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“I would not be so sure of that. But that is among the lesser of our worries,” Vol added, lifting a hand as Workan started to protest. “It is well you have done nothing to jeopardize our secrecy. We should use the ignorance of Coruscant to our benefit as long as we can. I will deal with this Roki Kem. You are absolutely sure she is not a Force-user?”

Workan bridled slightly. “As I told you before, no one has been able to sense a thing. Apparently all her power comes from her ability to make people adore her while she selfishly grabs power for herself.”

“That is a good skill in and of itself,” said Vol. “Don’t dismiss it. Nonetheless, politically powerful as she may be, she cannot stand up to me.” It was not arrogance. It was a simple truth. “There is a second wave of Sith, awaiting my instructions. They are poised either for attack or for continued infiltration, depending on what I deem is wisest once Kem is eliminated. Which,” he added, “I shall do tonight. The Tribe has waited five thousand years for this moment; I am anxious to experience it.”

“As my lord wishes,” said Workan, and bowed.

He did not bother to cloak his excitement and pride, and Vol would not chastise him for it. Let him, and the other Sith, the humans operating in public and the Keshiri operating behind the scenes in secret, who had earned this, enjoy themselves before the hard work of ruling the galaxy began.

Workan decided to start celebrating a bit early. He opened a bottle of burtalle, sent to him by the ugly Sullustan senator Wuul in what was a clear attempt to curry favor. The two had clashed more than once, but Workan recognized a being determined to hang on to what he had, and so rather enjoyed the sparring. Particularly if an apology gift was as delicious as this beverage, which deserved opening a second bottle, and perhaps a third.

So it was that when the vidcall came at an obscene hour in the morning, he awoke slightly bleary and disoriented. Workan knew who it had to be, but as he sat up in bed wincing, his head throbbing and his mouth flimsi-dry, he thought that Grand Lord Vol could have waited until a more respectable hour to announce the Sith victory.

He threw on a robe and stumbled to a chair, pressing the activation button.

And grew, quite suddenly, stone-cold sober.

It was not Lord Vol. It was Roki Kem.

The large green eyes were crinkled in a smile that was languid but had nothing of kindness about it. Roki lifted a three-fingered hand and gave him a little wave.

“Good morning, Senator,” she said in her melodious voice.

Had Vol not struck? Had she been alerted to the attempt? His danger sense was screaming in the back of his mind. Something had gone very, very wrong.

“It would be a better morning had I been permitted to awaken at my usual hour,” he said. He kept his voice pleasant, but allowed a tinge of annoyance and confusion to creep into it.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice sounding genuinely apologetic. “But I stumbled across something I think belongs to you, and wanted to make sure you knew it had been found.”

She held up Lord Vol’s head.

The Grand Lord of the Lost Tribe had died in terror, or torment—perhaps both—it would seem, if the wide, staring eyes and gaping mouth were any indication. Unable to help himself, Workan recoiled in horror. Raw, pure terror shot through him.

“Who—who are you?” he stammered.

Roki’s smile deepened, its sweetness obscenely at odds with the severed head she continued to hold up. “Who I am is unimportant. It’s who I will be that should concern you. Who you will help me become.”

She waited, enjoying playing him, enjoying his terror. Workan swallowed, reaching out in the Force to press calm upon his trembling body. Regaining a measure of the control that had enabled him to climb to the position of High Lord, he asked, “And who is that?”

Her smile widened, and her blue face shone with happiness. “The Beloved Queen of the Stars,” Roki murmured.

He had recovered sufficiently to let out a snort at that. “What kind of title