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Cham. Think of what he did to Pok.”
    Cham had recurring nightmares about Pok and always woke gasping, certain he was being choked. “I don’t need a reminder, Isval. But we’re fighting first for a free Ryloth, not to topple the Empire.”
    Isval stopped pacing and stared at him. “How are they not the same thing?”
    “What?”
    “They’re the same thing, Cham. We want a free Ryloth, then we need a toppled Empire. Or at least a weakened one. We need fires blazing all over the galaxy. Then maybe,
maybe
, they’ll leave us alone.”
    Cham didn’t agree, but it didn’t matter. Taking out Vader and the Emperor would send the message Cham was keen to send: Ryloth is too costly to occupy, spice or no spice.
    “All right,” he said. “Let’s start planning and put the cells on alert.But don’t do anything yet, Isval. I mean that. No extra chatter. Let’s see if we hear from Belkor. If he tells me Vader and Palpatine are coming, then I’ll know they’re baiting us.”
    “How’s that?”
    “Belkor would never give us a shot at Vader and the Emperor unless he was told to. He’s ambitious, but he’s not suicidal.”
    Isval nodded. “Makes sense.”
    “Well, then go get started. I’ll let you know if I hear from Belkor.”
    Isval nodded, gave him a half smile, and bolted out of the room as if running a race against the fear that Cham might change his mind.
    Cham sat at his desk after she’d left, planning how he’d break things to Belkor. The Imperial officer was in for a rude surprise.
    —
    As was his custom, Belkor Dray used the shuttle flight from Ryloth to its largest moon to square away his thinking and don the mask he wore when facing Moff Mors. He sat alone in the expansive passenger compartment and tried on the various expressions he’d wear to conceal the contempt he felt for her.
    “Approaching the moon now, Colonel,” the pilot said over the comm.
    “Let the Moff know we’re on approach, Fruun,” Belkor responded.
    “Aye, sir.”
    Fruun was one of Belkor’s men, one of the hundreds whose loyalty he’d bought through favors or secured through blackmail. Moff Mors—lazy, sloppy Delion Mors—left the running of Ryloth’s occupation to Belkor, and Belkor had not been idle. He’d filled several Imperial units with commanders whose first loyalty was not to Mors, or even to the Empire, but to him, and the soldiers would do exactly as their commanders told them. The stormtroopers were a problem, of course, but there weren’t very many members of the corps on Ryloth. In essence, Belkor had a shadow force at his disposal, and he’d call on it when the time was right.
    “Moff Belkor Dray,” he said, trying out the title the same way he’d tried on false expressions. Not colonel. Not general.
Moff
.
    One day.
    Mors would be easy to discredit, but Belkor needed to do it in a way that reflected well on himself. He had plans in the works to do just that.
    “Setting down, sir,” Fruun said.
    Belkor stood up straight and checked his uniform: clean and pressed, with creases that could cut meat. Shoes shined. Insignia of rank at exact regulation distance from the edge of his collar. He removed his hat, smoothed his hair into place, and put the hat back on.
    Belkor took an interest in the small things, the details others missed. The practice kept him from getting sloppy. And he carried far too many secrets to allow himself any room for sloppiness.
    The shuttle alit on the outdoor landing pad, and Belkor pressed a button to open the door. He wrinkled his nose at the verdurous, humid air. Trees forty meters high stood sentinel around the pad. The arm-thick, ubiquitous vines so prevalent on the moon hung like a thousand nooses from the trees’ thick limbs. Screeches and howls from the native fauna punctuated the air. The towering jungle canopy blocked his view of Mors’s well-appointed command center, which had been built by Twi’lek forced labor.
    A young junior officer—Belkor had forgotten