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Behind her, Han groaned slightly.

“Further, Suldar said the GA needed someone who did not side so openly with the Jedi, and he indicated that he thought Luke’s decision was a good one. There is more anti-Jedi sentiment in the Senate than I thought, Leia, I’m extremely sorry to say. It was honestly a bit alarming.”

Leia thought about the now-famous image of Wynn Dorvan racing up the Temple steps, and her heart sank further. “They can’t have it both ways,” she said, her voice harsh in her worry. “He can’t be both too pro-Daala and too pro-Jedi.”

“You know that, and I know that,” Wuul continued wearily, “but apparently many of the other Senators thought this was a perfectly valid argument. So there we sat for the next twelve hours, debating whether to put an experienced, trustworthy diplomat or a former terrorist in charge of the Galactic Alliance. And in the end, the terrorist won. Leia, I must tell you, I don’t know what things are coming to. Makes me want to take my burtalle and retire to Sullust.”

A sudden chill seized Leia. Behind her, Han, frustrated with only hearing one end of the conversation, kept whispering, “What? What?” She waved him to silence and took a deep breath, calming herself in the Force.

“Terrorist? Who would that be?”

She knew before he even said the name.

“It’s that new representative from Klatooine—Padnel Ovin.”

“Sir,” came Desha Lor’s soft, tentative voice, “the, uh, acting Chief of State is here to see you.”

Wynn Dorvan looked up. Since he had received the call at two, he had not slept. He’d come in early to facilitate the transition. His office was completely packed up, and he was already halfway through organizing the red tape that would be necessary for Padnel Ovin to formally take over Dorvan’s role.

“Chief of State,” he said graciously, his voice betraying only a little of his weariness. “Good morning. Desha, some fresh caf for the Chief, please. And for me, as well.”

“Certainly,” said Desha, withdrawing to discreetly leave the two of them alone.

Padnel stood looking sorely out of place in this room of precision and simple, clean lines. He wore a tunic of simple colors, typical fashion for the Senatorial crowd, and the garment was well tailored to his body, but it did not fit him. Dorvan felt a twinge of pity for the being. Ovin had no idea what he was getting into.

“I’m almost done,” Dorvan said. “I confess, I didn’t expect you quite so soon. I’ll be completely moved out within the hour.” He went to the side table to pour his guest a cup of caf.

“You misunderstand me, Wynn,” said Padnel in a gruff, husky voice. “I’m not prepared to move in just yet. I—wanted to speak with you. Privately.”

“Oh?” Dorvan handed him a cup and poured the last of the carafe for himself. “Please, have a seat. What did you wish to talk to me about? We have a formal debriefing scheduled for this afternoon.”

Despite his words, Ovin didn’t speak immediately, nor did he take the offered seat. He stood, looking uncomfortable, and stared at the caf for a long moment.

“I am the last being in the galaxy to call myself a diplomat,” he began. “I’m a warrior. I know tactics, and I know violence. I’ve been called a terrorist. I came here to represent my people, because they wanted me to represent them, and I would do anything for them. After twenty-five thousand years of slavery, they are free. Part of that is my doing.” He now looked at Dorvan. “Part of that was thanks to Jedi Solo and Tenel Ka. I wanted you to know that my nomination yesterday was as much a shock to me as it was to you.”

Dorvan frowned slightly, confused. “With all due respect, sir, if you didn’t want to be Chief of State, why did you accept the nomination?”

“Because I saw what was going on,” Ovin said, “and I did not like it.”

“And what was going on?” Dorvan sat, not behind his desk, but in one of the two other chairs in the room. Now, at last, Ovin sat down, holding the caf but not drinking it.

“Selfishness,” Ovin said, surprising Dorvan. “Untruths. I like things plain and simple, as I understand you do, too. You