Chapter 12
A/N: Chapter 11 was one of the most-read chapters I've posted on this site. Thank you, my dear possums! Am I Richard Nixon? Because ya'll are acting like the silent majority! Hehe….ehhhhh 1960s political jokes. **wipes tear away** Eh. Good times. Have I mentioned my self-worth is inextricably linked with the amount of reviews per chapter I receive? Anyroad, I'm so, so pleased with the response this story has received. It makes me believe in the rarepair! Vive le rarepair!
After a sleepless night, Mon went to Cantham House for the meeting. She brought stacks of holotablets filled with her notes on the amendment; it was her way of arming herself against the Chancellor. She was ready to go to war in the only way she knew how: through legislation.
Bail helped her assemble her notes for her presentation to the Loyalist Committee.
"Did you stay up all night?" He asked, perceptible concern written across his brow.
"Yes," she sighed, the circles under her eyes nearly purple, "It was worth it, though. I have a clear idea of what needs to happen now."
The other members of the committee filed in and showed obvious surprise at Mon's efforts. Padme gave her an encouraging, if not weary smile.
"You've been busy!" Nee Alavar exclaimed as she sat down on the large sofa.
"I hope your work is not in vain," Fang Zar said, "But I hope we can repair things. Perhaps we should try to meet and discuss—"
"—I think we need to turn up the pressure on the Chancellor." Mon said firmly, "We can't back down from this."
Fang raised his hands in surrender. "We can't be too careful—"
"—We are being too careful!" Mon corrected him.
"Let's hear Mon's presentation," Padme shifted in the armchair, unable to get comfortable.
The group sat down in front of Mon. A few exchanged glances at her harried appearance. Her hair was in a casual ponytail down her back instead of being in her usual bun. Yesterday's eyeliner was streaked across her eyes. Her robes were rumpled.
"All right," she said and clasped her trembling hands together, "I feel that in light of recent events, we as members of the Galactic Senate and the Loyalist Committee need to take immediate legislative actions. We owe it to our constituents to fight this."
"Still, though," Fang said, "we can't go rogue."
Save for Padme and Bail, a collective feeling of united agreement against her propelled Mon to begin the presentation. She took a breath but was pre-empted by a simultaneous buzzing of everyone's comlinks. The senators glanced at each other nervously before reading the message:
Alert! The Supreme Chancellor has passed the Sector Governance Decree. See file attached for document text.
So now the Chancellor wasn't even calling them into the chamber anymore. Just sending out messages with a click of his finger. Mon scrolled through the document on her holotablet as her hands shook, which made the words on the screen tumble back and forth. Yet the message was clear.
"So," she said as they all scanned the document, "He's created the positions of Planetary Governors and Sector Moffs…."
"And these so-called Moffs have control of the Sector Armies?" Bail asked as he read.
"So if the Moffs are representing the 20 sectors," Fang rubbed his eyes, "where does that leave us?"
"In a military state." Padme said darkly.
"The senate, I mean," Fang clarified.
"The senate no longer exists." Mon murmured.
There was a short pause of silence in the room.
"All right, Mon," Fang said, "Let's hear it."
It took only forty-five minutes for Mon to outline her ideas: Get two thousand senators to sign a petition requesting the Chancellor to step down in favor of having a new election. Of course, Mon had originally planned for the timeline to be over the course of a few weeks; getting two thousand signatures would not be an easy feat. In light of the Governance Decree, they would now have to do it over a matter of days.
The meeting was swiftly adjourned after Mon assigned each senator to a sector. Armed with what was left of their laws, they went out to engage in some heavy-duty persuasion with the majority of their colleagues.
Padme laid a hand on Mon's arm before leaving, "You've done good work. After I speak with my friends of the Chommell Sector, I'm setting up a meeting with the Chancellor. He can no longer avoid us—especially if our voices are united."
"Thank you, Padme," Mon threw her arms around her and gave her a squeeze.
After Padme left, Bail and Mon were alone.
"I'm concerned about her," he said as he handed Mon a cup of tea.
"As am I," she agreed, "she hasn't been herself for months."
"But I'm concerned for you, too." Bail said.
"What do you mean?" Mon tried to laugh it off as she flipped her hair behind her shoulder.
"I heard something," he started carefully, "Something I cannot verify. Something—something you need to know."
"What?"
"I—I—" Bail paused, looked at his exhausted friend, and shifted his thoughts, "I heard the Jedi were planning a rebellion."
"I haven't heard any such thing."
"Well, it's probably just Chancellor-generated propaganda," Bail shrugged, "never mind."
"But why would that make you concerned for me?"
"Oh—" Bail stammered, "well—I know Master Kenobi has had your ear—I wanted to be sure you weren't getting involved in anything."
"The Jedi are as private as they are trustworthy," Mon smiled, "Even if they were planning something, he'd never let me know."
"I suppose you're right."
The senators of the Bormea sector were not hard to convince about signing the Petition and Mon was thankful for it. Hers was ceremoniously the first name signed on the document, and she knew she'd be taking the brunt of any fallout from it. After a straight twenty-four hours of schmoozing, convincing, and negotiating, Mon was exhausted. She slipped onto her couch with a glass of wine, nearly comatose. She almost didn't hear the knock at her door.
"Who is it?" She called, though her voice was echoing more into her glass.
"…Me."
She rose from the couch and let the door slide open. Krennic stood in the doorway and was momentarily aghast at her haggard appearance. He then recovered himself and presented her with two bags of groceries.
Mon was confused: Why in the world was Orson Krennic at her door with groceries?
"I thought," he said, "you might be hungry?"
She laughed in one huff and let him come in.
"Your droid is a good cook, if I recall," he said, "I sent out my assistant and he got everything P79 needs for a gourmet meal."
"I'd like that very much."
With P79 bustling away in the kitchen, Mon and Krennic settled in the living room.
"Did you hear of the Decree?" Mon asked.
"Yes, I did."
"Thoughts?"
"I think the Chancellor," Krennic said in an even voice, "would be wise to make you a Moff. Moff Mon Mothma. Has a ring to it."
Mon looked at him incredulously, "Never in a million light years."
"He'd be wise to keep you on his side," Krennic pointed out simply.
"Is that a compliment?"
"Indeed, it is."
She smiled in spite of herself, "So you're implying there are sides now—inside the Republic?"
"Pardon?"
"Are you saying," She tucked her legs into a kneeling position on the couch—a move that drove Krennic a little mad, "that sides need to be taken?"
"I think the sides were always there," he explained as he watched her trace her fingertip around the rim of her wine glass. "The Clone Wars just caused the shakedown needed to reveal them."
"And what side are you on?" She inquired, "Since no one can just be for the Republic anymore?"
Krennic stared at her for a long time. Did he even want to attempt to formulate an answer to that question?
He put his wine glass down on the coffee table and took hers too—far away from her white robes. Krennic then shifted closer to Mon and held her face in his hands.
He shook his head, "Can I get you to stop being a senator—just for tonight?"
She laughed, "But it might be my last chance to be one."
Mon took a deep breath as Krennic still cradled her face. She was at the point of delirium. The Republic was falling down around them and it was growing increasingly challenging to find the cognitive strength to always be dealing with that. Maybe for one night, she'd forget she was a senator—and maybe she would have to get used to being defined by something else other than that title.
She exhaled and closed her eyes. The moment she was in darkness, she felt Krennic's lips envelop hers. She let him take her tightly into his arms and make a trail of kisses down her neck. She cooed in response as his mouth pressed against her skin and his hand slid the top of her gown off of her shoulder. His lips continued down, across her chest, to the curve of her cleavage. Mon flopped back onto the couch and sighed. Krennic took the sound as permission. After quickly ridding himself of the burden of his gloves, he snaked his hands under her gown and slid them up the outside of her legs to her hips.
"Dinner is served, ma'am!" P79 declared proudly.
Mon burst into laughter and then covered her mouth, "Be right there. Thank you!"
"What do you mean, 'be right there'?" Krennic laid his head onto her abdomen in exasperation.
"I'm so sorry," Mon said, embarrassed, "I'm so starving."
Krennic turned his head to look up at her; he rested his chin on her rib. "You're joking, right?"
She shook her head, "I don't think I've eaten in a day and a half."
With the biggest exhale of his life Krennic raised himself up, and as he helped her to her feet, he fleetingly thought of running away with her to some unknown planet without any distractions like jobs or food.
The meal was delicious and Mon ate happily. Krennic watched, a little surprised, and more than a little turned on, when she sucked the last of the sauce off of her thumb.
"What was that sauce?" She asked.
"Some sort of nut—areca, I think."
"I've never heard of it—where is it from?"
"Some place called Scarif, I think."
"Where is that?"
He shrugged. "Outer Rim, maybe?"
They both did a good job at polishing off Mon's wine and then opened the bottle of fine vintage Krennic had brought.
"How is your job going?" Mon asked.
"Extremely well, for once," he said, "I have a feeling I may be in line for a promotion."
"Another?" If she had been sober, she would've been able to make the grim connection between her job falling apart and his being elevated, but her hazy mind ignored the implications behind his words.
"Possibly," he said, taking a large sip of wine, "We are developing synthetic kybers now. One step closer in the extensive construction process."
Mon paused at the words she couldn't ignore. Her understanding of energy source procurement did not include extensive construction.
"Construction?" She asked.
Krennic immediately realized his mistake, "What I—"
"What exactly are you building?"
There it was. The question that energized him. The question he had secretly wanted her to ask all along. Krennic took another sip of wine as he thought out how best to proceed. He'd never relied on honesty before in his life. Perhaps this was the best time to try? At least she'd probably be impressed by the work. He had to build himself back up in her mind somehow.
"It's confidential." He said, "Tell your droid to power down."
Mon was struck by his words and immediately gave P79 the order without taking her eyes off of him.
"You mustn't speak of it to anyone." He said.
"Of course."
"You must swear."
"Orson, I—"
"Swear."
"I swear."
"I don't work for the Corps of Engineers," he started, his gaze fixed on her verdant eyes, "at least, not anymore."
"Where—where do you work?"
"The Special Weapons Group."
"…What?"
"It's a part of the Strategic Advisory Cell," he explained, "I say I'm still apart of the Corps to cover. So, we're working on something strictly top secret. It's to be a battle station, the likes of which have never been seen before. A battle station so large, it would look like a small moon. A battle station that houses as superlaser. Powered by kyber crystals."
"Superlaser?" Mon let the words roll off her tongue and was stunned at how easy it was to say them. "Why?"
"Imagine," Orson's eyes flashed with an intensity that she was witnessing for the first time, "a weapon so terrifying, so awful, so powerful that it could annihilate an entire planet."
He paused for effect.
"I don't think I want to."
"Of course you don't!" Orson said, "And that's the point: the weapon should inspire fear so great that populations will be afraid to rebel in the first place."
"And how long has this project been in the works?"
"The past few years." He said, "We've known that the Separatists were constructing some sort of superweapon, so it became a race."
"And the kyber crystals were the key?"
"Of a sort, yes," he was getting giddy that he could speak with her about this, "We knew that we would need countless stores of kybers in order to test how to harness their power."
"Which was why you were so distraught the night of the Environmental dinner?" She asked.
He shrugged. "The stakes were high."
"So the Chandrilan mines were crucial to the life of your project."
"Oh yes, very much so."
She paused to see if he caught how callous his words sounded. He didn't.
"Orson," she said, "you do realize that this sounds like you've used me."
"No!" He protested smoothly, "no, not at all. And this was before I promised to be honest."
She twisted her features in dissatisfaction and arched an eyebrow.
"I couldn't tell you the nature of why I needed the crystals—at least give me that."
"Fair enough." She conceded.
"And I—" he stopped himself.
"What?"
"No…I…"
"No, tell me what you were going to say."
"I really—"
"Tell me."
Krennic regarded her for a moment, took a look at his empty wine glass and resolved himself.
"I couldn't ever have foreseen these circumstances."
"What do you mean?"
"The circumstances in which we currently find ourselves." He said, "That night in the storeroom, I thought it was a stroke of luck that your planet happened to have exactly what I needed. All I knew…"
He trailed off for a moment before continuing.
"All I knew," he said, "was that you were gorgeous. And that I was very fortunate to be stuck in that room with you."
"Our lives were in imminent danger—and that was your line of thinking?"
"…Er, yes." Krennic cleared his throat, "I jumped at the chance to work with you. I don't have very much experience with luck. I usually make my own. I never thought in a million years that it would lead...to this... which is why I need to tell you to be careful."
"Orson, I'm only trying to do my job," she explained, "The Decree today has made my position null and void. You keep making me out to be a traitor and I am deeply wounded by that."
"I'm only trying to look out for you."
"I have several different people in my life looking out for me." She sighed.
"I see."
"Listen," she rose from the table and positioned herself in his lap, "You don't have to worry about me—"
"If your actions are misinterpreted by the powers that be," Orson persisted, "You may be in deep trouble..."
"Are you trying to tell me that my life is in danger?" She eyed him, unamused.
"I know—I know, I've lost some credibility on that front—"
"Some credibility?"
"All credibility." Krennic conceded, "But this time, I'm being honest with you."
"This time?" She asked with a wry smile, "As opposed to all the other times?"
"I'm sorry for ever deceiving you." He said suddenly.
Her smile disappeared as her countenance grew serious. She nodded in acceptance of his apology. Her mind, saturated with wine, was unable to entertain any more complex thoughts. She didn't comprehend the scope of his project, likely because she didn't want to. She was very much taken with his apology instead. Perhaps that was the first of a few mortal mistakes she would make over the next few weeks.
