Polish and shine. Credits and cachet. To the Senate Executive Building on Coruscant come individuals from all corners of the galaxy, from the Core Worlds to the Colonies to the Outer Rim, but despite their backgrounds, their histories, their upbringings, their thoughts, this place, this thumping, swirling, pulsing heart of galactic diplomacy, infuses them all with a certain veneer. A glisten that catches the eye. A shift in their gait. A mellowness to their voices. And, to the trained ear, the words of a swindler. Padme Amidala of Naboo knows this more than most: She is an advocate of democracy, of fairness, beyond all reproach, far beyond even the lofty ideals of many of her colleagues in the Senate. Yet she can feel it on so many of them: The seeping whiff of corruption. Democracy growing thinner, the edifice creaking and rotting as this war rages on and the principles of the Republic give way to military might and legalism.
This has to end. It cannot continue—not if those ideals to which Padme still holds dear might survive.
It is that growing mix of doubt and disappointment in the political institution that makes these frequent Senate fetes so frustrating. In the waning evening sun half a hundred senators crowd into the spacious office of Bail Organa of Alderaan. Loyalists and pacifists. War hawks and members of the Neutral Systems coalition. All smiles, all small talk, all clinking glasses and sips of wine, the arguments and debates and sparring of the Senate session just this morning put aside in this veneer of civility, so quick to form, so quick to fall. The dishonesty of it all. Padme understands the needs for such things: What is democracy if we cannot understand both our friends and our foes? During much of her time as a senator she has lauded such events. She hosts them regularly enough, and the back-and-forth of debate comes as naturally to her as breathing. Awash in our differences we form the strongest unions.
But the hour is growing late here in the heart of the Republic, and with the debate comes desperation. Division. Like the whole house is teetering on a cliff's edge, ready to fall into the depths at the first mention of Separatists.
At least the newest senators still have a freshness to them, like clean air blowing in from some less-polluted planet beyond the morass of the Core Worlds. It reminds Padme of her home. Of blue and bright Naboo out there in the Mid Rim, vulnerable yet steadfast despite the chaos overtaking the galaxy. Still clean. Still natural. A place to call home. If only she could make it more than just her home. "You seem a little sheepish," she says as she makes eye contact with a young, clean-cut man idling at the edge of the social commotion. "Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Lux?"
"That's, ah, one way of putting it," the young man says, swirling golden Alsakan Nectar (an absurdly pretentious name for a common—and, in Padme's opinion, bland—wine) about in his glass. He is Lux Bonteri, far younger than any of his colleagues here, fresh off of his appointment to the Senate by his war-sundered world of Onderon. Too many scars on Mina Bonteri's son. Not just the loss of his mother: Anakin has talked about Ahsoka's stories of Lux on more than one occasion. "I'm not entirely sure what to do. I mean, I've been to such things before, I'm not—"
Padme chuckles. "You don't have to jump in too quickly," she says. The cacophony of it all. Fifty voices laughing and rumbling off of these hallowed walls. The rose-orange glow of sunset painting the taupe stone floor. Faint music just loud enough to drift over the din, a soft string melody completely out of place amid the liveliness. It's all enough to intimidate anyone. It even intimidates Anakin.
The thought of him digs at Padme's chest. He could be here now. His blunt little comments that strike so true. His awkward compliments and attempts to fit in with the Senate crowd. Oh, but he tries—and that's enough for Padme. That and all the other wonderful things.
"I want to jump in," Lux says, sipping his wine. The boy doesn't hold his drink well: Already his face is growing red. Oh well. He'll learn moderation before long here. "Just trying to figure out the best place to get started."
At least he, too, is trying. "Well," Padme says, setting down her glass and motioning for him to follow her, "it might be hard if you're going to stand by the wall and not introduce yourself."
"Ah, yeah. That I do understand."
"Come on, then. You can be my company tonight. It's still early. By the end of the party you'll know everyone here."
Padme doesn't make it halfway across the room, however, before a man decidedly unbecoming to the surroundings makes his way through the crowd. Black eyepatch. Proper grey uniform. A blaster neatly camouflaged at his hip. A face far too tough for the Senate crowd. "Senator Amidala."
"Captain Typho," Padme says. Turning to Lux she adds, "Excuse me for a minute, Lux." Then she follows her bodyguard to a corner of the room near the concave floor-to-ceiling windows—Chandrillan stained glass, she notes; Bail clearly has upgraded the décor since her last time in here—and leans in to Typho. "What is it?"
He looks around to ensure even a relative smidgen of privacy. "Urgent comm in your chambers," he says. "Just came in a minute ago."
"Surely one of my secretaries could've handled that?"
Typho frowns. "It's from Master Skywalker's ship."
Anakin? Now it's Padme's turn to look around. Her heartbeat picks up—the wine, surely—and she says, "I'll take it right away. Let's go."
She points to Typho as she passes Lux on the way out, mouths be back soon, and leaves the sweaty confines of Bail Organa's chambers for the cool hallway outside. Red-and-white striped walls curving around and around like the bowels of some ravenous beast. Oddly quiet out here compared to the noise of just a room away.
It's only a short walk to her own office space on the same upper-tier floor of the Executive Building. The familiar trappings of home here on Coruscant: Gold and silver décor, stone statuettes of Gungan heroes and gods, a perlote tree sapling sprouting from a gleaming, curved pot near the door. Beyond the foyer lies her private chamber, her personal terminal and Senate link and workspace, along with a holopad jumped up with enough networking and electronics to reach Wild Space. Information is the key to having the upper hand in democracy, and Padme likes having every report from all corners of the galaxy available. A blue holographic orb pulses in the air above the pad—call waiting. "I'll take it alone, Captain," Padme says, ushering him out before commanding the terminal to activate.
To her disappointment—only a slight one, but disappointment nonetheless—it's not Anakin who greets her. "Senator Amidala," says Ahsoka as her holographic likeness springs up from the floor.
"Ahsoka?" Padme says. "What is it?"
"We finally made it to Taris today—it took a while—"
"Yes, I can see that. You left almost a week ago. What's happening? Where's Anakin?"
Ahsoka motions away as if pointing to something out of the holo. "Er—has Senator Robb said anything more to you since we left about what's going on here?"
"Senator Robb? No. I only just talked to her again today. Minutes ago, actually. Did something happen?"
"We're fine. I think. It's just that the Taths were waiting for us when we got here."
Padme's heart leaps into her throat. "Is Anakin safe? Obi-Wan?"
"Yeah, they're okay. Again, I think."
"You think?"
"He, uh…they…the Taths sent a representative to meet us on our landing pad. They knew we were coming. They even asked Master Kenobi and Anakin to be guests of honor. They took off a little while ago," Ahsoka says, furrowing her brow. Frustration evident. "Right now it's just Rex and I at the ship, but we're heading out soon to scout out their place from the outside. Master Kenobi has a tracking beacon on him. I don't like it one bit, but Anakin didn't want us to follow right away."
Padme shakes her head. Put two and two together. The Taths would've had no clue about Anakin going to Taris unless someone had leaked the information. While Padme had never told Senator Robb about the Jedi mission to Taris when she was needling her colleague for information about the Taths' influence on the city-planet, any capable politician could've inferred that Padme knew something more about the Arkanian nobles. But how would she have known about Anakin and Obi-Wan personally going there? Who else except the Jedi—and Padme herself—was privy to that information?
"I don't know much more than you do," Padme says, "but Senator Robb has always been a good colleague. Even an ally. She's one of my closest confidants among the Neutral Systems coalition. I can't believe she'd betray me like that."
"But someone—"
"I know. Someone had to know," Padme interrupts her. "Someone close to whatever's happening on Taris."
She stops. A blur catches her eye. A shade at the edge of her sight, as if a figure hangs on to the edge of her building by the window. When she looks, however, she sees nothing. It is just Coruscant out there, the city, the growing night. Isn't it? "Senator Amidala?" Ahsoka says.
"It's nothing," Padme says. But now she is worried: Is it Senator Robb she needs worrying about? Or is someone else, someone in the shadows, eavesdropping on her? "I'll see to things here, Ahsoka. Make sure I can reach you. And stay safe. I'm not sure what's going on, but I intend to look into it."
"Got it. We'll dig around. At least Rex and I will. I don't know what Master Kenobi and Anakin are up to."
Padme smiles. "Probably getting up to trouble. Take care, Ahsoka."
When the holopad dims and she is alone in the twilight of her office, Padme slumps down into her work chair. She cannot go back to the party, not now, not with a million questions zipping pell-mell through her head. What is clear is that Anakin's mission is compromised. If she can't get to the truth of things here—whether Senator Robb knows anything or whether Padme will have to get her hands dirty, only time will tell—her husband will be in grave danger.
No. She will figure it out. Anakin fights on the front lines, but this is her battleground. If he is in trouble, she will fight for him with all her heart.
"Here it is. Try not to sneeze from all the dust."
Tamri looks up at the slumping building slouching before her with an air of disappointment. "Isn't a warehouse kind of obvious for undercover work?"
"Not that obvious on Belderone, Jedi," Falco grunts, banging on a ramshackle metal door three times before heaving it up, the steel creaking and groaning as if the whole place will come crashing down with one wrong move. "Feels like the whole planet's warehouses."
Sae brushes past Tamri and sighs. "Guess there wasn't enough in the intel budget for a luxury hotel."
"Just our luck, huh?"
"It's always our luck."
Inside the warehouse shadows reign. Old crates and time-worn machinery wait for workers who will never come. Spent processing lines and tarpaulin-draped power loaders turn the already-cramped inside into a veritable maze. Spiderwebs and rat droppings litter the corner. It even smells old, like a storage shed left unattended for years, all the dust and debris and days built up into its own dusky world hidden from eyes and minds. When the clank of a foot kicking metal rings out, the echoes are loud enough to be gunshots. "Hey, chief," a husky voice—another decidedly un-clone-like voice—gruffs from behind a crate. It's another commando, this one in full clone armor sans the helmet, pale green streaks striping his dirt-besotted plating. "Got the Jedi?"
"Got 'em," Falco grunts.
A third clone commando idles near husky voice. The all look alike, but it's the voices that differ—the little personal touches, the ways they break free from the usual clone template. They are bred as a team, train as a team from birth. Four soldiers, four brothers. From the cloning vat to the grave. "Gonna be a first," the third clone says. A lighter, higher voice on this one. He sees Tamri and grins. "Little short to be a Jedi, aren't ya?"
"I'm a Padawan," Tamri says. She does a half-bow, thinks better of it halfway into the motion—these are soldiers, you idiot, not officials; what are you doing?—and straightens up, rubbing at a particularly garish splotch on her cloak.
"Well, I wouldn't know, anyway. We've never been around all that Jedi business."
"The chatter. Cut it," Falco says. He points to the talkative clone with the high voice. "Turner. One next to him's Brunt. RC-"
"I don't need the designations. Names are fine," Sae says quickly.
"Huh. Isn't that something," Brunt says, scratching his neck. "Heard from others the Jedi were stuck up about protocol. RC-1686 if you want it."
Sae points to Tamri. "Tamri Dallin. I'm Sae Tristess. You can keep the protocol. Where're the mercs?"
"Old supervisor room in the back. Playing pazaak with Hawke," says the talkative clone, Turner. "Gotta make our own funding out here."
"Hawke's the fourth out of the four of us," Falco says to Sae. To his clones he adds, "You two set up the holo. I'll go over our plans with everyone in a minute. Jedi, with me."
He leads Tamri and Sae through the winding gauntlet of the warehouse, past crumbling stores of grainy foodstuffs and littered gears and tools piled on the cold duracrete floor. A pair of jogan-bats squeak and scurry in the lonely rafters, black shapes in the dark like night-borne haunts. Tamri trods in a pile of bat droppings and grimaces, rubbing her boot sole against the side of a burnt-out machine. "You guys don't clean much in here, do you?"
"Place's temporary," Falco says.
Sae grabs her arm. "Worry about it later," she says through gritted teeth.
"Just making conversation."
"Later."
Falco wrenches open a stuck door at the rear of the warehouse, spilling hazy orange light out onto the warehouse floor. It's just in time to reveal another clone standing up at a low-slung table that looks ready to fall apart, tossing a card on the table, and exclaiming, "Yeah, that's the stuff. Four in a row. Chips down."
"Hawke," Falco murmurs.
"Ah. How's it, chief," the clone, Hawke, says. He looks past his commander, spots Tamri and Sae, and smartens up, raising his hand in a salute. "Oh. Found the Jedi. Pardon the exuberance."
"No problem. Glad someone's excited, at least," Sae says. She nods to the two individuals on the other side of the table with piles of credit chits noticeably smaller than Hawke's mountain. "You the ones with the ship?"
They're a pair of aliens, one a tall, lanky, red-skinned Zeltron with a stripe of blue hair running from his forehead to the nape of his neck, the other a stout, sturdy-looking Nautolan. "Yeah, we got a ship, wizard," the Nautolan says. He grins and looks at the Zeltron. "His ship, technically."
The Zeltron folds his arms over his chest and appraises the new arrivals. "First working with clones, and now Jedi," he says, his voice careful, probing. "All sorts of new things here on Belderone."
"Who'd you used to work with? Crime syndicates? Hutts?" says Tamri. Her curiosity gets the better of her discretion. She does not mean to be insulting: Sae's dragged her all over the underworld in her work as a Jedi Sentinel. They've clashed with Crimson Dawn on Coruscant, drawn lightsabers against guards of the Pyke Syndicate on Chandrilla, and even waded through the sprawling Nar Shaddaa empire of an aspiring crime lord who claimed to be resurrecting the long-dead Exchange. Even during a war crime lives on: If anything, it grows stronger in the chaos, lashing out at the innocent and the weak while the strong batter each other with soldiers and warships. And the Jedi cannot simply let such darkness dwell. Even during a war.
Sae grits her teeth. "Let me do the talking," she mutters out of the corner of her lip.
But the Nautolan, at least, seems amused by Tamri's eagerness. "Hutts? Ha. Nah, they're always trouble. We used to run with the Haxion Brood a while back."
"Used to? Syndicates aren't know for letting their people go," Sae says.
"Brood's different. It's an open organization. Not bad, all things considered. Not like Black Sun or any of those crazies," he says. He starts to say more but falls silent, as if the situation and the nature of the job are the only things holding him back from espousing about the Haxion Brood for hours.
I gotta ask him more on the way to Ossus, Tamri thinks. Already the fright of the identification search at the starport is fading and the old excitement of a new mission is coming back.
"Money wasn't good enough," the Zeltron says. "But your Republic officer paid up a pretty pile of credits for your job. Right before he got himself nabbed by a bounty hunter, at least."
Sae shakes her head. "He had great timing," she grumbles. "You two have names?"
"Lendon Rust," the Zeltron says, leaning back in his seat. "I've got a reputation."
"Never heard of you."
The Nautolan laughs. "So much for that. I'm Neelotas Lam. Only reputation I've got is losing credits to this hustler of a clone trooper."
"Just born that way," Hawke says smugly.
"Go out and get with the others," Falco growls at him.
"Got it, chief."
Once Hawke is gone, Sae takes his seat, scatters his credit chits over the table, and says, "So what really happened to the intel guy? Rastic? We were supposed to be meeting him, after all."
Falco and the mercenaries eye each other for a moment. Tamri does not miss the insinuations. Blame passing in the space between. "Bounty hunter. Like I said," Lendon Rust says. "Didn't get a great look at him when he jumped Rastic in an alley. Heavy armor. An electro-net gun. Jump-jets on his boots. That was all I got."
"Didn't see him myself," Neelotas says.
"Nor did I," adds Falco. "Two of mine said they caught a glimpse of him, but that's that. And our officer never told us anything about having a bounty on his head."
Neelotas shrugs. "Things happen out here. This ain't Alderaan. And I imagine Republic intelligence isn't the coziest of careers."
"What is?" Falco murmurs.
"Should we look for him first?" says Tamri.
Sae shoots her a sharp look. "No," she says, "we need to get on our way to Ossus. Commander, show us your plan. As for you two, I hope your ship's fast. And still in impound, not on its way to the shipbreakers."
"That'd be the pits," Neelotas says, rising.
"For you and us both. Let's take care of this."
The eight conspirators gather around the holomap lit up at the center of the warehouse. It's a detailed readout, layer upon layer of Belderone's cityscape scoped out, individual buildings and streets marked with expandable detail points to highlight possible areas of interest or danger. So many winding alleys. So much industry. Every building like a gear straining in some all-encompassing assembler, grinding up city, lives, hopes. These sad maws of urban squalor are far from alien in Tamri's experience on Jedi missions, but that familiarity makes them no less sorrowful. It's the death of dreams. The fading of the light. Steel-clad dens where only darkness might thrive.
Falco runs his finger in a circle around a squat building on the holomap. "This is us," he says before reaching into the holomap, grabbing its display, and pulling the readout past him until a whole new series of streets and alleys and buildings spring to life. "This big lot over here," he says, circling a junk-littered sprawl, "is central impound for this part of the city."
"This part? How many impound lots do they have?" Sae says.
"It's a big place," Lendon says.
Neelotas grins. "Lotta scum. Plenty of ships to put away. Bet the authorities make a killing on it."
"Plenty of ships we don't need to worry about. Just one's what we need," Sae says. She points out several passages leading into the impound yard. "These the entrances?"
"Only two," Falco says. He points to the third leading in. "This is a sewage line. The yard operators dump industrial waste down it."
"Sounds undefended."
"And also hazardous."
"Just keep it in mind. What's your plan so far?"
Turner points out two towering buildings nearby. "We can take overwatch in the left building here that overlooks the yard. At its base is a control shed that operates gates and lifts within the yard."
"Also controls impound passage," Hawke adds. "Establishes and releases control codes allowing locked-down ships in and out. Unfreezes their nav computers."
"And without that, we're not going anywhere," Lendon says.
Sae nods. "Right. So how do we get in there?"
"Rear passage," Falco explains, indicating one of the entry alleys. "Dumpy sort of alley for scrap trucks. It's only lightly defended. Some guards, a few battle droids who've taken up position there ever since the clankers started clamping down on the planet. We can slice them up and slip in without drawing attention."
"You'll have to run all the way through the yard to get to the control shed, though."
"That's what our overwatch will take care of. Once the rear guards are down and our overwatch team handles the control shed, mercs and Jedi get to the ship and get out. Us clones retreat. Job's done."
Sae shakes her head. "Bad idea."
"Why? In and out. Easy enough," says Lendon.
"There any guards at the shed entrance?"
"Yeah. Lot more. That's why we don't go that way and slip into the control shed unnoticed."
"They'll pivot and wipe out the overwatch team if everything doesn't go exactly as planned, and nothing ever goes exactly as planned. Reinforcements from the far alley won't be able to get there in time in case something goes horribly wrong."
Neelotas picks at his fingernails. "Sounds like you got some other idea."
"I do. Just an addition to what you lot put together," Sae says. She looks to the mercenaries. "You two good pilots?"
"What kind of question's that? We're the best," Lendon says.
"All right, I'm trusting you on that. Because our exit's going to be hot."
Tamri frowns. "That doesn't seem like a great idea."
"I don't want casualties," Sae says, "and this is the way we can make it through the yard quickly, and with room for error."
Turner laughs. "I like the sound of that. I thought Jedi didn't care much about clone casualties, though."
Sae looks up with a face full of annoyance. "Where did you hear that?"
"Ah, we've heard some stories about General Krell here and there. Whole mess went down on Umbara, word has it."
"Pong Krell is—was—an abomination," Sae growls. "And I am not him."
Tamri looks at her master with concern. Master Gallia is still haunting her. It's in the way she looks at the map, the midnight creeping out from the corners of her eyes, the firm line of her lips. Try as Tamri might to get her master to move on, Sae still dwells on the loss. On her inability to do anything. That sight of Master Gallia's body lying on the Tython Mezzanine just won't leave. "I think everyone here's capable, Master," she says, her words slow, careful, soft.
"I know that," Sae says, "but I'm eliminating risks where I can. And you and I are going to draw the attention."
"How's this going, now?" the Zeltron says.
Sae points to the sewer line. "Tamri and I will punch up through here, emerge from the sewer line, and engage the guards by the shed," she says. "Both mercenaries and two of the clones can finish the smaller guard contingent by the rear entrance. Any of you commandos good with explosives?"
"That's me," Brunt growls. "I also shoot stuff."
"Wow. That last part coulda fooled me," Turner says. "Clones? Shooting? You don't say."
Sae holds up her hand. "You're part of overwatch, then. While Tam and I draw the guards, get to the shed from your position in the building, deactivate the impound codes, and then set the place to blow. Once that happens, all clones make a fighting retreat. Mercs and Jedi to the ship. We take off, blast on out of orbit, and hit the hyperdrive to Ossus. Everyone lives. Taking the yard at speed means no chance of enemy reinforcements arriving before we're gone."
Falco's eyes narrow. "Two Jedi against their whole front gate guard contingent's a bit much. How about one of the overwatch team drops down behind the droids and helps you out?"
"We'll handle it. Just get the shed to blow once you're done. And tell us when," Sae says. "Get a big enough bomb there, and the explosion will take the rest of the guards out."
"Right," says Hawke. "Nice and clean, we got this. We'll make sure no one harasses you from the ground on the way out."
Falco looks around. "Any concerns? Questions?" When nothing comes, he kicks the holo's emitter button. "That's that, then. Shift change at the yard's tomorrow at sunup. That's when we strike. Get some sleep before then. Dismissed."
An hour later Tamri sits in the rafters, holding her knees to her chest, watching the acid rain pelt the windows. Plit-plit-plit. Horrible downpour that still makes such a soothing sound. As if she could be anywhere. Coruscant. Kuat. Even Naboo, if she closes her eyes and imagines it. Hiding away in some fresco-stylized palace, plants and colors bursting all around, warm summer rain tapping away. Plit-plit-plit. She can feel the drops on her skin. Ah, to fantasize. To dive into the ether of unbounded imagination that stirs between thoughts. To swim in a sea of possibilities amid a galaxy so vast she will never see most of it.
Sae plops down beside her and Tamri pulls her knees tighter against her chest. The rafter creaks beneath their weight. "Hey," says Sae.
"Hey," Tamri replies. She doesn't look her master's way. Plit-plit-plit. The stillness of the moment. As if she could get lost in the possibilities forever.
"I didn't mean to be cross with you earlier," Sae says. "I just…I trust the clones enough to do the job, but mercenaries are always messy. Especially when our intel contact's up and gotten himself nabbed by a bounty hunter, apparently. You have to be careful with the things you don't know. There's so much out there that can go wrong."
Tamri rests her chin on her forearms. "I understand."
"You can disagree with me, you know. You don't always have to nod. I mean, it's nice in the moment, but I want to hear your opinion too," Sae says. "Your friend Ahsoka argues with Skywalker all the time, so Obi-Wan says. It's not a bad thing. If you want—"
"I'm fine," Tamri says. "It's fine."
In truth, she doesn't want to argue, even about the validity of arguing. Ahsoka has her ways of doing things. She's headstrong and fierce, strong in the Force, apprenticed to the most powerful Jedi Knight in the Order. It's different. It's hard to put into words, but Tamri is just fine in the quiet moments, Sae and her and no words save the tapping of the rain. Maybe Sae's right: Maybe she shouldn't be this way. Maybe she should be disagreeing, arguing, proposing different ideas and alternative plans. Maybe she's failing her own master by failing to speak up. But all throughout her training as a youngling and an Initiate, it was well done and your patience is admirable, youngling and to be gentle is to be virtuous. You are on the right track, young one. Maybe she shouldn't have listened to all those lessons so closely. Maybe she shouldn't have always tried to be the model Initiate. But she did, and she is here now, letting the silence settle. She does not have a rebel heart. She makes do with the world; she does not seek to upend it. And if that is a flaw, then Tamri is flawed at the most fundamental of levels.
She fiddles with her Padawan's braid. Just a tiny bit of hair, a little blonde reminder of the Order slipping out from beneath her tied-back hair. "I like the clones," she murmurs.
"Falco and his team? They're…different," Sae says. "Commandos are made differently than the other clones on Kamino. A little more like everyday people. I like them too." She stares off into the dusky air. "What do you think of the mercs?"
"I dunno. They seem fine."
"I guess we'll find out."
Again they are quiet. Plit-plit-plit. Rain and bats and spiderwebs. Dirty, sure, but in the face of slouching through a sewer line and going head-to-head with battle droids on the morrow, it's wondrous. What a plan. Sae's strategizing floats through Tamri's thoughts, and on a whim she decides to broach the big question. "Are you still thinking of Master Gallia?"
Sae's head whips around. "What?"
"You were really insistent on the no-casualties thing."
"Because I don't want people dying. War or not, death's not something to throw around lightly. Clones or not. They're people, despite how the Republic treats them. They're not droids. We don't—we shouldn't—just be tossing them into a meat grinder of blaster fire. It's barbaric."
Tamri looks at her feet. "Oh."
Sae sighs. "I didn't mean—never mind," she says. She slumps over, pawing at a speck of dirt on their rafter. "I've lost too many friends in this stupid war, Tam. Master Kenobi's the only friend I have left from when I was a youngling. The only friend period, really. Most of my friends went down at Geonosis. The rest, bit by bit, here and there. Then Master Gallia. I don't have much left, and there wasn't anything I could do about any of it. Just sitting around, going where the Council said, all the while waiting to hear that someone else was killed in battle. It's all so tiresome."
Tamri looks over at her out of the corner of her eye. "Would you have gone there if you could've?"
"Where?"
"Geonosis. On that first day of the war. Instead of us being on Nar Shaddaa at the time."
Sae lets out a long, slow breath. "No," she murmurs. "I would've been helpless there, too. Just been shot down like everyone else. And you would've been there too, getting shot by droids. You'd only been my Padawan for a year at the time. It would've been horrible."
Tamri looks away. "Yeah. I guess so."
"Make sure you never forget your friends, Tamri. Don't just ignore them. When you see them, talk to them. Remember them. Otherwise you just end up forgetting their faces, and wondering what it was all about in the first place."
"I won't. I mean, I—well, I see them at the Temple enough," says Tamri. "Master Yoda says not to form attachment, though. It's unbecoming of a Jedi."
"Yes. Yes he does say that. Sometimes he's right about it. And other times he's wrong."
"How is it wrong? Attachment can lead to the Dark Side when you fear to lose what you're attached to. Fear leads to anger and all that. Right?"
Sae looks at her for a long moment. Closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Lets it out. "When this war's over—" Sae begins, but her voice falters and her words drop away.
"Yes?"
"Never mind," Sae says abruptly. She rises and dusts off her cloak. "Make sure you get some sleep before tomorrow. We're going before the others to get through the sewer system on time."
Tamri watches her walk away. Things left unsaid. Matters of the heart still unable to bridge that divide. When the war is over. But when will that ever happen?