Gavar and Vestara bowed, perfectly in tandem, as if they had rehearsed it, then turned and went back the way Luke and Gavar had come. When the sound of their feet had faded, Luke turned to Mun. “Where is Dyon Stad being held? I presume these cells are inadequate to the task.”

Mun growled softly. “You presume correctly. We do not have a great deal of violent crime here, and our population renders very few Force-users. We have had to take special precautions. Follow me.”

She moved to the door at the far end and keyed it open. Ahead was, as Luke suspected, yet another corridor. Reaching out in the Force, Luke gently probed the area above, to all sides, and below them. There was Dyon Stad … several meters below. His Force energy was dull, but steady. Ahead were two other presences, standing in tandem, presumably guards.

Ben was apparently doing the same because he said, “You’ve got a cellar down here.”

“Not precisely,” Mun said. The lighting from the glow rods that ran the length of the corridor wasn’t particularly powerful, and several of them were inactive. Luke could now see the two Klatooinians standing on either side of a large door in the floor. They did not appear to be too happy about their assignment, their lugubrious, canine features looking even more jowly with resignation.

Luke understood why. The door was rigged with a WW-47 Cryoban grenade. It appeared to have been modified so that it could be activated from a distance. Once detonated, all the heat in the area would be absorbed, creating an area of freezing cold. It wouldn’t kill Dyon, but it would immobilize him and likely cause nerve damage.

“I guess he could be perceived as that dangerous,” Ben said.

“Here he certainly could be,” Luke agreed, thinking of the conspicuous lack of Force-sensitives or weapons among the general populace—and even among what passed for the military.

“He is heavily sedated and as restrained as we could manage,” Mun said. She knelt and quickly began to disarm the grenade. “And there is a third guard down there with him.”

“We brought along restraints that might be more efficient for a Force-user,” Ben said.

Mun shot him an irritated look, but Luke could tell that the irritation wasn’t really directed at his son. “You can say it. A flimsi box sealed with vartik tree sap would be more efficient to hold a Force-user than what we’ve got. We simply don’t have the resources here to deal with this sort of thing, so I’m more than happy to turn him over to you two.”

She opened the hatch. A scent that one wouldn’t expect on a desert world wafted out—the dank, murky odor of fetid water and mildew.

“It’s not a cellar, it’s an old well,” Ben said, peering down. It went down a long way. There was a dim light at the bottom, just enough so that Luke knew that the unlucky guard likely pointing a decades-old blaster at the unconscious Force-user had a glow rod to help him see better. It would be of little comfort to the hapless fellow to be able to see it clearly if Dyon awoke, snatched the blaster out of his hand and snapped his neck with the Force.

Mun nodded. “On our world, most buildings are built over wells. It’s an old, old tradition to guard against water shortage.”

Water vaporators of some variety had been around for a long, long time. This well must indeed have been ancient.

Ben was thinking along the same lines for he said, “Surely, this is dangerous to just leave around. How come you didn’t fill it in some … you know, ten thousand years ago?”

Mun looked at him evenly. “Because technology sometimes fails. Or fails to arrive when needed, young Skywalker.”

“But—you’re the last stop on the Kessel Run. The Hutts—” Ben stopped in midsentence. Mun’s smile widened, but it was a bitter one. Ben had just answered his own question. The Hutts gave—and failed to give—as they saw fit.

Luke thought about what he had learned of the treaty and about what he knew of the Klatooinians themselves. They honored the treaty, and had for twenty-five-thousand years. And yet, they believed, like the Fountain they so honored, that they grew stronger with time.

Luke suspected that, valid as the reason Mun gave was, there were perhaps other reasons.

But now the pressing need was to get Dyon out. Luke caught Ben’s eye, nodded, and father and son Force-leapt down into the deep well. Luke slowed his fall and landed, bending his knees, beside the prone and cuffed figure of Dyon Stad. The guard had obviously been notified at some point because he did not attempt to shoot either Jedi, and merely seemed a little alarmed at their manner of arrival. Ben was already bending over Dyon with stun cuffs from the Jade Shadow. Squatting beside the older man, Ben glanced up at his dad and nodded.

“He’s fine. His injuries have been attended to. He’s out cold, though, and should be for some time. These guys did their jobs well on all counts.”

Luke smiled at the still-flustered guard. “We’ll take it from here. Thank you.”

Ben rose and together the two settled themselves and reached out for the Force’s aid. Luke half-hid a smile of fond remembrance. Long ago, when he was only a few years older than his son, he had stood on soggy soil, as he did now, surrounded by the stench of rotting wetness, and tried to levitate a sunken X-wing. He had gasped and panted and shuddered with the effort, only to watch the greedy waters of the Dagobah swamp claim it again.

And then tiny little Yoda had lifted the thing up as if it weighed nothing at all.

His smile grew as he reached out to his son in the Force and they met there, moving as one to surround and support the limp, bruised, and scraped body of Dyon Stad. Ben used both his hands, holding them out as if miming lifting Dyon’s form, and Luke barely moved a finger or two as the figure rose swiftly but steadily upward. When Dyon neared the top, they maneuvered him gently onto the floor.

Ben leapt up first, followed by Luke. Ben looked back down into the old well, then over at Mun and the two guards. “What about him?”

“We have a rope ladder,” one of the guards said.

“We could bring him up.” Luke smothered a grin. Ben had a sabacc face Han would envy at the moment. “Wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I think Rommul will be happy to emerge the old-fashioned way,” Mun said. “Now if you two and your … charge … will follow me, we’ll finish up the paperwork and you can take him out of my detention area.”

Vestara stepped out into the bright sunlight, blinking quickly. She and Ben had been in the holding cell for about a half hour. It was illuminated, but dimly, and moving from the dark, dome-shaped building to full sunlight made her eyes water.

Her father didn’t waste a second. “What do you think you are doing?” he demanded, speaking in Keshiri. He kept his voice modulated and made no attempt to lay a hand on her, but she could feel his anger, narrowly channeled, almost buffeting her in the Force.

She stared at him, utterly confused. “I did what I was supposed to do,” she said. “What you asked me to do. I did not let Ben Skywalker out of my sight.”

“You helped him!” Gavar replied, the anger cold and unyielding. Vestara was taken aback. Her father had never, ever been this angry with her. Irritated, frustrated, of course, like any parent with any child. But most of the emotions she had experienced from him were approval, love, and pride. This wounded her to her core, but even though it was completely new and unexpected behavior, she had been well schooled. She did not let her hurt show. She used the Force to even out her skin tone so that the rush of heat to her face would not betray her, and spoke in a calm, measured voice.

“It was my understanding that we wish the Skywalkers to believe that we share a common goal. We have claimed that our apprentices are going mad, as their Knights are. When one of them began to act erratically, there was no question in my mind that the right course of action would be to subdue him, to preserve the façade of cooperation.”

His anger wavered slightly. “It would have been better if you had been able to contrive to kill, or better yet, capture him.”

“Had I been in a position to do so, I would have,” Vestara said. It was a lie. She watched her father carefully, but he gave no indication that he sensed it. Vestara regretted the necessity, but his apparently irrational reaction warranted the deception.

“I had no weapon, and Ben and I were far from the only ones in pursuit of Dyon Stad. Ben now counts me as a true ally, as I have proven my apparent trustworthiness twice now. Was that not what you asked of me? To win his confidence?”

It was a classic tactic—to turn the argument back on the adversary. Vestara had put her father in the defensive role and had taken the offensive.

“True.” The anger was all but gone now, and Khai looked thoughtful. “You did not hesitate to offer your aid?”

Vestara shook her head. “Not for an instant. We worked together as a team. That is how he will continue to think of us. And Ben will desire his father to think of us that way as well.”

“You have bedded him?”

Another pang, quickly shuttered. Vestara was Sith. She had been trained to utilize every weapon in her arsenal, and was well familiar that being able to manipulate another’s physical desire was a powerful tool. Still, to have her own father speak so casually of it—

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Keep him wanting you,” Khai said. “Do not let him have you unless you judge that it will get you something truly important. I expect you to have Ben Skywalker eating out of your hand like Tikk by the time you are done with him.”

Vestara smiled a little at the thought of her pet. She did not ask what had happened to Tikk. He had been left behind at the Sith Temple when she had departed Kesh to explore the galaxy. She had no idea if he was still there, or if he had been returned to her family. She did not want to risk her father’s irritation by inquiring.

“I will endeavor to do so. Master Skywalker is endeavoring to keep us apart. I think he senses what you and I intend.”

Another hit—reaffirming her bond with her father as a conspirator. All traces of anger were gone now.

“Of course he does. You are a lovely young human woman, my dear, and Ben is a healthy young male. Of course he is attracted to you. No doubt he aspires, for the moment, to ‘save’ you and bring you to the light side of the Force.”

Vestara nodded. She and her father had both read what information Ship had on the Skywalkers. Doubtless her father was right.

“I wonder then why Master Skywalker does not encourage him,” Vestara mused.

Her father slipped a forefinger under her chin and tilted it up. He smiled at her kindly now, the alien anger replaced by the more familiar pride and affection. “Because, Master Skywalker is not the besotted fool that Ben is. Ben is young and idealistic and full of hope. Luke Skywalker is much wiser. He sees how strong with the dark side you are, and knows, as I do, that you cannot be turned.”

“Yet his own wife was the Emperor’s Hand,” Vestara offered. “And he himself turned one of the most powerful Sith Lords in history. If there is anyone who has seen that people can be swayed from the dark side, it is Luke Skywalker.”

“I did not say Skywalker thought it impossible to sway someone. I said that he very wisely thinks it impossible to sway you.”

“That is unfortunate,” Vestara said. Things would be much easier if Luke thought, as Ben probably did, that she could be persuaded to leave the path of the dark side. “Should I attempt to behave as if I am considering betraying you?”

Khai considered for a moment. “No,” he said, finally. “I am sure you would be convincing, but Skywalker would be on to you immediately. Continue as you have.”

He glanced up and Vestara followed his gaze. Luke stepped out from the entrance to the dome, squinting against the sunlight, one hand raised. Behind him floated the limp shape of Dyon Stad, and Ben brought up the rear.

“So, Skywalker was able to negotiate for Stad’s release. Interesting. Dyon escapes his prison, but it is clearly time for you to return to yours,” said Khai, almost but not quite growling. He turned to her. “It is only because you are serving the Sith that I permit it.”

“I know, Father.”

He bent and kissed her forehead. “Make me proud, daughter,” he said. She bowed to him and went to rejoin the two Jedi. Ben saw her coming, a step or two behind his father, and gave her a quick smile, his attention still on levitating Dyon. She did not dare return the smile, as Luke was regarding her with that same intent gaze he always did.

“I am glad that the boy was released to your care, Master Skywalker,” Khai called. “I would hope that if it were one of our apprentices, you would be as pleased for us.”

“Honestly? Doubtful,” Luke said.

“Your honesty is … refreshing,” Khai said.

“I imagine it would be unusual to a Sith,” Luke agreed. “Glad you’re appreciating it. Vestara? Let’s go.”

“And that’s the news. Until tomorrow, this is Perre Needmo. Good night.”

The cam droids closed in on Needmo’s long face and wise, calm eyes encircled by wrinkles.

“And cut,” said the director, Jorm Alvic. A human in his early middle years, Jorm had thick black hair turning to gray at the temples in a rather dashing and dramatic manner. It was the only thing dramatic and dashing about him physically. He was slightly shorter than average, with a belly that lapped over his belt and a face that, while pleasant, wasn’t really remarkable in any way save for an easy smile. He had been friends with Needmo for many years and had directed nearly every episode of The Perre Needmo Newshour since its inception. “Great job as usual, Perre.”

“Thanks, Jorm. But I’d say that goes for everyone. Well done tonight. The interviews in particular went very smoothly,” Needmo said. He placed the datapads neatly on his desk, then descended from his anchor’s chair. He peered up to the control booth. “I wonder if perhaps we’d all be willing to stay a little later tonight? I have an idea I’d like to propose.”

“What’s that, Perre?” asked Sima Shadar, the producer, also in the control booth. The tech crew paused in their nightly shutdown routine, exchanging glances and shrugs. A mouse droid peeped in irritation as its normal path was blocked by human feet, then zipped off to clean another area of the set.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’d like to start including a new recurring segment.”

“Well, our staff meeting is day after tomorrow; we can put that on the top of the agenda,” began Sima, but Needmo was shaking his huge head.

“No, I really would like to begin this as soon as possible.”

Jorm and Sima looked at each other and shrugged. “You got it, Perre,” Sima said. The Chevin nodded, satisfied. He hadn’t really expected any protest. Sima pressed a button, and her voice carried throughout the studio and back rooms.

“Attention staff. Perre has requested our presence for a brief meeting before you all head on home. Please come to the main set.”

There was a silence, then “Sure,” “Of course, boss.” The writers, directors, and editors all filed onto the stage. Most had cafs or snacks in hand; it was a fairly relaxed show. Everyone was ready to go home of course, but everyone also liked their jobs, and they all knew Needmo didn’t usually pull this sort of thing unless he felt it was really important. Some grabbed seats, some just plopped down on the floor.

“We’ve had a few guests commenting on the situation on Tatooine, Karfeddion, and Thalassia, along with some very lively debates on the issue and on the Freedom Flight,” Needmo began. He trundled to the center of the set and looked about at his team. “But all my instincts are telling me that this is going to be a big story. I’d like to make sure we address it. Keep tabs on it, keep people aware of it. It’s an important issue, and one that doesn’t really have any gray areas.” While The Perre Needmo Newshour worked diligently to report the news without bias, one of the reasons Perre had left Vinsoth to start his own show was to broadcast good news. Or, if that wasn’t possible on a particular evening, to at least get something out there people could support.

“Good idea,” Sima said, tapping on a datapad. “We can get Darric Tevul to report regularly on—”

Needmo waved his hands. “No, no, not just commentary. I think we should put someone on the scene. Visit some of these worlds, conduct interviews with the governments and the insurgents both.”

Eyes widened. Some beings whistled. Jorm scratched his head, but nodded.

“It’s a good idea,” he said. “Very good idea. Boost our ratings, no doubt about it. But it’s not exactly the sort of thing we’re known for.”

“We all work very hard to disassociate ourselves from the likes of Javis Tyrr and his type of sleemo journalism,” Needmo said, “and to do that we’ve chosen a more staid format. I’m not suggesting we change that, just augment it. I have a feeling this is not just a few isolated incidents.”

No one on The Perre Needmo Newshour was Force-sensitive, but they all had finely tuned instincts, the clichéd “nose for news.” The joke was that no one had a better nose for news than Perre Needmo. And, far from being insulted by the comment, Needmo sometimes said it himself.

“We’ll get on it right away,” Jorm said. “Any of our regulars have any field experience?”

“Madhi Vaandt,” said the lighting director immediately. A chorus of positive murmuring went around the room. Madhi had been on a short while ago, with a segment on the atrocious living conditions in the Underlevels of Coruscant. She stubbornly remained a freelancer, but the same station that ran The Perre Needmo Newshour had hired her for various spots.

“Oh, perfect,” said Jorm. “That last segment she did with us got a lot of attention. Someone even started fund-raisers to help provide medicines and fosterage for some of the younglings in the underlevels. She’s got no whiff of scandal and the holocam loves her.”

Needmo’s snout wrinkled in hearty approval. “Hear that, beings?” he said, pleasure and pride warming his voice. “You bring injustice to the attention of the viewers, and they do something about it. I liked what I saw of Vaandt. Get in touch with her agent right away. We’ll want her on two, perhaps three different worlds. And one of them,” he paused and centered himself, “one of those worlds must be Vinsoth.”

The team exchanged glances. Vinsoth was Needmo’s own homeworld. For thousands of years, his people, the Chevin, had enslaved a humanoid race known as the Chev. Granted, their domination had not been a particularly violent or brutal one. Indeed, some might even call it civilized. The Chev culture, far from being quashed, was encouraged to flourish, and full support was given them if they chose to pursue the arts. Physical violence against them was discouraged and blatant violation of that law resulted in stiff fines and occasionally prison time for the offender.

Needmo looked from face to face, his eyes crinkling in a benevolent smile.

“Come now,” he said, his voice gentle. “How can we do otherwise? We cannot in good conscience report on slavery on other worlds without addressing the fact that the being for whom the show is named comes from such a world himself. We’d be hypocrites and lose the trust and faith the viewers have placed in us. And furthermore, it just wouldn’t be right.”

“Perre,” Jorm said, “you’ve made your reputation on who you are and what you’ve done, not where you come from.”

“As all beings should have the right to do,” Needmo said. “No being should be judged on his or her—or, frankly, its—species, or what world they were born on. It is who you are that matters. Trust me on this. I have striven to be neutral in reporting the news. But to omit Vinsoth would not be neutral. I will not be reporting, or personally commenting on the situation—although informally my views are well known. Madhi would be. She’s got no personal agenda. And I won’t have her censored,” he added, looking sharply at Sima. “The viewers will make their own conclusions, and it will be good for the show and good for our viewers. Isn’t that what we’ve always wanted to do?”

Needmo knew his team realized there was little point in arguing with him. His instincts had proven to be sound for several years. He’d bucked the trend of slick, fast-paced “journalism” in favor of calm reporting of actual facts, not possibly faked action scenes better depicted in a holodrama. Even bringing in Madhi was shaking up the format.

But Needmo knew he was absolutely right on this. Madhi Vaandt was already making her reputation by calling things as she saw them. Fit, impulsive, she went to the heart of the story to bring things out of the darkness into the light. She’d had no compunctions at all about traveling to the Underlevels with just a cam crew for “security.” And if she covered the situation on Vinsoth in that same way, on a show hosted by a Chev, there would be no question of biased reporting.

Everyone present knew that Needmo heartily disapproved of the current situation on his homeworld. He had chosen not to be politically active, but it was one reason he had left his homeworld for Coruscant. Some things in this galaxy were just wrong.

Finally, the producer shrugged. “It’s the Perre Needmo hour, boss. If you want to do this, we’ll do it. And I bet it will boost ratings better than ‘The Jedi Among Us with Javis Tyrr.’ ”

The laughter broke the nervous tension. “Well, then,” Needmo said, his trunk undulating with amusement, “that alone should be a reason to do it, don’t you think?” More laughter. They were on board with him, and he was proud of every one of them. He’d assembled a great team over the years, and went to bed every night knowing that they’d all worked hard to inform and enlighten their viewers. And maybe, just maybe, help make the galaxy a better place.