CHAPTER NINE
Deceptions
Coruscant at night was a glittering sieve of light.
Galactic City was a forest of chrome skyscrapers. They refracted the billions of lights from windows, speeders, holograms, advertisements, glowpanels, glowtubes, the phosphorescence seeping up through cracked permacrete, drowning out the faint and hazy stars. There was never darkness on Coruscant, only twilight, and its murky threads were constantly slashed by speeders, transports, taxis and convoys.
Twilight was an apt metaphor for many things. Especially truth.
The pilot of the tiny, two-pronged speeder tearing up the airlanes reminded himself, yet again, that he had not lied, not truly. It was only just part of reality, not a distortion of it. He was unremarkable in his dark cloak, and his speeder was scuffed and dented with use. It seemed impossible that anyone could care about or know him, not when Coruscant's underworld swallowed a thousand of his kind every day.
Anakin Skywalker shifted in his seat. It had not been a lie. It had not. He had told his Master, and the Council, the truth when they asked why he was going to the Senate building at this late hour. Chancellor Palpatine had requested to speak to him.
The Temple had received a transmission that evening on the Chancellor's personal frequency. He had sounded quite agitated, and would not specifically state what the problem was. He had asked if one of the Jedi could please come down to his office. Never mind the late hour, he said. Immediately, he said.
The Council had taken him at his word. A meeting had been called, names and theorems put forth, decisions made. And Anakin, as he usually was when it came to liaising with the Chancellor, had been sent along. Now, he found himself the sole occupant of a speeder slicing through Coruscant's chaotic spacelanes toward Five Hundred Republica, possibly the most exclusive address in the universe.
Frowning, Anakin opened the throttle even further. What little power he had not already been using sparked into the engines, and his tiny craft roared forward, cutting off an irate Malastarian. It was just that... seeing Palpatine was not the only thing he planned on doing. His pulse quickened as he guided the speeder deftly between two hulking airbuses. Once the business with the Chancellor was settled, there was another suite in Five Hundred Republica that Anakin had a mind to visit.
Padmé... Anakin's durasteel hand opened and closed. He hated this, an elaborate mechanism of sensors and wiring clamped to the stump of his right arm, masquerading as a part of him. He had no choice but to use it, not since a flashing scarlet blade had forced his forearm and elbow to unpleasantly part company. Sometimes, the memory of the pain woke him screaming in the night.
At least I don't see things in them. Anakin was leery of nocturnal visions, very much so, ever since his dreams had foretold the death of his mother at the hands of the Tusken Raiders. He had absolutely no intention of losing his wife to a similar vision.
Just seeing her puts us both in danger. Padmé existed solely in the ruthless, scheming, sordid world of galactic politics. She was a Senator of some repute – well-known, excessively scrutinized. The higher the rise, the harder the fall. If anyone knew of her marriage to a Jedi, the glass floor beneath her would shatter.
To say nothing of the consequences for him. Marriage, a deep and binding personal commitment, flew in the face of the Jedi Code, burning it and spitting on the ashes. It had only been permitted a handful of times in twenty thousand years. Most often, it was grounds for expulsion from the Order.
And Anakin could scarcely imagine a life without it. Who would he be, where would he go? He had been a slave on Tatooine before Qui-Gon Jinn had saved him, nothing worth remembering let alone going back to, and although he knew of many civilized systems, he had a home on none. The Jedi sever all ties so you must depend only on them.
Except... I could run away with Padmé. We could live on Naboo, with her family or up in the Lake Country. A sunburned porch, cool shaded terrace, azure evenings and rosy mornings... perhaps in time a child, a son or daughter of our own.
A reluctant smile tugged at Anakin's mouth, even as he knew it was completely impossible. For one thing, Padmé would never agree, never, to let him leave the Order on her behalf. And what about Obi-Wan? What would he do if his former Padawan, and dearest friend, turned his back on the Jedi? Anakin held no illusions; he knew that it would break his heart. He himself valued Obi-Wan's companionship, guidance, and love beyond all measure.
Anakin's frown deepened. No matter how much he might dream, he would never leave the Jedi. He was the Chosen One they never told him about, and his raw power was higher than that of even the legendary Master Yoda. He had no life, no home save for the Temple. Not one he wanted, anyway.
There was no more time for speculation. He had reached Five Hundred Republica.
Anakin brought the speeder soaring down in a graceful arc to fit precisely in an empty docking bay. He powered down and popped the cockpit, then jumped free and landed lightly on the platform, but he had scarcely taken a step when two burnished security droids, so new that their fittings squeaked, thrust dual-barreled blasters in his face. "Undisclosed entity. Please identify immediately."
Anakin hated droids, aside from his trusty Artoo. He thought that his mechno-arm made him hate them more. Still, he attempted to speak politely, for all the good it did; protocol droids were the only ones programmed to recognize human emotion.
"Anakin Skywalker," he said. "I am a Jedi Knight – " he stressed it on purpose, he liked the sound of it – "and my presence was requested by Supreme Chancellor Palpatine."
"One moment. Processing. Do not attempt to move."
The other droid barked, "Identi-chip requested – "
"Anakin, my boy," said a warmly paternal voice from the shadows near the door.
Anakin looked up in shock. The man standing there was none other than Palpatine himself, dressed in brocade and silk, his white hair immaculate. His blue eyes twinkled benevolently as they landed on the stunned young Jedi, frozen in the act of sneaking past the security droids.
"Chancellor!" Mobility regained, Anakin flew forward. "It's too dangerous, you shouldn't be out here – " He frowned. "Besides, isn't the Senate in session?"
"My dear boy, your concerns are touching, make no mistake, but have no fear. I am quite safe, let me assure you. However, I do wonder how you knew that the Senate was in session. It's not usually something the Jedi keep track of." Palpatine's gentle laugh took any implied sting from the rebuke.
Anakin flushed. In truth, that had been a mistake. He knew because Padmé had told him, of course, but he was hardly about to divulge that to the Chancellor.
"Mas Amedda will do an exemplary job in my absence, I am sure," Palpatine went on breezily, steering Anakin through the heavy transparisteel double doors and down the well-lit, plush corridor beyond.
Something was wrong here. "Chancellor," Anakin said, frowning, "when you called the Temple, you sounded worried. I came as quickly as I could. Is everything well?"
The smile dropped from Palpatine's face. Silent and grim, he merely urged Anakin down the remainder of the corridor, into his office. The shielded doors glided shut, leaving the Jedi and the Chancellor alone.
"Anakin," said Palpatine softly, placing his hands on the younger man's shoulders. "I am afraid."
Despite the late hour, the Senate was indeed locking horns, insulting, flattering, compromising, and disagreeing as violently as ever.
Padmé Amidala Naberrie Skywalker, senior Senator of Naboo and prominent leader of the anti-war movement, tried surreptitiously to shake some life back into her left foot. This particular meeting had started five hours ago, and showed absolutely no hope of ending. Her throat burned with thirst, she would cheerily eat a whole bantha raw, and the fine golden wiring of her headdress had made her temples ache. Still, she had sat there the entire time, listening to the propositions, pleas, outright threats, and inventive invective flung back and forth by her fellows.
"No," said Bail Organa, his dark, handsome face flushed in rage. "No, no, no." The Senator from Alderaan slammed a fist on the edge of his box. "I will not condone that. I will never. Genophon is worse than brutality, it is utter perversity."
"Organa," said Senator Ephreon Zanor petulantly, "the Separatists have given us an insight into their methods. Perhaps they are not pleasant, but they are efficient. We are at war, and we must do it to them before they have a chance to do it to us. They might target Coruscant next!"
"No." Bail Organa refused to be sated. "Genophon is genocide, Zanor. The Separatists take unsuspecting planets by storm and gas the dissenters. Since when did we let them become the moral compass for our actions? I fear for the Republic if that is the case, and they will never target Coruscant, they would lose as many of their number as ours. That is nothing but petty fear-mongering."
Ephreon Zanor opened his mouth furiously, but Corellian Senator Garm Bel Iblis cut in. "Bail, I understand your reticence. Such a drastic measure must be weighed carefully. But Ephreon is right. The Separatists would do the same to us."
"No." Padmé's heart went out to Bail as he stood there, defiant and fuming, the lone dissenting voice in a sea of rivals. "It is barbarism. I refuse to kill innocent beings wholesale, no matter the cause their government has pledged to."
"You were always too softhearted, Bail," Ephreon Zanor said. "They kill innocent beings wholesale."
Bail slashed his hand down hard enough that the box trembled. "We are not the Separatists, Ephreon! If we sink to their level, what distinguishes us from them? Does it even matter, or are we two misbehaving children grubbing for power in the dust?"
Ephreon Zanor seemed taken aback by the Alderaanian Senator's fury. "Well, of course. We must save some face. I was just remarking that if we, perhaps, gave genophon a limited trial on one or two of the most stubborn holdouts... Jabiim, perhaps, or Muunilinst..."
He had named two of the most brutal, bitterly contested planets in the Clone Wars. Both were under excruciating sieges, and both were in the Outer Rim, a tenuous part of the galaxy to start with. The Separatists wanted Jabiim for its rich mineral deposits, and naturally the Republic had pledged to stop them – untold numbers of Jedi had died on its muddy plains. Muunilinst was a messy catalyst of underground rebels and munitions factories. Both sides had soaked it in blood.
"Even if you ignore the crimes against humanity, which I cannot," said Bail, "we have many of our own forces on both, Zanor. Would you sacrifice them, turn Jabiim and Muunilinst into wastelands?"
"I didn't mean the entire planets, Organa," said Ephreon, evidently peeved. "I just meant... certain strongholds."
"No," Bail snarled again. "I believe I have made myself very clear." He looked up, trying for a painful smile, a hint of reconciliation with the disgruntled crowd. "Honored delegates, I believe that the method of genophon is brutal and unnatural, and debases us to the level of our enemies. I cannot support it."
That was the last Padmé heard. If she sat here any longer she would collapse in her seat, and she had been here long enough that tongues would not wag if she left. Giving Bail an encouraging smile, she stepped out of the box and unobtrusively backed out of sight, trailed by her two handmaidens, Moteé and Ellé.
Once they were sequestered in the deserted corridors, Padmé let out a long, unsteady sigh. She ripped out the elaborate headdress, grimacing as it took several chunks of her hair with it. "Take it away, Ellé. I've inflicted quite enough damage on myself tonight."
"Yes, m'lady," said Ellé, bowing her head. These two handmaidens had been chosen specifically for their secrecy, loyalty, and resemblance to Padmé. They were both from her home planet of Naboo, and they were the only people in the universe to whom Padmé had confided the dark secret of her marriage. When she slipped away, on the infrequent occasions that she and Anakin could meet, either one of them would play the role of her, politely answering rote questions and deflecting nosier ones. Without them, she would never see her husband at all.
With Moteé and Ellé providing silent entourage, Padmé slipped back to her quarters, and winced as she slid out of the frothy, elaborate shiraya-silk confection that her tailors called a dress, thick with beading and jewels and gilded embroidery. Moteé's gentle touch unwound the last of the binding from her hair and let it tumble down her back, almost to her waist.
It was with relief that Padmé slid into a silken nightgown. She knew she should have stayed and supported Bail, but five hours of incessant bickering, achieving nothing, was enough to crack even her Senatorial composure.
"Will you be needing us for the night, m'lady?" said Ellé, turning back the covers on Padmé's bed.
"No, thank you." Padmé slipped beneath the soft sheets. "Good night."
Anakin tensed at once to see the fear on Palpatine's face. It was a good, honest, kind face, somewhat lined and cared from the trial of wartime, but still capable of smiling or scolding or even – he hated to think of it – scaring. "Tell me what's wrong, Chancellor. It's all right. You're safe here."
"Anakin, you know of course of Count Dooku." Palpatine traced an absentminded finger down Anakin's durasteel arm. "The one who maimed you, of course."
"I know him." Anakin's reply was a growl, low in his throat.
The briefest flick of satisfaction crossed Palpatine's face. "I thought you might. Listen to me, Anakin. It has been discovered that Asajj Ventress is his apprentice."
Fire shot through Anakin's blood. "That bastard? Where is he? He hurt Obi-Wan, and one day I'm going to kill him for that!"
Palpatine smiled thinly. "Her, Anakin. As Master Kenobi could attest, I do believe that Ventress is a woman."
Anakin frowned. He had never heard of a Sith Lady before; according to his own limited knowledge of the Dark Order, the Sith were proud, selfish, and fiercely misogynist. Only Lords had existed in their line, a line nearly as long as the Jedi.
"Is this too difficult a request, to kill a woman?" Palpatine asked, his features settling into their familiar fatherly concern. "You needn't worry, she's flagrantly corrupt...and as you mention, she did torture Master Kenobi. You see, Anakin, you are the Jedi I trust beyond all others. And it won't be necessary to track down Ventress' whereabouts. She is, as far as I know, currently on her way to Muunilinst."
Anakin scowled. "Muunilinst can be classified as its own war by now."
"I know." Palpatine's hands on Anakin's shoulders were promising, reassuring, comforting. "But you are strong, Anakin. Your skills, I hear, are unmatched."
"You've heard wrong, I'm sure," Anakin answered modestly. In truth, the compliment pleased him.
"And therefore," Palpatine continued, "I am asking you to accept this mission from me personally and fly to Muunilinst. I'm sure, with your superior ability, it shan't take long to find Ventress and eliminate her."
Anakin turned away. "No," he said abruptly. This was terrible, refusing a perfect opportunity to take revenge on Ventress, but... "With all due respect, you're the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, not of the Jedi. You don't have the authority to send me on a mission, and certainly not by myself."
"You don't need Obi-Wan any longer." Palpatine's voice was as warm and gentle as ever. "You're not a Padawan, and a full Knight without an apprentice may certainly be sent alone."
"It's not the Jedi way. We work together. And besides..." Anakin, at a loss for the first time all evening, struggled for words. "Obi-Wan is a part of me. I know him better than myself. I know how he'll fight in a battle, what he'll say when we're introduced to some planetary bureaucrat." He matched Palpatine's cunning smile. "It is a pleasure. We greet you and accept your gracious hospitality on behalf of all Jedi."
"Very well, if it please you, we could send Master Kenobi along as well," Palpatine said indulgently. "He might welcome a chance to gain his revenge."
Anakin's scowl deepened. "He won't. That's not like him, and besides, the Council gave him a seat a few months ago." He hoped his anger did not show in his voice. When they had announced it... it was hard to explain. On one hand, he wished Obi-Wan the best – the man who was dearer to him than a father. On the other hand, he had been terribly, passionately jealous, and it had frightened him.
"Well, Kenobi and Skywalker are an unbreakable team," said Palpatine. "We must keep to appearances, after all."
"Master Obi-Wan will never agree."
"Will he?" Palpatine rejoined mildly. "And do remember, Anakin, he is your Master no longer, merely a friend."
"A partner. He's – " Anakin gave up. He could never explain his love for Obi-Wan to Palpatine, no more than he could explain his love for Palpatine to Obi-Wan.
"I will send someone to speak to the Council. They must agree that an unleashed Sith, even an untrained one, is a very great threat," said Palpatine amicably. "Trust me, if their graces decide, in their wisdom, that this mission should not be pursued, then I must comply."
He turned back to Anakin, his face hurt and vulnerable. "Still, think about it. Muunilinst is very volatile. The presence of a dark-sider could cause it to swing the wrong way, with likely disastrous results. Could we have that?"
Anakin swallowed to wet his throat. "No," he allowed.
"And after all this, it comes down to one thing." Palpatine looked up to meet his gaze earnestly, openly. "I am not asking you as a Jedi. I am asking you as a friend."
Anakin had a choice to make, and he made it. "I will not let you down."
Palpatine let out a long breath of relief, as if the very fate of the universe had hinged on Anakin's compliance. The fear and anxiety smoothed off his face, and his tender, caring smile once again fixed on Anakin. "My dear boy."
It was hard to leave him after that, having just pledged to do his will no matter what the Council's official verdict was, but Anakin managed. He bid the Chancellor a courteous good night, wished him pleasant dreams – knowing all too well the power of bad ones – and left. As if in a trance, he navigated the corridors, tracing a path more from instinct then memory. He passed doors as if they did not exist, as if the entire world was nothing more than a figment of imagination in the Maker's mind.
Anakin at last drew to a halt before the last door in a long corridor. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and raised a hand to knock, but before he could, it opened.
"Come in," said either Moteé or Ellé – he could never tell which one. Padmé insisted they weren't twins, but they might have been to Anakin. "It's not seemly to be seen lingering outside a Senator's quarters."
Anakin stepped inside and Moteé/Ellé shut the door behind him. "M'lady has retired," she announced. "May C-3PO get you something?"
Right on cue, the gleaming gold protocol droid toddled out from behind an ornate tapestry. "Oh, Master Anakin! Such a pleasure! I haven't seen you in – "
Anakin, glaring fiercely, made a chopping motion with his hand. Even Threepio, not the most perceptive of droids, couldn't mistake it. Obediently, he stopped, then continued in a stage whisper. "The Senator is in her bedroom."
Anakin thanked him cursorily, and pushed past both handmaidens and Threepio. Quiet as a stealth droid, he sneaked down the hallway outside her room, hit the door release, and stepped inside.
Padmé sat up at once, looking around sharply. "Moteé, is that you?"
"Not likely." Anakin stepped into the slice of light spilling through her blinds.
Padmé drew in a disbelieving breath. "Anakin!" She flew to him, throwing her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in his sandy curls to bring his mouth to hers. Their kiss was hard and sweet, borne from deep loneliness and a deeper passion.
Padmé pulled back to breathe. "It's been too long," she whispered, "the war's kept us away, but it's all right, Annie, you're here, here." She leaned up to kiss him again.
Anakin decided that telling her about his mission to Muunilinst could wait. In between kisses, he asked, "Have you – scrambled the – cameras?"
"Of course." Padmé, serious worried Senator Amidala, giggled like a girl. "Can you imagine Threepio's shock?"
Anakin imitated the protocol droid's high-pitched, fussy voice. "Oh dear me! I do believe that Master Anakin and Mistress Padmé are – mmmph – "
"And then – Moteé/Ellé – tackles him," he explained, breathless.
"Anakin." Padmé kissed him again, kissed him as if she couldn't stop. "Don't leave. Please don't leave me. We've never had long enough."
"I won't leave you." Anakin lifted her up, kicked off his boots. Then he carried her back to the bed, her small legs wrapped around his waist, his fingers entwined in her soft mahogany curls.
There is a vergence in the Force, and it is growing stronger. On one side, the light is brilliant, diffusing sheets of warmth and energy, of selflessness and peace. But on the other, it is dark and tormented, fear and anger distorting it into something unrecognizable. The light has been broken, reduced to nothing, and scattered shards poison the blackness. There is normally an unbreakable chasm between these two extremes, but they are growing closer.
Anakin Skywalker is the Chosen One. Everyone believes it, it's accepted as uncontestable fact. And because of this, even when things seem bleakest, there is always that to fall back on for comfort. We can't lose. We have the Chosen One.
Anakin is making another choice, one that he's not even aware of. He's buried in the warmth and tenderness that he so desperately desires, the pure and unconditional love that only his wife can offer him. Not Obi-Wan, not Palpatine, just Padmé, in their infrequent and forbidden trysts.
In the Force, it is uneasy. Sheets of light are sliced by shards of blackness. The sides are no longer so distinct; they blur and jumble. And then they go churning down the threads into the young man that they gave life to, and spill out into Padmé.
Two brilliant sparks sprout in the great, troubled realm that is the Force.
Nobody senses them. Not even their father.
Anakin did not leave that night. The Temple could wait, all of it could wait. He would attend to it when he pleased. Curled around Padmé, he slept deeply and dreamlessly, with no memories of pain, no shadowy visions. He slept as he had not in some time. No decisions or questions of loyalty plagued him – he was free, for a short time, to find the simple, peaceable side of life that he had so long craved.
Neither of them knew how complex things were about to become.
