"... and while you drag yourself to get your morning hit of cafstim, while the yawning senators come together to discuss what else we can do for our Republic, while the pipes of the Factory District blow away our weather control taxes — we here at CorJatz have never gone to bed in the first place. Everything for our listeners. Everything for you. Good morning, Coruscant."

Good morning, Vad Alnam.

Got a bad night, haven't you? A night shift — as if you haven't worked nights all through the last week. Two calls: Fobosi and the southern campus. An assault and a rape. A great job you've got. Sleeping at work is an old legend at this point.

Time to go home, but things ain't any better there. It's funny to even think you still got a home. But it's time to go there, no matter what you call it and what you fear you'll start calling it. Time to write reports that no one would ever read unless some mad archeologist digs up ancient archives of CorSec in a thousand years. Some novel it would be. A very everyday one. Should you put in somewhere on the margins, specially for that poor bastard: I was Vad Alnam, and my life took a bad turn?

"Alnam, come in," says Captain Swauri.

I'm leaving, Alnam wants to say. Leave me be, I'm leaving.

He goes into Swauri's office. Swauri looks nervous. Swauri looks old. Swauri looks as if he hasn't slept all night too. Lamps are alight in his office even though the sun has already risen — when Alnam sits down, he lays his left hand right on the border between light and no-light. His pinkie and ring finger bathe in warmth.

"There's some business for you," the captain says.

"With all due respect, sir—"

The captain raises his hand. "Some unofficial business. We've talked about your transfer—"

Alnam gets jittery against his will. His hands start moving on the armrests — the sun has reached his middle finger.

"We have," he says in a calm voice. "I was told it was not a possibility."

The captain watches him. Weighs him up. Judges him.

"There's info on an anti-Republic propaganda case. It comes right from the brass. I wanted you to know."

"I believe, sir, I couldn't have made myself clearer on how I view ideological work."

"Not just any propaganda, mind. CIS propaganda. That's the info."

"Why's the case unofficial, then?" Alnam doesn't want to know. This is what happens when you can't say no: you start asking questions that don't interest you.

"We," the captain pauses, "we assume that it's a case of misunderstanding on, well, a journo's part. That is, no malign intent is present. No need to make it public. Let alone that the very essence of these accusations is rather sensitive."

"Sir, can I speak my mind?"

Swauri gestures meekly: go ahead.

"Sir, I don't find myself capable of doing what... what you are about to ask me to do. You know my stance on the war. I'm sure there are people in the department who—"

"Alnam, it's not about politics. It's about libel. Harmful and disgusting libel. It's not only harmful to the Republic, it hurts people. Think about people, not institutions."

"I don't find myself—"

"Six grand."

There you go. Note the inflation, descendants.

"Why I'm telling you this is because I was specifically told there might be a place for you in the Domestic Security. Think about your father. Think about how you could help him."

Can't argue with that, can you?

"You mean the brass wanted me on this case?"

"Why are you so surprised? You've got a good reputation, Vad. You're a good detective. The Force could use you."

"If I proved I don't share my father's views."

Swauri raises his eyebrows and nods. Slightly.

"You know me, Alnam. You know I'd never ask any of my people to do something I'd refuse to do myself. Do you really think anybody there," he points up, "would? All you need to do is explain to this newsman why his little article is banthashit. The sooner it's forgotten, the better. I'll send you all the info you need. You're on it?"

Alnam says nothing.

"Six grand is six grand, Alnam. Six grand and what's better, an opportunity to leave this shithole." Swauri grins. "It is one, and I know it better than you."

"Alright," says Alnam. "Send the materials."

"Take care of it today. You can have a comp day tomorrow."

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HOLOMATERIAL: ARTICLE FROM THE HONEST HARBINGER, 14:5:6

Patriotism or Promiscuity: Paladin and Politician's Pretty Pranks

by Kram Midduk

As all the respected readers of our one and only Harbinger know or can correctly conjecture, the grandiose Galactic Senate is not just a place for super-important hearings and stability-saving councils, but also for the less-savory plots of playful politicians. Sexual scandals and escapades in the Senate have made sensation so many times that only an inexperienced, illiterate, or ignominious ignoramus can be surprised by yet another use found for the famous halls of the Founders.

But today's case, dear dames and gentlemen, is well beyond the ordinary fare, for The Harbinger's holocams have espied not some self-disinterested senators from distant systems but the perfect princess of an oppressed (in the past) planet on whose life there were more attempts than on my own abrasive and atrocious appearance. I talk, of course, about the Naboo Senator Padmé Amidala, once elected queen for her brown locks and beautiful looks.

As it happens, abstinence does not accompany the life in the reticle of millions of cameras — and that's to say nothing of the hirelings of the noble who cannot take "no" for an answer. One thing it would be if the Senator's spooner and stress-relief was someone from her circle, but alas! The Harbinger's exclusive shots demonstrate the social distance so damnably dreadful between the dearies that even our dreadnaughts don't dream of covering it in a dozen days.

The sweetheart of the spoiled senator, as we see, is not an interchangeable diplomat but an indoctrinated Jedi! Let us not forget that celibacy and self-control are inseparable from the very Jedi teachings themselves, so, says The Harbinger, the fall from virtue is felt twice as sharply. Here is what Senator Amidala and her Jedi friend are up to in the politician's apartment.

Decency defenders will, of course, point out that no proof of fornication is present. To such pessimists, we proclaim: yet! Don't you doubt it, Senator: The Harbinger will highlight your hot and hair-raising hedonism and hand out holoshots of it to the last hobo!

Answer anticipated: who of the ancient order turned out an apostate? Our shocking shots dispel any shroud of uncertainty: although the face of the frivolous fetishist is obscured, his remarkable hand is a dead giveaway — literally dead, because there is no life in the soulless metal. (Here in The Harbinger we hope that life has not left the rest of the hunk). And — what a coincidence! — Padmé's constant companion, that is, Anakin Skywalker, the hero of the Republic, a daring and dashing Jedi, is one heroic hand short after a skirmish — spicy! — with the very same Separatist sage who has sent so many mercenaries after the Nabooan nymphet. What makes us wonder is how often the mechanized appendage finds its way into the sacrosanct and top-secret senatorial places!

Soon, this mystery shall be revealed to the Galaxy — thanks to The Honest Harbinger and yours truly, Kram Midduk.

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.

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The trip to the editor's takes more time than Alnam hoped. While the police speeder hangs in a jam, cars on all sides, all he can do is reread the article and Swauri's addendum. Swauri writes: "No refutations; there was no article". Makes sense. Alnam wonders if the idea is the captain's or was given to him by his — their — employers.

Six thousand credits — mind the inflation — sound niiiiiiiiice. The vague whiff of a promise — Domestic Security — sounds even better. Alnam feels hope — for the first time in days. Six thousand. Should be enough to hire Smates. Just a consultation would suffice. He knows his jurisprudence. Just needs a couple hints on family legislation.

The police droid moves the speeder in jerks, jumping to any free spot he notices. His voice module has been out of commission — almost for a year now.

Alnam orders the speeder stopped two levels away from the editor's office. Walks down the street and takes a public elevator. These are still the uppers, but the very lowest end of them.

A hard-to-notice entrance: The Honest Harbinger's office. Alnam thinks it's done on purpose.

A beaten-down protocol droid greets him, "What can I do for you, sir?"

"I'd like to see Kram Midduk, if that's possible."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Midduk is not currently available. Can I take a message for him?"

"Better tell me where he is available."

"I'm afraid, sir, I am not at liberty to disclose that."

Alnam nods. Leaves. Runs a background check on Midduk. Here he is: a Quarren, male, 39. Two previous records: both for possession. Address: Beshka Street, 38-22-1. Not far from the Crimson Corridor. Great place. The day keeps on giving. No family, lives alone. Alnam cringes.

All the less hope to get in bed by midday.

He sends the police car to Beshka Street and takes a bus. It's hot and crowded. Alnam's shirt sticks to the seat.

Five levels down from the bus stop. You can still see the sun here, but go a few levels deeper, and it's gone. Alnam walks in the hall of 38-22. His hand finds the vibroknuckles in the pocket of his breeches. He thinks and lets it go.

He's been to such buildings on his work — maybe to this one specifically. They often have the same owner — connected to someone in the Corridor, for one — who rents the flophouse out to the poor and the criminals. The Raptors and the Swoop Psychos used to own the neighborhood about ten years ago. Now the Raptors are all but gone and the Psychos have merged into one gang with several others.

Watch the doors. Watch the elevator. Watch the graffiti. Analyze. Graffiti:

With spice you live twice

I'M THE DEVOURER

Fuck you and fuck me

We're all fucked brother

Call me if you want good very well time and cheap for you

Also: crude drawings of nude females of at least four different species. Gang tags. Standard fare. The elevator door is broken. The stairway is submerged in rubbish. Empty bottles.

Alnam finds himself sympathizing with Midduk: sniffing the celebrities' farts is the only window he has into a better world.

The door to the apartment one. Doorbell, microphone, speaker. No camera. Gooooood. Alnam puts his hand to the bell button. The sound is audible outside — the doors here might be thick, but the walls are paper-thin.

He keeps ringing until the speaker goes hissing and the lodger of Beshka, 38-22-1 answers, "Who's there?"

Alnam activates a jammer. All the man on the other side can hear is electric noise.

"What the hell?" the speaker asks.

The jammer: turn it up. "From the office," says Alnam.

The door slides to the side — juuuuust a bit, but that's all Alnam needs. His years in the field are gone, but he hasn't grown too much fat since. He slips through the opening and pushes the Quarren in. Before the journalist can react, Alnam closes the door.

"Mr. Midduk? I'm not here to do you any harm."

"Do you know how many times I was beaten after hearing this shit?" Midduk's tentacles writhe around his chest, but the voice is calm.

"Am I beating you right now? No, and I've no reason to start."

Watch. He watches. The apartment is dirty. Crammed with holotapes and bottles. The kitchen is visible from the entrance. The bedroom, too. No one there. The door into the bathroom is half-open. Alnam opens it fully: no hiding friends there as well.

"Then what?"

"I'm here on an unofficial visit."

"That goes badly with the no-beating thing."

"Nothing goes badly for you — yet. It will if other people make an official visit."

Midduk's eyes shoot left and right. Goooood. He's trying to remember what wrongdoing might have got him here.

"It's about your article. Promiscuous politicians, you know."

"That's my shtick. Be clearer."

"The latest. The Nabooan senator and the Jedi. Remember now?"

"I might."

"Good. You see, Mr. Midduk, some people have found it not only tasteless — that, I suppose, is also your shtick — but also giving a black eye to both the Senate and the Order."

"Articles don't give no one black eyes, people like you usually do. It's not my fault they can't keep their parts in pants."

"Spare me your alliteration. It's not my fault, either. You see, personally, I don't give a damn what people write or read. But the special services? In the war time? Please. You won't find more attentive readers in a book club. They're really good at reading between the lines, too. It appears that "high treason" and "Separatist propaganda" are most often printed in those betweens."

The journo winces as if from a slap. Good... keep it steady, Vad. Don't push him too much.

"I hope you realize how grave your situation is. I'm here to help you keep the 'grave' part figurative. I could go to your editor, you know? But here I am, willing to help you. I'm of the opinion it's better to prevent than to punish."

"Do you want a refutation? Alright. The Herald..."

"No, Mr. Midduk. You don't need to do anything."

The Quarren looks at him vacantly.

"We need this story to stop escalating."

"You should talk to the lovebirds, then."

Alnam smiles. "Probably, but that wouldn't do anything. Haven't you been young? So it's up to you to do the right thing. Don't publish any refutations. No continuations, too. Don't reply if anyone asks what happened next. Treat this story as a non-story. No surveillance after the senator and her friend — that goes without saying. Come up with a new sensation. Let a wart on some washed-up movie star's ass be your new big piece. Then you won't have a problem."

Midduk squirms. "There was no surveillance. I bought the pics off my buddy in Daily Newsfeed. It was by chance, you know. I just asked if she had any juicy shit. They don't run this type of news in Newsfeed. Pela Scavastor's the name. I know where she hangs out on Taungsdays."

"You know what, Mr. Midduk? I almost liked you."

By the time Alnam reaches his speeder, no sun shines over Beshka Street.