She was determined to remain low. If she was revealed, they might attack her, seeing her as competition for the few precious goods on the station. Or—if they wanted to gamble on overpowering the Vessel (a pretty safe bet) and a quick clearing of the hyperspace lanes, it was possible they’d steal Affie herself. The Republic banned slavery, but she wasn’t sure they were in the Republic at the moment. She didn’t put it past some of the thugs to make a quick profit by selling her off to someone who’d whisk her over the border.

So, she thought, breathing hard, let’s lay low.

From her vantage point, Affie could peer through the leaves at the fracas. Already the Orincans were ripping through vines on the “ground” level, tearing a hole that would allow them to rummage through anything hidden beneath. Farther up the atrium, two levels above her, the Mizi had dug out something that looked like Amaxine armor. That stuff never rusted or wore out; it was worth thousands. The Orincans would be furious when they saw that their rivals had found such a prize.

Furious enough, probably, to start a fight about it. Affie cast an appraising look upward at the wall. Scover says that back in the day, older space stations used to magnetically seal their entire hulls. If they did that here, just one blaster bolt could ricochet around this station for minutes. For hours, even.

The Orincans didn’t give a damn about history or anything else besides their own porcine skins. So they wouldn’t realize the danger. If a fight broke out, they’d fire off so many bolts that the entire station would turn into a death trap.

Where was Reath? His voice had come from below, but she couldn’t see much of the station’s airlock ring. Were the other Jedi coming to help him? Could they help? Affie had yet to be much impressed by these famed mystical warriors, who as far as she could tell had mostly preached at them before dumping them on an ancient station that was a whole lot of bad luck.

Affie’s brief reverie was shattered when heavy booted footsteps began thudding against the floor panels near her. An Orincan? Her glance through the leaves revealed a red-scarved human instead, but one whose greedy, callous smile would’ve looked at home on an Orincan snout.

“Pricey market out there for little girls,” he said in a singsong. “These ones aren’t too old.”

Did he mean for her to hear him? Instinct told Affie that he wasn’t a slaver; his interest seemed more personal, and even more ominous. Less like she was something he could sell, more like she was something he couldn’t afford to buy.