He pulled his pants over one leg and hopped to the bedside table where his chrono lay. A glance at the digital readout brought another stream of expletives, most just as unworthy of a Jedi as the act he had enjoyed last night … acts, plural … Samera’s velvet skin so soft, her breath so warm against his neck.

“Not helping,” he told himself, rushing to retrieve his tabard and looking around in a sudden burst of panic for his lightsaber. It was there, in its holster, at the foot of the dresser, Yorrick’s confiscated lightsaber next to it. That was a blessing, at least. Explaining why he was late to Stellan was going to be bad enough, especially when the man could read him like a chrono, but losing the weapon … that would have been unforgivable. Now the only thing that seemed to be missing was his cloak … and the self-restraint he had so enthusiastically abandoned a few short hours ago …

Across the city, the fair continued as Elzar searched Samera’s empty apartment. The coordinator’s own thoughts were focused on the ebb and flow of the morning’s events. Everything was working as if it had been planned in exhaustive detail, which of course it had. Her eyes flicked from screen to screen, watching repulsorpods ferrying visitors between the floating islands, while across the various zones music played, artists performed, experts lectured, and storytellers enthralled. She saw Bell Zettifar reaching the Innovator to make inquiries about two teenage boys, while at the opera house Chancellor Soh and Regasa Elarec met with Madam Conserra and her manager, Pall Sleko. Samera allowed herself a moment to enjoy what she was seeing, focusing in on a Krantian family who were waiting in line to tour Rothana Heavy Engineering’s latest walker. She turned up the audio feed and chuckled as their youngest son, whose name was Sarry, tried to persuade his mother that he was still hungry even after a rycrit wrap and a bantha milkshake. That was what this fair was about, not nagging kids and fast-food stalls, but families from across the galaxy, creating memories together.

But no one would forget what happened high above the planet moments later. Space traffic controller Milon Thakkery had just given permission for a shuttle of excited schoolchildren from Wukkar to make its approach when a cruiser third in the line exploded into silent flame. Alarms blared and Thakkery’s dashboard lit up as emergency protocols went into overdrive.

“Who was on that ship?” Milon asked.

His assistant, a timid Peasle named Skuun, checked the registry. “A troop of Jinda dancers from Eriadu.”

“Had the ship been scanned?”

“No,” the orange-shelled insectoid replied, “it was next in line. The portmaster wants to know what’s happening.”