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clicking sound, as though it were talking
to the mushroom.
    The entire tree shuddered as a low rumbling sound shook the air.
    “Uh, thanks, but no thanks!” Boba yelped. He started to back away. Before he could move, the tree’s lowest branch snaked toward him. It looped itself around his waist, firmly
but gently; then quick as lightning pulled him into the air.
    Kaflooom!
    Fragments of dirt and shattered fungus pelted him. Boba stared at the ground in horror. Where he had stood, there yawned a mortar hole the size of a speeder. Flickers of flame ran around its
perimeter. He smelled the ozone stink of a pulse grenade.
    “That was way too close!” exclaimed Boba. Beside him the alien nodded.
    “Indeed,” it said.
    Boba blinked. For the first time he realized where he was: halfway up a huge fungus, with an armed and possibly hungry reptile next to him. He was outnumbered, at least for the moment.
    Better play dumb,
he thought.
    “Uh, I know you don’t like to answer questions—but can you tell me exactly what’s going on?”
    The alien regarded him with its calm, intelligent eyes. It looked him up and down, taking in his Mandalorian body armor and helmet, his weapons. One of its clawed hands absently stroked the
stalk of the fungus tree.
    After a moment it spoke—but not in answer to Boba’s question. It gave a series of clicks and growls, seemingly directed to the tree. The tree responded by extending a long slender
tendril toward Boba’s head.
    Ulp!
he thought, but stood his ground. The tendril touched his helmet, then his chest. It remained there, pressed against the smooth body armor. Boba could feel his heart pounding.
After a moment he realized the tree could feel it, too.
    It’s checking me out!
    Boba felt a sneaking admiration. The alien reptile looked at Boba and nodded. Its mouth parted in a razor-toothed smile.
    “The fungus has a primitive sensory system that responds to heat and motion. It detects an elevated heart rate. Your garb indicates you are a warrior and, I suspect, a mercenary one
intending to attack me. I am not a warrior.”
    The alien leaned against the fungus stalk. Its jade eyes grew clouded. “But I have learned to bear weapons, as you see. My name is Xeran. I am a Xamster. My family has been bound to this
malvil-tree, Malubi, for one thousand turns of Xagobah. Once hundreds of us lived here and harvested Malubi’s spores. Now only I remain.”
    Xeran’s voice grew sad. “War has come to Xagobah. Though we wanted no part of it, still war claimed us. Many of my people have been forced to serve one side or the other. Many others
fled, only to be shot in flight. Our malvil-trees are dying of neglect and loneliness. And now I am caught between two armies—” It lifted one clawed hand and pointed. “There. Can
you see them?”
    Boba strained, but even adjusting his helmet’s focus didn’t help. “No,” he replied.
    The alien made another series of clicks. The fungus tree—Malubi—extended another tendril. This one was thicker and less rubbery. The alien hopped onto it, then motioned for Boba
to do the same. He did, and the alien grasped him as the tendril bore them up, up, up, until they were at Malubi’s very top.
    “Wow,” breathed Boba in amazement.
    Up here they were above the velvety haze of purple spores. Boba could see the canopy of the mushroom forest waving gently beneath. He could see the little clearing where he had left
Slave
I
, though of course his ship was invisible to him behind its cloaking device.
    And—
    Boba’s breath caught in his throat. He grasped tightly at Malubi’s rubbery appendage. He was glad Xeran could not see his face behind his Mandalorian helmet. Because the top of the
malvil-tree also gave him a clear and terrifying view of what he had come here for.
    From the air, the Republic’s trenches had looked like slashes in the ground. Now Boba saw how carefully constructed they were. Each held a line of thirty or so clone