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“Chief of State Daala looks best in her admiral’s uniform,” Leia said diplomatically, “when she is remembering where her real duty lies.”

“I think she’s beyond remembering. She tried to kill us.”

It was hard to argue with that, and Leia wisely didn’t.

They had all recovered, as much as one could recover, from Kani’s murder. They had found renewed hope in action. Leia had remembered that Cilghal’s supply of sedatives was running low, and the last thing the Jedi needed right now was to worry about the three distraught beings attempting escape or violence, to themselves or others. It had been a long shot, but it had worked—the rodents had come when summoned, and had sought out any entrance small enough for them to slip through. And when one of them emerged with a message, Leia felt a terrible knot in her gut ease, if only slightly.

To our benefactors, Kenth Hamner had written in the encoded note—he had not signed his name, of course, but Leia knew his flowing, precise script—we are all well. It would take more than a display of Mando brutality to crush the Jedi spirit. If this reaches you, return correspondence.

Leia had done so, using the same code and in her own hand so that her handwriting would be recognized by the Jedi as Kenth’s had been by her. The chance of interception was small, but not nonexistent, so she kept it brief and cryptic until she received a reply that would indicate the messages were getting through. It had come shortly—a report that all avenues of escape were being pursued and that the Jedi were standing firm. The strike team was still ready to launch, once such a thing was physically possible; they had not abandoned her brother. The letter closed with a request for more medicines, and a list of specifics. Han and Leia had spent the better part of the evening rounding up as many vials as they could, strapping them to the backs of Force-calmed critters, and sending them forth from the safety of several hundred meters away from the encircling ring of Mandos and their machines of death and siege.

More they could not do at this hour, and had come home just in time for some quiet time with their granddaughter. Leia focused on the love she felt for these two people, letting go of her worries about the Jedi for the moment and permitting love for Han and Allana—yes, and Anji, too, who lifted her head and tilted it inquiringly at Leia at that instant—to fill her heart. There was no segment from Madhi Vaandt tonight, and Leia was sorry about that. She liked the spunky young Devaronian, and her coverage always left Leia feeling reenergized.

“Finally tonight, a news item and an editorial in one.” Needmo looked grave. “We at The Perre Needmo Newshour have long believed in a journalistic tradition of unbiased, honestly obtained, accurate information. We report. We do not spy, we do not invent, and we do not resort to illegal methods of obtaining information. We occasionally have guest journalists on the show who are passionate about what they cover, and seek justice as much as they seek accuracy. We take care to always identify such things as editorials, such as Madhi Vaandt’s continuing coverage of the institution of slavery throughout the galaxy, and also this current editorial.” He smiled, his small dark eyes crinkling and his snout twitching.

“For the last few years, our honorable profession has come under attack. Not necessarily from governments interested in suppressing a free press—although that has happened on occasion as well—but from within our own ranks. A cancer has formed, a cancer of greed, ego, and ruthlessness that has led to a mind-set of ratings and personal fame at any cost. While those of us who work on this show despise such action, we have never publicly reproached a fellow journalist who has chosen to follow that path. We have stayed out of the fray—out of the pit as it were—trusting in the good sense of the viewers to support whomever they feel is correct.”

Leia glanced over at Han, and read the hope in his brown eyes. She didn’t dare to voice it. After