CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE FLOOD

QUI-GON

The Chancellor's office was a tasteful, understated affair, its only concession to grandiosity the sweeping vista its single floor-to-ceiling plate glass window afforded. Qui-Gon found himself distracted by the view. I so seldom take the time to really look at Coruscant, he thought. Lights whipped by outside in the failing day. The city was coming to life. How long had it been since his old master had taken him up to the temple summit to look out on this same vista from across the quadrant? How long since his hand slipped through the older man's and they'd shared their first kiss in the tearing wind, the city-world spread out below them? He smiled faintly. All that was over now.

"You have the Council's support in this action," said Mace Windu to the Chancellor. "There are conditions to discuss, and a chain of command to finalize, but we will supply the Republic with a command corps of our most experienced Knights and Masters. We are loathe to commit to combat, but there are innocent lives at stake. We'll serve willingly."

"Excellent, Master Windu," said the Chancellor. "The fleet is nearly ready to depart. Please, convey my thanks to Master Yoda and the Council, will you?"

"It is our honor to serve the Republic," said Master Plo Koon, gesturing with a mottled yellow hand. He turned to Senator Naberrie. "Master Yoda suggests that, for the time being, Master Qui-Gon and Padawan Kenobi remain with you, Senator, as a safety precaution. Retaking Theed will not be a clean business, and your determination to accompany the fleet, while admirable, is not without risk."

"A wise measure," agreed the Chancellor. He turned to Padmé. "My lady, I urge you to accept the Council's offer. Your safety is of critical importance to the Republic."

"I would be glad of their protection," said Padmé.

Qui-Gon nodded and said nothing. This war, this deployment of the Jedi as soldiers in the army of the Republic, felt wrong to him. Not just in principle, though it rankled there, but in the way it felt. There was a caul over these proceedings, a sticky film of uncertainty marring his visions of the future.

Palpatine clapped his hands together. "Very well then," he said. "The fleet departs tonight. Master Windu, I trust that the Council can have your candidates ready by Standard Midnight?"

"Count on it, Chancellor," said Mace. He sounded grim.

The Council's delegates left shortly after and were replaced by Bail Organa, a goateed man just into his forties, a pretty young woman in white robes that Qui-Gon didn't recognize, and the Cerean delegation. Panaka glowered at them. He had been even surlier than usual since their arrival. The Senators bowed to Palpatine, all except for Organa who bounded across the office floor to clasp the Chancellor's hands in his own. "We have a chance at making this Republic a better place," he said, "and you're the right man for the job, Chancellor."

"I'm certainly gratified you think so, Senator Organa," said Palpatine. Obi-Wan thought he heard the slightest intonation of disgust in the Chancellor's voice, but the next moment Palpatine was leading the Senator to a seat beside his own and the talk turned to Senate agenda.

"Politics," Obi-Wan said to Anakin, his tone disgusted. "The Council shouldn't involve itself in this war. It isn't the place of the Jedi."

Qui-Gon should have rebuked his Padawan for speaking out of turn, but the truth was that the boy was right. And besides, Anakin looked troubled.

The former slave said nothing, his gaze fixed on he Chancellor who was deep in conversation with Padmé and one of the Cerean senators. "I feel like I've seen him before," said Anakin. He spoke quietly. "The Chancellor."

Obi-Wan chuckled. "That doesn't seem likely."

But Anakin's expression did not change. He continued to stare at Palpatine, brow furrowed in concentration. "I know him," he said.

"Anakin, Chancellor Palpatine was the Senator for Naboo," said Obi-Wan. He put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I doubt he's ever been within twelve parsecs of Tatooine."

Anakin turned to Obi-Wan, a strange look in his eyes. "I..." he began, and then his expression cleared. "No, you're right. I don't know what's wrong with me." He gave a rueful half-smile. "Unless he vacations in the Dune Sea."

Strange, thought Qui-Gon. Too strange to be coincidence. He looked at Palpatine, watched him as he argued his points with dignity and conviction, as he forged bridges between the sentients invading his office even as his aides and servants shuttled his files and effects into the barren space. What does it mean?

The meeting with the Senators dragged on until well after midnight. Palpatine stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back. Senator Organa, the Senator in white, Mon Mothma, and two of the Cereans stood with him, watching the last troop transports rise from the square and into space. The remaining Cerean was inspecting the art in Palpatine's office while Panaka stood stiff-necked as ever by the empty seats. The Force moved through the space with troubling intensity, gathering in tangled coils around the politicians. Palpatine alone was unreadable, though he radiated vital energy. He and Mon Mothma had drafted three separate versions of a new piece of legislation that protected global debtors from armed reprisal, all while engaging in spirited debate over tax law and immigration reform for the capital.

Qui-Gon paced the room with Senator Naberrie. She seemed strangely awkward, her typical composure damaged by exhaustion and overstimulation. "I never thanked you for getting me off of Naboo," she said as they moved through the reception area, passing a half-completed mural of the Sith Wars that Palpatine had ordered brought out of storage. "You were very brave."

Qui-Gon paused to examine the bronzium tiles that made up the mural. "It was my duty, Senator. I'm glad that I could be of assistance."

She seemed on the verge of saying something more, but at that moment the Chancellor's desk comlink chimed. Palpatine strode to the desk and the holographic image of a young man in an officer's smart grey uniform appeared above the projection plate. "What is it?" asked the Chancellor.

"Chancellor," said the young officer, "the shuttles are waiting at the Senatorial Docks for Senator Naberrie and Master Qui-Gon. The First Fleet is ready to depart."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Piett," said the Chancellor, and he silenced the intercom with a wave of his hand before turning to Qui-Gon. "I believe that is your cue, Master Jedi."

Qui-Gon bowed from the waist. "It's been an honor, Chancellor. May the Force be with you."

"And you, Master Jedi," said Palpatine with a smile. "And you."

GRIEVOUS

General Grievous circled the tactical table, his dry yellow eyes narrowed to slits as he surveyed the holographic displays of the Federation fleet in orbit over Naboo. His metal claws clicked against the stone floor of Poggle's War Room, deep in the bowels of the Archduke's hive. He was alone in the dim light, alone but for the silent droids.

A General must have his bodyguards, Dooku had said when Grievous had protested. And so the droids had been delivered, IG-1000 MagnaGuards equipped with state-of-the-art combat programming and shock staves designed to block a lightsaber. They lurked in the shadows by the walls, their red eyes glowing in the dark. Grievous had ordered the Geonosian drones who tended his quarters to drape the things with heavy cloaks to hide their skeletal frames. He hated the sight of other droids, loathed them with a furious and gnawing intensity.

Droids were a coward's weapon, a weakling's tool. Grievous of the Kaleesh fought his own battles. He took a deep, rattling breath and coughed before turning back to the table. The idiot Gunray's forces, twenty lucrehulk-class cruisers and their compliments of vulture droids, were spread thin in an amateurish attempt to prevent a landing. Grievous paused to type out notes on the strategic table's holopad, memos on deployment that would be sent to Captain Dofine on the Saak'ak. Perhaps the fools might survive the Republic's inevitable counterblow, if they listened to him.

"General."

Grievous turned, rising up to his full height. Count Dooku moved into the War Room. He looked tired, but pleased. "The elections have been settled," he said. "Palpatine has won."

"Your politics mean nothing to me," rasped Grievous. "How does this change our plans? When will the war begin?"

"I believe it is on its way to Naboo as we speak," said Dooku. He undid the clasp of his cape and swept it off, depositing it on a chair by one of the room's many viewscreen panels. "We, my friend, will be watching the opening movements from here."

Grievous slammed a metal fist onto the holopad, smashing the projector beneath it. "You promised me a war, Dooku!" he snarled, his voice catching in what was left of his throat.

"Patience, General," said Dooku, unfazed. His face was lit from below by the orange light of the strategic table. He looked old, almost corpse-like. "This is only a maneuver, a feint, as it were. We have discussed Secession. If it is to succeed, the industrialists must fear for their well-being. They must understand that you and I are their only hope for safety, that the Republic is intent on crushing their dreams of free commerce. They must fear the Jedi, and the Senate."

"And then?" roared Grievous, throwing up his arms. "We will drown in weaklings and cowards! Gah!" He hawked and coughed, pounding a fist against his chest plate until the mucous in his lungs dislodged itself. It dripped to the floor from the filter beneath his durasteel sternum. "Why should we saddle ourselves with them? Bankers and merchants. What is to be gained from such an alliance?"
"General," said Dooku calmly. "I believe your species practices cremation, the ritual burning of the bodies of fallen warriors."

"Yes," said Grievous harshly. "We climb to the gods on the smoke and ashes of our selves, the remains of what we no longer need."

"A moving custom," said Dooku, and Grievous knew somehow that the Count, rather than thinking him mystical and deluded, was sincere. "And yet," said Dooku, "I imagine it is also a practical one. You burn your rubbish as well, don't you? Your cast-offs and your refuse, the corpses of your slaughtered enemies?"

"Yes," said Grievous. His claws scraped the edge of the table. "We do."

"And when you raised your bonfires, General," said Dooku. "Did you give each foe his own pyre? Did you cremate them with the honor you would have accorded one of your own?"

"Never," snarled Grievous. "It is unthinkable. Only the Kaleesh may-"

"Yes," said Dooku, and his voice struck Grievous silent. There was such conviction in it, such presence. "We will not be acquiring allies, my friend. We will be stacking corpses."

Grievous was silent for a long moment. He tapped his fingers against the table. "You haven't told me everything."

"No," said the Count. "I have not."

"Culling the weak," said Grievous. He narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Dooku, his cloak dragging over the rough stone floor. His breath rasped and rattled in his prison cell of a chest. "I approve, Count." A low, grating chuckle escaped his mask's air filter. The Count smiled. Grievous moved, vaulting over the table and slamming into Dooku before the old human could react. He seized the front of the Count's shirt in his claws, his lower arms darting down to pin Dooku's hands against his sides as he hoisted him up and slammed him against the wall.

"You lied," snarled Grievous.

Dooku looked only mildly discomfited. A vein in his forehead pulsed. Grievous felt something cold and steely wrap around his arms and chest plate, and then he was ripped away from the Count and flung back against the table. He gripped the table's edge and got to his feet, ripping free of his entangling cloak. Anger pulsed behind his temples, hot and poisonous, as he watched Dooku refasten the clasp of his cloak and brush dust from his shirt front.

The MagnaGuards stood in the shadows, unmoving.

"I regret your attitude," said the Count. "You have much to gain, General. The stage is set for the fall of the Jedi and the purification of the Republic. A new order."

"Lie to me again and one of us will go to the gods, Dooku," snarled Grievous. He flung back his tattered cloak, exposing his lightsabers. "I will not be toyed with." He coughed and more mucous dripped from his vents. "Let me kill something."

"There will be ample opportunity for that, my friend," said Dooku wearily. "I believe we can dispense with pretenses, for the moment."

"Indeed."

The voice was cold and deliberate. Grievous turned back to the table. The two-foot tall grainy blue image of a robed and cowled figure had replaced the fleet diagram. Its hands were clasped, its face obscured by the shadows cast by its hood. "My apprentice, Darth Tyranus, speaks very highly of you, General," said the hooded form, gesturing toward Dooku with a lined and wrinkled hand. "I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance."

"Lord Sidious," said the Count. "The General and I were just discussing the impending Republic action against Viceroy Gunray's occupation of Naboo."

"Sith," snarled Grievous, peering at the darkness beneath Sidious's cowl.

"Yes," said Sidious. His voice was dry, like dead skin blowing in the wind. "Your loyalty and competence had to be ensured before you were informed of the true breadth of our designs. Surely, General, a being possessed of of such a tactical disposition can understand our caution?"

Grievous said nothing. It was known on Kalee that the Sith were skulkers in the dark, not true warriors but murderers, liars, and criminals. Men of the paper screen, the holy men called them, a name for those who skulked behind doors with poisoned knives. And yet Dooku had shown no sign of cowardice. The Count was a warrior, and an enemy of the Jedi. Grievous had seen him rail against their tyranny in the open Senate, an action that would have been cause for a duel to the death on Kalee.

"I understand, Lord Sidious."

"Good," said Sidious, and Grievous thought he saw the figure's blurred lips twist upward in a smile. "When the industrialist seats secede, at Darth Tyranus's urging and with Viceroy Gunray's utter ruin to spur them toward secession's open arms, I will see that you are placed in unquestioned command of the Droid Army.

"Your purpose will be twofold, General. The war you wage on my behalf must be a brutal and merciless one, something I gather you are not unfamiliar with. The horrors of war will be such that the Galaxy sees no choice but to place its security in the hands of its immediate rulers-namely the office of Supreme Chancellor."

Grievous narrowed his eyes. "And the second, Chancellor Palpatine?"

"Very shrewd," said Dooku.

Darth Sidious pushed back his hood to reveal the lined, distinguished face and silver-grey hair of the Republic's newly-elected Chancellor. "Very shrewd indeed," he said. "Your second purpose, General, is the destruction of the Jedi Order. To the last sentient."

Grievous leaned forward, hands pressed flat against the surface of the table. His respirator hissed loudly in his ears. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Lord Sidious," he rasped. "I will murder them." His claws scraped the table's steel edge, digging shallow furrows.

"I look forward to our association, General," said Sidious. "When the war is over, you will be welcomed back into the Republic as a hero and I will see to it that Kaleesh is restored to its former glory."

"So the Sith are generous," said Grievous. He chuckled. "I don't want your charity. I want blood, enough to drown in. I live in pain, Lord Sidious. Only murder can assuage it."

"Tragic, what the Jedi have done to you, General Shaleel," said Palpatine. "I only hope you find what you seek in the events to come."

"I no longer use that name," said Grievous. His breath grated harshly in the still air.

"Of course," said Sidious. "Forgive me, General Grievous." He raised his hood and the hologram vanished, plunging the room into near-darkness.

"Now you understand," said Dooku. His voice sliced neatly through the silence. "The Republic is ailing, plagued by greed, bureaucratic infighting and the oppression of the Jedi. In one swift stroke we shall remove every threat in our path."

Grievous stared for a long, long time at the blank tactical table. "Tell Dofine to move his ships closer together," he said at last. "That will make it look like a fight, if nothing else." He turned from the table, coughing again, and strode toward one of the gaping black doorways.

"Welcome to the fold, General," Dooku called after him.

Grievous laughed. The sound echoed from the walls as he vanished into the darkness.

ANAKIN

They sat in silence in the shuttle's passenger compartment, waiting as the small spacecraft made its slow ascent toward Coruscant's shields and the fleet of Venator-class star destroyers and Acclamator-class transports waiting beyond it. Anakin drummed his fingers on the arms of his seat. He was enjoying the sensation of flight, the rumble of the ion engines beneath his feet. Qui-Gon sat beside him, lost in thought. Senator Naberrie had gone to the cockpit with Captain Panaka. Anakin felt out of place. He undid his crash webbing and stood, stretching, as the shuttle passed. Hands in his pockets, he left the compartment and headed toward the prow. The shuttle's other passengers were important to the war. The Senator, the Jedi, a pair of the Republic's new clones dressed in identical Bridge Commanders' uniforms. He didn't fit into the puzzle here. What would he do on the bridge of a star destroyer?

Why had Qui-Gon taken him along? For a bunch of philosophical talk about the Force? He couldn't do anything either of the two Jedi could, and the Council had rejected him. Anakin glanced into an open door and saw a pair of Clones donning their suits of white plasteel armor. It was eerie, seeing their identical faces with different expressions side by side. Anakin moved on. The cockpit door cycled open at his approach, and he stepped in. The Senator and the Captain were standing with their backs to him behind the Clone pilot and co-pilot.

"Senator, accompanying the invasion force is a publicity stunt, and a dangerous one," said Panaka. "The people of Theed will not think less of you if you watch the proceedings from the bridge of the Republic. I cannot support your decision." Anakin could almost hear his furious scowl. "Just because the Jedi lead from the front, Senator, doesn't mean you need to."

"Leave your prejudices out of it, Captain," said the Senator. "I will be accompanying Master Qui-Gon and Master Kenobi to the surface, and I'd prefer we discussed something else."

"As you wish," said Panaka. "My resignation seems appropriate."

Padmé said nothing. Anakin, one foot through the door, felt suddenly as though he were spying on something ugly and private. He took a step back and pressed himself to the side of the hall, too curious to leave.

"Palpatine and I tried for years to make Amidala see that Naboo was weak," said Panaka, his tone low and angry. "I tried to form an army, to protect our people. If you had listened to me we would not be-"

"I accept your resignation, Captain," said the Senator, cutting through Panaka's tirade.

Anakin hesitated, and then Panaka's sharp footfalls left the cockpit and the Captain strode past him without so much as a glance. Anakin could almost feel the man's anger. He stepped away from the wall, watching as Panaka stepped into one of the shuttle's compartments and slammed the heavy metal door.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that."

Anakin turned and met Padmé's gaze, shamefaced. She was standing in the doorway in her blue brocaded robes, her eyes rimmed with red. Her hair was done up in an elegant knot at the back of her head and she wore a fan-like lacquered blue headpiece. It set off her eyes.

"I didn't mean to," said Anakin, glancing around at anything but the Senator. "I thought I'd come up and...see the fleet." He looked back at her. "He shouldn't have talked to you like that. He was out of line. I could go rough him up, if you wanted." It was a weak joke.

Padmé laughed. "No," she said, taking Anakin's arm. "I'd rather watch the fleet. I'm afraid you're too fierce for the Captain." She led him back into the cockpit. "He's only a soldier, after all. What chance would he have against a Jedi apprentice?" The clone pilots remained silent and attentive, bent over their instrument panels.

Anakin flushed. "I was rejected by the Council," he mumbled. "They said I was too old."

The fleet was arranging itself in battle formation, great wedge-shaped destroyers arrayed in a firing line and shield formation ahead of the smaller transport ships. The enormous ships fired short bursts from their attitude thrusters, making minute adjustments to formations.

"Master Qui-Gon doesn't seem to have given up on you," said Padmé. She withdrew her arm from Anakin's and looked at him. "He seems to think you have potential."

"I do have potential." He said it coldly, without thinking.

Padmé gave him a sidelong look, but said nothing. They stood together, watching as their shuttle entered the fleet. Massive hulls and swiveling turbolaser turrets passed by to their either side, making Anakin feel like he was flying again through the caves midway along the Boonta Eve circuit. The Republic hailed them and one of the clone pilots answered, holding a brief conversation with one of its brothers aboard the star destroyer. Anakin felt a sense of vague distaste. He wondered what kind of man Jango Fett was.

The shuttle docked with the Republic and Anakin and Padmé joined the others at the airlock door as the landing ramp slid into place. The airlock cycled open, revealing a delegation of the ship's officers and rank after rank of clones flanking the path from the ramp to the turbolift like an honor guard. A pair of Senatorial Guards in their long blue robes and crested helmets, heavy blaster rifles slung over their shoulders, were waiting for Padmé at the base of the ramp with an aging, blunt-faced man in a Fleet Admiral's uniform.

"Welcome aboard, Senator, Master Jedi," said the Admiral, taking Padmé's hand as she stepped down from the landing ramp.

"Admiral Tagge," said Padmé warmly. "It's good to see you."

Anakin looked around the docking bay. V-wing snubfighters waited in neat rows beside weapon-studded LAAT gunships and the massive AT-TE walkers Rothana Engineering was churning out to meet the Republic's newborn demand for armor. Clones were everywhere, clad in the omnipresent white armor or else wearing coveralls as they crawled over ships and carried munitions from pallets to tanks.

"Remember, Anakin," said Qui-Gon's as he moved to Anakin's side, "this is not where power lies. Not truly. True power comes with understanding and with patience. Only by mastering your surroundings and your situation, by schooling your mind to their every nuance, can you control them."

"Yes, Master," said Anakin. He stared at the ranks of faceless clones, thinking.