His "a.s.sistant," Lady Enara Ma.s.sar, opened the wurlwood door. Elegant and red-haired, Lady Enara's tailored tunic was completely professional and conservative, yet did nothing to diminish her stunning good looks. Normally calm and perfectly coiffed, she looked agitated and almost disheveled.

"Sir," she said, "bad news."

"Don't tell me-Senator Rokari Kem has arrived," growled Workan.

"No, sir, much worse. Senator Bramsin is dead, and Senator Treen has tendered her resignation."

"What?" he exploded, leaping to his feet and directing his fury at Enara.

"Details are just coming in," Enara said. "The press is all over it."

"Well, get them off it!"

"That's ... not as easy as you might think, sir. We'll get BAMR to cover it the way we want, but for right now we just have to control what leaks."

He rubbed his palms into his eyes. "What do we know?"

"Bramsin was found dead around five this morning. It appears to be natural causes. The droid who found the body also put him to bed last night around midnight. It testified that Senator Treen had visited Bramsin and they had stayed up late drinking and talking."

A terrible thought was forming in Workan's mind. "Go on."

"Treen issued a statement to the press. She said that she and Fost had been old friends, and his loss was too devastating to bear. That it was time she withdrew from politics, and she would be resigning her position and retiring to Kuat."

"No, she won't. Find her and bring her here this minute."

Lady Enara was doing her best not to look like she wished she were anywhere else. "Sir, she left about an hour ago."

Workan swore, lengthily and musically, in Keshiri. It was obvious what had happened. That witch Treen had decided to cut her losses before it was too late. Intelligent of her, he had to admit. Kill Bramsin, make it look like an ordinary death-"Fost Bramsin died peacefully in his sleep"-and then flee to live out her life in comfortable obscurity on Kuat. He itched to pursue her, to drag her back screaming to Coruscant, where he would show her how fair-weather friends of the Sith were treated. But he couldn't spare the time and resources. Later, when things were settled, maybe he would attend to her personally.

At least she'd saved him the trouble of having to eliminate Bramsin himself.

"I want Sabers a.s.signed to monitor Admiral Parova and Generals Jaxton and Thaal," he said. "Every moment. If they go out to dinner, I want them followed. I want to know what they order and which chef prepares it. If they enter the refresher, I want to know if they wash their hands. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, sir." She stood straight at attention, no doubt relieved to have gotten off so easily with such bad news. "Do you wish them to act or merely report?"

"Report their activities only, for now," said Workan. He wasn't ready to order them killed. Not yet. He wanted to know if Treen had acted on her own, or if the entire conspiracy was unraveling. "And find out what is going on with Moff Lecersen. I haven't heard from him in days."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Yes," he said. "Find out what Roki Kem's favorite drink is and make sure it's chilled, warmed, or at room temperature."

"Ah, sir ... Roki Kem doesn't drink alcohol."

Of course she didn't. Workan wondered what else could possibly go wrong today.

SENATE BUILDING RECEPTION HALL, CORUSCANT.

"SUCH LUXURY," MURMURED PADNEL OVIN AS HE AND WYNN DORVAN entered the Senate reception area. "How many credits simply to secure the area? How many spent on food and drink?"

"Well, sir, I can get you exact figures if you like, but I think we can just leave it at 'quite a lot,' " said Dorvan.

"I ... would like exact figures," Padnel said. "All this for one Senator?"

"Well, technically, it's a welcome reception for all the new Senators, as they have arrived at various times," Dorvan said. "Roki Kem is, however, among the most highly respected." While it was commendable that Kem had postponed her departure from Qaras until she felt the situation was stable enough to warrant it, Dorvan was relieved that the new Senator had finally arrived. Intelligent, compa.s.sionate, fa.r.s.eeing, Roki Kem was certain to be an ally against the increasing intolerance that was seeping through the government. Club Bwua'tu had already discussed not if they wanted to bring her in, but how and when.

"I think you will find her someone you can work with," he said. Padnel seemed to jerk from his stunned reverie. He looked at Dorvan sharply, then nodded.

"I certainly hope you are right," he said. Although Padnel, like Dorvan, was not one to stand on ceremony, their arrival had been noticed, and now beings were beginning to come up to them. Dorvan hung back, letting the interim Chief of State precede him. He snagged a gla.s.s of sparkling blumfruit juice and sipped on it while his eyes scanned the room.

In one corner, Kameron Suldar was holding forth to a rapt audience comprising the members of his subcommittee and several other junior Senators. His hearty laugh could be heard over the buzz of chatter, and Dorvan shook his head slightly. Elsewhere, Wuul and his allies chatted pleasantly, seeming quite at ease. Scattered around were other duos and trios made up of representatives of nearly every planet in the Alliance.

Behind Dorvan came a sudden genteel hubbub, and he knew that Roki Kem had arrived. He turned around.

Tall but slightly built, she was at once even more impressive and pleasant in person. The holocams had not done justice to the true hue of her blue skin, nor captured the sheen of her blue-green hair adorned with ribbons of every color. Roki moved with a fluid grace that reminded Dorvan of a dancer, and her smile fairly lit up her face as she greeted those who-unusual for seasoned politicians-cl.u.s.tered around her, eager for her attention.

"Please, please," she said in her dulcet voice, "thank you so very much for welcoming me. I am truly honored to be here, but we are all equals now, surely! That is what my people fought for, after all." Her face darkened slightly as blood rose to her cheeks, and she ducked her head almost shyly even as she reached to shake every hand extended to her.

Her eyes, large and green and luminous, wandered to Dorvan, and her smile grew. "Excuse me for just a moment, please," she said, gently maneuvering her way through the crowd toward him. "Wynn Dorvan. How good to finally meet you!"

He was a trifle surprised to be so singled out, but he accepted both the hands she held out to him. "Senator Rokari Kem," he said. "You have the distinction of being the easiest-to-accept Senator in our recent application process."

She beamed at him as if he had told her she was the most beautiful, intelligent, and wonderful being in the universe. "I am so pleased!" she said. "I am grateful to be able to serve my people in this new capacity. The dream of belonging to the Galactic Alliance has been a cherished one for my world. Thank you for permitting it to come true."

He inclined his head. "You made it easy for us, ma'am. Would that all of the decisions were as agreeable. Please, let me introduce you to our interim Chief of State, Padnel Ovin. He, too, comes from a race of oppressed beings. I think the two of you will get along splendidly."

Lord Ivaar Workan watched as Roki Kem swept into the room. She was, without a doubt, charming and charismatic. Also without a doubt, her entire history attested to a deeply rooted love for her people and an integrity that had seldom been seen outside a holodrama. And as he saw how many beings turned to watch her, approach her, or otherwise seem heartened by her arrival, he realized this weed in the Sith garden had to be eliminated before it took root.

He would enjoy it, he mused. Would he get to kill her? Terrify and taunt her before taking her life? Or would it be sweeter to slowly discredit her, watch her pain as the public that so doted on her eventually turned to despising her? The latter, preferably. Workan did not like bodies; they were inconvenient and attracted attention.

His mind was already concocting several trumped-up scandals with which to smear the admittedly lovely Roki Kem when he noticed she was moving in his direction. He smiled warmly. As his hand closed around her three-fingered one, he suppressed a shudder. Suddenly she didn't look quite so lovely to him.

Nonetheless her smile was entrancing. "Senator Kameron Suldar, I believe?" she said.

"The same, ma'am. And as everyone here knows, you are the famous Roki Kem."

She ducked her head slightly. "I prefer to simply be Senator. I a.s.sure you, I am famous only because Fate chose me to be the liberator of my people. I do not hunger after it."

And suddenly he knew, without knowing, that that was a lie. But her people didn't lie, if he recalled correctly. They gave too much emphasis to the power of words.

As he gazed into her green eyes, he saw something there that everyone else must have missed. He saw a coldness, a calculation. Her smile deepened. "Please, a word with you, if I may? You have done so fine a job in so short a time, I think I may learn from you."

"Certainly," he said, nodding to his cronies. They meandered off a discreet distance. They were effectively alone. Regulations forbade any recording devices in this room, and Workan knew those rules were enforced. He himself had been almost indecently a.n.a.lyzed for any such devices. Whatever she had to say, he knew it would be for his ears alone. He continued to smile pleasantly. "How can I be of service to you, Senator?"

"By staying out of my way," came the unexpected response. She, too, kept a smile on her face, but her eyes were hard as jade.

He made a sight clucking sound of reprimand. "That certainly doesn't sound like the Rokari Kem the galaxy has come to know and love."

"She does not exist," said Kem. "Certainly you know a thing or two about fabricating a persona."

What did she mean by that? Was it nothing more than a jab at the perceived deceptive nature of politicians? Or was it something else? What exactly did she know?

"Oh, I do," he said. "Hard to get elected otherwise." He chuckled and sipped his drink.

"Hard to accomplish other goals, as well." She playfully clinked her gla.s.s against his. Watching eyes would see only two beings enjoying a conversation.

"Such as?" Workan asked.

"Stay out of my way," Roki said, "and perhaps you will live long enough to find out."

"Come now," chided Workan, "I think you have learned about Coruscant by watching too many holodramas. You posture and threaten too clumsily, Senator."

"I do neither," she said, and there was an iciness to her voice that chilled even him, a Sith High Lord. "I know more than you think I do. I have more power and better connections than you think I have. Please, do continue to underestimate me and rattle your saber. It will make things much easier."

She smiled and gave him a gracious nod, then moved over to another cl.u.s.ter of Senators, smiling that enchanting smile and radiating kindness.

Workan drained his gla.s.s and gestured to the serving droid for a refill. Rattle your saber? He knew that it was a dismissive phrase for someone who loudly promised a fight. But did it also mean Roki Kem knew who and what he was?

Did she know about the Lost Tribe?

It was a most unpleasant thought. He would have to do something about this lovely, intelligent and-he had to give her credit-amazingly deceitful woman sooner than he had expected.

Three hours later, Workan returned to his apartments. He unb.u.t.toned his overtunic and tossed it into a chair. The day had progressed from one disaster to another, and he was not looking forward to what he had to do now. He debated putting it off. Roki Kem had certainly proved to him today that her image of a benevolent, gentle being was as much a facade as his own posing as a Senator. He could use that to bring her down.

But if she knew the Sith were here on Coruscant- No. If something happened and his Master found that Workan had not warned him, Workan would not live long enough to draw breath to apologize. It had to be now.

He went to the room that served him as both office and meditation chamber. Gla.s.s sculptures were present here, too, his longtime favorites. A mat lay spread out in front of a single candle on one side of the room, a desk with a holoprojector on the other. Workan glanced longingly at the mat. When he was finished with the conversation, no doubt a lengthy meditation session would be in order.

He tapped in a code. An image flickered, and then solidified-that of an elderly human male sitting on a magnificent throne, a staff across his lap. His head was nearly bald, his eyes sunken, but there was an aura of power that Workan could sense even in holographic form.

Humbly, Workan knelt. "Grand Lord," he said.

"High Lord Workan," said Vol. "How do things progress?"

"Well, my lord," said Workan. Which was partially true. "Our people are in key positions on this world. We are able to direct the flow of information. We have already met and dealt swiftly with challenges to our authority. The one who rules now is a buffoon, and he will do what I tell him to. The last Jedi is imprisoned, and we are all but ready for your arrival."

The sunken eyes narrowed. "All but ready? The Jedi left days ago. What is taking so long? Is there any sign of Abeloth?"

"No, my lord. No doubt she and Ship are wandering about the galaxy while we steal the fruit from under her nose. But-another female is causing ... difficulties. There is a Senator. She is new to the Senate, but word of her deeds and n.o.bility preceded her. She is wildly popular, the liberator of her people, and I cannot eliminate her without creating a public backlash."

"Do not tell me a Sith High Lord is being defeated by a kind and n.o.ble female," said vol, the words almost a sneer. "Now, if she were Abeloth ..."

Workan stiffened. "There is no hint of Force-ability about her. No, my lord, she is nothing more than a liar and a deceiver-but a very skilled one. Somehow she has manipulated the galaxy into believing that she is someone to be loved and honored, when in reality she is nearly as ruthless as we. She has even swayed some of my followers-the ones who are simply gullible rather than corrupt. And my lord ... she may know of our true ident.i.ties."

"You disappoint me, Workan," said vol. "You sweep through this world like the conqueror you should be, yet one pesky two-faced alien female has stopped you dead in your tracks. I tire of waiting on you. I will come and deal with this Roki Kem myself."

"My lord, please," said Suldar. "I will take her down, swiftly and surely."

"You will save her for me," vol said. "This keeshar dared to challenge a member of the Lost Tribe. I will crush her, and with her head in my hand, I shall announce our presence on this world. Expect me soon."

The image winked out. Workan closed his eyes, gathering calmness. He could eliminate Roki Kem before Vol arrived, thus proving to his Grand Lord that he was capable of handling his own problems. But that would annoy Vol, who no doubt planned to capitalize on the horror of displaying the head of Roki Kem, so beloved and benevolent, upon his ascension to ruler of-well, everything. For to control Coruscant, as the saying went, was to control the galaxy.

No, best to let Grand Lord Vol have his sport. But in the meantime, he would watch, and wait, and be ready when his Master arrived.

Everything was on schedule and going well on the set of The Perre Needmo Newshour. Beings went about their usual tasks with the same level of efficiency and professionalism as ever. But as Needmo shuffled to his anchor's chair, he knew he was not alone at sensing the pall that hung in the air. Things had been different since the Jedi had left. The Senate's flurry to pa.s.s more restrictive legislation on customs, taxes, public behavior-everything, really. The sudden appearance of BAMR News, which was so slanted as to make one long for the return of Javis Tyrr's The Jedi Among Us, not to mention make one wish the Jedi were still "among us," was even more disheartening.

Needmo was waiting for the censorship to spread to his show, but thus far it hadn't materialized. The free press, it would seem, had not been entirely muzzled. And for that, he was glad. Although he often felt like a lone voice crying in the wilderness, as long as he could report the truth-do what holojournalists were expected to do, should always do-he would stay on the air.

The show prided itself on having good news along with the bad, but recently there had been more of the latter than the former. The peculiar decision to elect Padnel Ovin as Chief of State, the formation of the infamous subcommittee, the imprisonment of Leia Organa Solo, the not-unexpected but still regrettable death of Senator Bramsin, and the lead story tonight-all were things Needmo wished he didn't need to cover. But reporting the news, as Madhi Vaandt had so poignantly taught them all, was the most important thing a holojournalist could do, whether the news was hopeful, tragic, or something in between. At least, Needmo thought, they would close on an upbeat note-the arrival of Rokari Kem, liberator of the Jessar and the newest GA Senator. Surely things would improve, at least somewhat, with such a prominent voice of reason finally able to speak.

The Twi'lek makeup a.s.sistant darted out, patted down the Chevin's large brow, then hurried off. The music began to play, and the cam operator gave him the countdown.

"Good evening, gentlebeings, and welcome to tonight's edition of The Perre Needmo Newshour. We've got something special for you tonight-an exclusive. We'll spend the last several minutes of our show airing an interview I conducted just this afternoon with fledgling Senator Rokari Kem of Qaras. But first, a more sobering look as we revisit a story that the late Devaronian holojournalist Madhi Vaandt first brought to our attention: the undercity of Coruscant."

The viewers would now be watching old holofootage-seeing the image of Madhi Vaandt, her bright eyes alert, clad in her no-nonsense outfit, her arm around the shoulders of a small, skittish human boy named Tarynd.

"For a while, the attention Vaandt brought to this violent, forgotten area seemed to make a difference. Areas were recovered and reclaimed. Funds were raised to help provide food, clothing, and shelter for younglings such as Tarynd, whom viewers followed for several weeks as Vaandt's story unfolded. But with Vaandt's tragic death, interest in healing this wound to the very heart of Coruscant waned."

Now, Needmo knew, viewers would be watching footage just captured a few hours ago. "We descended into the depths of the undercity last night to bring you this update." The images would speak for themselves: the undercity looked worse than ever. It seemed as though the yorik coral, slashvines, and other plant growth, far from being beaten back, had all but taken over. Whereas before the inhabitants had tended to shy away from the cams, now the holofilm crew-who had received hazard pay for obtaining the footage-captured gangs brutally and openly terrorizing those unfortunate enough to be overtaken.

"It's as if nothing at all was done, as if the undercity, briefly recalled, has been more than forgotten-it has been thoroughly forsaken. More and more beings are disappearing in this part of the city, and there is no public outcry to investigate. No one knows why there has been a sudden growth spurt in the plant life here, and it seems unlikely that the Galactic Alliance will fund any kind of research to determine why, or to protect the innocent. One thing is tragically certain-it is a darker and more dangerous place than ever before."

And Needmo knew what the viewers would see as the segment ended: a frozen close-up of young Tarynd's face, contorted in hatred as he and four other gang members beat a terrified Chadra-Fan into a pulp.

ADMIRAL PAROVA'S APARTMENT, CORUSCANT AS SHE PREPARED FOR BED, SALLINOR PAROVA HUMMED ALONG WITH her favorite aria, playing in the background. Not many today remembered The Eye of the Empire. It had been commissioned by a long-dead Moff as a propaganda piece trumpeting the superiority of the human race, and consequently few admitted to listening to it. To Parova's mind, however, that was a shame. The arias were some of the finest ever composed. It didn't harm her appreciation any that she sympathized with the opera's theme: the proper role that would make alien species happiest was subjugation to humans.

And she was helping move things to that n.o.ble, and right, end.

Her comm beeped. Parova frowned in exasperation as she glanced at her chrono, muted the music, and clicked the comm. It had better be an emergency.

"Parova."

"Admiral?" It was Rynog Asokaji's voice. "You need to come to the medcenter immediately. Admiral Buwa'tu is lucid. He wants to see you."

Parova's gut clenched. The old goat was tougher than any of them had thought. He'd survived an armed attack by two very accomplished pseudo-Jedi, had come out of a coma, and now, apparently, was no longer the convenient vegetable he had been.

Stang.

"Admiral?"

"Of course, I'll be there at once." She forced herself to add, "That's wonderful news."

"I've already sent a hovertaxi for you. It'll be faster and ... well, ma'am, you'll want to hear what he has to say as soon as possible. He says he knows who sent the fake Jedi after him and why."

Her heart sped up. "I see. It will be good to have him back. I'll be there shortly."

Her thumb was on the comm to warn Jaxton that Nek Bwua'tu, the Bothan Who Would Not Die, was on to him. Then she paused.

No one had gotten a good answer as to what had happened to Bramsin and then Treen. Fost Bramsin had been positively ancient, so natural causes were not at all suspicious. But Treen's sudden-and complete-departure was. No one hungered for power more than that old she-krayt. There had been no contact from Lecersen, either.