Even worse than the locked door was the realization that the tunnel he’d entered was no longer a tunnel. It was much smaller—pale inside, almost like some kind of a cell—

Everything shifted, vibrated, changed. Reath was thrown backward as light suddenly filled the tiny space, and he found himself in a room that had to be intended for a prisoner. The small seat molded in the back, the thin windows…

Reath’s eyes widened. He saw that not all the light surrounding him was coming from within the pod. Some came from outside—and it was the unmistakable electric blue of hyperspace.

This isn’t for a prisoner, he realized. It’s for a passenger.

Where the hell am I going?

And how am I ever going to get back?

Chapter Nineteen

A deep shudder-shiver within the station froze Affie where she stood. What was that?

She moved to the nearest corner, wedged her back into it, and kept her blaster at the ready. Her instinct told her that what she’d heard wasn’t the work of the Jedi, the Nihil, or even the 8-Ts—that it had been mechanical movement deep within the workings of the station itself.

An airlock being blown? No, if that were it, they’d already be fatally depressurizing. The Nihil warship docking with the Amaxine station? Affie wasn’t even sure that was possible. She hoped not, anyway. If that happened, it would take many, many more Jedi to save them than they had on hand.

The sound was vaguely familiar to her. It took Affie a few seconds to place it before she realized she’d heard something very like that when Dez Rydan was killed.

Had Reath blown himself up? She hoped not—she’d become fonder of him than she’d expected to. It turned out even arrogant citified guys could prove to be decent people.

Maybe he was dead. Maybe he wasn’t. There was nothing Affie could do about it either way. After a few seconds, when no other sounds emerged from the station, she resumed her progress through the dark chambers. She made her way through the thick curtains of vines that dangled down, brushing against her from every direction.

In the far distance, she saw movement, too high from the ground to be an 8-T, too far from the central chamber to be one of the Jedi. Affie ducked low as she took a careful look and recognized Nan.

Instead of the colorful dress she’d worn earlier, Nan wore a coverall as simple and utilitarian as Affie’s own, and bandoliers and a belt strapped with at least three times as much weaponry as Affie was carrying. Nan’s arms were bared, revealing tattoos—not pictures, but some kind of writing, too small to be read from that distance. To Affie, it seemed like a lot of tattoos for someone so young. Maybe that was common among the Nihil.