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“Oh, we will watch her, we will watch her,” said Ourn. “Viceroy—a small question.”

“Of course.”

“When can we expect delivery of the thrustship you promised, in payment for the damage to Mother’s Valkyrie which we agreed to allow? Should I decide to leave Coruscant, my only options are to charter a vessel, at considerable expense, or take a commercial flight, at considerable inconvenience.”

Nil Spaar smiled ingratiatingly. “Soon, Consul, soon. The newest vessel from our best shipyard is being altered to your specifications as we speak. Have patience. You will not be disappointed.”

* * *

In an empty room of a deserted lodge on the grounds of the diplomatic hostel in Imperial City, a hypercomm repeater answered a coded call from light-years away.

The repeater in turn activated a delicate and elegant transmitter, which bounced a curious signal into the heart of a bland-faced building filled with the machinery of the New Republic government’s official information net.

Moments later, second-shift supervisor Turat Il Feen sat in open-mouthed amazement at his master controller station as the Channel 1 homeworld notification system awakened of its own accord.

Only three offices could originate the rare Channel 1 dispatches—the Ruling Council, the President, and the Fleet High Command. But the background blue screen that appeared on Channel 1 carried none of their identifying insignia. All that appeared were the words TRANSMISSION BEGINS IN:, followed by a counter.

Even so, Channel 1 went active. The tickle went out, alerting the net that a priority message was imminent. Almost immediately, hypercomm receivers on every homeworld and in every administrative center began to respond, signaling their readiness.

“We’re being hacked,” Turat raged at his technicians. “Find out where the signal is getting in. If we can’t lock it out, I want to take the system down.”

But there was little they could do. “Not enough time,” a technician muttered. “C-Ones are supposed to get out no matter what. That’s the way we built the system.”

At Turat’s station, the acknowledgment counter had climbed to ninety-five percent. “Do something,” he pleaded. “If we let a pirate broadcast out on C-One, we’ll all be lucky to get jobs as grid installers.”

But they had run out of time. The counter reached 00:00 and stopped. The blue background began to fade.

Turat looked at the acknowledgment counter and thought about the audience it represented—not only the countless thousands of receivers and recorders, but the officials charged with attending them. Cabinet ministers and diplomatic liaisons, senior advisers and planetary rulers, roused from sleep, called away from other duties, torn away from their private business to gather in front of monitors on every planet from Bespin to Byss.

Turat Il Feen could not sit quietly with that audience and watch his career ending. As the broadcast began, he stood up from his station, turned away, and walked out.

“Citizens of the New Republic—”

The door slid closed behind him. He heard no more. In that, he was one of the few.

At the moment the broadcast began, a late meeting was under way in the office wing of the president’s residence. Behn-kihl-nahm, Admiral Ackbar, Admiral Drayson, Leia, and Han were painstakingly crafting an announcement about the Yevethan massacres, and a strategy to guide them after its release in the morning.

They had just broken a deadlock over how to handle Plat Mallar’s involvement—Leia was determined not to exploit him, and carried the argument—when all four datapads on the table began to chirp warning signals.

“Channel One,” Leia said, silencing her alarm. “Did any of you—”

“No,” said Ackbar.

“Absolutely not,” said Behn-kihl-nahm.

“Then who?” asked Drayson.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Han said darkly.

The holomonitor on the end wall came on by itself for a Channel 1 dispatch. “Citizens of the New Republic,” said the image of Nil Spaar. “I beg your indulgence for this intrusion,