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“I am surprised to see you here,” Lecersen continued.

“Pendulums,” the old man said.

“Pendulums,” Lecersen repeated.

“The last war was a disaster.” Bramsin paused, considering his words. “A disaster that would never have happened in an orderly society. The new government is also a disaster. Imposing ever-tightening controls as Palpatine did in his last years. Enacting reflexive, poorly thought-out laws. It must stop.”

“I agree.”

“I want to see order—sensible order—restored before I die. Are you the one to do it?”

“I believe I am.”

“See that you are.” Bramsin turned away and began his slow walk back the way he’d come.

“He brings us a majority of the Senators on his committee.” Treen’s voice was a whisper, one that probably did not carry to the old man’s ears.

“What about the military chiefs?”

“We have Starfighter Command and the army. We’re working on the navy.”

“And—so we’re clear, so there are no unspoken assumptions—what do you want? Other than order restored.”

“Grand Moff of the Corusca sector. And four dinners with you.”

Lecersen suppressed a laugh. “Four? Why not fourteen?”

“Because if, in four dinners, I cannot convince you that you should propose to me, and that I should be the first Empress of the reforged Empire, then I will have to acknowledge that I have failed … and that I must be content with just the status and wealth of the galaxy’s most powerful Grand Moff.” She gave him a familiar pat on the cheek. “You and your men can, I am sure, find your way out.” She turned and departed.

Lecersen just stood for a long moment.

This could work.

CHIEF OF STATE’S OFFICE, SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT

It left a sour taste in Daala’s mouth, but General Jaxton had been right. Rumblings of disapproval were increasing in the armed forces. The situation called for sacrifice. Still, a sense of unease tugged at her as she waited in the hypercomm chamber for her technicians to put the call through, and that unease would not be dispelled, no matter how meticulously she set her organized military mind against it.

The communications officer on duty, a dark-furred Bothan, looked up and caught her eye. “I’ve reached her assistant.” His tone was as neutral and cultivated as that of any Bothan with political aspirations. “They’re putting us through now. Ready to go live in five, four, three …” He held up the appropriate number of fingers as he counted down, and went silent for the final two numbers, counting them off with fingers alone.

The reception zone of the chamber, a circular open space with holocomm projector antennas directed at it from the ceiling, glowed into life, a swirl of colors, then stabilized into a brilliant three-dimensional picture. Most of the volume of the zone seemed to be occupied by clear blue water; fish, bright yellow with black vertical stripes, darted back and forth in small schools.

In the center of the image floated a Mon Cal female. She was dressed in a simple white robe, a garment better suited to the surface than underwater. Life-sized, she turned slightly to look straight at Daala, regarding her steadily. In her gaze was none of the hostility that Daala usually experienced when dealing with Mon Cals or Quarren, a hostility stemming from her military actions against their planet years ago.

“Admiral Daala.” Niathal’s voice had the curious, echoing tone characteristic of an underwater speaker. “I am honored.”

Daala inclined her head, one peer acknowledging another. “Admiral Niathal. Thank you for taking my call. Is this your home?”

“A quiet spot near my office. When my assistant received your call, he had a portable holocam setup run out to me.”

“Very accommodating.” Daala knew that she herself did not look anywhere near as calm or rested as Niathal. Dressed in her formal white admiral’s uniform, upright with military bearing, brilliantly illuminated by the holocam lights ringing her, she knew she had to look like some grim, glowing supernatural harbinger of danger.

Which she nearly was. She continued, “I also appreciate your agreeing to see my emissary.”

“Yes … Our