Chapter Twenty-Six: Unlocked Doors

Obi-Wan knew that, were he to reach into Dooku's mind, the Count would be able to sense it. It would be a breach of confidence, invasive in the extreme, and an abuse of his powers. Dooku would rightly be offended, perhaps more than that.

And yet the temptation kept itching at the back of his brain—Just a little nudge, just to be able to see what he's thinking, to latch onto something you can use. He kept tamping down the little voice, and then worrying that Dooku would be able to sense what he was thinking and collapse the whole charade, all the while looking directly at the head of state and nodding pleasantly and doing his best to answer questions about things like trade and sovereignty.

Day one of negotiations had deflated not long after he'd pulled Anakin out of the room. All parties had been frustrated, and the Jedi question, in addition to being impossible to discuss in front of most of Dooku's staff, was impossible to answer. The best explanation Obi-Wan could think of was, Maybe the Force brought us here for just this purpose, but it sounded so woefully trite that he flinched even thinking it.

And so, they'd parted with the question of Serenno's potential contributions to the Defense Force unresolved and everyone in a less-than-hopeful mood.

Now, they were two hours into the second day's summit and had spent most of that time dancing around the main point. Obi-Wan, while he couldn't read Dooku, could sense the simultaneous boredom and wariness of almost everyone else in the room—they knew nothing that was being said actually mattered, and were dreading the moment when important things actually came up again.

It's family dinner with Owen and Beru all over again, he thought to himself. Fencing with verbal asides, no one saying what they really mean besides the grumpiest member of the table—

Wait.

Owen.

"General Kenobi? Are you listening to me?"

The subtly affronted tone of Dooku's voice brought Obi-Wan the belated realization that he'd stopped paying attention for the last several moments, but he made no effort to apologize. Instead, he offered up a quiet Thank you to the Force and said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, Count, but to return to the matter of Serenno's contributions to the war effort—"

From either side of the general arose alarm and something like vague horror—he shot quick glances to his left and right and saw Anakin and Qui-Gon staring at him. What? he whispered to them through the Force. It's all fine and dandy when you're blunt, but when I do it you lose your minds?

When Dooku raised his voice to cut Obi-Wan off, it was solid ice. "General Kenobi, my word on that matter was final. Our mining droids will not be refitted into weapons of war. Despite your assurances to the contrary when your warship approached our city, I find myself wondering if the only reason you're here isn't—"

"Pardon me, Count." As Dooku's eyes widened at the double interruption, Obi-Wan launched himself forward, grasping the thread and tugging on it before it could be whipped from his grasp. "I'm sure you weren't aware of this, but I had a sister once. Alma, her name was."

Counting on the hope that Dooku would be too distracted by this rudeness to be monitoring the use of the Force around him, the general risked a quick probe into his mind. Swirling at the top was annoyance at this breach of politeness, but underneath was genuine intrigue. None of it came through in the older man's voice when he said stiffly, "No, I was not aware," but its presence beneath was enough for the Jedi. He continued.

"Yes, she was older than me—almost my surrogate mother, in a sense, after our parents died when I was young. I loved her very much. You're aware, I'm sure, Count, that Alderaan is one of the Republic's chief weapons manufacturers?"

Dooku's brow rose by another degree at this second lurch into another topic, but it seemed he had decided to play along; his reply was simply, "You're correct, General."

What the hell are you— he felt Anakin launch at him, and batted it away as though it were a blaster bolt. "Well, while I was attending . . . the Academy, on a scholarship," he said, choosing the words carefully, "she started work at a turbolaser plant. They're supposed to be fully mechanized due to the risks, but the regulations in place are weak, and so that happens rather often. Demand is always going up—even moreso now, with the war—and there isn't necessarily time to program machines perfectly to do the job. That's the official line, anyway."

Folding his hands together and leaning just a touch further in, Obi-Wan continued. "About ten years ago, my sister died. She'd developed cancerous tumors as a result of working too close to unshielded equipment, and there was nothing that could be done."

He let this hang in the air. Next to Dooku, Lorian cast his eyes down at the table; Dooku himself said, in a surprisingly earnest manner, "I'm so sorry, General."

"Thank you." Once again, the general paused, searching for just the right words. You've guided me this far, he thought to the Force, just a bit more, please.

"Believe me, Count, I completely understand your antipathy toward turning your technology into killing machines. Regardless of appearances"—he cast his eyes up and out through one of the stained-glass windows, though the Coelacanth was no longer hovering outside it, safely returned to orbit as instructed—"I struggle with it myself. But I think I may have hit upon a possible solution.

"What if we were to co-opt your mining droids to serve not as weapons themselves, but as manufacturers? Working in turbolaser plants, handling machinery that's unsafe for organic contact. They've been created to survive under conditions that would instantly kill any living being—intense gravity rather than radiation, true, but nevertheless."

Once again, he leaned in across the table, holding Dooku's gaze. "The droids you provide would be doing a double good. The weapons they make will help to save possible millions of people from the Confederacy's terror. And they themselves will help to prevent people like my sister from dying needlessly."

He forced himself to hold his senses in check, to refrain from touching Dooku's feelings to see if this had done anything to win him over. Instead, he watched the Count sit in silence, pondering. When he glanced briefly at Qui-Gon, she wore a smaller, gentler version of her trademark smirk. If that doesn't do it, nothing will, she thought to him.

At his left, Anakin looked . . . troubled. Frowning, Obi-Wan was about to attempt to find out why when Dooku spoke.

"You've given me much to consider, General," said the Count, his voice remarkably free of its usual iron. "Much to consider indeed. I believe I may have misjudged you, and for that you have my apology."

Relief burst in Obi-Wan's chest and flooded through him like a membrane filled with water. Nodding gratefully, he said, "And you in turn have mine for any misunderstandings in these last few days. Am I to understand that this means—"

"It means," Dooku cautioned, raising his right hand slightly, "that I am willing to consider such a proposition, where I was not before. There are still, of course, other issues to discuss—questions of sovereignty most specifically."

As Obi-Wan again nodded, he felt some of his relief trickle into disappointment. And yet, this was about as good as he could have hoped for. The Force didn't often work outright miracles when it came to this sort of thing—there was never a chance Dooku would have signed the moon over then and there. "Naturally," he said aloud. "I'll do my best to answer them."

Indeed he did, for the next three hours. And no matter how dull the details got, by the end of things the general was feeling almost chipper.

There's a door now. It's not open, but it's not locked.

"I was looking forward to never, ever having to wear one of these again," Anakin muttered to Obi-Wan, tugging at the stiff collar of his dress uniform in an effort to give his throat a little room. He didn't mention that the last time he'd worn it had been dinner with the Chancellor; this probably wasn't the best time.

Fiddling with a button on his own uniform, Obi-Wan snorted. "Yes, you'd rather just be wearing the regular one and getting shot at."

"Hey, I'm accustomed to getting shot at. I've had years of practice. Fancy balls, on the other hand . . . yeah, no."

"Well," his master replied, "if it's any comfort, I can't dance any better than you can."

"What, the Temple didn't offer lessons?"

Chuckling, his master reached finished adjusting his uniform. "Believe it or not, no."

The two lapsed into a silent lull. Anakin strode over to the bookshelf in the corner of Obi-Wan's room, picked up a title, flipped through its pages; poetry, it looked like. Grimacing slightly, he restored it to its position. "Too bad they couldn't have installed holonet screens in here." He turned back to Obi-Wan. "So, you think we'll be able to lock things down tomorrow?"

"Oh, who knows. I doubt anything we come to will be final, just a preliminary arrangement."

"Still, though, you were amazing in there."

Though his master said nothing, Anakin could feel his satisfaction at the compliment. "You know," he continued, "I'm sorry about your sister. I remember you mentioning her back when we were in the refugee camp, but I didn't know she . . . that that was how she died. That's rough."

"It was a long time ago," was all Obi-Wan said in reply. Then, after a few moments, "You know, I wonder if maybe Dooku doesn't have the right idea in some aspects of his thinking."

There was something Anakin hadn't expected to be hearing. "What do you mean?"

"Just that, once the war is over, it might be good to right some wrongs that don't involve getting people under us killed."

Anakin snorted. "The Jedi go after factory owners on Alderaan or something?"

"Is it such a terrible idea?" Stroking at his beard with one hand, the general said, "My feelings on the issue regardless, Palpatine is centralizing the Defense Force, trying to restructure it as a galaxy-wide taskforce. Once the war is over, they'll have things well in hand as far as tracking down the more violent evildoers in the galaxy. Which leaves us to do . . . something else."

It was a perfectly harmless train of thought, so Anakin wondered why something like fear came over him as Obi-Wan said it. Laughing a little nervously, he replied, "Well, if you wanna become a union lawyer or something I'm sure you'd be good at it, but I'd be no good as a paralegal."

"It's funny to hear you say that, you know. I remember when using the Force solely in battle was so terrifying to you that you wanted to get rid of it."

There was no accusation in his master's voice—simply curiosity—and yet Anakin found himself feeling defensive. "I mean, you're glad I changed my mind, right?"

"Of course. But my master liked to say that the Jedi use the Force for knowledge and defense, never attack. I feel as though we've forgotten that in the last few years."

But you don't understand, he almost said, I'm good at what we're doing. I wish you and Qui-Gon would stop bringing up how I felt two years ago. Realizing how petulant that would sound, he dropped it.

The little voice in the back of his head from yesterday spoke up again. Isn't that what you were worried about, though? That it would feel so good you wouldn't be able to stop once you got started?

Not the same damn thing. I was worried about hurting people. The Jedi are trying to save people. Look at how many planets Obi-Wan and I've saved.

Anakin found himself wishing he'd never come here—that, as good as it was to see Qui-Gon again, she and Obi-Wan had gone to Serenno alone. He didn't like the questions that were constantly nagging at him since they'd landed.

"Are you gentlemen decent?" someone called from outside the door. Speak of the devil.

"Yes, come in," Obi-Wan said. A moment later, the door slid open.

"Woah," was all Anakin could say.

Their companion's evening wear wasn't too different from her normal attire—a long, black coat atop a black vest, complete with black leather boots—but it was cut differently, built for form as well as function. She'd applied what looked like a bit of makeup as well, accentuating the edges of her face. She looked like nothing so much as a statue come to life, all cool exterior and angles. Then she broke into a grin, collapsing the impression. "Too much?"

Obi-Wan, eyes noticeably wider than normal, smiled, and Anakin remembered Padmé's crack about whether the two had been an item once. He still doubted it was true, but the look on his master's face had decreased the doubt just a little. "You look lovely."

"The walking stick cramps my style, but it'll have to do. You boys don't look too bad yourselves."

"Trust me," Anakin groused, "I wish I were wearing anything else."

"Oh, you'll get used to it." Glancing at the chronometer on her wrist, Qui-Gon said, "I believe we have about ten minutes to get over to the main event. Dooku and Lorian will be presenting us to the crowd, it'd be bad if we missed that." She smiled and extended her arms. "Escort a lady to a ball?"

Slipping his arm through hers, Anakin felt a pang of guilt at his wishes of just a few minutes ago. She's great. Qui-Gon's great. I just need to get my mind off this crap. Nothing better for that than a few hours of boring socializing.

It was almost endearing how utterly Anakin had failed to comb his hair, Qui-Gon thought to herself as she and her companions strolled down the hall toward the site of the festivities. He and Obi-Wan were almost a comedy duo in how different they were; if they hadn't been Jedi, they could have been working an improv act.

She could sense the boy's inner turmoil, though he was doing his best to tamp it down. It had been there since yesterday at least. A lesser version was brewing within Obi-Wan, though it wasn't nearly as easy to sense—he was the type, she knew, to push things away by accepting that "the will of the Force" would make things right.

Well, boys, you aren't the only ones, she thought, careful to keep the sentiment to herself.

When she'd spoken to Anakin on the balcony yesterday, it hadn't been for entirely selfless purposes. She'd wanted to air some of the things that had been brewing in her own head—not just since landing on Serenno, but for a while.

It was the height of hypocrisy, she supposed, to be worried about this sort of thing when she had willingly taken on this mission for the sake of an adventure. But the fact that the other two were starting to have concerns about how tightly knit their destinies and that of the Republic had become was reassuring. If dear old Obi-Wan, whose loyalty to a Chancellor had started a war, was starting to have doubts about the system, anything was possible.

At any rate, she hadn't been lying to Anakin. She'd prefer to reform things from inside if at all possible. And if they ended up getting Dooku on their side, who knew?

And there's the man himself, she thought as the three of them drew close to the ballroom exterior.

Dooku had not changed from his usual caped wardrobe, but the chain at his neck was a bright silver rather than its usual matte. Lorian, at his side, wore an outfit not too dissimilar to Anakin and Obi-Wan's dress uniforms, though it contained far less starch by the looks of his relaxed posture. The bodyguards to either side of them wore freshly polished armor; Qui-Gon had to suppress a snort.

"Ahh, you all look wonderful," the Viscount said approvingly as they drew near. "Hopefully the evening is equal to you."

"You're too kind," said Obi-Wan, briefly bowing his head.

"Especially in my case," said Anakin, in a tone that wasn't self-deprecation so much as a statement of fact.

"Dooku and I will enter first," Lorian explained to them, "through these doors. When we've made the formal address, the doors behind us will open and you'll come strolling in. And then . . . well, the evening is yours. Any matters of state can be reserved for tomorrow," he said with a wink.

"Gotta tell you," Anakin said, "I think I'd be better at those than I am at dancing."

"In that case," Dooku said, with a rare smile, "perhaps you and I can have that conversation we mentioned earlier. It seems an effective means to rescue you from any eager partners."

Qui-Gon could tell from the sudden pulse of Anakin's aura that this was not what he'd had in mind, but he replied, "Of course," without any hesitation.

"Ah, one more thing before we enter," her old master said. He raised his right hand, and one of the bodyguards stepped forward, carrying a small metal box. "I am sure you've been carrying certain . . . experimental technology on your persons. I won't begrudge you that right in most circumstances, but for this evening I request that you remove them from your sleeves and leave them here."

Her two companions exchanged glances, then stepped forward and lowered their arms, presumably to let metal cylinders slide into the box. Qui-Gon could sense their misgivings at leaving the weapons behind; she recognized the feeling. Going without carrying her lightsaber for the first while after her recovery had felt like she was walking around naked.

When the guard turned to her, she lifted her cane a few inches off the ground. "I'm in no shape to be carrying anything of the kind, fear not."

Dooku arched an eyebrow, but nodded. Qui-Gon was careful to suppress her relief.

"That's our cue," Lorian told them as the doors to the ballroom swept open; beyond him, Qui-Gon could make out an upper landing that presumably extended out above the main floor. The strains of a string section filtered in from the dancing already in progress. "We'll see you both in a few minutes."

The two bodyguards followed the royals in, the doors sweeping shut again as soon as they'd crossed the threshold.

"Welp, knowing our luck, something is gonna go horribly in there now that we're unarmed," Anakin muttered to the two of them.

"I'm sure," Qui-Gon said, snorting. "Oh no! The clones have invaded the ballroom!"

"Look at it this way," Obi-Wan said, a teasing smile forming on his face. "It would save you from dancing."

"And talking to Dooku," the apprentice added.

"Oh, you'll be fine," Qui-Gon assured him. "I was his apprentice, after all. He doesn't let on, but he likes us foot-in-mouth types."

"Oh yeah, I feel so much better now."

"Well, enjoy your opportunity to talk to a head of state," she said, smirking. "I am going to dance."

A few minutes later, the doors once again swept open. Dooku's voice could be heard from inside, at the tail end of a sentence: " . . . my pleasure to present to you our emissaries from the Republic."

"Well, boys," Qui-Gon said, twirling her cane in one hand, "that's our cue. Let's go to a ball."