a reptilian humanoid stepped into the corridor, dressed alike in caftans, coarsely woven trousers, and knee-high boots.

The latter had tough, corrugated skin, iridescent in sunlight, and hands the size of scoopball mitts. His flat face had multiple nostrils, and four small horns protruded from his forehead. From his left hand dangled a sizable carrycase.

"Welcome to Asmeru, Captain Cohl," the human said in Basic. "It's good to see you alive and comparatively well." Cohl nodded curtly in greeting. "Havac.

" Havac motioned to his hulking partner. "You remember Cindar." Cohl nodded again. Neither he nor the Hawk-Bat's scanners saw signs of concealed weapons on the pair.

"Rella," he said, motioning to her by way of introduction.

Havac smiled and extended his hand to her in a courtly gesture. "How could I forget?" "Let's go forward, where we can talk," Cohl said.

He appraised his guests as they walked. Havac wasn't the human's real name, but rather his combat name. A former holo — documentarian, Havac had been an alien-rights activist during the Stark Hyperspace Conflict and had spent the past several years chronicling the various abuses of the Trade Federation. In fact, he had no stomach for violence, but he was sharp and had a talent for treachery.

He and Cindar weren't characteristic of the thousands of human and nonhuman members of the Nebula Front. But they were standard issue in the organization's burgeoning militant wing. Now headquartered on the arid planet below, the Front had recruited from worlds up and down the Rimma Trade Route, from Sullust to Sluis Van, but only the Ancient Houses that ruled the Senex sector had granted them a base of operations.

"Where's the rest of your crew, Captain?" Havac asked over his shoulder.

The question hit Cohl like a just-remembered nightmare.

It was the same question he had asked the commander of the Revenue days earlier, when Cohl's team had numbered twelve.

"You might say that a lot of them never left Dorvalla space," he said finally.

It took Havac a moment to grasp Cohl's meaning, then he frowned in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that, Captain. We thought we'd lost you, as well.

" Cohl shook his head. "Not a chance." "Half the Rim is talking about what happened at Dorvalla. We really weren't expecting you to obliterate the Revenue." "I don't like to waste time-especially when I'm dealing with Neimoidians," Cohl said. "They'd sooner sacrifice themselves than their cargo.

Fortunately, the Revenue's commander was more cowardly than most of them.

As for destroying the freighter, you can consider that a gift." The four of them entered the main forward cabin and seated themselves around a circular table. Cindar placed the carrycase at the center of the table.

"I have to hand it to you, Captain," Havac said, "you've got the Trade Federation running scared.

They've even solicited help from Coruscant." Cohl shrugged. "No harm in trying." Havac leaned forward with a certain eagerness. "You have the aurodium?" Cohl glanced at Rella, who unclipped a remote from her belt and keyed a short code. A small repulsor sled bearing a lockbox lifted off the deck nearby and floated toward the table.

Rella entered another code and the lid of the box opened, its contents of ingots spilling rainbow light into the cabin.

Havac's and Cindar's eyes widened.

"I can't tell you what this will mean to us," Havac said.

But a hint of suspicion had crept into his partner's gaze. "It's all here?" Cindar asked.

Cohl's neutral look became a glare. "What are you asking me?" The humanoid shrugged. "Just wondering if any of it happened to get misplaced along the way." Abruptly, Cohl reached across the table, grabbing Cindar by the front of his caftan and yanking him forward. "That treasure is bloodied.

Good people died bringing it to you." He pushed Cindar back into his seat.

"You'd better put it to good use." "Stop this, please," Havac said.

Cohl glowered. "You don't like violence-except on your orders, is that it?" Havac studied his hands, then lifted his eyes. "Rest assured that the aurodium will be put to good use, Captain." Cindar smoothed the front of his garment, but was otherwise unruffled by Cohl's fury. He slid the carrycase forward. Cohl removed it from the tabletop and set it down on the deck.

Cindar watched him for a moment, then said, "Aren't you going to ask if it's all there?" Cohl stared at him. "Let me put it this way.

For every credit it's short, I'll take a kilo of meat from you." "So, I'd be a fool," Cindar said with a grin.

Cohl nodded. "You'd be a fool." Rella handed the remote to Havac, and Cindar closed the lid on the lockbox.

"Where's the aurodium going?" Cohl asked mildly.

Havac looked surprised. "Captain, did I ask what you're planning to do with your payment?" Cohl smiled. "Fair enough." Following the exchange, Rella turned to Cohl.

"I'm sure he plans to donate it to his favorite charity." Havac laughed.

"You're not far off the mark." "Here's another bonus for you, Havac," Cohl said. "We had some unexpected trouble at Dorvalla. Someone infiltrated the Revenue using the same technique we used. They hid a ship inside a cargo pod, just like we did. They tracked us when we left the freighter and came close to ruining what I thought was a secure plan.

Their ship turned out to be a Judicial Department Lancet." Havac and Cindar traded surprised looks.

"Judicials?" Havac said. "At Dorvalla, of all places?" Cohl watched them carefully. "Actually, I think they were Jedi." Havac's incredulity increased.

"Why do you think that?" "Call it a hunch. The point is, no one was supposed to know about that operation." Havac sat back in his seat, perplexed. "Now it's my turn to wonder, Captain. What are you asking me?" "Who else in the Nebula Front knew about the operation?" Cindar snorted in derision. "Think it through, Cohl. Why would any of us sabotage our own campaign?" "That's what I'm asking," Cohl said. "It could be that not everyone down below agrees with your methods-your hiring us, for example. Someone could have been trying to sabotage you, not me." Havac nodded. "Thank you, Captain. I'll bear that in mind." He paused briefly, then said, "What's next for you two?" "We thought we'd retire from mayhem," Rella said, taking hold of Cohl's left hand at the same time. "Maybe take up moisture farming." Havac grinned. "I can see that.

The two of you on Tatooine or somewhere, living among banthas and dewbacks.

It's just your style." "Why the curiosity?" Cohl said.

Havac's grin straightened. "We may have something big in the works.

Something perfectly suited to your talents." He glanced at Rella, then back at Cohl. "It would pay enough to guarantee your retirement." Rella shot Cohl a warning look. "Don't listen to him, Cohl. Let someone else hire out to the Nebula Front." She cut her eyes to Havac. "Besides, we plan to retire in high style." "You want to retire rich?" Cindar said. "Buy a Neimoidian for what he's worth, then sell him for what he thinks he's worth." "The job I have in mind would allow you to retire in high style," Havac baited.

"Cohl," Rella said, "are you going to tell these guys to take a hike back to their own ship, or do I have to do it?" Cohl let go of her hand and tugged at his beard.

"It can't hurt to hear them out." "Yes, it can, Cohl, yes, it can." He looked at her, then laughed shortly.

"Rella's right," he told Havac. "We're not interested." Havac heaved his shoulders and stood up, extending his hand to Cohl. "Come and see us if you have a change of heart." Much closer to the Core, the Acquisitor had returned home. Sullen Neimoidia rotated slowly beneath the ring-shaped freighter. As was the case in the far-off Senex system, meetings of a sinister sort were under way; discussions centered around weapons and strategy, destruction and death. But the ships that had brought the Acquisitor' "s guests had had no need to sidle up to airlocks. Not when the hangar arms themselves were commodious enough to conceal an invasion army.

In zone two of the port arm, balanced atop his claw-footed mechno-chair, sat Viceroy Nute Gunray, in rich burgundy robes and triple-crested tiara. Off to Gunray's right stood legal counsel Rune Haako and Deputy Viceroy Hath Monchar; and to Gun — ray's left, the Acquisitor's new commander, smallish Daultay Dofine, fresh from the debacle at Dorvalla and still bewildered by his unexpected promotion.

In the center of the hangar floor hunkered a double-winged behemoth, which bore a vague resemblance to Neimoidia's gauzy — winged needle fliers.

Ponderously exiting the wide-open jaws of the behemoth's foot ramp rode thickly armored, russet-colored vehicles that might have been modeled on charging banthas- backs humped in anger, huffing clouds of hot exhaust, laser cannons extended like tusks. And behind those came droid-operated repulsorlift tanks, with shovel-shaped prows and top-mounted gun turrets.

Prototype war machines, the gargantuan landing craft, the monstrous multitroop transports, and the sleekly styled tanks had been designed and built by Haor Chall Engineering and Baktoid Armor, whose alien representatives were standing in full view of Gunray and beaming with pride.

To Haor Chall, especially, design perfection amounted to a religious edict.

"Behold, Viceroy," Haor Chall's insectoid representative said, gesturing with all four arms to the closest transport, whose circular deployment hatch, hinged at the top, was just swinging open.

Gunray watched in amazement as a rack telescoped from the hatch and dozens of battle droids unfolded themselves before his eyes.

"And this, Viceroy," Baktoid's winged representative added.

Gunray's red eyes moved back to the landing craft in time to see a dozen airhooks soar toward the upper reaches of the hangar arm. Blade-thin vehicles with twin footrests and top-mounted blasters, all were piloted by droids, whose backward leaning postures made them appear to be hanging on to the slender handlebars for dear life.

Gunray was speechless.

While he had never seen their like, in each of the prototypes he recognized elements of the very machines the Trade Federation had employed for centuries in transporting natural resources and other commodities. In the fuselage of the double-winged landing craft, for example, he recognized the Federation's narrow ore barge. But Haor Chall had set the fuselage on a pedestal and capped it with two enormous wings, presumably kept from sagging by powerful tensor fields.

Despite the animistic look Baktoid had imparted to the troop transports, Gunray recognized the Trade Federation's own repulsorlift cargo pod, built on an even more gargantuan scale. As for the folding battle droids and the Single Trooper Aerial Platforms, they were simply variations of Baktoid's security droids, and Longspur and Alloi's Bespin airhooks.

But one thing was clear: everything he was being shown spoke less to spaceborne defense than to groundside deployment. The realization was more than Gunray could absorb; more than he wished to absorb.

"As you have probably observed, Viceroy," Haor ChalPs representative was saying, "the Trade Federation already has most of the raw materials needed to create your army." He motioned to the representative from Baktoid. "In partnership with Baktoid, we can convert your security and worker droids to battle models, and your barges and cargo pods to landing craft." "More units, less money," the Baktoid representative added.

"Best of all, since the components of the landing crafts can be stored in various places-wings, fuselages, and pedestals- they can be assembled at a moment's notice. You could place one landing craft in each of a hundred freighters, or a hundred landing craft in but one of your freighters-for singularly thorny circumstances. Either way, none who come aboard to inspect your freighters will comprehend what they are seeing. As our mutual friend says, you will have an army without giving the appearance of having an army."

"Mutual friend," Rune Haako muttered, just loudly enough for Gunray to hear.

"When Darth Sidious says do this, it is performed." "We enjoy dealing with Neimoidians," Baktoid's representative stepped forward to say, "because of the enthusiasm and awe you demonstrate for our creations. Therefore, we have other weapons in mind for you: starfighters that will no longer have to rely on droid pilots, but will themselves answer to a central control computer.

"You may even wish to contact the Colicoids of Colla IV, who are rumored to have developed a combat droid capable of rolling to its destinations." The alien gestured broadly to the immense hangar. "Perfect for covering the vast distances inside your freighters, and defending against boarding parties."

Gunray heard Dofine swallow audibly, but, once more, it was Haako who spoke.

"This is madness," he said, lowering his voice and limping closer to the mechno-chair. "Are we merchants, or are we would — be conquerors?" "You heard Darth Sidious," Gunray hissed. "These weapons will ensure that we remain merchants. They are our guarantee that groups like the Nebula Front or mercenaries like Captain Cohl will never again risk going against us. Ask Commander Dofine. He'll tell you." "Darth Sidious keeps us in servile tearfulness," Haako said, blinking repeatedly.

"What can we do, otherwise? Instead of honoring our request for additional defenses, the senate threatens us with taxation. We need to take matters into our own hands if we are to protect our cargos. Or would you have us continue to lose ships to terrorists, in addition to losing profits to taxation?" "But the other members of the directorate-his" "For the time being, they are to not to know anything of this. We will apprise them of these things gradually." "And only if necessary." "Yes," Gunray said. "Only if necessary." w ith its countless dark canyons, precipitous ledges, hidden recesses, and jutting parapets-its surfeit of places to hide in plain sight- Coruscant invited corruption. Its very geography inspired secrecy.

Palpatine had been on Coruscant for several years, and he felt that he knew the place better than many lifelong residents did. He knew it the way a jungle cat knew its territory. He had an instinctual understanding of its shirting moods, and an instinctual feel for its power spots and dangerous zones. It was almost as if he could see the coiling blackness that inhabited the senate, and the refulgent light that poured from the spires of the Jedi Temple.

It was a wonderful place to be for someone who had long been a scholar, a historian, a lover of art, and a collector of rare objects; someone with a passion for exploring life's manifold heights and depths.

Frequently he would shrug off his elaborate cloak and take up the simple dress of a trader or a recluse. He would throw a hood over his head and wander the lightless abysses, the dark paths and neglected plazas, the tunnels and alleyways, the seedy underworld. Anonymous, he would make trips to the equator, the poles, and other remote places. Beneath his ambitions-for himself, for Naboo, for the Republic at large-he had always been unassuming, and that apparent lack of guile allowed him to pass without being recognized; to all but disappear in a crowd, as only a person of solitude might-as one who had kept his own company for so many years.

And yet, others sought him out. Perhaps for the very reason that he revealed so little about himself. Initially he assumed that others found his reclusiveness intriguing, as if he led a secret life. But he quickly learned that what they really wanted to do was talk about themselves; to solicit not his counsel but his ear, trusting that he would guard the secrets of their lives as closely as he guarded his own.

That had been the case with Valorum, who had forged a relationship with Palpatine at the start of the Supreme Chancellor's second four-year term of office.

What Palpatine lacked in charisma, he made up for in candor, and it was that directness that had led to his widespread appeal in the senate. Here was Palpatine, with his ready smile; above corruption, above deception or duplicity, a kind of confessor, willing to hear the most banal confessions or the basest of misdeeds without passing judgment-aloud, at any rate. For in his heart he judged the universe on his own terms, with a clear sense of right and wrong.

He looked to no other guide than himself.

Among the delegates who represented the worlds of the outlying systems, his reputation was particularly exalted, primarily because tiny Naboo was one of those worlds, all by itself at the edge of the Mid Rim, with Malastare- home to Gran and Dugs-itso only neighbor of significance. Like many of its neighbors, Naboo was ruled by an elected monarch — comand an unenlightened one, at that-but it was a peaceful world, unspoiled, rich in classic elements, and inhabited not only by humans, but also by a mostly aquatic indigenous species known as Gungans.

When most of his peers had left public service at the accepted age of twenty, Palpatine had elected to remain a politician, and his tenure on Coruscant had provided him with singular insight into the afflictions that vexed the outlying star systems.

It was while befriending a group of Bith delegates that he first learned of the Nebula Front, and later, it was a Bith who introduced him to some of the members who commanded the organization.

By rights Palpatine should have had nothing to do with terrorists, but the founding members of the Nebula Front were neither fanatics nor anarchists.

Many of their grievances with the Trade Federation, and Coruscant, were legitimate. More important, wherever the Federation was involved, it was difficult to remain impartial.

Had Palpatine been one of the many senators receiving Trade Federation kickbacks, it would have been easy to look the other way, or to turn a deaf ear-as Valorum had put it. But as the representative of a world that depended on the Trade Federation for food and other imports, as Naboo did, it was impossible to dismiss what he had heard and seen.

Eventually, the Bith had introduced him to the Front's newest leader, Havac.

For previous meetings with Havac, Palpatine had selected out-of-the-way places in Coruscant's lawless lower levels. But the current crisis in the senate had necessitated that they exercise a greater measure of secrecy, so Palpatine had chosen a humans only club in Coruscant's midlevel-a place where patricians could gather for t'bac, brandy, games of dejarik, and quiet reading- and where there were actually fewer prying eyes than lower down. He had taken the added precaution of informing Havac of the location at the last possible moment. As tactically minded as Havac was, he lacked the expertise to catch Palpatine with his guard lowered.

"Valorum is audacious," Havac said angrily, as soon as they were seated at a table in the club's hardwood-paneled dining room. "He has the gall to announce a summit in the Outer Rim-on Eriadu, no less-without asking the Nebula Front to participate." "Unlike the Trade Federation," Palpatine said, "the Nebula Front does not enjoy representation in the senate." "Yes, but the Front has many friends on Eriadu, Senator." "Then all the better for you, I should think." Havac had come alone, as had Palpatine, though both Sate Pestage and Kinman Doriana were seated nearby. Palpatine had accepted from the start that "Havac" was an alias, and Pestage had subsequently confirmed the fact. Pestage had also learned that Havac was native to Eriadu, where his impassioned holo — documentaries had established him to a few as an enemy of the Trade Federation, a proponent of nonhuman rights, a malcontent and idealist. He wanted desperately to change the galaxy, but his visual tirades against injustice had largely gone unnoticed.

He was a relative newcomer to the Nebula Front, but the Front's militant faction had recruited him to serve a special agenda.

Exasperated by Senate indifference and the Trade Federation's continued violation of the trade agreements, the militants had decided to up the stakes from mere interference in Federation business to terrorism.

Havac and the Front's new radicals were determined to hit the Trade Federation where the Neimoidians and the rest would feel it the most — comin their distended purses.

Palpatine had encouraged Havac, without actually advocating violence.

Rather, he had maintained that the surest way to effect lasting change was to work through the senate.

"We're fed up with Valorum," Havac was saying. "He treads docilely when and wherever the Trade Federation is concerned. His threat to tax the trade routes is pure rhetoric. It's time that someone convince him that the Nebula Front can be a more dangerous foe than the Trade Federation." Palpatine made an offhand gesture, as if in dismissal. "It's true that the Supreme Chancellor has little understanding of the Nebula Front's objectives, but he is not your primary obstacle." Havac held Palpatine's heavy-lidded gaze.

"We need a stronger chancellor. Someone who wasn't born into wealth."

Palpatine gestured again. "Look elsewhere for your enemies. Look to the members of the Trade Federation Directorate." Havac mulled it over for a moment. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps we do need to look elsewhere." He grinned faintly and lowered his voice to add, "We have made a powerful new ally, who has suggested several courses of action." "Indeed?" "It was he who provided the data we needed to destroy a Trade Federation freighter at Dorvalla." "The Federation has thousands of freighters," Palpatine said. "If you expect to be victorious by destroying their ships, you're deluding yourvs.

You must get to the principals. Just as I have been doing in the senate." "Do we have any friends there?" "A meager few. Whereas the Trade Federation has the support of many important delegates-Toonbuck Toora, Tessek, Passel Argente… They are enriched for their loyalty." Havac shook his head in outrage. "It's pathetic that the Front needs to buy senatorial support, in the same deplorable fashion that it is compelled to employ mercenaries." "There is no other way," Palpatine said, with a purposeful sigh. "The courts are useless and biased. But corruption has its advantages when you can simply purchase the votes of unscrupulous delegates instead of having to convince them of the virtues of your position." Havac rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "We have the funds you asked for." Palpatine's eyebrows went up.

"Already?" "Our benefactor told us that the Revenue-his "It's best if I don't know how you received them," Palpatine interrupted.

Havac nodded in comprehension. "One possible problem. It's in the form of aurodium ingots." "Aurodium?" Palpatine sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Yes, that could present a problem. I can't very well distribute ingots to those senators we hope to… impress." "Too easy to trace," Havac said.