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The dressing room mirror has seven different light settings, and every single one makes Mira Tovaan look like she’s about to be interrogated by a very wealthy crime syndicate.
A Human makeup artist hovers near her face with a brush, visibly uncertain what to do with Rodian skin. She’s already tried applying foundation to Mira’s cheek once. Mira had stared at her until she quietly wiped it off.
“Your skin catches the studio lighting beautifully,” the woman says, which sounds suspiciously like a sentence she practiced in the refresher five minutes ago.
“Thank you.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“A copy of the questions they intend to ask.”
The woman laughs.
Mira doesn’t.
The laughter dies a lonely death between them.
“They don’t provide those,” the makeup artist says.
“Of course they don’t.”
HNN had advertised this as a special discussion on wartime accountability, civil defense, and the expanding influence of the Office of the Chief of Defense. According to the invitation, the network wanted to provide the public with clarity during a period of growing uncertainty.
According to Commander Thire, who’d read the invitation over Mira’s shoulder, they wanted to put her in a brightly lit room and beat her to death with loaded questions.
His exact wording had involved fewer syllables and more profanity.
The Chief of Defense had considered the request for twelve seconds before approving it. He’d looked up from a casualty projection, stared through Mira with those unsettling gold eyes, and told her she could leave if they became insulting.
Mira had pointed out that the panel became insulting every weekday at nineteen hundred.
The Chief had considered that for another five seconds.
Then he’d authorized her to leave whenever she felt like it.
A production assistant appears in the doorway, wearing a headset and the strained smile of someone whose entire career depends on nobody saying anything interesting before the advertisements.
“Speaker Tovaan, we’re ready for you.”
Mira rises, smooths the front of her dark green jacket, and follows him through a corridor decorated with framed images of famous HNN broadcasts. Half of them involve burning buildings. One shows an anti-clone riot from last year beneath the tasteful caption, CORUSCANT ASKS: HAS THE ARMY COME HOME?
The Guard’s official report had concluded that HNN commentary helped turn a protest into a riot.
HNN had called that conclusion an attack on the free press.
Marshal Commander Thorn had called it several things that couldn’t be repeated before the Senate unless Mira wanted to trigger a procedural hearing.
She steps onto the stage to warm applause.
Four hosts sit around a curved transparisteel table. Behind them, an enormous projection reads THE REPUBLIC AT WAR: WHO CONTROLS OUR DEFENSE?
That answers the tone question, at least.
The lead host, Dena Marr, smiles at Mira with the polished warmth of a vibroblade being offered handle-first.
“Speaker Tovaan, thank you for joining us.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
Mira takes the empty chair. It’s slightly lower than the others.
Cute.
Dena folds her hands. “For viewers who may not be familiar with your position, you’ve served as Speaker of Defense since the Chief of Defense’s unexpected promotion in February of last year.”
“That’s correct.”
“You speak for it before the Senate.”
“I present reports, answer questions concerning defense policy, and communicate formal statements from the Office of the Chief of Defense.”
“Because it can’t speak for himself.”
The audience goes quiet enough that Mira can hear one of the cameras reposition.
She keeps her hands folded in her lap.
“The Chief of Defense is fully capable of speaking for himself.”
Dena’s smile tightens. “But legally, it can’t address the Senate Chamber.”
“Under current Republic law, clones aren’t recognized as sentient beings and therefore can’t speak on the Senate record. My office exists to accommodate that legal restriction.”
“So you agree that you speak for it.”
“I convey his words because the Republic refuses to let him convey them himself.”
One of the other hosts, Alton Vey, leans forward. He’s built an entire career out of asking questions that contain their own preferred answers.
“Isn’t that arrangement troubling? A non-sentient, unelected military officer now controls strategic defense, fleet coordination, planetary fortification, and large portions of the Republic’s wartime logistics. Yet the public has never heard it explain itself.”
“The Chief of Defense submits regular reports to the Senate, appears before oversight committees, meets with elected officials, and operates under authority granted through legislation approved by the Chancellor.”
“But the public hasn’t heard its voice.”
“The public hears his policies.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No,” Mira agrees. “Policies tend to be more useful.”
A few people in the audience laugh. Alton doesn’t.
Dena glances at her notes. “Critics have called the Chief of Defense secretive.”
“He’s busy.”
“Too busy to reassure the citizens funding its army?”
Mira tilts her head. “Most clone battalions still aren’t being paid.”
The silence this time is almost artistic.
Dena recovers first. “Republic citizens fund the war effort through taxation.”
“And the Chief of Defense has submitted seventeen separate budget recommendations asking the Senate to allocate wages to all active clone personnel. Six were denied in committee. Eight were delayed. Three remain under review.”
“Some economists argue that paying millions of clones during wartime could destabilize the Republic’s finances.”
“Those economists receive salaries.”
The audience laughs louder.
The third host, Nemi Sol, jumps in before Dena can lose control of the segment completely. “Nobody here is saying clones don’t deserve humane treatment.”
Mira looks at her.
Nemi adjusts one of her bracelets.
“However,” she continues, “there are reasonable concerns about giving such extensive power to beings bred specifically for warfare.”
“There are reasonable concerns about giving extensive power to anyone.”
“Clones are conditioned to obey.”
“So are most political aides.”
Another ripple moves through the audience. Mira hears somebody choke on a laugh behind one of the cameras.
Nemi’s expression hardens. “That comparison is offensive.”
“It wasn’t intended as a compliment.”
Dena cuts in. “Let’s discuss public safety. The Chief of Defense has expanded Guard patrols, established counter-intelligence units, strengthened planetary defense grids, and supported the training of local militias. Some citizens feel the Republic is becoming militarized.”
“Coruscant is the capital of a government currently at war.”
“Does that justify armed clones in residential districts?”
“Those units provide emergency response, anti-trafficking enforcement, evacuation support, riot control, and assistance to local authorities.”
“HNN has received reports of clones intimidating peaceful demonstrators.”
“The Coruscant Guard has body-camera records for all public-order deployments.”
“Not all of those records are publicly available.”
“Some contain images of dead civilians, injured troopers, assaults, children, classified infrastructure, or active investigations. Broadcasting them would be irresponsible.”
Alton arches a brow. “Are you accusing the press of being irresponsible?”
Mira looks toward the enormous projection behind him. Last month, the network had run a three-hour special suggesting militia training might be preparation for a clone-led military coup. The evidence had been two anonymous sources, a blurry image of a supply transport, and a senator who thought a firing range was a prison camp.
“I don’t need to,” she says. “Your disciplinary archive is publicly accessible.”
The audience makes a collective noise somewhere between laughter and horror.
Dena’s smile finally cracks.
“You appear very defensive of the Chief of Defense.”
“I’m the Speaker of Defense. The clue is doing significant labor in the title.”
“That loyalty raises questions.”
“Doing my job raises questions?”
“Answering only to a military officer does.”
“I answer to the Chief of Defense because that is the legal structure of my office. He answers to the Republic.”
“Does it answer to the Chancellor?”
Mira pauses.
There it is.
The entire segment has been crawling toward that question on hands and knees.
“The Chief of Defense operates within the authority assigned to his office.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It was the accurate answer.”
Alton taps the table with one finger. “Can the Chief of Defense override the Chancellor?”
“In limited defense matters during an active war, the Chief of Defense possesses emergency strategic authority.”
The words flash across the lower broadcast banner before Mira has even finished speaking.
CHIEF OF DEFENSE CAN OVERRIDE CHANCELLOR, TOVAAN CONFIRMS.
She watches it appear on a monitor beside the nearest camera.
“That banner is misleading,” she says.
Dena doesn’t look at it. “It reflects what you just told us.”
“No, it cuts away the legal limitations and context before presenting the most alarming possible interpretation.”
“We’re reporting your statement.”
“You’re turning it into a fire alarm.”
The fourth host, Jessa Pell, finally speaks. She’d been quiet until now, perhaps because somebody on the panel needed to maintain the illusion of moderation.
“Speaker Tovaan, do you believe HNN encourages public fear?”
“I believe fear is profitable.”
“That sounds like an accusation.”
“It’s an observation. Calm citizens don’t remain glued to emergency coverage for six hours.”
Dena’s voice cools. “HNN has journalists risking their lives across the galaxy.”
“So does every reputable news organization. That doesn’t make this panel immune from criticism.”
“Criticism from a government spokesperson.”
“Criticism from someone currently watching your network alter her words in real time.”
The audience turns toward the banner. Someone in production finally removes it.
Alton sits back. “You’re very composed about all this.”
“I work in the Senate.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means four people talking over me is technically a quiet afternoon.”
That gets the largest laugh yet.
Dena waits it out, wearing the expression of a woman mentally firing several employees.
“One final question. Many citizens remain uncomfortable with the Chief of Defense’s identity being largely hidden from public scrutiny. They know a rank, a designation, and a callsign that the law doesn’t recognize as a name. Should one individual have this much influence while remaining personally unknowable?”
Mira thinks of the Chief sitting in the War Room at three in the morning, reading casualty reports with blood drying beneath his nose, of him remembering every trooper’s chosen name while senators refuse to learn even one. She thinks of him sending food, medics, armor, and evacuation ships into places whose representatives later accuse him of ambition.
She can’t say any of that.
Not here.
“The Chief of Defense isn’t hidden,” Mira says. “His orders are documented. His strategies are reviewed. His spending requests are audited. His casualty reports are submitted in full, including the numbers many officials prefer to bury.”
Dena watches her carefully. “That wasn’t quite what I asked.”
“No. You asked why the public doesn’t know the thing behind the office.”
Mira looks directly into the central camera.
“The Republic decided he isn’t a man.”
Nobody interrupts her now.
“It decided he can’t legally own property, receive a standard wage, vote, address the Senate, refuse reassignment, or even claim the name his own siblings use for him. Then the same Republic placed its survival in his hands and became suspicious when he didn’t perform gratitude for the cameras.”
The studio is completely still.
“You want access to the person behind the title,” Mira continues. “Start by recognizing that a person is there.”
The broadcast cuts to advertisements eleven seconds early.