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  And there he was. A Bothan, swathed in dark, travel-stained robes with a cowl that hid most of his face. She could determine his species only when he glanced up and she caught the briefest glimpse of his feline features. They were a species that was widely traveled and not above less-than-reputable dealings, so they were not uncommon on Tatooine. Nonetheless, he was the right species, in the right place, at the right time, and that was good enough for Kit to focus on him.

  She’d been listening to the chatter inside the cantina for a while now. The musicians, clatter of chairs, and clink of glasses had been tuned out, and she’d already gotten a good sense of who was present. There were a few Twi’lek females soliciting customers for acts best performed in private; the Toydarian gambler Yol Saan, who cheated brilliantly and who lost just often enough that he didn’t end up facedown in the alley behind the cantina; a couple of Jawas who were utterly drunk by this point and performing their species’ version of hysterical giggling; and several strangers of all species discussing the purchase of, or obtaining passage on, vessels. In other words, she had heard nothing out of the ordinary.

  The Bothan stepped through the doorway, ignoring Kit completely. Kit continued to enact the charade of a poor, orphaned cripple, but her full attention was focused on what was transpiring inside.

  The Bothan’s voice was soft and pleasant. He spoke in his native language, one that Kit understood completely, all soft, husky purring punctuated with the occasional growl. He approached Ackmena, the night bartender, and asked for a Starshine Surprise. She greeted him pleasantly enough, mixed up the drink, and turned her attention to other customers. The Bothan moved away, making idle chitchat as he settled on a table. One of the Twi’lek girls approached him, but before she could get well into the oft-rehearsed invitation, the Bothan cut her off.

  “Not interested, sorry my dear. Not that you’re not lovely.”

  Compliments, it seemed, did not equal credits in the Twi’lek’s opinion, for she responded to it with a vulgar phrase. Kit smothered a grin.

  There was not a lot to be heard from the Bothan for some time. Kit began to grow worried. Maybe the information Truugo had on this being was inaccurate. If she came back without any information for him, he’d be very displeased. She shifted uneasily on her blanket.

  “You’re late.”

  Kit frowned. The voice was human, female and gravelly, and Kit knew it well. It belonged to Ackmena, the bartender. Ackmena was something of a celebrity on Tatooine. She’d started out as the night bartender, and gone on to fame with her singing. She’d come back awhile ago and had her own place now, but apparently she was still drawn to Chalmun’s, for it wasn’t unusual to see her tending bar, presumably just for the fun of socializing. While there was certainly a lot of traffic in the cantina, there were many regulars as well, and they adored the gruff but cheerful woman. While she never revealed her age, everyone knew she was well into her eighties by this point, but she still had the energy of a woman much younger. It surprised and saddened Kit to realize that Ackmena was involved in the sort of shady affairs that would interest her master.

  “Unavoidable, I’m afraid. I appear to have attracted a bit of attention.”

  The sound of fingers drumming gently on a table. “Attention on your company isn’t a bad thing. Attention on the pilots is.”

  Kit gasped and then bit her tongue. She glanced around; fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed. Both the Bothan she had been sent to spy on and the beloved, famous bartender were members of the Freedom Flight!

  “Indeed,” said the Bothan, his voice still soft, barely a murmur. “The pilot whose route I am presently flying has retired.”

  It all made sense now. Kit swallowed a lump in her throat as she realized her contact, a Ryn named Tohrm, must have been killed by one of the organizations who stood to profit from the slave trade. It had been several weeks since he had come to Tatooine; she had simply thought it had gotten too risky for him and he was lying low for a while. She had been right, but apparently the risk had been more dangerous than she had realized.

  The question was, what should she do now? She had been assigned to watch the Bothan. She’d have to report back on something, and obviously she was not about to tell Truugo the truth. She wished she knew exactly why the Hutt wanted the Bothan watched, then she could at least make up something creative. Kit’s mind gnawed on the problem even while she continued to listen intently.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ackmena said, and Kit could tell she meant it. “I’d hoped he had found another company to do business with.” Then, more loudly, “I hope you’ll be as careful with the shipments of Tedonian wine as Tohrm was.”

  “I’ve not lost a shipment yet,” the Bothan said, also more loudly, and chuckled.

  That was it … Kit could make up something about smuggling. She wouldn’t need to implicate Ackmena, she could—

  Kit noticed a figure across the narrow, crowded street. It seemed to have a great deal of interest in watching the door. Kit was instantly alert. She kept an eye on the figure while still pretending to be a crippled beggar and listening to the conversation.

  For the next several minutes, there was idle chitchat. The figure across the alley didn’t move, but did such an excellent job of blending in that once or twice Kit thought it had.

  “Well, I have customers to attend to, and my little Chadra-Fan waitress tends to get her hands full after about twenty minutes left on her own,” Ackmena said. “Come back day after tomorrow and I’ll have that shipment ready for you.”

  Kit felt a little pang. The “shipment,” of course, consisted of escaped slaves. But not Tatooine slaves, not with the transmitter. Other slaves from other worlds were sequestered away somewhere on the planet, awaiting their freedom. Hers would not come for a long time, but she was resigned to that.

  The Bothan stepped out the door, ignoring her with a swirl of his long cape. Of course, a pilot wouldn’t want to be seen showing charity or compassion. They had to maintain a tough demeanor. She watched him go, then turned her eyes back to the figure.

  It was gone.

  “Stang!” she whispered. Her heart started racing in her chest. She could stay here for a little while longer, then go back to Truugo with her falsified stories, and no one could blame her.

  No one except herself.

  Kit made her choice and rose. She threw her belongings into a small sack and hurried off in the direction in which the Bothan pilot had gone. As she walked swiftly, threading her way through the crowds with the ease of long experience, she deftly undid her tied-back arm, wincing a little as life came back to the limb with sharp stinging sensations.

  The Bothan was up ahead. The crowds were beginning to thin out now, and Kit fell back, looking for the mysterious watcher. There he was, a few paces behind the Bothan, just as Kit was a few paces behind him. He was definitely shadowing the pilot.

  A bit farther on, and the streets became practically deserted at this time of night. Kit’s mouth was dry and she felt her legs quivering as she moved. But she had to keep on. The Bothan didn’t know he was being followed. Or did he? She couldn’t take that chance.

  Her sharp ears, trained since she was four, heard the slight snicking sound of a knife being pulled from its sheath.

  She acted without thinking, springing on the being’s back, strong little hands clawing at its face. At the same moment the Bothan whirled and fired some sort of weapon point-blank into the stalker’s chest. It was almost silent, making the merest little puff of sound, but the being dropped like a stone. Kit sprang off lightly, panting and staring at the dead human.

  “Who are you?” Kit turned to see the strange weapon pointed directly at her and felt the blood drain from her face.

  “I-I’m Kit,” she said. “I knew Tohrm. I’m a slave.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Prove it.”

  She turned around and slipped her shirt low enough to show the little pucker of skin where the transmitter had been inserted.

>   “Ah,” the Bothan said. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have done that. You could have been injured, or even killed. I knew he was following me.”

  Kit turned back around and tugged her sleeve back into place. “Could have fooled me,” she sniffed.

  “I fooled him, didn’t I?” the Bothan replied. Their eyes met and they exchanged a grin. He knelt beside the corpse and searched it. Kit noticed he had gloves on.

  “Who was he?”

  “No way to tell for sure. Probably a member of some criminal organization that deals in flesh. They’ve started to get wind of some of the Flight’s activities.”

  Kit’s grin faded as he spoke, and she recalled the nature of her errand tonight. “I uh … was sent to spy on you. Don’t worry, I’ll tell my master some kind of story. You’re the last person I would want to get in trouble. Well,” she amended, “you and Ackmena.”

  He nodded, his fur rippling. “Thanks, kid. I hate to ask anything more of you, but … can you talk to Ackmena? Let her know we’re going to have to delay the shipment until I can send a replacement?”

  She nodded energetically. “Sure, I can do that.”

  “Thank you. I wish I could do something for you.”

  Kit looked up at him, her pinched face serious. “You are doing something for me,” she said quietly, then added the motto of the Flight, “We will be free.”

  The Bothan stepped forward and squeezed her shoulder gently. “Yes,” he said. “You will.”

  He gathered his dark cloak about his slender feline form, looked about one last time, then turned and slipped into the shadows.

  Kit realized she never learned his name.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  All gone. All taken. Dyon didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Fake fake fake. No one was real, no one was who he pretended to be, they all wore masks, didn’t they, imposters all, and he was the only one who was who he said he was.

  Why had they come here, to Klatooine? Why were they bothering to impersonate fruit vendors? And what did they want with him? He wasn’t even a Jedi, just a dabbler who had ended up taking people around Dathomir for credits …

  “Sixty credits,” the Nikto merchant said. He peered expectantly at Dyon with small, beady, black eyes.

  They could read minds. They knew he was thinking about credits. Sweat popped out on his brow, beneath his arms. He wanted to run, to scream, to upend tables and flee, a cornered beast about to be captured—or killed. Or copied.

  He fought to steady himself. Something that had just danced across his mind would help. What was it—a beast, he was an animal they wanted to capture.

  No, he wasn’t. He was a man, they were the monsters, the animals, and he knew how to track them, how to hunt them. The Nikto—

  —no, he wasn’t a Nikto, he was some alien species that Dyon didn’t even know about yet, wasn’t he, some imposter who’d stolen away everyone on this whole kriffing world; the scope was enormous, just enormous, the mind couldn’t even grasp it, not really—

  —started to frown at him. Since their normal expression was somewhat dour, this made him look furious. “You good for the money or no, human?”

  He was pointing it out. Rubbing it in. That he, Dyon Stad, was the only human left. That meant—

  Dyon turned to look for Ben and Vestara. They were gone. Of course. Blast! They were in on this. They were part of it. They weren’t who they were pretending to be. Or maybe Vestara was; she was a Sith after all, and everyone knew you couldn’t trust a Sith. He would have to let Luke know at once so he could—

  And then the realization struck him like a blow to the gut. Luke had to be in on this, too, or, rather, the thing that had killed or captured the real Grand Master Luke Skywalker and wore his face and body like a costume.

  He licked dry lips and forced himself to be calm. Calm, that was it. He had to stay calm. Not-Ben and Not-Vestara were out there somewhere, hiding where he couldn’t see them, no doubt ready to spring on him the moment he showed signs of awakening to what had been done around him. He couldn’t let that happen. Dyon smiled weakly at the Nikto.

  The Nikto sighed. “All right. You drive a hard bargain. Fifty credits. But no lower, and it’s a steal. I grow the best skappis on the whole planet.”

  Amazing, keeping up the façade so smoothly. Dyon almost found himself admiring these Others. How to get out of it? Just buy the fruit and walk away? No, he didn’t want his hands encumbered if he had to fight.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said, and fought to keep his voice from quivering.

  The Nikto glowered, and pointed with a sharp-nailed orange finger at the fruit Dyon had in his hand. Dyon had completely forgotten he was holding it. He had squeezed it so tightly he had split the skin, and juice and soft pulp were oozing in rivulets down his arm.

  “You gotta pay for that one at least,” the Nikto growled. “And then move on and quit blocking the aisle. Make room for people who are actually going to purchase something.”

  Dyon’s shirt was clinging to his torso, soaked in sweat that did not come from the desert heat. He fished in one of the pockets of his vest and grasped a credcoin, then thrust it at the vendor.

  The vendor chuckled, his good humor restored. “Now, while these are the finest skappis on Klatooine, they don’t cost that much per piece. Hang on a moment, lemme get your change.”

  Dyon turned and moved at a fast walk toward the glaring whiteness of the sand outside the tent. He didn’t know where to go, he just knew that he had to get away. Had to—

  “Hey! Your change!”

  Dyon walked faster. Suddenly looming in front of him was a Klatooinian in plastoid armor. At his hip was a WESTAR-34 blaster pistol, which, though dented and dinged, certainly looked functional. The Klatooinian was smiling at him. Smiling the lie.

  “Slow down, looks like you forgot your change,” he said cheerfully.

  The Other was blocking his way. Was not going to let him escape. Dyon panicked. He had to do something.

  Without knowing exactly what prompted him, Dyon reached out, placed a hand on the being’s neck, pinched, and said, “Sleep.” Wordlessly, the guard crumpled to the hard-packed ground, his eyes closed, already snoring.

  Someone screamed. Dyon shot out his hand. At once dozens of small objects whirled about: hand-crafted knives, hard-shelled fruits, haunches of meat, small paddy frogs. He hurled them into the thickest part of the crowd of Fakes, and then jerked up his other hand, palm flat. A table laden with yellow spherical fruits lifted, and then came crashing down on the crowd. More screams, this time of pain as well as fear.

  Dyon bent over, grabbed the blaster from the sleeping Klatooinian’s belt, and raced as fast as he could for the freedom of the sand.

  There was a cluster of vehicles and beasts of burden outside the ground level of the city, and beyond that was a hardpacked dirt ring that was clearly more for symbolism than function. The vehicles were lined up in neat, precise rows, except for a conspicuously empty spot near the gate where a bleeding Klatooinian lay on the sand, struggling to rise, one hand clapped to a shoulder that still smoked. He was wounded, but would survive. Already people were rushing to help him.

  A trail led off toward the desert. “He stole a vehicle,” Vestara said unnecessarily.

  “Yeah,” Ben said. They both had known it was Dyon. Ben had reached out immediately and felt for Dyon in the Force. The man was terrified, recoiling from Ben’s touch as Ben had once recoiled from the “tentacle friend” in the Maw. Vestara had known it at once, too.

  Ben glanced around quickly. Most of the vehicles were old and had seen better days, but there was a speeder bike that looked as if it might not fall apart when touched. If it wasn’t touched too hard. “So it’s time for us to steal one and go after him.”

  “Jedi? Steal?” Vestara stared at him, astonished.

  “Well, borrow, really,” Ben said. “It’s a fine old Jedi tradition, actually. Come on. Let’s take that one.”

  Vestara shrugged,
reached out a hand, made a fist, and tugged. The speeder lifted up, careened over the rows of speeders, farming equipment, and one or two animals that bleated and hooted in alarm, landed, and bounce slightly in the soft sand a meter away from them. Now it was Ben’s turn to stare. She’d maneuvered the speeder as if it were no more cumbersome than a pak’pah fruit. Vestara noticed his expression and shot him a grin. Ben recovered quickly.

  “Yeah, well, then I’ll drive,” he said, jumping onto the speeder and starting it. Vestara slid behind him as the speeder roared to life, slipping her arms around his waist. Safely facing away from her, Ben permitted himself a small private smile at the touch, then yanked the handles around and followed the trail that the insane Dyon had so conveniently left them.

  “Where does he think he’s going to go?” Ben asked rhetorically, yelling to be heard over the sound of the speeder bike.

  “According to the map,” Vestara yelled back, “Treema is the only major city within several hundred kilometers. If he wanted to escape, he should have stolen a ship.”

  “Thinking clearly does not seem to be a trait when these Jedi snap,” Ben retorted.

  But where did Dyon think he was going? On a land vessel, he’d run out of water before he made it anywhere. And yet the trail led due west, toward the sinking, bloated magenta sun.

  “The Fountain!” Vestara exclaimed.

  “The Fountain of the Hutt Ancients?” Why would he go there? Then again, why did the Force users who went mad do anything? To a crazy mind, he supposed it made … some kind of sense.

  “It’s the only thing other than sand that is due west of Treema,” Vestara continued. Keeping one arm firmly around his waist, she pointed with the other. “Look. Right there. That slight glint right on the horizon. That’s it.”

  Oh, this was just wonderful. A crazed Force-user on a speeder bike heading straight for an ancient, sacred place that insisted that no modern technology approach within one full kilometer. Ben started to reach for his comlink, but he was going too fast and the speeder swerved. Ben swore under his breath.