Count Dooku’s meeting with the Troxan delegation went well. He made a cold kind of game of it, trying to see how little he could say, letting them do all the lying for him. “There are new battle droids in production,” he had remarked. That was all it took; they did the rest.

“Surely you’ll be sending them to our quadrant,” said the under-palatine for patriotic liaisons.

“Really, we’re key to the entire region,” his assistant said.

“Of course, you understand our need,” another said.

“What other planets have fought so bravely for the cause?” a fourth asked.

Each of these fine hopes he reinforced with a smile and pushed into their minds with the Force, like a seal pressed into warm wax, so it felt like certainty. In fact, using the Force was hardly necessary. What man—or Troxan, either—would choose to believe that with every sentence he was betraying thousands of his fellows to death, when he could see himself as a hero instead? So much for the urge to Do Good, Dooku thought. Shown up again as just another illusion blinding creatures to the stark universe the dark side alone showed in all its bitter clarity.