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Niathal raised her voice so that it could be heard across the entire bridge. “Issue the order to the fleet. All ahead slow. The outlying vessels are not to jump until they receive a direct command.”

Jacen and Lumiya separated once inside, the better to acquire information across a broader area.

The main chamber of the resort, the dome above recently cleaned to provide an unobstructed view of Gilatter VIII, was laid out with long tables full of food and drink. Delegates wandered from one to the next, or from one small standing group to the next. There was no urgency or animosity to be seen among them.

That was…curious. As critical as the election of a supreme war commander should be, Jacen had anticipated more anxiety.

And more notoriety among the attendees. So far, he hadn’t recognized a single face.

Jacen accepted a drink from a server, a tall, fair-haired woman in a white gown that looked like it dated to the late Old Republic but was probably just an in-vogue dress on some backwater world. “So where’s the coordinator?” he asked, making the question sound innocuous.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Any idea when opening arguments are supposed to begin?”

The server reached up to tug at her earlobe, just a nervous gesture—except Jacen could feel the lie in the casual nature of her movement. “I don’t know that, either. Perhaps they’ve broadcast the schedule to everyone’s datapad?”

“What did you just do?” Jacen asked.

The woman’s nervousness increased by a factor of ten or more. “I answered your ques—”

“No.” He leaned in close, intimidating. “When you touched your ear. Tell me. Or I’ll be forced to kill you.”

She looked right and left as if seeking an avenue of escape…or an observer. “Please,” she said, “we’re supposed to. If anyone asks questions.”

“You sent a signal.”

“Yes.”

Jacen wheeled and walked quickly back toward the door by which they’d entered the big chamber. Through the Force, he reached out to Lumiya, a warning.

“Gentlebeings!” The voice was so loud, broadcast from on high, that Jacen was compelled to look.

Toward the center of the great chamber, a hologram was forming. Six meters high, it showed a male human in a white admiral’s uniform, the cut and styling more suited to the Palpatine-era Empire than to modern military forces. The man was trim, with high cheekbones and fair hair cut into a military style. A scar, livid even in the hologram, started on his upper left lip and crossed straight down to the lower lip. To Jacen, he looked rather a lot like General Tycho Celchu, but lacked that officer’s warmth.

“If you’ll turn your attention to the sky,” the admiral continued, “you’ll witness the forces of the Galactic Alliance emerging from the planet’s atmosphere. This will be visible as a series of bright flashes as they begin to hit our mine grid. Closer to us, I’d like to introduce you to a distinguished visitor.”

A spotlight from high above blared right into Jacen’s eyes. He twisted away, knowing he was framed by its glow, and turned to glare at the hologram.

The hologram continued, “If our specialists are worth what we’re paying them, you may raise a glass to Colonel Jacen Solo, Galactic Alliance Guard. Some of you Corellians may have lost relatives and friends to this man’s many recent activities.”

Jacen heard a murmur of anger from some in the crowd, but most reacted only with curiosity. A few moved away from him a few steps. Others sipped their drinks, unconcerned.

“We haven’t been introduced,” Jacen said, projecting his voice.

The giant hologram nodded. “General Turr Phennir. Supreme Commander of the Confederation military. At your service.”

“I thought—”

“That today would be the day that office was elected.” Phennir shook his head as if saddened by Jacen’s credulity. “A deception I thought would be useful in drawing your forces in. And your presence here is another benefit, an unexpected one. I know you’re going to attempt to fight your way out, but I must ask, please don’t kill the delegates. They’re only actors.”

Behind Jacen came the sound of running feet—the security agents.