Sloane might not relish the situation that's got her tangled in a web of Galactic Fleet and Trade Federation politics – but she's knee-deep in it now. And she's finished with dead ends. When she finally cracks the clue her uncle left behind, it points directly to the worst spot in the galaxy: a barren wasteland of a moon (if it counts as a moon when the planet it was orbiting has been blown into bits) where her toes are guaranteed to freeze solid in about thirty seconds. Between the bandits, the blizzards, and the cybernetic wolves, her hands are full. Not that she's complaining... much. Sloane only hopes she can escape the trek with all her toes intact – and the evidence she needs to save the galaxy from imperial rule. No pressure.