As usual, he couldn't feel Jacen's presence, but he could hear him talking to someone.

Who is it? Odd. I can't feel anybody else.

Jacen might have been on his comlink, but his tone of voice wasn't that slightly stilted, self-conscious one that he tended to lapse into when he couldn't see who he was speaking to. In fact, he sounded as if he was trying to keep his temper.

"You overplayed your hand," said Jacen.

"You worry too much," said a woman's voice.

That was the point at which Ben realized something was very wrong.

Only a Jedi could be there and not be sensed-or a Yuuzhan Vong, and they weren't exactly frequent visitors to the GAG HQ. And the voice was somehow familiar, even though he couldn't place it.

It was dishonest to sneak up on his commanding officer-on his cousin, his mentor-but it seemed like the only sensible thing to do.

Keeping himself hidden in the Force, Ben edged silently along the corridor and stood as close to the open doors as he could.

This wing of the headquarters building was deserted, and Jacen probably relied on sensing people coming and going. He thought he and his guest were alone.

"You cut it too fine," Jacen was saying. "There's being a decoy, and there's being too clever, and you crossed that line. Are you recovered now?"

"Yes," said the woman's voice. It had that slightly husky edge to it, like she used too many death sticks. "But it worked. It gave you the s.p.a.ce to act without having her crawling all over your operation. She really thinks I want revenge for some daughter . . ."

"I sometimes think your cover stories are too complex."

"And mind-rubbing Ben about Nelani isn't?"

Ben recoiled. It was all he could do not to storm in. Jacen. You did that?

"He wouldn't understand why I had to do it," said Jacen.

"And that's why he can't ever be your apprentice. Get rid of him, find another one, and stop wasting your time."

"Now, there's my real problem . . ."

"I can't help you there. Whoever it turns out to be, that's the Force's decision. You'll know very soon."

"Well, I dealt with Omas, anyway. A clear path."

"Are you going to keep him here?"

"I thought house arrest might be more sensible in the long term.

Republica House is easy to secure, and it makes us look like the good guys. People still like Omas."

"And here you are, joint Chief of State . . ."

"That way Niathal thinks she can keep me quiet."

"Or under control."

"She's way too smart."

"Play nicely with her. You need her to keep the military behind you."

"You're such a strategist, Lumiya . . ."

Lumiya. Lumiya?

Ben thought he'd misheard, or that his state of mind was making him hear what he wanted to hear, like Lekauf's voice. But he knew what he'd heard, and his first reaction wasn't one of fear or dread, but agonized embarra.s.sment.

He'd trusted Jacen, and Jacen had lied to him.

He'd mind-rubbed him.

And they were talking about him as if he was in the way.

The fact that Jacen was knowingly talking to a Sith as if they were old friends seemed to take second place to that. For all his denial, Jacen knew Lumiya. And she could walk into GAG HQ and just talk to him.

Jacen wasn't being conned by her; he was chatting casually with her about what he'd do next.

Ben found himself scrabbling for excuses that would explain why Jacen could be meeting with Lumiya and still be someone he could trust, someone with a perfectly good reason for it all.

Jacen's a Jedi. He can't be in league with her. She's done something to him. Mind-influenced him or something.

This woman had left his mother with a battered face. This woman was all he'd been taught to fear and avoid, and Jacen was talking to her in his office, as bold as anything.

Ben knew he had to tell someone, but he'd run out of people to trust. If Jacen could be influenced like that, anyone could-except Mom. Mom wasn't in Lumiya's thrall, or she wouldn't have been in a fight with her.

Ben had to find her. He had to warn her.

That morning he'd felt like things couldn't possibly get any worse, and now he knew they could.

chapter fourteen.

If you think you're going to scare us off by cozying up to the Mandalorians, Bug Boy, you've got another think coming.

-Hebanh Del Dalhe, Murkhanan Department of Trade and Industry, to the Roche amba.s.sador, during a disagreement on intellectual property rights BEVIIN-VASUR FARM, KELDABE, MANDALORE.

"Too much holonews is bad for you," said the man standing in the doorway of the outbuilding. Fett had spotted him coming-it was hard not to. His armor was extraordinary. There was no real need for Fett to be vigilant on Mandalore, but then Jaster Mereel had once thought he was perfectly okay among his own people, too. Safe was always better than sorry. Fett carried on cleaning his helmet, feet up on the chair.

"It's riveting," he said, nodding in the direction of the monitor that he'd propped on the table. The news anchors and commentators had descended into a feeding frenzy about the bloodless coup. "Jacen Solo, the boy who wants to be Vader when he grows up. He finally did it."

"He probably looks in the mirror when he brushes his teeth and tells himself it's his destiny."

"And you are?"

"Venku."

He didn't have a proper Keldabe accent. If anything, he sounded like he'd spent time on Kuat, and maybe Muunilinst, too. That wasn't unusual for Mandalorians, and it was more common now that so many were flooding back to what Beviin called Manda'yaim.

That was the traditional name for the planet, not Mandalore. Fett had never realized that. Every day was an education that told him how far adrift he was from his own people.

"Sit down, Venku." Fett gestured to the last remaining chair in the room. He tried to think leader and not bounty hunter. "Whatever it is, get it off your chest."

Venku had the most eclectic armor Fett had ever seen. It was a custom to wear sections of armor belonging to a dead relative or friend, but Venku had no two plates that matched. Every piece was a different color. The palette ranged from blue, white, and black to gold, cream, gray, and red.

"What happened to your fashion sense? Did someone shoot it?"

Venku still stood, ignoring the chair. He glanced down at his plates as if noticing them for the first time. "The chest plate, the buy'ce, and shoulder sections came from my uncles. The forearm plates were my father's, the thigh plates came from my cousin, and the belt was my aunt's. Then there's-"

"Okay. Big family."

"Those who are tab'echaaj'la and those who still live, yes."

Fett had given up asking for translations. He got the general idea.

"I'm nearly done with cleaning my bucket."

"And they said charm wasn't your strong suit. Okay, I came to tell you I'm relieved you decided to be a proper Mand'alor. The Mando'ade are coming home. You probably don't notice much beyond your own existence, but this is your purpose."

Fett had never thought of himself as easygoing, but normally he couldn't get worked up enough to slug fools if he wasn't paid to. This man didn't strike him as a fool, but he'd hit a nerve and Fett couldn't quite work out why.

"Glad I could be more useful than a doorstop."

"Which is why I'm also relieved to give you this." Venku opened a pouch on his ammunition belt-his aunt's belt, he'd said, so she must have been a typical Mando woman-and placed a small, dark blue rectangular container on the table. "And don't mistake this for adulation or sentimentality. You owe your people. There'll be someone along shortly to administer it."

Venku turned toward the door as the word administer bored into Fett's skull. "Whoa there."

Venku glanced over his multicolored shoulder. "Don't try doing it yourself. It has to be inserted into the bone marrow, and that's going to hurt like you wouldn't believe. Let someone qualified do it. It'll still hurt, but they'll place it correctly."

So this was one of Jaing's minions. He certainly didn't have his boss's sartorial style, although he did have expensive dark green leather gloves, and Fett couldn't guess what or who had contributed to those.

"Tell him we're even," Fett said. "And . . . thank him."

Venku started to say something then stopped as if he was getting a message via his helmet. Fett tilted his own helmet in his lap so he could see the HUD display that was patched into Slave J's external security cam. A man tottered past the ship, clearly very old indeed from his gait but still wearing full lighting armor, and paused to look at the ship.

Then he moved out of cam range in the direction of the building.

Fett would never rule out even a senile Mandalorian as a possible threat: if the old man had survived to that age, he was either unusually lucky or a serious fighter. But Fett remained with his feet on the chair, wiping the red shimmer-silk lining of his helmet with a sapon cloth, consumed with curiosity but hiding it perfectly. The old man appeared in the doorway, squeezed past Venku, and stared at Fett.

"At least I lived to see the day," he said. "Su'cuy, Mand'alor, gar shabuir. "

It wasn't the most polite greeting that Fett had ever received, but it was certainly the most relevant to a terminally ill man. It was the only possible way that warriors and mercenaries could greet each other: "So you're still alive." He'd worked out what shabuir meant, too, but he chose to take it as ribald affection rather than abuse.

The old Mando walked out with arthritic dignity, paused again at the door to stare at Fett, and went on his way.

"You made his day," said Venku.

"I shouldn't ask."

"Then don't." Venku sighed, then put his hands to his helmet to pop the seal. The rustle of fabric m.u.f.fled his voice as he lifted the buy'ce.

"Oh, all right, then."

Boba Fett was looking into the face of a man perhaps ten or fifteen years younger than him: dark hair with a liberal threading of gray, strong cheekbones, and the very darkest brown eyes. He'd looked much like that himself twenty years ago. The nose was sharper and the mouth was a stranger's, but the rest-it was a Fett face.

He was looking into his own eyes, and into the eyes of his long-dead father.

"I'm Venku," said the Mando with the motley armor. "But you probably know me better as Kad'ika. Interesting to meet you at last . . .

Uncle Boba."

OSARIAN TAPCAF, CORUSCANT.

I couldn't think who else to tell," Ben said. "Or who else would listen to me if I did."

Mara wondered if he'd been crying about Lekauf or Jacen's breathtaking betrayal. He'd been crying about something, though, and he was doing a reasonable job of disguising it.

"I believe you, Ben."

"Maybe I did imagine it."

"You didn't." No, he certainly couldn't imagine Lumiya having a friendly chat with Jacen, dissecting their run of triumphs, and deciding when Niathal would no longer be useful.

And discussing their lies. No daughter to avenge-and wiping out Ben's memory of what happened to Nelani.

Ben had the useful ability to recall things he'd seen or heard with nearly complete accuracy. Mara's scalp had tightened and tingled as she heard her son, her precious kid, relating the exact words of that Sith cyborg and her accomplice, like an innocent possessed by a demon.

Accomplice.

Mara realized she'd shifted her position by a few pa.r.s.ecs. Not a vain, conceited, naive victim of a manipulative Sith: an accomplice.

Jacen wasn't weak-minded enough to fall that far and that fast unless he wanted to.

"I haven't told anyone else and I don't want to," Ben whispered.

"Not Dad, either. I mean, you can tell him if you really think he needs to know, Mom, but I don't want to see the look on his face when he finds out what a moron I've been."

But I defended Jacen. When did I get stupid? "No more of a moron than the rest of us, sweetheart."

"What are we going to do?"