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In her quarters in the Senate Building, Daala struggled to straighten her freshly pressed white dress uniform jacket while keeping her comlink and datapad in hand and watching the coverage of the pre-procession preparations on the wall monitor. “So Coruscant Security signed off on the procession itself. But, specifically, who?”

The voice from her comlink was male and sounded defensive. “Well, it’s spelled three different ways on three different forms. It appears to be something like Captain Koltstan.”

“And is there a Captain Koltstan in Coruscant Security?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then that’s not the name. Find out who it was. And who paid for the transportation and for the drum line and for the security deposit.” Her door chimed to announce the presence of a visitor—and since it was a chime and not a query from a security agent, it was someone with standing authorization to enter. “Come.”

The door slid up and Wynn Dorvan walked in. Seeing the rows of buttons on Daala’s dress jacket unfastened and the jacket gaping open over her undershirt, he turned his back with an unobtrusive grace that suggested he had, in fact, dropped in to study the Super Star Destroyer holo prominently framed on the white wall before him.

“Oh, don’t be an idiot.”

“Ma’am?” That was the voice on her comlink.

“Not you. You, go away and get me answers. Daala out.” She flipped the switch on her comlink with enough force to break a device built to less than mil-spec standards. She hurled the comlink onto an off-white sofa, then threw the datapad after it. “Any more delays and I’m going to be late to the procession.” She got to work on her buttons. “What is it?”

Dorvan hazarded a look over his shoulder, then turned to face her. “Security estimates that the threat level for the service is rising.”

Daala blinked. “I was just speaking with security.”

“Yes, with their investigative arm. I’m talking about the arm that handles protection of high-profile targets such as, oh, you.”

“And they’re estimating increased danger for high-profile targets?”

He shook his head. “No, just for you.”

She finished with the top buttons and turned to look at a blank section of wall. “Mirror.”

The wall panel slid aside, revealing a full-length mirror. Daala couldn’t stand the notion of having such a testimonial to vanity on display at all times, but she did need one for any self-examination before a public appearance, and having one hidden behind a wall panel was her compromise. “Would you be more specific?”

“Your public approval rating has been dropping since the announcement of Niathal’s suicide, and Security thinks someone might take a shot at you during the service. It’s that simple.”

“Niathal was on Most Hated lists as recently as—”

“As recently as the day before her death. Now she’s being looked on as a noble officer who took a blaster bolt for the squad. And you’re the officer who attacked Mon Calamari a while back.”

“So it’s dissident Mon Cals and Quarren we have to worry about?” She swept her hair up, freeing strands from her collar, and let it fall into place against her back again. “What do you think—loose, braid, or up?”

“That’s a very girlie question coming from you.”

“That’s why I’m asking you. I have no idea what the right answer is.”

“Braid. But don’t go. It’s not just Mon Cals and Quarren. There are Mon Cal sympathizers, crazy Confederation holdouts, anti-Imperial extremists, Niathal admirers, Darth Caedus admirers …” He shrugged, apologetic. “Security considers the individuals who might want to harm you an unorganized and irrational threat, but numerous enough that they’re taking it seriously.”

She stared at him, trying to keep frustration from showing on her face. “I can’t win here.”

“No, you can’t.”

“If I show up, crazies get to take a shot at me. If I don’t show up, I’m the insensitive Chief of State whose callousness led to Niathal’s death and who can’t spare the time to acknowledge her.”

“You’re right.” Dorvan spread his hands, palms up, a What can I tell you? gesture. “So if you’re going to lose anyway, I’d prefer