Two months without news about the Fozman. Two and a half.

"You doing alright?" Lawrie asks Alnam after their hundredth visit to the CHT building.

"Right as rain."

"Better not to think what rain consists of here. Alright. Next stop: Iqooda."

They check Bnagen's Iqooda place daily, too. Have to adjust their schedules so that every day at least one of them is at work. Visiting the Iqooda place alone should be the worst, but it isn't, somehow. Alnam does what he can to come and go before dark. With Lawrie around, it's not always possible.

Other cases keep piling up. Some subpoena department retard botches the summon form for the second time, and the judge's speeder case remains as stationary as the speeder itself. Mtoro barely gets back from her fourth Metellos trip when they are put on the Speak Out team.

Speak Out: a medium-sized news journal. "News" might be an overstatement. Scantily dressed women on the covers nine issues out of ten. A quarter or third of the screens are ads. Ads are what got Speak Out in trouble.

"How did it end up in the journal?" Mtoro asks.

It's the third layout man they're talking to. Alnam's seen the reports the team had made before they joined: at least five more were questioned.

"I'm just given the materials. My task is to arrange them."

"So you just looked at it," Alnam holds his datapad with the page in question on the screen, "and said, 'Yeah, this looks fine, I see no problem with it?'"

The layout man — a droopy-looking Ithorian — sighs. "I know now it's not okay."

"But not then? It literally says Baktoid Civilian Division right there in the ad. You knew what Baktoid is, right?"

"I don't think I did back at the time, no."

"Seriously? Come on. Seriously? It's been all over the news. Part of the Techno Union?"

"Yes, I know now."

"Look, we see that you are just a normal guy. Just trying to do your job as best you can. But this had to come from somewhere."

"All I do is I receive materials from the ads office. They tell me what goes into the issue, and I put it there."

"From whom exactly in the ads office?" Mtoro asks.

"That day, it was Kzoglo and Bonur."

They have talked to both already. Both send them further up and down the journal's hierarchy tree.

"Think we're ever getting to the bottom of it?" Alnam asks when they get out of the Speak Out building a futile hour later.

Mtoro opens her umbrella. Better not think what this rain is made of, Alnam remembers. The skies are beige today. He'd rather be somewhere where there wasn't so much of them seen.

"I hope so," she says. "We've made some progress today."

"I wouldn't call it that. I mean, they all are trying to pin the blame on each other."

"Oh, what's that? Scared of hardships, are we?"

"More like tired of wild bantha chases."

"Well, I don't know what you were expecting when getting in the RDS. I just hope it wasn't a lot of leisure time."

"Not really. Just less of this. Speaking of leisure time — I'm out tomorrow."

"Oh, right. Lucky you."

"Hey, you got two days last week."

"What's the plan, Agent Alnam?"

"Some quality time with my family."

Mtoro cracks no jokes. Alnam is unsure if he's glad or not.

.

.

.

The damned door closes behind him with a loud thud. Gives him a habitual jump.

He's never liked The Star of Onderon. Bad neighborhood — not just on the y-axis; all of Coruscant is a bad neighborhood if you look at it like that. Other dimensions, too. Not the Crimson Corridor, no, but not a place you want your family to live in.

Family. That's what today's all about, ain't it?

They've been trying to schedule a weekend for months, Ormi and he. He finally has a free Benduday. Yalgi's school's out. There's no catch, right?

Alnam's gut thinks otherwise.

She's gonna do it, it thinks. She's gonna hand you the papers. That's it. Why else would she be so welcoming? You forgot how she told you to get the fuck out on the Fete Day?

That is a possibility, isn't it?

He rings the doorbell.

"Is it you, Vad?"

"It's me."

She lets him in.

"A special occasion?" he asks.

She's wearing a simple dress. Floral prints. No one is going to file the divorce papers wearing this.

"Getting us all together is a bit special, don't you think?"

"Yeah... doesn't happen that often nowadays."

Ormi prefers not to address his remark.

There's so much of her in the way she purses her lips: half-baffled, half-amused.

"Yalgi?" he asks walking into the kitchen.

"He's with Daniel."

Alnam raises his hands preemptively: "His friend, I remember."

"I didn't say anything."

He watches her hands as she's cutting the vegetables.

"He'll be home in twenty minutes." A rapid glance at Alnam. This is very much unlike Ormi — the old Ormi.

She never was tense like this when he was around. Not before everything went tits-up.

"Are Daniel's parents somewhere, you know, close?" he asks vengefully. "Not trying to upset you, but maybe it's not the best idea right now to let two boys run free wherever."

"They are not wherever, they went to the cinema. They're coming home now. I called."

"Not the best time. Not the best time this planet has seen."

Ormi finally looks up from her slicing board. "What are you trying to get at? That I'm too careless? That I take poor care of our son?"

"Relax. I'm not getting at anything. I'm just saying that maybe we need to, uh, change the style of our life — not just considering Yalgi, but in general. The times are different now."

She gets back to her vegetables.

"You know," Alnam says, "I visited my father last month."

"You told me you were going to."

"I did."

"So... how it went?"

Her voice is steady.

If she was planning to bring the divorce up today, she wouldn't be so calm. Not when Father enters the room.

"Pretty alright, all things considered. He's doing fine."

"Any... changes?"

"What, you expect him to take his words back? No, that ain't happening, Chief. You know my father."

"Yes, and two other Alnams to boot." Ormi drops the vegetable slices into the boiling water. "You both share that quality with your patriarch, do you know that?"

"Nah, I'm not sure. Father is... his own beast completely. Maybe it's better that way. That we are not, you know... all the same."

"I didn't say it was a bad quality. It can get you places in life."

"Yeah, like stuck in your retreat on a planet you consider your failure."

"Sometimes it happens."

Her tone is calm now. Slightly playful. Is she going to or not?

"I saw the gallery's ad in the subway a couple days ago," he says.

"Oh wow. Didn't take you for a subway-riding type."

"Ah, of course I'm not. You wait and see — I'm gonna get a personal driver in no time, and a sentient at that. Just had to go down, you know. Sometimes, it's faster than suffering all the jams."

"Oh, that's true."

"Well, I was trying to praise you, and you had to cut me down with your sarcasm and cynicism. Well done. I mean, on the ad thing. It stood in place for five minutes straight. Most cost a fortune — during the rush hour and all."

"Well, we aren't doing too badly. Five minutes, though, sounds like a glitch."

"All the better. So what's it about? Like, flash art?"

"Yeah. They have these flashes coming from the different directions, and they are all different colors. Then, when you blink, you see the whole picture. We have to ask visitors for a health certificate — can't have them having seizures in our place. Not even a subway ad glitch is going to fix that."

"Right. I think there's also some type of an implant that can overreact to flashing. Ah... don't really remember what it is..."

"That's right. Something to do with eyesight cybernetics. We have to make sure nobody has those."

Alnam leans on the counter. "Sounds like a lot of work for a fad."

"This fad puts food on our table. And since the flash shows tickets cost at least twice as much..."

"Makes you not want seizures twice as badly."

Ormi laughs.

"What went wrong with us?"

Comes off blunt. Too blunt?

She stops laughing. "Vad, please... let's not do this. Not today."

"Okay."

He should be hurt. He is. Still can't help but think: No divorce papers today, then.

He hates himself for it — and for a few other things.

Still feels relieved. Can't help it.

"Elenie was telling me," Ormi says with accentuated liveliness, "she'd heard some guys from her building talking about the Unbridgers. They said there is a shrine at its base. Said you can hear their chants coming through the duct."

Alnam plays along her vivacity. "Now that's a big load of crap. We got them. No more Unbridgers left."

"You sure? It seems to me there are enough insane people for a lifetime. Besides," she makes a gesture with a knife she's washing, "what if some of them escaped?"

"We checked many times. No escapees."

"But how do you know how many there were in the first place?"

"Good question."

"You see?"

They share a chuckle.

"Really, though," Alnam says, "there just isn't any way the cultists could escape. Don't you worry about the cultists. They are the smallest of our problems."

"Well, I don't know. Human sacrifice?"

"Excuse me? Sentient sacrifice!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. How horrible of me to even say that."

It almost feels like the before. Almost.

Ask her again. She'll answer this time.

Alnam breathes in. "Just one confirmed case. And the guy they killed was one of them."

"Still." Ormi puts the knife away. "Can you imagine it? Something so sick going on right below us."

Alnam can imagine a ton of sick things. Murderers with badges — how's that for a sick thing?

"You aren't wrong," he says. "A lot of sick shit is going on down there right as we speak. It's always been the case, and let me tell you — it's drugs, prostitution, mugging, people killing each other over a hundred credits — that sort of thing. I'll take cultists over it any day, any time."

"That's the thing. I can understand why prostitution and drug dealing and all the other things happen. But the Unbridgers? I don't know. It feels so surreal to me."

"I can see why. But really, don't worry too much about them. You are as likely to run into one as you are to run into Chancellor Blotus."

"It's the war. I mean, that's what people are saying. I don't know. Honestly, I have a hard time believing it. It couldn't come out of nowhere, right?"

Alnam nods. It's weird: he's relaxed now. Probably doesn't even have to do anything with the divorce being off the table. Just being here, talking to Ormi as if they have already set aside what happened...

It feels good.

"I was thinking about Yalgi's vacations," Ormi says as she checks what's going on in the cooking pot.

"M-hm?"

"He's already spent the better part on Coruscant. I'm working all the time... so are you..."

"What do you propose?"

"There's a tour our union offers. Alderaan. It's like a summer camp, but for off-planet kids, so it kind of operates the whole year. We need to decide fast — I mean, I'm not the only one so smart in the gallery, and there's just one voucher left. So if I had the answer tomorrow..."

"Okay. How much?"

"Come on, that's not the reason I called you. I have the money. It's that I thought you'd like to participate."

"I mean, I do. So how much is it?"

"Five thousand six hundred. Liner included."

Alnam rubs his eyebrow. "Sounds a bit steep, eh?"

"Do you have anything better in mind?"

"I don't wanna sound like a cheapskate, but fifty-six hundred for... how long is it?"

"Three weeks. Not counting the flight."

"Three weeks. I don't know. In my experience, everything that they try to sell you before it's too late, you know, buy-it-now-or-miss-out kind of deal, isn't worth what they're asking for it. Maybe we should look for something... better tested. Because you see, they offered you this tour, and you don't even have time to check what's up."

"How nice of you to make presumptions. I did check what's up. Linda's daughter went there twice. She says it was really good for her social skills. But of course I didn't check anything. Why would I? It's just my son."

"Okay, don't be like that," Alnam says. "I just said they don't want to give you time. That's, you know, how they sell you their stuff. But if it's fine, it's fine. I'll send you the money."

"But I don't know. It's four weeks he's going to spend away from home."

"So what, you didn't actually make up your mind?"

"Yeah, and I hoped for some input from you." She takes a break from the stove to look at him.

"He's a big boy. Four weeks away from us will do him good."

She keeps looking. That's the expression: the hope he'll fix everything for her, but also distrust in his fix.

"I don't know," she says. "With the war... what if something happens?"

"On Alderaan? Really? It's the safest place in the Galaxy, Ormi. Almost zero crime for the past who knows how many years."

"Yeah, I know. But the flight?"

"Relax." Alnam wonders if he should put a hand on her upper arm. Decides not to — or takes too long to decide. "It's the Deep Core. Nothing is ever going to happen here, war or no war. How many of our fleets are concentrated in the Deep Core, do you think? More than anywhere else. Protecting our power base is the primary task. I'm telling you, the space routes are as safe as they were before the war."

"I don't know..."

And that's the tone. She wants to be convinced — but she also wants you to play the devil's advocate.

"Come on," he says, trying to let none of his annoyance slip into his voice. "It's just two hyperjumps. Both within the Deep Core. There's no danger in it. Don't let the war narrative get into your head. It's horrible it's happening, but it's not here. It may sound terrible, but it's not here and it's not really our problem. Look," he puts his hand on her upper arm after all and squeezes gently, "the boy deserves to have some fun. Spending all his time on the Holonet, reading, you know, about how bad everything is isn't good for him. And we... let's be honest, we don't exactly help with our own shit."

She sighs. "I guess you're right. It's just that he's never been away from us for so long."

She puts her hand over his. They stand like this until the doorbell rings.

"Hi Dad," Yalgi says.

Damn it. A year ago — just a year ago — he would run towards Alnam and hug him. Now it's down to a "hi."

The boy's just growing. That's fine.

"Hi buddy." Alnam musses up his hair. "How was the movie?"

"Okay, I guess."

"You guess? Did you watch it? Did you go with Daniel or maybe a girl?"

"Dad!"

"That's right, I'm your dad. That's what dads are for — making you awkward. How do you your grandpa was talking to me when I was your age?"

Mostly via holograms.

"Go wash your hands," Ormi says. Once Yalgi's gone to the bathroom, she looks at Alnam: "So we've decided?"

"We have. And don't worry about it. Alderaan is a good place to be. I wish I was going there."

Yalgi turns the kitchen viewscreen on as soon as he gets out of the bathroom. Alnam decides not to participate in the fight that ensues and walks to the bathroom himself.

A good time to check the news.

It's his new ritual. The one you get for murdering people and trying to get away with it. The people might be gone forever — but they'll leave the necessity of the ritual behind.

He's learned about a lot of personalities he knew nothing of before — how's that for a positive? Musicians, movie stars, politicians — the whole lot. Alnam's brain doesn't register their names beyond running a binary check: is it Giburin Fozatta? But their names always come back. It's weird how on the planet of trillion and counting these selected few get to be on the news so often.

He gets back to the kitchen. Seems Yalgi has won: the viewscreen is on and Ormi looks mildly pissed.

"Yal," Ormi says — Alnam is grateful she's waited for him to come back, "your father and I have talked and we thought maybe you need to get off the planet while you're still on vacation."

Yalgi feigns shock. "You want to get rid of me?"

"You got us. We've been planning for eleven years, and here we are," Ormi says.

"You... not so easy to get rid of a Jedi," Yalgi says in the roughest voice he's capable of.

Alnam sits down on the couch next to him. "How does Alderaan sound, Master Jedi?"

"Pretty good. Like there might be some work for me there."

Alnam can't help but smile.

"When am I going?"

"The week after the next one. That is, if I can get the tour in time."

"Will have to wake up early," Alnam tells Ormi. "The sacrifices we make for you, son!"

"Uh, remember how we had to get up early when I was staying with you?"

"Yeah, because your school just had to have been built so far away from my apartment."

"So what's on Alderaan?"

"I don't know. Up to you to find out."

"Seriously! Am I, like, gonna be thrown into the wilderness and survive there for a year?"

Ormi snorts. "Your school starts in a month! Very optimistic of you to think we'll let you get lost in the wilderness for a year."

"So what is it?" Yalgi presses.

"A summer camp. A good opportunity to meet some new people."

"Riiiiight, I love meeting new people."

"Come on," Alnam says, "don't be like that. You're not one of those loser kids who can't make friends."

Ormi gives him a special look.

"What," he says, "losers are what they are, am I right?"

"Losers!" Yalgi shouts. "I can make friends. But maybe they, like, all the other people there are gonna be losers who can't make friends. What am I supposed to do then?"

"Why don't you become the one who unites them all then? Does that sound like a task for Jedi Master Alnam?"

"Yeah! But how long am I going to be staying there? Daniel's birthday..."

Alnam lets Ormi do the talking about the details. The viewscreen is on and a newscast is live.

Hard to keep track of anything else.

"Will we see an end to the environmental crisis that has been shaking Coruscant since the start of this year? Just in the past three months, the costs of our good weather rose by forty-one percent, and the so-called weather tax—"

Ormi notices where his attention is diverted to.

"About time they did something about it," she says. "There's so much dust in the air lately! Where is it even coming from?"

"Are we going to eat today, Mum? I'm starving!"

"I should've put the meat in the oven earlier. Sorry, sweetie."

"Mum!"

"Be happy you can eat at all. In the camp... you'll have to find food on your own."

"Sure, Dad. I totally believe you."

"Well, maybe you should."

"Oh, yes, the war effort," Ormi reacts to something said on the viewscreen. "It's always war effort with these people. Never mind we'll soon have to wear gasmasks in the capital of the Republic."

"What do you propose? Don't bother with the war?"

"At this point? I mean, I don't care if the Separatists are going to stay with us or not."

"Do you even realize the magnitude of trade with those worlds?"

"We haven't been trading with them since the war started."

"Actually, earlier than that with some," Alnam says.

"Yeah." She puts some of the parental patience in her voice. "I won't say I haven't felt the impact, I have. Prices did go up. But they already did. If they... the systems secede, then what? We are going to not trade with them twice as hard?"

"If they secede, others will follow."

"Let them. As far as it's not accompanied by war—"

"Come on, Ormi, you know better than this."

"No I don't. This is... Don't tell me what I know and what I don't. Why do you always do this?"

Alnam shows her his palms. "I don't always do this."

"Oh yes? And which time are we having this conversation?"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

"I'm sure you are. Just like all the previous times."

"Exactly. I was sorry back then as well."

"Just couldn't help doing it again?"

"I've always been a sucker for a good conversation is all."

Alnam watches her back as Ormi is violently checking the vegetables.

"If more systems," he says, "now, serious talk — if more systems decide to secede, we are going to be ruined. It's all fun and games when it's something like Raxus Prime or the purse worlds, right? We can live without them. But think about what if Corellia decides it wants out? What about Alsakan? They've wanted a Republic of their own since way back when. Our economy depends on them. We cannot feed everybody on Coruscant and maintain the current level of production at the same time. If we are cut off from other worlds, we'll collapse within a year. At best, we'll devolve into a bunch of subplanet-sized states, and at worst, the society will crumble altogether."

Ormi turns back to cast a brief look at him. "And why would any of these happen?"

"Because," Alnam checks the tired patience in his voice, "we need imports to survive. If they stop, I doubt you will be able to work at your gallery. There won't be any galleries, that's why. Have fun being a greenhouse technician or an air filter worker."

"Well, maybe if we don't start wars with everybody who wants to quit, we could keep importing things from them? That didn't occur to you?"

"Please. As soon as the power of Coruscant is gone, we are... doomed. Now, we can enforce the Corellians to buy, for instance, medical equipment from us. We can enforce them to sell us mineral water at the price we can afford paying for it. But once that power ends — it's all over."

"It's just what you think."

"It's how it is."

"I've heard a political analyst talk about it, and she thinks most worlds won't abandon Coruscant even if there is a precedent."

"A political analyst, seriously? They are the most clueless people," Alnam pauses when Ormi tells their son to help her take the meat out of the oven, "you are ever going to meet."

"Yes, sure, only you have any clue about anything."

"Nothing I said warrants your passive aggression. Sorry the universe doesn't work like those liberal experts want to believe — or want you to believe — it works."

"Let's end this conversation."

"Sure. Let's end it. Just think about what I said when you cool down."

"Vad. I don't want to keep talking about it."

She lets him cut the meat, though. He reciprocates: keeps his snide remark about where brots are bred to himself.

"Can I take my datapad with me?" Yalgi breaks the silence. "I mean, to Alderaan?"

"You are going there to spend time away from datapads and such," Ormi says.

Her voice is distracted. Maybe she took your advice to heart.

"But Mom!"

"I'm pretty sure there is some sort of dedicated time per day—"

Alnam shushes her — but Ormi stops mid-sentence on her own.

The words on the viewscreen are good at shutting people up.

EMERGENCY MESSAGE FROM THE SUPREME CHANCELLOR'S OFFICE.

"What is this?" Ormi hisses. Accusatively — as if she expects Alnam to know.

Alnam doesn't answer. He can't. He doesn't know what this is — and he's too scared to say a word.

The bright red background of the emergency message is gone now.

The Chancellor's office — the physical one.

At least the Chancellor is here.

At least he's alive.

Is he?

Alnam's eyes feverishly look for the "Live" plaque.

There it is — in the corner. Everything is good.

The Chancellor sits in silence. Alnam finds himself gripping Yalgi's shoulder — too hard, perhaps, but the boy dares not break this higher silence.

"My fellow citizens," the Chancellor starts, his voice solemn and steady. "I address you today to share depressing news."

For a second, Alnam's mind races to blame Ormi for jinxing it. He's going to surrender. Oh my, he really is.

Palpatine pauses, allowing these thoughts.

"Some in the military," he then continues, "believe that the population has no business knowing what I am about to tell you, but I am convinced you deserve to know how the war is going both when it is going well and not so well."

Air starts coming to Alnam's lungs again. It's okay. Somebody fucked up, but...

He can't come up with the rest of the thought — another one starts itself: This is the first time they're doing it. It's something huge.

"As you all know," the Chancellor says after another pause, "our Army of the Republic is commanded by Jedi generals. In them, we put all of our trust — in their tactical capabilities, their battle prowess, and most of all, their sense of justice and righteousness. This sense is what cannot fail our Jedi protectors if we are to see this war to the end.

"But today, this is exactly what happened. We have lost a Jedi Knight — not to the fire and onslaught of our foes, but to the lure of the Dark Side, making the loss twice as poignant.

"General Pono Rahonga has been and remains stationed on the moon of Dxun in the Inner Rim. His tendencies in and outside of battle have long unnerved both the secular military officers and other Jedi. A joint investigation carried out by the Department of Justice and the Jedi Order shows that General Rahonga has fully succumbed to the temptation of power — the power over other sentient beings.

"What started as disregard for the clone troopers' lives ended with an enemy amid our ranks, an enemy of extraordinary abilities and cruelty to match. He who at first was a ruthless field commander is now nothing short of a cold-blooded murderer.

"Today marks the point where we can no longer deny General Rahonga's dark tendencies. At 4 AM Senate Building time, the Jedi Council issued a formal order to Rahonga: lay down his arms and present himself for the judgment of his Order."

Palpatine stops again. If Alnam was more cynical — and had he not seen the man in person — he'd think the Chancellor is waiting for the teleprompter to switch to the next slide.

"But General Rahonga ignored those orders. Even the word of his superiors did nothing to return him to his senses, the foremost of which is the sense of justice I already mentioned.

"It is with a heavy heart that I do what has to be done. Jedi Knight Pono Rahonga became the very thing he was supposed to guard us, the Republic, from. He is no longer one of us, but a danger to us all."

"He has to be eliminated. For our safety — physical and, even more importantly, moral."

Palpatine looks away from the camera. A hologram — too tiny to discern who it is — appears on his table.

"Captain Graves," the Chancellor says.

The hologram reports back in a clone voice. "Yes, sir!"

"You must cleanse the Republic Army of your brothers' killer. I command you to execute Order 66."

"Yes, sir!"

"You are doing the right thing, son."

Cut: the image is grainy. It's blue.

It's nighttime. It's some sort of a jungle. All lights are unnaturally bright.

A helm-cam, Alnam realizes.

"Well," he says, "that's... well, I didn't really..."

Expect this — that's what he means to say.

He can't — the people on the other side of the camera start talking.

"Boar — nine-eighty. Miner — ten-ninety-three."

"Yessiryessir," shadows acknowledge.

"Crozo, you're next in line."

"Roger that. Try not to kick the bucket, Cap."

"Sex, you got the visual?"

"Yessir."

Alnam feels Yalgi jump up a little.

"Dad, did he really say—"

"I guess he did."

"Let's turn this off," Ormi says.

Alnam stops her. "No, wait. It's fine. It's important. We just got a little bit scared, didn't we? Emergency message? Of course it got us worried. We got to watch it."

"Why do—"

Alnam doesn't argue with her. His attention — and hers, too, it seems — is glued to the viewscreen.

The image gets extra shaky. Whenever they appear, the lights are blinding.

They are on a landing platform. It doesn't look too bad for a war-torn moon — Alnam has seen worse on Coruscant.

"Is it for real?" Yalgi asks.

A hangar shapes up in the gloom. Radio chatter — too unclear to understand.

"What game are you playing, Graves?"

A figure is standing next to something large covered with tarp. Seeing it, the clones stop in their tracks.

"Return to your duties," the figure says, the only non-clone voice in the setting.

"It's time you answered for your—" the clone who's bearing the cam starts, but Rahonga doesn't let him finish:

"I answer to the Galactic Republic. Not to a weapon."

"Open fire!" the captain commands.

Before he's finished, the frame is cut by a lightning, and the lightning is in the hands of the Jedi. The flash subsides, and the lightning assumes the shape of a blade of energy.

The next second, the lightsaber turns into a thunderbolt again, striking all across the view. Screams ensue.

"Okay, that's enough," Ormi says. She makes no motion to turn the viewscreen off, though.

Alnam takes her by the hand — without looking at her.

The image spins and then stops after a particularly loud crack of the lightsaber. The picture glows something awful. When the glow dies down, it's just the night sky with a crescent of a planet in it. A laser blast or two cut through it once a second.

Then it all goes quiet.

"Confirm the kill," struggles through the static.

A shot sounds.

"Confirmed."

The image cuts off: now it shows some studio with a round table. A host and several holograms around it.

"Greetings to all citizens of the Republic. Our today's topic is 'What are Contingency Orders, exactly?' We just witnessed an impressive..."

"I don't believe it," Yalgi says.

"You don't believe what?"

"They couldn't, like, kill a Jedi so easily."

"Well, he went to the Dark Side, you heard the Chancellor."

"I don't believe it. A real Jedi would've mopped the fucking floor with them."

"Language!"

Ormi frees her hand. "Since when is the Chancellor an authority on Jedi matters? What, he now determines who is dark and who is not?"

"You didn't listen," Alnam sighs. "He said it was the Council who decided."

"Then why are clones doing this? And not other Jedi?"

"Don't ask me."

"Whom should I ask? You are a special service agent!"

"Write to the Chancellor's Office, if you want. Now please, let's listen what they have to say."

He manages to catch a glimpse of Ormi's expression before he turns back to the screen.

It hurts — but he has a way worse feeling about what's coming.

It reeks of Krev Devin. And it reeks of Father.

"... it was never really a secret," a fat Nikto hologram says, "in the same way, you know, as most of our legislation isn't. It's just that most people don't really bother, uhm, finding it out. It takes effort to think about and to research it, especially when it doesn't affect your life in any immediate—"

"Why aren't you eating?" Ormi asks Yalgi.

She's far more annoyed than Alnam thought.

She's also scared.

Bad.

Alnam turns the viewscreen off, ignoring his gut's protests.

"Your mom's right," he says. "Dinner's getting cold."

.

.

.

He gets so caught up checking the news he almost misses his monorail stop. Doesn't expect anything Foz-related — but the gnawing feel somewhere at the bottom of his lungs is the same as if he did.

There have been three more publications in the past month. More orders in each.

The 66th one was in the first posting — back in the end of the fourth month.

Your precious Jedi protectors will be shot like rabid dogs same as you if the Republic decides they act against its interests.

And:

All it takes is His Authoritarian Majesty Supreme Chancellor's order.

This shit is real.

It's as real as it gets.

Devin wasn't lying. Wasn't misguided, either. Ven was — either one or another.

Alnam wonders what it means to him. The Jedi was a traitor. A maniac. Good riddance — whatever too caring and cautious people like Ormi think.

But the orders exist. Everything from surrender procedures to physical removal of the Supreme Chancellor.

Who in their right mind would trust something like that to clones that had been made by an undisclosed party? What was Palpatine thinking? What about the Senate, for good measure? Not like they are not involved: Order 114 states senatorial immunity can be nullified in cases when it hinders an investigation conducted by the GAR.

Devin knows what's up. Always has. So has Father.

Shit. Alnam remembers the first Joint Commission meeting. He wanted to ask Father about this back then. Then, of course, they did Fozatta in, and he wasn't up to talking big conspiracies anymore.

Shit.

Devin is behind the order posts. Who else? The man talked about them last year. Said there had been a clone deserter—

That might be something. Alnam looks up clone deserters — first on the news platform, then on the Holonet. Not much — apart from a dubious study Desertion and Disease Rates in the GAR on an openly anti-government site. How is shit like this not banned?

Careful now! You start to sound like a cartoon boneheaded patriot.

A year in the RDS will do that to you, Alnam imagines. You'll start seeing those self-appointed liberals for what they actually are. It's almost like they hope the CIS will turn a blind eye on their weird sex shit if it wins.

But the Republic already does. If not for Lawrie and you, Fozatta would still be at large.

That's fucking a-right.

A shot of whiskey tastes better with rightness.

But what about Father? He is the OG CIS sympathizer.

The thing about Father... he's not. His support for the CIS — initial support, you don't hear him proclaim it now — was a move of somebody who knew what was up. The larger picture. But that was long ago. How did he put it back on Sanner? Neither Coruscant nor Raxus Secundus can keep up the status quo? Both look as bad as the Hutts by now? Something to that effect.

No, Father is completely different from all those champagne philosophers and political analysts. He knows what the state is good for — and he wants it to be good at it. He thought the systems seceding would do the trick three years ago. He was wrong, but who hasn't ever been?

And it's Father. It's Vygo Alnam, and it means he might have a plan.

To listen to Devin, he sure used to — before things went sour between them. Now Devin is doing this shtick of his own. Commendable — but let's be honest, Krev Devin isn't the fastest computer on board.

He was on something, thought, wasn't he? He did ask you to ask your father about someone... who was it?

Hell if Alnam can remember now. But he must — he must stop any possible violence between Father and Devin.

After all, they may be two of the only men in the Galaxy who care about what is going to happen.

Father said he didn't plan on getting rid of Devin. Now that Devin has posted the orders, however... Alnam tries to restore the course of events: the first post happened on the last day of the fourth month, and he spoke with Father on the third on the fifth. The media first mentioned the post either on the third or the fourth — anything more precise would require him to compare Sanner's and Coruscant's orbits and day cycles.

So did Father know at that point?

He said he didn't plan on getting rid of Devin. Didn't he add, "not anymore?"

The harder Alnam tries to remember, the less sure he becomes Father did say that. He definitely said he wasn't going to get rid of Devin, but the "anymore" part? No telling — not now.

Alnam looks at the posts again. Sits well past midnight doing so, in fact — great idea given his tomorrow's work.

The first post was good. Posted on a Shadowfeed forum, critical of the Republic — rightfully so, the clones affair is some brain dead stuff. But it wasn't really licking the CIS' ass. The following three... "Can you imagine something like that in our systems?" — "The CIS Parliament would never pull a dirty one like that on you." What the fuck is this? Is Devin secretly a Dooku fan?

Likely as not, it's part of his plan.

Synchronize. Synchronize whatever Father and Devin are doing. Maybe something productive will come out of it. And if not, it's still worth trying — before the clones kill us all.

He takes the comlink RT gave him out of a drawer. Then puts it back in.

When speaking to Father, better come prepared.