PART THREE: THE CHANCELLOR'S HAND

Chapter Eleven: Restore the Republic

When you spent too much time in one place, Padmé liked to say, you forgot what the air tasted like. In the past, it had been her excuse for pushing forward in life, for egging Anakin on to the next world, the next job, the next mark. Always moving, whether the Spice Dancer was in shape to move or not. If you couldn't taste the air anymore, you'd been in one place for too long.

It's how she knew Junkfort Station tasted like you'd bit the inside of your cheek and stirred flakes of burnt steel into the blood. Oseon was gritty, the windswept dirt and sand forming the thinnest coating on your tongue. Coruscant's pollution wasn't obvious when you'd been there for the better part of a year, but fresh off the ship it was enough to make you choke.

Alderaan tasted perfect.

It was a filtered glass of water mixed with immaculate cubes of ice, pouring backward into a parched throat. Crisp and chilled, it tickled the nose and filled one's lungs with life. The Alderaanian people's concerted efforts to preserve the planet's nature had paid off in spades. Even within the heart of the city, the air was as fresh as a mountain peak.

From within the walls of the palace, the fresh air did little to calm her frayed nerves. She stood in an indistinct room—it was a far cry from the grandeur of the formal conference spaces and dining rooms, and lacked the history of the main throne room. The walls were plain but pleasing to the eye, the view out the window was nice enough. It had probably been an office at one time or another, or perhaps a simple storage closet. Today it was unoccupied—as far as the official records were concerned.

Unofficially, Breha Organa sat on one side of a desk while her husband paced behind her. An empty chair sat across from her, and Padmé stood with her back to the wall—as the midmorning sun sent a streak of light through the window, she shuffled sideways to keep it out of her eyes.

"It's not too late, you know," Bail said—as he reached one wall of the room, he spun on a heel and began pacing the other direction. "We can still jump ship and forget we ever tried this."
"Actually, Bail, we can't," Padmé replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Jumping ship, she supposed, was actually an apt metaphor for what they'd already done earlier this very morning. They'd taken a dive into the deep end, there was no turning back now.

The queen let out a lengthy sigh. "She's right." Looking up from the clasped hands she had resting on the desk, Breha nodded at Padmé. "Go ahead and bring her in."

Stepping away from the office wall, Padmé turned and opened the door. On the other side stood a woman draped in white robes. "Senator Mothma?" Padmé said. "Please come in."

Mon Mothma did as requested, gliding across the floor into the old office and settling into the chair across from the queen. As she sat, Padmé shut the door and moved to stand in front of it. She found herself hoping Mon Mothma wouldn't look over her shoulder—it probably looked as though Padmé were trying to block her from leaving. Maybe I am, she thought. Can't have her bolting before she's heard the sales pitch.

"Senator," the queen began, untangling her fingers and leaning toward the new arrival. "Let's talk about Palpatine."

Padmé wished she were on the other side of the desk, in the space where Bail continued to pace back and forth. Mon Mothma wasn't known for being verbose—her facial expressions would be the key to knowing how she was reacting to Breha's invitation. Padmé couldn't see them; the only thing she had eyes on was the ornately styled auburn hair at the back of the senator's head.

The queen took a deep breath before she continued speaking. "I won't mince words or waste your time. The chancellor's ruthless expansion of the powers of his office—of the Republic itself—cannot continue. It seems justified now, when there is an enemy of the state he can point to as a need for these powers. But we must ask ourselves: once he has extinguished the dissenting voices outside the Republic, how long before he turns his executive authority and his armed forces on dissenting voices within it?"

Mon Mothma's head dipped down in the slightest of nods. "A question I've asked myself on more than one occasion. You fear he may target Alderaan as one of these dissenting voices?"

Padmé watched both members of the royal couple carefully, anticipating a reply from either one of them. She knew the queen believed it was inevitable—and that Bail didn't want to believe it.

"He's stepped over the line, of course"—it was Bail, who'd stopped in his tracks so he could talk—"but that'd be a bridge too far. He can't lash out against one of his own planets like that, it'd be career suicide."

"Unfortunately, Bail," Mon said, "you've given him plenty of ammunition over the years to paint you as an adversary. I wouldn't be surprised to see his more loyal supporters go along with it."

Ouch. She wasn't wrong, of course. Padmé just hadn't expected her to say it.

"We must," the queen said, her expression one of desperation to change the subject, "act before this becomes a problem. Senator Mothma, if you would consider joining us, you and Bail will be the first members of an alliance within the Senate. An alliance meant to work within the confines of the legislature to undo the damage Palpatine has already done, to prevent him from doing more, and to ultimately restore the Republic."

Breha opened her mouth to take a breath before continuing, but stopped short when Mon Mothma offered another, more definitive nod.

"Say no more," she interrupted. "You may count me in."

That was a little too easy, Padmé thought—she locked eyes with Bail and shot him a look of surprise. He seemed equally caught off guard.

"I . . . thought you'd put up a bit more of a fight," Bail said—is that disappointment in his voice? "You're really on board with this?"

Padmé could see Mon Mothma's back straighten as she shifted in her chair. "Something must be done to stop him. If we're able to do it from within the legislature, even better. I assumed at this point that any opposition to Palpatine would need to take a more drastic form."

"So do we." It was the queen, who—in a manner rather unbefitting of royalty—placed her elbows on the desk and steepled her fingers together. "I'm glad to hear you share the same opinion. I was worried this next part would make you change your mind. What we've pictured is a two-pronged approach. Yes, we must build an alliance within the legislature, but we also must prepare for the possibility of more direct conflict. We'll need a group of allies within the Grand Army of the Republic."

"Within the Grand Army?"

The young military man from Commenor—Jan Dodonna, Bail reminded himself, repeating their guest's name in his head—scrunched his face as he said it. His clothes were well trimmed and tailored, a stark contrast to his beard—flecks of silver were beginning to sprout amidst the otherwise dark scruff along his chin and jawline.

Dodonna sat at a table in one of Alderaan's public parks; the queen sat across from him while Bail stood behind her. The senator shifted his gaze from their guest to his security guard. Padmé was just out of earshot, leaning against a tree and squinting against the sun that stood directly overhead. Her job: ensuring no one would approach them while they spoke.

"That's correct. It is too early for open rebellion. The senators who have joined our cause will vote in step with Palpatine until they have the numbers to safely break rank. The armed wing of our alliance must do the same. An appearance of cooperation is critical."

Dodonna cocked his head to the side. "You're suggesting Commenor join the Grand Army after all?"

Bail watched as the words left Dodonna's mouth—a strange mix of fear and annoyance played across the young man's face. His homeworld had been one of the handful to push back against Palpatine's declaration of a unified galactic military. Some had cited long standing local traditions in their objections, others simply took the opportunity to exercise the independence they believed they had. Regardless, their goals had been the same: keep their planetary armed forces out of his Grand Army.

"I am."

"I'm sorry," Dodonna said, "but I'm going to have to go back to Commenor and convince my superiors that's the right idea. I'm not sure that's possible."

Though Bail couldn't see it, he knew that pain had welled up behind Breha's eyes as she leaned in to reply. It was evident in her voice. "Tell them what happened on Alderaan," the queen began.

"I tried to withdraw us from the Grand Army. I shared our world's history of peace with the military administrators. I told them the tale of how our forefathers cast aside their weapons of war, and how I longed to return Alderaan to that place one day. They were more than happy to grant my wish."

Dodonna's eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a raspy half whisper. "Not in the way you wanted, I imagine?"

"They took our turbolaser factories," Breha answered. "I'd have seen them shut down, but they hauled the equipment off to Fondor to install new cannons on their Star Destroyers."

The young man from Commenor waved a dismissive hand. "They were going to get their weapons of war one way or the other. Don't blame yourself."

"Oh, if they had stopped there I could have lived with it," Breha said—Bail took a step closer to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it in anticipation of what she was about to say. Knowing it already, hearing it for the third or fourth time, didn't make it any easier.

"They're keeping Typhoon Division. The Coelacanth is at Kuat Drive Yards undergoing repairs. The crew is there with her. When they're finished fixing the ship, they'll be pressed back into service for the Grand Army." She choked on her next words. "The most loyal members of my Royal Guard belong to Palpatine now."

"I'm so sorry."

Padmé watched with great intent as the woman across the table from her spoke those words. They weren't just an empty platitude, a courtesy extended to a queen she barely knew. Padmé could tell that Lisbeth Holdo meant it.

When Bail and Breha had tasked her with finding supporters for their cause within the Galactic Core, she'd thought the task impossible. Thumbing through government records and Senate directories had nearly bored her to tears—and at any rate, it had been impossible to get a read on her marks that way. Documents told her very little; she'd needed to see something.

She'd turned from record archives to planetary media, hopping from site to site across the holonet to see who had appeared on a local news broadcast here or given a talk show interview there. It was how she'd found Lisbeth Holdo—she wasn't a politician or a soldier herself, but served the Blades of Gatalenta in a communications role. Perhaps it had been the unassuming wardrobe, or the gentle waves of her blonde hair, or the genuine undertones of her voice. Padmé had immediately taken to the woman before she'd ever met her, just by way of how Holdo carried herself in front of a holocamera.

"Thank you," Breha said with a nod—Padmé noticed that Holdo had reached across the table and grasped the queen's hands within her own. "It pains me to say this, but I'd recommend that Gatalenta drop their campaign to stay out of the Grand Army. I'd hate for a similar fate to befall your people."

"As would I," Holdo said, her voice a breathy whisper. She released Breha's hands from her grip and leaned back in her chair. "I fear not all of our Blades will do as I suggest, but enough of them will listen." At this she glanced down at her lap. "If I may offer a suggestion, Your Highness?"

"Of course."

"The Blades of Gatalenta are not suited to stand up to the Grand Army. Not in the way you're suggesting may one day happen. It's a ceremonial order, the name is quite literal. They're not a modern fighting force. They're good people, loyal to our world, and eager to do the right thing. But the swords of old will not stop Palpatine's warriors.

"We need ships, and shipbuilders, and people to fly and crew them."

"All I can offer you is one warship." Jan Dodonna's fingers brushed against the pips of the rank insignia pinned to his chest. Bail didn't recognize the rank—the Grand Army uniforms were still being handed out across the galaxy, the different planetary ranks phasing out in turn—but judging by the size of the insignia, the warship Dodonna spoke of couldn't have been much bigger than the Sundered Heart. "My crew will follow me in this endeavor, but I can't promise the rest of Commenor will. You need numbers, and a planet that's united enough to fight back all at once. A person who can get such a planet behind him."

"There still exists a group within the Senate," Mon Mothma began, shaking her head as she spoke the words—though Padmé couldn't see her face, she could tell the senator was questioning whether to even say what she was about to say—"that is rather vocal in their independence. I do believe they'd back us in this endeavor, should it become plainly necessary for them to do so."

Bail shook his head. "They'd never listen to me. Not after everything I've done."

"You're right about that," she replied. "They certainly wouldn't."

Padmé's eyes grew wide. Mon Mothma wasn't pulling any punches.

"There is someone they will listen to, though. I'm sorry, Bail, but I think we have to get Garm Bel Iblis."

The sound of Bail Organa sipping gingerly at an overfilled mug of caf cut through the awkward silence that lingered in the chilled morning air. Ornate outdoor seating surrounded a spread of pastries and fruit on a central table, all of it perched atop a stone patio that overlooked Alderaan's palace garden. Across the grounds and beyond the capital city, the rising sun was just beginning to show itself above the mountain peaks.

Padmé stared at her boss as he took another excessively loud sip of the steaming drink, fighting the urge to scrunch her face into a scolding look. If it had been just the two of them she'd have done it, but there was an important guest across the breakfast table.

"Senator Bel Iblis?" Breha's voice broke through the silence—the queen leaned forward as she asked it, anticipation written on her face.

A gruff cough came from the man across the table. Padmé eyed the senator up and down—he at once had a youthful vigor and a grizzled agedness to him. His hair was nowhere near thinning, but most of it had gone silver—those strands glinted in the sunlight as Bel Iblis shifted in his chair.

"I'm thinking," he said, balancing his caf mug on the arm of his chair and reaching up to run a thumb along his mustache. His gaze was distant, not focused on anyone around him. When several seconds had passed, he picked up the mug between thumb and forefinger and turned his eyes toward Breha. "You really believe arming yourselves against the Republic is necessary?"

"We do."

Bel Iblis shook his head. "Then I must decline." Leaning forward, he set his empty caf mug on the table before him and snatched up a piece of fruit. "Corellia keeps electing me to the Senate, and I believe there's a reason for that. I've been charged with keeping war away from my planet, from keeping the Corellian Security Force out of others' affairs.

"I failed in that charge when I failed to stop this Clone War from happening—and now that the Confederacy has splintered, the war has multiplied with them. I cannot in good conscience willfully sign my people up for civil war on top of that."

"Forget the war for a second, then. Could we count on your support within the Senate, at least?"

Padmé blurted out the words before she was aware of her own voice. Internally, she winced as Breha shot her an affronted look, but she kept her face calm. Bastard can't just get away. Not when we have so much riding on him.

As Bel Iblis' eyes turned from Breha to her, Padmé could see an icy look form within them. Whatever pleasantries he'd been extending to the queen had just been cast aside. "And you are?"

"This is Padmé Amidala," Bail hastily put in, "my head of security." At that last, he shot her a quick glare.

"I'm surprised you let your help act up that way, Organa," Bel Iblis rumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on Padmé's. "You're speaking to a senator, Ms. Amidala."

She knew better than to go too far with both Bail and Breha watching her, so she put aside the retort she'd reflexively prepared. Instead, keeping her expression as devoid of irritation as she could, she replied, "Hence the question about your usefulness in the Senate. Sir." Pompous prick.

Exhaling in a rough snort, the senator turned his attention back to Bail. "You may find me and some of my like-minded colleagues voting in step with you, should the time come when you decide to finally stand up to Palpatine in the legislature," he said through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. Pausing, he gnawed off a piece of the fruit in his hand and swallowed it in one gulp. "If it occurs, consider it a coincidence rather than an endorsement of your—what was it you called it?—alliance." Then, turning back to the queen: "Are we finished?"

"We are," she said without looking at him.

"Then I wish you the best, Your Highness."

Rising to his feet, he bowed in her direction, nodded in Bail's. Then he turned his eyes toward Padmé one last time, as though he'd very much like to pin her to the wall with them, before biting into the fruit again. "Thank you for breakfast."

With that, he was gone.

The crackling of the fireplace in the sitting room and the sounds of an orchestra coming from the audiograph did little to muffle the slam of the royal residence's main door.

"Unbelievable," Bail snapped. "Just unbelievable." Storming into the living room, he threw his cape over the back of a couch and made his way to the liquor cabinet on the far side of the room.

"Bail," Breha said, gently stretching out her husband's name as she followed him into the living room—Padmé watched the altercation unfold as she took up the rear; in an unusual move, the queen had invited her into the sitting room with them.

"If I went back in time and told myself that Garm Bel goddamn Iblis was going to be what held everything together," he began, plucking a whiskey bottle off the shelf and pouring too much into a glass. As the drink flowed, he let out a deep sigh and left his thought unfinished.

"He isn't holding everything together, dear."

"One person, Breha. We got one person, and it was the person we were sure we'd get anyway!" he replied, gesturing in her direction with the drink and sloshing some of it onto his hand in the process.

Though Padmé wanted to snap at Bail to straighten up, to pull himself together, she held her tongue. In his home, in front of his wife—it was neither the time nor the place. Coming to stop behind one of the living room chairs, she leaned against the furniture and looked on as Breha guided Bail toward the couch and sat him down.

"It's not about Garm Bel Iblis. Not him specifically," the queen began, lowering herself onto the couch beside her husband. "People like Dodonna and Holdo need to believe in this alliance—not just believe in what we stand for, but believe that we can succeed. Garm Bel Iblis represents what you and Mon Mothma cannot—an entire planet, united behind one man, capable and ready to fight. They know Corellia could stand up against Palpatine and have a shot at winning. That's the kind of confidence he inspires.

"But he's not the only person who inspires it."

A knowing look passed between husband and wife—Padmé was all too familiar. It was the sort of look she and Anakin had once exchanged with great frequency, the key to silent communication when they'd had a mark on the hook. You could say a thousand words with just a glance, paint a picture with the way you placed your emphasis within a sentence. The only person who inspires it, Padmé echoed the queen inside her head.

Breha wasn't speaking in hypotheticals or generalities. She was speaking of someone specific, and Bail knew exactly who it was.

He shot her a look of dread. "You really want to try that tonight? After the way today has gone?"

She didn't answer him, instead turning to address Padmé. "Do you have your holocommunicator with you?"

Padmé nodded, extracting the palm-sized disc from a pouch on her belt.

"If we are to proceed with this alliance, we don't just need the support of senators and soldiers. We need the Jedi."

Pinpricks swept across Padmé's skin and her heart quickened as silence filled the room. She squeezed the holocomm hard enough to feel the metal creak within her grip. Oh gods, not—

"Obi-Wan hasn't been answering our calls," Bail said. Exasperation was layered through his voice—he sighed the words more than spoke them, taking a sip of whiskey before continuing. When he opened his mouth again, the words carried the raspiness of a throat burned with liquor. "We think he'd pick up if you tried to get a hold of him."

Padmé said nothing, merely stretching her arm out and raising the commlink to chest height. All she had to do was press her thumb into a button on the side of the device—it flickered to life, sending a signal to the frequency it had heard from most recently—the call she hadn't answered. The one that, until now, she hadn't returned.

"Padmé?" came the precise Core accent, Obi-Wan's voice emerging from the unit a moment before his blue-tinted miniature form flickered into existence above it. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't call me back—"

"I've got you here with Bail and Breha," she interrupted, hoping to the gods neither of the Organas picked up on what he'd said. She shifted her grip on the device so that he was facing them instead of her. Before she could continue, the miniature projection of Obi-Wan held up a hand.

"Ah. I . . . I'm sorry," he said, bowing in the queen's direction. "I don't mean to be rude, but I can't."

"Can't what?" Bail asked, leaning towards the tiny image.

"Whatever this is about, I can't be a part of it. It isn't safe."

Though Padmé's grip on the commlink remained steady, the projection of Obi-Wan rotated to face her. "I wish I could say more, but I can't right now. Please forgive me. Know that I wish you nothing but the best." He paused, glanced at his feet, then looked back up at her. "The Force will be with you. Always."

Though Padmé pushed no buttons on the commlink, Obi-Wan's image turned to static. Wordlessly Bail rose from the couch and, whiskey glass in tow, stormed out of the room. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him.

As Padmé leaned against the railing of the royal residence's terrace—one of many, this one accessible from the living room—the nighttime air sent a chill across her skin. She gripped the mug between her hands tighter, letting the heat of the tea radiate into her fingers. Unlike her boss, she'd opted to skip the whiskey—not while I'm working, she'd told the queen when Breha had offered her a drink after Bail stormed out of the room.

She'd made tea while the queen had gone after her husband, and when she'd sat alone long enough she'd emerged onto the terrace to stare at the stars.

Coruscant's night sky, the one she'd gotten used to in recent months, wasn't even black. It was more of a dull grey, stained by light pollution equivalent to that of a dozen rim worlds. Alderaan's night sky, by comparison, looked like the Coruscant skyline.

The city had gone dark as it always did after a certain hour—both as an energy conservation measure and a way to respect the natural cycle of day into night. Streaks of stars, of planets and nebulae, swirled above her as she raised the tea mug to her lips again.

As she sipped, the door behind her creaked. She didn't need to look back—it wasn't Bail, his steps were heavier. Breha moved beside Padmé and leaned against the railing.

"Don't worry," she began. "He'll come around."

Padmé shot her a sideways glance. "Bail, or Obi-Wan?"

This elicited a slight grin from the queen. "It's funny, there was a time where everyone telling Bail 'no' would have been exactly the motivation he needed. Maybe it still is. I think he just needs time." She turned to stare out at the still and silent skyline of the capital city. "As for General Kenobi, I think it's best if we leave him be."

Padmé inhaled sharply through her nose in surprise. "He didn't even stick around long enough to hear what we wanted."

"You know how he is. He knows what we're up to, we don't have to tell him. And if he says it's unsafe to join us, I believe it." Breha clasped her hands together and sighed. "However, I can't shake the feeling that we still have his support, in a sense."

"What do you mean?"

"His final words. They meant something. The Force will be with us, even if he can't be." She paused and looked squarely at Padmé. "I think he's telling us to ask another Jedi."

Padmé said nothing, allowing silence to linger between them until Breha continued.

"Now, I don't know much about what happened with you and Bail on Naboo. He hasn't told me, and I think it's best to keep it that way. But I've heard enough to get the sense that Obi-Wan is not the only Jedi you know."

It wasn't a question—and at the same time, it was. The words hung in the air and beckoned Padmé to confirm or deny them—but she maintained her silence and allowed Breha to speak again.

"I want you to take the lead on this. Reach out to the Jedi, get their support. It may be the difference between our success and our failure."

"Of course," she said with a nod.

"I'll leave you to it," Breha said, shoving away from the balcony and turning toward the residence door. "Take all the time you need." With that, she disappeared inside.

Padmé balanced her mug of tea on the terrace railing and withdrew her commlink from her belt once again. It was a strange feeling, needing to call a Jedi and knowing that the one at the forefront of her mind was the only one off the table. Stranger still was the fact that not a day earlier, that Jedi had called her.

A message had pinged into existence on her commlink the moment they'd dropped out of hyperspace on their way to Alderaan; even in the brief descent to the planet she'd watched the damn thing enough times over to practically have it memorized. She didn't have to pull it up and view it on her commlink; the voice of Obi-Wan Kenobi played itself back in her head yet again.

Padmé, ah—I'm sorry to reach out this way. I stopped by the apartment; no one was there. Judging by Bail's Senate calendar, you must've left the planet. I'll just get right to the point: I saw Anakin.

She should've shut the message off right then and there; if she'd known what was good for her she wouldn't have let it play any further. She could have arrived at Alderaan happy, assuming the best about her husband and her friend. They're speaking again, she would have told herself. Getting along. But she hadn't stopped it. It had kept going.

You really should hear this from him, but I'll be honest: I'm not confident he'll tell you. So I feel like I should. I asked him to—uh, I invited him to rejoin the Jedi. To come with me and defeat Maul.

Her hand had involuntarily flown to the piece of wood she still wore around her neck—the one her husband had carved from a very particular tree and given to her in a very particular location. The one that hadn't pulsed with an inner warmth in so long she'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

He didn't say yes—whether Padmé was supposed to be thankful for that, she still wasn't certain—at least not right away. I'm not sure he ever will. But I thought you should know.

As she thought through his message, she fought the urge to knock her tea mug over the edge of the terrace. Padmé wasn't sure who to be angry at. Obi-Wan had been right: Anakin hadn't mentioned it. Granted, the couple had barely spoken—a hasty goodbye before she'd left with Bail and he'd left with Palpatine, and that was hardly the time to throw out a by the way, I might rejoin the Jedi. But perhaps it was intentional, a secret he had made a point not to share with her.

Then again, the nerve of Kenobi to even ask him. After two years, two horrible grueling years of Anakin waking up screaming because he'd seen it again—seen the towers of Serenno sinking into the clouds. The nerve of him to bring up the mere idea of Anakin going back to the Jedi.

And just as she was done convincing herself it was Obi-Wan she should be upset with, she remembered how good things had been when Anakin was a Jedi.

The best time of their life. Her and Anakin and Obi-Wan—and Liz, she thought, fighting back tears as she kicked aimlessly at the grass—jetting off on the Spice Dancer for another adventure. They always had each other's backs, nothing could have pulled them apart.

Once again, she felt herself running a thumb along the carved pendant at her throat. Feeling the gnarly surface slide across her skin. Picturing Anakin's face when he'd given it to her.

This had been the cycle ever since she'd watched that gods-damned message from Obi-Wan. Playing it over in her head, getting angry with each of the two men in turn until sadness overwhelmed her and the message started over from the beginning. Padmé, ah—I'm sorry to reach out this way.

She shoved it out of mind this time, turning her attention back to the commlink. You've got a job to do, Amidala. And if Garm Bel Iblis isn't going to see the writing on the wall and agree to help, you're going to have to handle things yourself.

The difference between success and failure, Breha had called it. Padmé Amidala, who'd gotten sick to death of gods-damned Jedi, was now the only person who could get them enlisted for this crazy venture.

Kenobi's message did present an interesting conundrum: her husband might become a Jedi again. Was he the one to reach out to, to invite into their illicit alliance against Palpatine?

Hell no. Anakin's relationship with the Jedi—or lack of it—wasn't even the issue. It was his relationship with Palpatine. If she brought this to him, he'd be as likely to turn Bail over to the authorities as he would be to go along with it.

He couldn't know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

A deep sigh escaped Padmé's mouth, the breath condensing into mist as it passed over her lips. Obi-Wan was off the table, and so was Anakin. That left . . . not many options, she thought.

Not many. But not zero either.

Perhaps the time had come to reach out to the only other Jedi she knew how to get a hold of. One who would be more than happy to help take down Palpatine.

Of that, she was certain.

Republic Archives: Corellian Security Force

The Corellian Security Force, often referred to—even in an official capacity—by its nickname "CorSec," is Corellia's all-in-one planetary defense force, police department, emergency services crew, disaster relief agency, and more. Proponents of the planet-driven galactic defense model point to CorSec as a shining example of an effective local defense agency.

Within the umbrella of CorSec, everything from emergency medical technicians to park rangers to detectives all fall under the command of the Corellian Security Force Administrator—this position, appointed by Corellia's General Assembly and ratified by a planetwide popular vote, is one of the most powerful offices on Corellia.

Corellia's culture of isolationism and planetary pride has contributed to CorSec's unique position within the Republic. Unlike most planetary militaries, which operate on a volunteer recruitment model, service in CorSec is mandatory. Upon reaching adulthood, every Corellian citizen is compelled to serve for two years. At the completion of their service, should they choose to leave the Corellian Security Force, they are considered part of the CorSec Reserve for six years and may be called back into their role as needed—provided they remain on Corellia (Corellians who move offworld are exempt from the Reserve service requirement). "Dodging" service is nearly unheard of, and though there are no legal penalties for doing so it carries with it a great social stigma. Corellians who attempt to circumvent their service requirement are often shunned by their families and have great difficulty finding employment within their home system.