Chapter Ten: Statecraft
Bail Organa spun absentmindedly in his office chair, twirling a stylus between his fingers.
He stared out at the vast, empty space before him. The Executive Office was too big for his liking. Unnecessarily grandiose, wasting space simply because in the Senate Building you could afford to. The deep red carpet was made from naturally occurring materials, the massive desk carved from actual stone—an extreme expense on any Core world, but especially Coruscant, where everything would've been imported from offworld. Synthesized furnishings could be created domestically, but that wasn't good enough for whoever outfitted this room.
Art from Bail's home planet of Alderaan lined the walls, gallery-style. He appreciated the reminders of home, but the paintings were far too expensive for his taste, and had probably been commissioned by a past Chancellor who wanted to flaunt their wealth to their fellow legislators. When Bail took office, an aide had found them under a tarp in a storage closet. Bail never would've paid for such art himself, but he had them put up anyway. In addition to staving off the homesickness, the pieces helped keep up appearances.
The one saving grace of this ridiculous office, Bail thought, was the view. Arcing behind the desk was a lovely panoramic window, two meters high and ten wide. Bail's favorite time to soak in the view was after sunset, when the city glistened with the light of a thousand stars. He would sit, stare, and imagine the story behind the lights from each distant window. One light might be a family huddled on the couch; another might be a composer dreaming up a piece of music, or someone writing a letter to her distant lover who was stationed in another system. He could lose himself, staring at those faint points in the distance; remind himself that these were the people he truly governed, not bickering committees.
Tonight, though, he only wished he could get lost in those fantasies. Instead, a different, much gloomier thought loomed over him, a mere four words: vote of no confidence. He repeated them in his head over and over, hoping that somehow it would change the reality of the situation. So far, it wasn't working.
Bail sighed, twirled the stylus again, and ground a knuckle into his eye. He was in his office far later than his schedule typically demanded, and all of his staff save the two door guards had gone home. Only a receptionist droid was here to keep him company, and Bail had banished it to its post outside—it was good at small talk, but he wasn't in the mood to shoot the breeze with a droid right now. He'd thought about calling Breha, but his wife didn't need to hear about this yet. Not until he'd figured out a way to remove himself from the corner he found himself in.
Reaching beneath his desk, he slid open a drawer reserved for special occasions and eyed the bottle of liquor hidden within. This was usually for celebrations: legislative victories or news of a colony liberated by Republic forces. Tonight there was nothing to celebrate, but it very well could be one of his last few opportunities to drink on the job. He wasn't about to waste it.
Two years, he thought. Two years of policy advancing by inches, crises springing up left and right, gridlock at every turn. And then the clones had come, turning his peacetime office into something he'd had utterly no preparation for. Everything else off the agenda. And for what? Meeting after meeting after meeting in which nothing was done, only for his one decisive action to lead to immediate disaster.
A buzz over the intercom interrupted his haze of self-pity. The Chancellor instinctively slammed the desk drawer shut and snapped to attention. "Yes?"
"Sir, your guest has arrived," piped the all-too-cheery receptionist droid.
Bail sighed. He was glad he kept a sentient receptionist on staff for normal office hours; the machine did not know how to read a room. Pressing a button on the glistening surface of his stonework desk: "Send her in."
He rose from his chair as Mon Mothma entered the room and the automatic door swooshed shut behind her. The two met halfway, in the center of the ridiculously large space covered in ridiculously expensive carpet, and shook hands.
"My apologies for the lateness of the hour, Senator," Bail said. "And it's only just now occurred to me that if we were going to meet so late, we could have done it somewhere else." He chuckled bitterly. "You'll have to go on the visitor's logs for my office now. Everyone on the Defense Committee will lump you in with the loose-cannon Chancellor." He attempted to inject a note of amusement into his voice, but he could see it wasn't working and dropped the facade. "Seems acting without thinking is my forte."
"I'm already lumped in with you," Mon Mothma replied, brushing past his self-deprecation without comment. "I didn't second the motion in this morning's meeting."
The pair moved back toward the Chancellor's desk. Bail walked around it to stand opposite Mon Mothma, cursing the desk's size for making his trip awkwardly long. As they sat, the senator continued. "Besides, the two of us meeting offsite would just arouse suspicion. Your adversaries in the Senate would assume we were planning something. I'd rather our meetings be logged on the records. It's safer that way. We can't afford to make the situation worse."
Bail couldn't argue with that. "Thank you for agreeing to meet, Senator. I need your help with this . . ." He threw his hands up in the air. "Fiasco."
"You want my help rescuing General Kenobi?" Mon Mothma seemed surprised, and ever so slightly amused. "Chancellor, the people of Chandrila are not known for their skill in battle. Even if I could find someone to send to the Had System, I'd really rather not risk exacerbating things. I'm sorry, but it could jeopardize my career too." The small smile on her face faded away. "And the Defense Committee may have put you in an impossible position, but Sapir isn't wrong. You were completely out of line. The only reason I didn't vote against you is that your heart is in the right place, even though your head is clearly elsewhere."
Bail felt a blush burn his cheeks. He'd been wallowing in frustration and self-pity, but now for the first time today he experienced a sudden onslaught of genuine shame. Leaning back in his chair, he shook his head. "No, not the Kenobi situation. That ship has sailed, and I don't intend to drag you into any sort of attempt to solve things on Had Abbadon after the mess I've made. I need your help here." He gestured around him, indicating the Senate building. "We've got two weeks before that vote, and I need to know where things stand. Who is voting which way, and why. You're more than qualified to whip votes . . . assuming you wish for me to keep this position?"
Slowly, she nodded. "As long as the others refuse to take the Confederacy seriously . . . well, the enemy of my enemy. I do, Bail." The Chancellor didn't correct her on the breach of protocol; at this point, he didn't care if she used his title. She was an ally, and she had no desire to sugarcoat his position, and that was what he needed right now.
"You'll do it, then?" he asked, trying to suppress his increasing desperation.
"I'll get started first thing tomorrow." A quiet determination had entered her voice. Bail added his past misjudgment of the woman to the long list of failures he was reckoning with today.
"If you don't mind my asking, where do you think we stand now?" he asked. "The special session is in two weeks. Could you swing anyone on the Defense Committee back to my side in that time?" Bail wasn't fond of the adversarial phrasing, but there was really no other way to put it. "Senator Sapir is a lost cause, I'm sure."
"Not necessarily," interjected Mon Mothma. "If we do go to war, Kuat's economy stands to gain something. I'm sure that will factor into her decision. And proposing the vote was no easy thing for her."
Bail let out a breath and shook his head. "She'd be just as well served voting me out and hoping the next Chancellor starts a war with the Confederacy by getting permission from the Senate. Any war I begin is stained with illegitimacy."
She bit her lip and nodded. "Bel Iblis won't be swayed. He sees the Defense Force as just that—a tool for defending ourselves, nothing more. I expect he'll want you voted out."
The Chancellor rubbed his forehead. Any further talk about the Committee was a waste, he decided. If any of its members had wanted to keep him in office, they wouldn't have raised their hands in the meeting. "What about the rest of Congress? I'm sure word has spread about the vote."
"It has," Mon Mothma said. "Nobody knows why yet, though. Once the Defense Committee meeting notes become available to everyone next week . . ."
"I've been kicking myself all day over that." Some of the anger he'd been keeping below the surface bubbled up. "Meeting notes about ongoing operations are left classified. If I hadn't effectively deactivated General Kenobi's mission, we would be able to sweep this under the rug and win the vote without a problem."
"Don't beat yourself up," Mon Mothma said gently. "There is no way the rest of the committee would have let that meeting conclude with his mission left active. Especially now that a vote of no confidence is approaching. They would have made sure those notes were distributed to the rest of the Senate." She looked at him reprovingly. "And Chancellor, don't make me regret this. Sweeping things under the rug is not why I am here."
Bail sighed and waved his hand in acknowledgment. "So what do we do?" He knew he sounded desperate. At this point, he was beyond caring.
"Damage control," was the confident reply. "We've got a week before that report goes out to the entire Senate. I can get out in front of it and help control the narrative. Lay the groundwork so the report isn't as damaging when it's released. I'll start in the morning."
"Wonderful." He stood and rounded the desk. "I'm in no condition to discuss particulars tonight, so if you're willing to leave this until the morning."
They walked to his office door side-by-side. "Thank you for meeting me, and thank you for your help," Bail told her. "It means . . . thank you." He shook her hand once more. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Mon Mothma took the few remaining steps toward the door, then paused and turned back toward Bail. "One thing before I go, Chancellor. You mentioned an attempt to solve things on Had Abbadon. Is there anything I should know?"
Bail hesitated. "Not yet."
"Chancellor Organa," Mon Mothma said cautiously, drawing out the words. "What can you do? Military action is off the table. And I don't need to tell you that you must tread lightly here."
"Hire some mercenaries, perhaps. Send in a bounty hunter." Even as he said it, he knew it was a bad idea. "Or I wait. Wait for the guardians of peace and justice to get involved."
His colleague raised an eyebrow. "The Jedi? They're unpredictable, Chancellor. They may not even be aware of the situation. If they are, who's to say they'd want to throw themselves into this mess? I wouldn't advise hanging your hopes on their coming to the rescue." She locked her eyes onto his own. "In fact, I would advise doing nothing at all." And with that, she turned and exited his office, her white robe fluttering behind her.
Bail made his way back to his desk and slouched in his chair. Do nothing?
He supposed that he probably owed Mothma that much; she might very well be laying her career on the line to salvage the Chancellorship of a man she clearly didn't approve of. But Obi-Wan was more than a resource to be used and then disposed of. He was a genius, he was a Jedi, and most important, he was Bail's friend.
Election night, Bail remembered, he had met with the general in his chambers to discuss the future, both of them drinking the same liquor that was currently hidden away in his desk. He understood perfectly well, he'd told Obi-Wan, if serving both the Jedi Order and the leader of the Republic would prove to be too large a burden. If Obi-Wan wished to remain with Alderaan's planetary military, or to resign his commission altogether, he would be perfectly within his rights.
Obi-Wan had simply shook his head with an amused look and raised his half-empty glass in a belated toast. Senator Organa, he'd said, the day being your friend means being a lesser Jedi is the day I leave the Order.
He had to think of something, even if it meant staying up all night. Even if it meant the unthinkable.
He reached forward to his desk, picked up his stylus, and twirled it yet again.
REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: THE JEDI ORDER
The elusive Jedi operate as self-appointed "guardians of peace and justice" throughout the Galactic Republic. Little is known about the organization's structure, if it even has one. The only two ranks the public is aware of are "Knight" and "Master." It is assumed they are headquartered on Coruscant, though nobody has been able to prove this.
Jedi are conflict-resolvers. Some Jedi will arise during battles or negotiations the Republic is involved in, assisting in solving the problem. Other Jedi appear to be unaffiliated with the Republic, and instead solve local conflicts on smaller worlds. Depending on the individual Jedi, this conflict resolution may take the form of peaceful negotiation, or it may involve the deadly lightsaber, a signature weapon of the Order.
Just as the modus operandi of individual Jedi differ, so does public opinion on the Order as a whole. Some see the Jedi as infallible paragons of virtue and justice. Others cannot stand the idea that an organization such as the Jedi Order goes unchecked by the laws of the Republic. Outside Republic space, the Jedi are seen as little more than a myth. Any tales about them are simply regarded as exaggerations of acts performed by Republic Special Forces.