"I wish we knew what size rooms they are," Luke said. "You ever ask Drask if he took any sensor readings of their ship?"

"No, but you'd think he would have said something if it didn't check out," Mara said.

"Maybe he did, only not to us," Luke said, visualizing the Geroon ship in his mind. Big and spherical, with a regular pattern of dark spots covering the hull. Viewports, he'd tentatively identified them at the time. Or vents, or decoration—

He drew in a sharp breath. "Or ejection ports," he said aloud.

"What?"

"Ejection ports," he repeated. "Those dark spots on the hull are just like the ones we saw on that firepoint asteroid on our way into the Redoubt."

"Ejection ports for fighters," Mara bit out. "The thing's a carrier."

"And we left it sitting right next to the Brask Oto Command Station," Luke reminded her grimly.

"Terrific," Mara grunted. "So much for the Geroons being peace loving."

From behind Luke's head, barely audible over the sound of Mara's lightsaber, came a soft chirp. "Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?"

"Another of those comlink chirps," he told her. "The kind Drask said sounded like someone communicating over the jamming. It came from your comlink."

"I missed it," she said, the tone of her lightsaber changing slightly as she sliced away more of the metal. "The Geroons, you think?"

"I don't think anyone else has lied to us as consistently as they have," Luke said grimly.

"Not even Formbi?"

"Not even Jinzler," he said. "And I'm getting a very bad feeling about this. How much farther?"

Her weight shifted slightly on his shoulders as she peered upward. "Fifteen minutes at this rate," she said. "Maybe more."

Luke set his teeth, stretching out to the Force for strength. "Let's make it less."

"No." With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, Tarkosa sent Jinzler's datapad sliding back across the tabletop toward him. "Completely unacceptable, all of them."

"What's wrong with the Rendili Battle Horn-class?" Jinzler asked, struggling to remain calm. This whole thing was starting to get ridiculous. "It's got the size you want, it's got the speed—"

"It's a freighter," Tarkosa said flatly.

"It's a bulk cruiser, not a freighter," Jinzler corrected. "It's armed, it's armored, it's got the range, it's got the capacity—"

"It's unacceptable," Uliar cut in. "Show us something else."

Jinzler reached over and snagged the datapad, swallowing the retort he so very much wanted to say. Uliar and the two councilors had shot down every single suggestion he'd made, and he was becoming extremely irritated with the whole bunch of them. "Fine," he said, keying for Mon Cal ship designs. Maybe there would be something here that the crotchety old Survivors could live with.

Of course, there would then be the whole question of persuading either the Chiss to buy such a ship or the New Republic to donate it to the cause. But that would be a crisis for another day.

From his comlink came another chirp. "What is that noise you people keep making on our comlinks?" he demanded.

"What are you talking about?" Uliar asked.

"That little chirping sound," Jinzler said. "Do all your comlinks have frequency bleed-through or something?"

"I repeat, what are you talking about?" Uliar countered. "You're doing that, not us."

Jinzler frowned. "What are you talking about? We're not—"

"Ah, yes," Bearsh murmured, standing up. "As was the beginning, so is the end."

Jinzler shifted his frown to the Geroon. "What?"

"As was the beginning, so is the end," Bearsh repeated. Ducking his head forward, he slid the limp wolvkil body off his shoulders and let it thump onto the table in front of him. Against the wall behind him, his three compatriots had also taken off their wolvkils, laying them on the floor, and Jinzler had the sudden irrational thought that they were about to present the dead animals to Uliar as a gift to try to get him to cooperate. "Once, victims," Bearsh went on. "Now, victors." Reaching to the wolvkil's neck, he broke off its decorative blue-and-gold collar.

And with a sudden, brief shudder, the wolvkil came to life.

Someone gasped as the animal scrambled to its feet; one of the Survivors, Jinzler thought dimly as the wolvkil shook itself like a wet karfler. Or maybe it had been Jinzler himself. For the moment, his brain was too frozen with shock to process anything but the impossibility that was now staring him in the eye along its long, tooth-filled muzzle. At the far wall, he was vaguely aware that the other three wolvkils had similarly and inexplicably revived.

For a stretched-out second no one moved. Bearsh murmured something reverent sounding in that melodious, two-toned language of theirs; from the Survivors' end of the table came another soft gasp. "No," he heard Uliar breathe. "It can't—"

The four wolvkils leapt.

Instinctively, Jinzler shoved himself back from the table as the nearest animal jumped toward him, fully expecting a terrible stab of pain as its jaws closed around his neck. But the furry missile shot past without even grazing him with its outstretched claws. The momentum of Jinzler's push sent his chair tipping over backward, and as his shoulder and head slammed against the deck a brief burst of stars blurred his vision. Through the sound of the blood roaring in his ears he heard screams and shouts and the sputter of blasterfire. There was a ululating roar, another scream; and suddenly he found himself being hauled to his feet.

It was Tarkosa, his eyes wild, his age-lined face etched with fear and rage. "Get back, you fool," he snarled, giving Jinzler's arm a single tug toward the back of the room and then letting go and backing up hastily himself. Blinking once to clear his eyes, Jinzler looked behind him.

The calm scene of a few seconds before had dissolved into chaos. The three Chiss warriors were bent over or on their knees, wrestling with the snarling wolvkils, clearly fighting for their lives. The Peacekeeper who had been standing guard over them was already down, lying motionless in a widening pool of blood, his blaster lying on the deck beside his limp hand. Even as Jinzler stared in horror one of the Chiss managed to twist his charric far enough around in the grip of his attacker's jaws and fire point-blank into its torso. But the wolvkil shrugged off the shot without even a snarl, its teeth and claws continuing to tear at the warrior's arm and chest. Across the room by the other side wall, the remaining Peacekeeper had been knocked prone by the three Geroons whom he had been guarding. Two of them were pinning down his gun hand as the third sat on his chest, rhythmically beating his head against the deck.

From behind Jinzler came a sizzling hiss, and a streak of blue fire shot past his shoulder to impact squarely in the center of the third Geroon's back. The Geroon screamed something vicious sounding and rolled forward off the Peacekeeper's chest. A second shot struck his shoulder, blackening his robe and eliciting another scream—

And once again Jinzler ducked reflexively away as one of the wolvkils abandoned the injured Chiss he'd been attacking and leapt past him. He spun around—

To see the wolvkil slam into Formbi, its snarling jaws snapping shut around the Aristocra's gun arm.

The impact staggered Formbi backward, but he managed to stay on his feet. Ignoring the blood suddenly flowing onto his sleeve, he twisted his arm around and tossed the charric to his free hand. Pressing the muzzle to the wolvkil's head, he fired.

That one at least wrenched a howl from the animal. But if the injury affected either its strength or resolve, it didn't show. Formbi fired a second time; and then the wolvkil seemed to realize it was no longer holding on to the proper arm. With one last tearing bite, it let go and reached out for Formbi's other arm.