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A few seconds earlier, R2-D2 tweetled, leaned back into tripod configuration, and rolled aft from the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon.

C-3PO hurried after him. “What message? I didn’t receive any message.”

The astromech ignored him. Reaching a specific point along the transport’s circular gangway, R2-D2 opened a port, extended his manipulator arm, and swung it out to bang against the floor three times.

“Now what are you up to—”

That section of metal flooring, and one next to it, rose.

“Oh, my.”

Master Saba Sebatyne stood up from the smuggling compartment revealed by the raising of the floor panel. Nearby, Corran Horn and Jaina Solo stood up from an adjacent compartment.

“Master Sebatyne, Master Horn, Mistress Jaina. If I’d known you were here, I could have brought you some caf.”

The three Jedi, climbing out of their compartments, barely glanced at the protocol droid. They replaced the hatch covers and raced to the top of the boarding ramp, then down into the hangar.

C-3PO could hear their progress. It was marked by the snap-hiss of lightsabers igniting, shouts, the crackle of blaster rifles firing, the sizzle of blaster bolts reflected into and extinguishing themselves against durasteel walls.

R2-D2 rolled after the Jedi, tweetling.

“What do you mean, accompany them? This is Jedi business, very dangerous. We have other orders.”

The astromech gave an assertive tweetle as he descended the boarding ramp.

“Well, yes, one of our orders was for me to follow your instructions, but that was the preposterous one. Unfollowable, when you think about it.” Yet curiosity and concern for the fate of his counterpart compelled C-3PO to waddle along in the astromech’s wake. “Oh, dear.”

The lights in the hangar dimmed.

The moment the lights dimmed across the Senate Building, a naval ensign loitering outside the entrance to the main security center entrance perked up. He tugged his cap low over his eyes and clutched his briefcase close to him.

As the subsonic tone began to rattle the bones of everyone in sight, yellow lights flashed atop the entryway. Galactic Alliance Security and Navy personnel outside the entrance crowded in through it. The diagonal leading edges of the blast doors there flashed green, signaling the start of a lockdown countdown.

The naval ensign crowded in at the back of a group of security officers. He made it through the entrance as the blast doors’ edges went from green to yellow, as the vibration became a modulated two-tone alarm.

The center was in chaos, a chaos that was only a few seconds old. Officers and troopers rushed to their duty stations. The level of noise, shouts for information, orders, the alarm tone, battered at the ensign’s ears.

The ensign took a good look around. Everything looked different from the holorecordings supplied by Seha’s attorney droid—the crowding and rushing of personnel made everything more difficult to comprehend.

But Bandy Geffer had studied the recordings for long hours. He knew the floor plan, could recognize the faces of many individuals, even knew the names and positions of some. He moved forward at a brisk pace, remembering to salute higher-ranking officers, catching no one’s eye. As he turned rightward down a side corridor, in his peripheral vision he saw the blast door edges flash red; then they slid closed with a bone-rattling thump.

A few steps more brought Bandy to his destination, the marquee cells—a high-profile cell block where prisoners could be temporarily lodged and displayed before being turned over to other authorities. Each of these small cells featured a large transparisteel viewport instead of bars, giving an unimpeded view of the cell’s contents—all but the refresher corners, which were screened off.

Seha Dorvald sat on the lower bunk of the third cell he came across. She watched the commotion outside her viewport with mild interest. As Bandy came into view, she waved.

Bandy set down the briefcase beside her gray durasteel door. He opened the case and pulled his