Chapter Twenty: Job to Do

Even the dungeons on Alderaan were beautiful.

This wasn't a real dungeon, of course—the royal palace's had been phased out millennia ago, if they ever existed. This was merely a subterranean conference room, one that had become the headquarters for Bail and Breha's secret alliance in recent weeks. The room had been carved into the ground; the natural rock that made up the walls felt as though the ocean had worn it smooth over a thousand years. Vines grew along most of the perimeter—in the spaces where they didn't, ornate carvings depicting Alderaanian landscapes adorned the stone. One would have been forgiven for thinking the light was natural—flickering candles set into frosted glass globes, rather than harsh artificial lamps, illuminated the space's four occupants.

Padmé had been the one to nickname it "the dungeon," after one of many sessions of Breha and Bail droning on about government business and the ways their legislative contacts could assist the alliance. As the latest of these dragged past the hour mark, her fingertips rapped against the tabletop in a rolling sequence, one after the other, over and over—loud enough to keep her mind occupied, quiet enough not to draw attention.

Another source of distraction was less welcome—as it frequently had in recent weeks, her stomach was flipping over on itself, the remains of what little breakfast she'd eaten grinding against its walls.

That was something she needed out of her mind even more than this meeting. Something she would deal with later. If later ever came.

"On to matters of the war, then," came a voice from the far end of the lengthy oak table—the change in who was speaking was enough to snap Padmé out of her lull. Somehow her voice sounds even more regal in here, she thought as she half-turned her focus to Mon Mothma. The senator sat with a stack of documents before her, auburn hair shining in the candlelight glow.

"I just received this intelligence report," Mon continued, gesturing to the stack of papers. "I won't bother reading you the whole thing—most of it is redacted anyway." Even from afar, Padmé could make out several thick black lines streaking across the pages as the senator thumbed through them. "Palpatine has just seen fit to inform all Senate committees of a new"—she paused, trailing off and glancing at one wall as if searching for the right words—"operative. One who is separate from the Grand Army. He won't receive orders from the Defense Committee, or the Senate's Intelligence Director. He is to report directly to the Office of the Chancellor."

Finally, something interesting was going on.

When no one spoke, Mon continued. "His task, as Palpatine put it, will be strategic and precise disruption on the battlefront. An agent who softens targets before the Grand Army is sent in to finish them off."

"Is this even legal?" Bail asked—his brow was furrowed, his hands wrung against each other atop the conference table.

"It is if no one stops him," Padmé said, speaking in a detached monotone as she stared down at the table. Yet another instance of the entire Senate sitting back and watching as Palpatine just . . . did something, the unspoken invitation to challenge his actions lingering in the air.

No one ever did.

For a moment, she let herself roll the idea of this operative over in her mind. A hand of the chancellor, taking care of the dirty work no one else would. Taking the fight to the enemy in secret, acting swiftly and decisively with no to tell them otherwise.

Looking at the table of "rebels" who'd spent their every waking hour since the siege of Coruscant inquiring in committee about where they should go next, she had to admit the idea had a certain charm.

Breha, who sat at the table's head, leaned forward with an open hand. "It's alright. Thank you, Senator, for bringing this to our attention. We'll plan to track this operative's movements just as we track the Grand Army's."

Padmé's mind wandered to the image of yet another parchment map burning on the conference table. Evidence of their alliance couldn't exist outside this room—but it was critical that they track the war effort as closely as possible. The constant fear that Palpatine would turn the Grand Army against them cast a shadow over every meeting—on more than one occasion they had drawn up the Army's latest positions on a physical map of the galaxy, committed it to memory, then lit it on fire.

"That's just the problem," Mon Mothma said with a shake of her head. "We can't. He's anonymous—or operating under a false name, at least. Palpatine only referred to him as 'Executor Vader.' He also made it quite clear: for security reasons, as well as the safety of this Executor, reports will be handled differently than reports on the Grand Army's movements. He intends to inform the Defense Committee of the operative's actions only after they've occurred—not before. I don't see a way to stay ahead of what he's doing."

Before Padmé could stop it, a bark of laughter escaped her mouth—though she quickly clamped down on it. She felt three pairs of eyes come to glare at her—glancing at each of them in turn, she offered an apologetic wince. "I'm sorry, it's not funny." She turned and locked her eyes on Bail. "It just sounds an awful lot like how you and Obi-Wan used to operate."

Bail's eyes widened, and he rose up in his chair. "Padmé, that was not the same thing!"

"But it was close enough," Breha interrupted, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. "And perhaps that's not such a bad thing. If someone were to mention this connection to Palpatine, he may reconsider."

Mon Mothma leaned forward and planted her elbows on the table, resting her chin against steepled hands. "You may have a point, Your Highness. I doubt he wants to do anything that reminds the public of the Had Abbadon incident."

A scoff escaped Bail's lips. "Sounds like a great way to get added to Executor Vader's hit list."

"Don't be so dramatic, Bail." The scolding voice came from the head of the table—the queen was leaning to one side, narrowed eyes pointed squarely at her husband. "He's a battlefield operative, not Palpatine's personal assassin."

"How do you know?" he snapped back. "If he kills someone, we won't find out until after the job is done. We were worried about Palpatine turning the Grand Army on his political enemies"—Bail let himself trail off, shaking his head and jabbing a finger down onto the table. "No. This is how he'd take care of anyone who opposed him."

Breha turned to the other senator in the room. "This can't have been a popular decision," she began. "Do you know of any committee members who opposed it?"

"If someone did, they kept it to themselves," Mon answered, glancing down into her lap.

"As more people find out, surely someone will speak up," Breha said. "Maybe we need to leak this. To the public, to the press . . . even just to the Senate. Once the whole Senate knows, someone could try to stop this."

At this, Mon Mothma snapped to attention. "There aren't that many copies of this in the wild." She gestured to the stack of papers in front of her. "It wouldn't take Palpatine long to figure out who let the news slip."

"Are you people listening to yourselves?"

All eyes were on Padmé again—even she was surprised at the disdain that had laced her voice, the volume with which she'd chosen to scold two senators and a queen. None of them looked angry—something she thanked the gods for—and as the silence in the room grew longer, Padmé took it as an invitation to continue.

"You're talking about using legislative procedure to stop the chancellor from sending his anonymous personal vigilante across the galaxy. Palpatine's not playing by the same rules we are. He's not even playing the same game. And for that matter, why should he want to use this Vader to assassinate any of us? We've sat here doing nothing besides getting a few politicians to maybe agree to limited action if it's under the right conditions. We might as well have written Palpatine a note saying 'Don't worry, we'll stay out of your way.'"

Breha bit down on her lip, as if fighting a sudden urge to laugh. Bail looked like she'd slapped him. Even Mon flushed.

Okay, Amidala, she told herself, you had your little fit. Now get down to business before you lose them.

She paused and shook her head, spreading her arms wide to indicate the entire room. "This whole thing was conceived as a two-pronged approach. We work through legal avenues, but fight if we have to. I think it's time we get on his level." She turned to look at Mon Mothma. "May I?"

Mon gestured at her with an open hand and leaned back in her chair. "By all means."

Sitting up straight and clearing her throat, Padmé continued. "Ever since Obi-Wan declined to join our little insurrection, I was tasked with finding us another ally within the Jedi Order." Though the room's three occupants seemed to bristle at the word insurrection—Padmé noticed a wince flash across Bail's face—no one interrupted her.

Reaching down to her belt, she withdrew a commlink and raised it to her lips. "Raymus, send him in."

The conference room door opened, and a hooded individual slinked into the dungeon. As his hands rose to lower the hood, candlelight reflected off the smooth dome of his head.

"Absolutely not!" Bail shouted, leaping to his feet and jabbing a finger in the new arrival's direction. "He is not welcome here."

"Bail!" Breha snapped, nearly rising to a standing position herself. "Sit back down."

Bail whirled to face his wife. "Breha, he was with us on Naboo—"

"Then I don't want to know," the queen interrupted, holding up an open palm at Bail. With a huff, the senator slumped back into his seat.

Gritting her teeth, Padmé shot an apologetic look at their guest—the Jedi, seemingly unfazed by the harsh welcome, merely shrugged. "This is Jedi Knight Mace Windu," she began, gesturing in his direction. "Mace, this is Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila and Breha Organa, Queen of Alderaan." She paused to swallow a lump in her throat. "You already know Bail, of course."

"Welcome," Breha offered with a slow nod. "Have a seat."

"I'll stand, thanks," Mace replied. "This won't take long."

Padmé watched as the Jedi gazed at each member of the room in turn—Bail, she noticed, earned the shortest glance. Mace stared at her the longest.

"Amidala tells me you've formed an alliance to stop Palpatine's legislative agenda. To oppose him in the Senate. Remove him from office, if you can gather the support."

It wasn't a question, but he let it linger like one, hanging in the air with the subterranean dampness and candle smoke. Finally, Mon Mothma answered. "That's right."

"I'm here to tell you that it won't work."

Bail looked barely on the verge of rolling his eyes, but the Jedi spoke implacably, as if they were discussing not opinions but inevitabilities. "Palpatine has spent his career collecting allies in the Senate, cultivating favor with the courts. You'll never see him removed, and even if you do he'll never face any sort of legal consequences. I have . . ." He hesitated, as if weighing how to explain it to the new faces in the room, then gave a rolling shrug. "A gift of the Force. It lets me see breaking points. Palpatine's isn't in the law."

"You have a better idea?" Bail asked through clenched teeth—the senator sat as far back as his chair would allow, arms crossed over his chest like a defiant child. Padmé supposed she couldn't blame him, considering how their last partnership with the Jedi had gone.

You asked for this, she did her best to think at her assembled conspirators.

Mace looked Bail up and down, meeting his contempt with a singular lack of concern. When he replied, his voice was an even as ever. "I do," he said with a single sharp nod. "It's simple, really.

"Assassinate him."

Padmé drew a sharp breath through her nose.

Breha remained steady, keeping whatever reaction she undoubtedly felt beneath the surface. A glance over at Mon Mothma revealed a vaguely shaky senator gone pale—it reminded Padmé of the only time she'd ever cursed in front of her mother.

Bail was back on his feet—rather predictably, Padmé thought, making his feelings toward Mace Windu known to all.

"Are you insane?" he snapped at the Jedi.

"He will weasel his way out of any traditional attempt to unseat him," Mace said, raising his shoulder in a fraction of a shrug. "You have to realize this. I did, two years ago. I should have acted on it then. I'm not making that mistake again."

"Tell me," Bail began, pressing a palm against the table and leaning in Mace's direction, "is this really what the Jedi Order believes to be the best course of action?"

Mace leveled a glare at the senator. "It's what I believe to be the best course of action."

"That's what I thought." He rounded on Padmé, disbelief mingled with an almost childish look of hurt. "You approve of this?"

I didn't know that's where this was going, she almost said, but then bit down on her tongue. She wasn't going to make a liar out of herself just to placate her boss's feelings. She'd known as soon as she'd had the idea of bringing Windu here what he would say.

"I don't have to approve or disapprove," she replied, holding the senator's eyes with hers and matching the Jedi's granite intonation as best she could. "He's presenting a strategy. Something that's been in short supply around here lately."

"We're done here." Glowering, Bail raised a pointed finger toward the conference room door and addressed the Jedi while continuing to stare at Padmé. "Get out."

"I see how it is," Mace said with a slow shake of his head. "When it comes to starting wars, you'll break the rules for the greater good. You're just too scared to do it when it's time to end them."

"Out!"

Windu did as instructed, whirling around and striding through the door in a single motion. As it creaked shut behind him, the entire room seemed to relax around Padmé—but all she could see was their last connection to the Jedi Order drifting away from them.

She glanced at Mon Mothma—the senator was gathering her stack of documents as the candlelight flickered, keeping her eyes averted from the rest of the table—then at Breha, and finally at Bail. Her boss had slumped back in his chair, looking exhausted and upset.

She could sort things out with him later. Weather a tongue-lashing for doing exactly what she'd been asked to do. Right now, she had a Jedi to catch.

Leaping to her feet, she bolted for the door before anyone could stop her. She was out in the hall in an instant, her eyes darting back and forth to see which way Mace had gone.

Luckily, he hadn't made it far—the Jedi was meandering down the corridor, hood up, hands in the pockets of his robe.

"Wait!" she hollered, jogging after Mace until she was just behind him. "Mace, wait up."

He turned to face her, but said nothing.

"I'm sorry," she said after a protracted silence, offering him a shrug. "I guess I thought that would go better."

"Really?" he asked, a raised eyebrow barely visible beneath his low hood. "Or is that exactly how you thought it would go?"

"Don't do that," she hissed through her teeth, thinking of the few times she'd caught Obi-Wan or Anakin snooping around in her head. But her mind wasn't swimming with the warmth that usually accompanied a mental intrusion, the wooden medallion around her neck wasn't pulsing with the energy of the Force.

"I'm not doing anything." Mace shrugged. "I could just tell by the look on your face. You thought it was over the second I walked in there."

She exhaled sharply through her nose, the closest thing to a laugh she could manage right now. "It was over the second you walked in there. Bail wants nothing to do with you."

"And you had to have expected that," he cut in.

It certainly felt like Mace was reading her mind. Of course she had known Bail would bristle at the mere sight of Mace Windu. She'd hoped that Mon and Breha would act as tempering influences, calming Bail long enough to at least hear what the Jedi had to say.

She'd also hoped, despite her intuition, that he wouldn't go straight for the most extreme option. We could have at least worked our way up to it.

"You're good at one thing, Windu," she said aloud, "and that's pissing people off. I guess I hoped you'd push them in a productive direction when that happened."

It didn't matter now. What was done was done—Mace Windu wasn't going to be their Jedi liaison, and their alliance wasn't going to assassinate Palpatine.

"He doesn't deserve you, you know," the Jedi said.

Padmé frowned—had he just paid her an unambiguous compliment?

Once again, through mind-reading or otherwise, he got the drift. With a single smirking chuckle, Windu said, "Just stating a fact."

Padmé sighed and reached a hand up to rub the back of her neck, wincing at the sudden ache that had arisen there. "What are you going to do now?"

"Do you really want to know?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

Her thoughts turned to Obi-Wan again—his quick exit from their holocall all those weeks ago, and the way they'd both danced around things back in Dex's diner. He'd recused himself from this venture not because he didn't support it, but because it was dangerous for him to participate in it. In this moment, it was in her best interest to take a cue from her old Jedi friend.

"No," she said, the word leaving her mouth as part of an exhausted breath. "No, I guess it's best if I don't. It's not like I can help you."

The Jedi Knight nodded at her and, accompanied by a whirling cloak, turned to stroll away down the hall. Before he was out of earshot, Padmé spoke again.

"But I'll make sure we don't stop you. We'll stay out of each other's way, yeah?"

Mace froze in place, turning back to peer at her over his shoulder.

She took a deep breath, then continued, forcing herself not to look over her shoulder: "And if you end up needing information . . . anything that could help . . ."

The Jedi sent a single protracted nod in her direction. "We've all got a job to do, Amidala. You do yours. I'll do mine."

With that he disappeared down the hall, leaving Padmé standing alone.


Whenever Padmé had complained to Anakin about the number of homes he had—their own apartment, the Jedi Temple, the Coelacanth—he'd retort that she had two herself, their place and the palace on Alderaan. And, he'd add, being that her second home was intended for royalty, she'd gotten the better end of the deal.

It had never felt like home, though. Her room of the palace was certainly nice—balcony overlooking the distant view of snowcapped mountains, a fireplace made to burn real wood along one wall, the carpet so soft that barefoot, it almost felt like walking on nothing but air currents. But every time Padmé returned to it, it felt like a fancy hotel suite, a liminal space that was inhabited from time to time but not lived in.

You could try to add some personality to it, she thought to herself as she stared into the crackling flames, as if looking hard enough would produce something interesting. Set up a weapon rack by your bed or something, see how that scandalizes the staff. Put some holes in the curtains and patch 'em up.

An image did suddenly flare up in the fire, then—the two of them, putting holes back in the Dancer's walls and ripping out wires. Heading back to the bunk and losing themselves just for half an hour. Happiest in the middle of chaos—wasn't that how things had always been?

She hadn't talked to him in weeks. Just traded half-hearted messages back and forth, like night watchmen glancing up to see each other circle past.

And when they next talked, she had no idea what she would tell him.

A Jedi we can trust, she thought, rubbing her thumb along the wood pendant and snorting. Obi-Wan was out. Windu wasn't wanted. And even if her husband hadn't cut himself off, she knew she wouldn't be able to go to him.

When had he become Palpatine's man, anyway? When he started working for the Chancellor directly? Or had that been too late? Maybe it had happened while he was still a Jedi—or even before then, that very first dinner they'd had together with the man, Anakin hanging on the Chancellor's every word as if he were as much the Jedi's teacher as Obi-Wan.

"So that leaves . . . Qui-Gon," she said aloud, chuckling. "And who the hell knows where she is."

Should've been a bigger part of that side of his life. Gone to the Temple sooner. Met more of them. Given yourself more options, even if you didn't know you'd need options at that stage.

Then again, maybe that wouldn't have made any difference. Maybe, when the chips were down, the heroes of the galaxy were only looking out for themselves first and foremost after all. Even Obi-Wan.

Maybe they were what she'd always thought they were after all.

Not that we're any better. She looked out the window—the sun was beginning to set, just touching the crest of the mountains and turning their ice into blazing crystal. The orange glow suffused the sky, the mountains' stone shading purple in the twilight. Gorgeous.

And here they sat, in this beautiful home, gaining allies piecemeal only to slide back into indecision time and again.

Windu had been right. There was no plan. Not just for removing Palpatine, but what happened when it was over. Who did they get to replace him? What did they have the votes to accomplish—and if they couldn't do it by vote, what kind of might did they have? Who would dismantle the Grand Army, end the annexation of outlying worlds, stop the war?

And what if the people of the galaxy didn't want to be saved? What would those who loved Palpatine say once he was gone, one way or the other?

What would Anakin do?

She hadn't really thought about that part at all. In her mind things had always just . . . gone back to normal after Palpatine was removed one way or the other. The two of them were together again, and Anakin . . . well, he wasn't a Jedi anymore, but they'd find something. That shipping business they'd talked about. A windfarm on Oseon. A job here, an adventure there. Whatever it was, they'd be together.

It's never going to be the way it was. And if you're going to drift apart, it might as well be while you're doing something that matters, Amidala.

Unconsciously, in a gesture she'd performed hundreds of times over, she let her hand drift down to the pistol at her hip, though she kept just short of drawing it. Just let her fingertips hover there, tingling, ready to grip her blaster and shoot. Didn't matter what.

It had been too long since she'd held a weapon in her hands. Felt the Dancer's deck vibrate beneath her feet as it floated through space. Lived her life not in the nebulous zone of plots and politics but the concrete details of ozone in her lungs and roaring engines in her ears.

Maybe it was time to go back to that.

Leave a note for Bail on the mantelpiece. Go back to Coruscant. Get the ship out of mothballs. Tell Anakin he could come with her, or he could stay.

If he came, great. If not, well. She'd manage on her own. She had long before she knew Anakin Skywalker.

Besides, it won't really be on your own, will it. Not anymore.

There wasn't time to think about that, not now. If she didn't start moving this moment, she'd talk herself into staying another night, and then another. And she didn't think she'd like the person she'd become by the end of it.

Rising to her feet, Padmé ran her hands along her gunbelt, reassuring herself it was still there, before casting a dubious glance at the evening sky, the afterglow of the sun already beginning to dim. The transit bay might think it odd for her to request a shuttle at this late hour, but she could always tell them it was secret business for Bail. She'd apologize to him later. In a card. Sent from far away.

Time to pack up, Amidala. Set off for parts—

Behind her, someone cleared his throat.

The sound was simultaneously chiding and apologetic, as if a schoolteacher was expressing his regret for having caught a student at something naughty. Padmé knew exactly who it was without having to turn.

"Thought you were gonna keep your head down," she said, struggling to get the words out for reasons she couldn't explain.

"Oh, I'm quite capable of that," came the reply in a clipped Core accent. "Bail doesn't even know I'm here yet."

She turned and saw him there—bearded face weary but smiling, a match for the plain brown tunic he wore. He spread his hands as if to say, You're not going to leave when I just got here, are you?

"You could come with me this time."

When she'd hugged him on Coruscant, it had been to verify that he was really there, first and foremost. Then to blow off steam, let some of her fury with him get squeezed out.

This time, she let it linger. The two of them, on the threshold, in a room that didn't belong to either of them.

Embracing him, she knew she was still here. That she still had things that mattered to her.

I won't tell him, she decided as they pulled apart. Not now, not tonight. It'll ruin things. He can know later.

Then he asked her, in a gentle murmur that let her know he'd sensed something the moment he walked in the palace, "Padmé, what's wrong?"

And she told him.

"I'm pregnant."


Republic Archives: Senate Committee Briefing - Executor [REDACTED]

[excerpt from a briefing prepared by [REDACTED] of [REDACTED], for the Senate Defense, Senate Intelligence, and Executive Committees]

In the interest of accelerating the Republic's victory against the splintered remains of the CIS, Chancellor Palpatine saw it necessary to employ strategic and precise disruption on the battlefront. To that end, he has created the position of Executor.

Executor [REDACTED] will report directly to the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, receiving orders to attack key targets in advance of further campaigns by the Grand Army of the Republic. To date, Executor [REDACTED] has already assisted in the capture of Confederate strongholds such as [REDACTED].

Reports to this committee on Executor [REDACTED]'s actions will, in the interest of security, be delivered upon completion of their assignments. All future queries on the matter of the position of Executor may be directed to [REDACTED] or [REDACTED].