The Tath private gardens are anything but private. It is a microcosm of Taris in here—shining statues and exotic flora sprawling for hectares while amid them wander and marvel dozens, even hundreds of guests in all manner of dress from the drab of the Lower City to the glitz and glow of Upper City noble gowns. Below the walkways zig-zagging labyrinth-like through the gardens gleam with gold and marble; high above a trail of factory-grey smog saunters lazily skyward. The spring-blooming soft smell of flowers and new growth tainted with the merest sour stink of polluted flakes drifting down like trace snowfall. If the scale of the gardens were not enough to shock Obi-Wan, then the stark contrast of grandeur and commonality does it. As if even all the Tath's wealth and influence is not enough to keep the industry-swollen tendrils of Taris from reaching in.
Still, he minds his manners. "It's a sight to see," he says as the Taths lead Anakin and him out into the open. "I'd never expect such magnificence on Taris. It's comparable to the finest exhibitions on Coruscant."
"It does come with its costs," Solan says as he sweeps his arm before a display of orange-fronded fungal trees from Ithor. "It requires enough energy to power a cruiser in order to keep climate and other elements at their proper levels. Not to mention the price of acquiring many of these specimens—this mesa highthorn bush from Jedha—" he points to a jagged-looking, squat bramble that Hosha plucks a red berry from and pops in her mouth— "is nearly impossible to cultivate off of its homeworld. Yet I find that it is that experience of bringing the galaxy here to Taris that sparks the communal spirit in all of us Tarisians. And so Hosha and I allow everyone in. Nobles. Commoners. It is so easy for this world to swallow its people up. Why not birth an oasis in the midst of all that durasteel, where all Tarisians can forget that smoggy outside, if only for a short time?"
If this garden is any example—and if Solan is telling the truth—then Obi-Wan is beginning to see why the Taths have Taris wrapped around their finger. A few free gifts and some nice scenery is enough to win over most people, especially on a world like this. Solan isn't wrong about all that poverty and industry devouring its denizens. It's little different from what Obi-Wan's seen many times amid Coruscant's lower levels. "Cousin," Hosha says, letting Anakin go and taking Solan's arm, "perhaps Master Skywalker and I might tour the gardens together on our own? I know you and Master Kenobi have much to discuss of all your important scientific topics, but they grow a tad dry for my liking."
"That is not what you say whenever we are hard at work," Solan says dryly. "Perhaps, more accurately, you are taking a liking to Master Skywalker?"
"Now, hold on, there's—" Anakin starts.
Obi-Wan cuts him off with a look. "A sound suggestion," he says. "Anakin would be happy to escort you."
"I—of course," Anakin says through gritted teeth.
"Marvelous," Hosha trills, taking Anakin's hand. "Let us leave them to their talk, Master Skywalker. Shall we?"
Anakin nods with all the verve of a Jedi being dragged into Senatorial politics. Come to think of it, Obi-Wan's seen that look on Anakin's face too many times before. That's what he gets for spending so much time around the Chancellor and Senator Amidala.
"Your wish is my command, my lady," he grumbles.
When they disappear into the gardens, Solan leads Obi-Wan on to a narrow footbridge with railings of ivory and bronzium. Below, a waterfall spills into a stream lit by the starlike flickering of bioluminescent minnows peeking through the currents. "Hosha can be exuberant," says Solan. Compared to his cousin's energy, he has barely so much as flinched or blinked this entire time. "She has good intentions—much of these gardens was her idea—but I do apologize in advance if she exasperates your companion."
"Oh, Anakin is used to such things," says Obi-Wan. "He has exasperated me enough over the years."
"Then perhaps they are a good match," Solan says. "But in truth, I am glad we have the chance to speak alone, Master Kenobi. Come. Let us stop here for a moment."
As he places his palms on the railing and looks over the small natural-rock amphitheater below, Solan Tath at last looks something close to alive. There is a subtle quiver about the corner of his lip. Whispers of a frown. A pinching by the corners of his ethereal eyes. He may as well be shouting. "I understand you do not trust us, Master Jedi," Solan says. "If your first contact with my family was with Hosha's brother Ternon, then no doubt you must see us in such tainted light. I am well aware of Arkania's reputation as well. Mad scientists, many of you humans call us Arkanians. The polite ones, at least. But I assure you that Hosha and I dream of a brighter future. Not just for Taris, but for the galaxy at large."
"Don't we all," says Obi-Wan. At last he is ready to start pushing for the truth. "This is a time of war, however. I imagine many of the Separatists say the same things. I am sure you have heard Count Dooku's propaganda broadcasts. He paints the Republic and the Jedi as imperialists and autocrats. No one claims to work for evil. Not even the truly evil."
"It is hard to argue with some of Dooku's points. Here on Taris the holonet claims that the Republic works for peace and diplomacy to bring an end to the war, yet every resolution in the Senate allocates funding for clone troopers and warships. The Jedi have always been peacekeepers, but now you—even you yourself—lead armies into battle as generals. It is not just about perspectives anymore, Master Jedi. It is not so clear. It is about definitions, a matter of language. 'Evil' no longer means anything. We only know what is in our hearts, and that is so hard for anyone outside to understand."
Obi-Wan rubs his chin. "Yes. Then I suppose it is our actions that will tell the tale when all of this is over. So tell me, Solan. What do your actions say?"
"Rather than tell you, perhaps I should show you," he says, righting himself. Below guests file into the seats of the auditorium, and holograms light up on the limestone stage. "I am scheduled to deliver a speech in mere minutes before an audience of two hundred. Perhaps you would like to join me."
"Me? For your speech?"
"Yes. If it is peace you desire, then help me to extol the virtues of neutrality. Show my guests that the Jedi can preach peace just as much as they can swing their lightsabers. It is so much more believable in person than amid the digital suspicion of the Holonet," says Solan. He motions towards the gathering crowd. "Would you pass up the chance to speak for the Order to those who will never have the chance to see a Jedi again?"
Obi-Wan narrows his eyes as he looks over the amphitheater. The trap is closing. He is fine for now, but he feels the tension mounting, the deception swinging towards revelation. Now that he has come this far, there is no backing out now.
"You seem much livelier without Master Kenobi around. Are you two close?"
Anakin rubs his neck. When he woke up, he had hoped to leave the schmoozing and socializing to Obi-Wan while sneaking around the estate and getting a good long look around the Taths' treasure room, but now he's here, walking around a garden with an Arkanian woman taller than he is, her eyes watching his every move—they are watching, aren't they? How can anyone tell? "Obi-Wan's just got a, uh, different opinion about things. I'm not so much for the philosophical discussions," says Anakin.
"A man of action then? Much better in my opinion," says Hosha. "That's the only way things get done."
"Yeah? Is that what you and your cousin are doing?"
"Of course, Master Skywalker. Take a walk—or maybe a flight, a walk can be quite dangerous—through the Lower City sometime. Taris devours its people alive. All those factories that churn out the smog in the air turn workers into husks. Is it so bad that Solan and I wish to use our wealth to change that? We can make a better world. And why stop there? World by world. We must have ambition in life if we have the means to achieve it. Anything less is a waste. One has to reach for their dreams."
Anakin manages a half-hearted laugh. Maybe a quarter-hearted. Less, actually. "I don't think most of the Jedi would agree."
"Most. But not you?"
"Eh. Kind of. I just think if things need doing, you do them. What else is there to do?"
Hosha chuckles. "Things would be better if all the galaxy ran like that."
Her smile fades as they walk on through the maze, passing bystanders and security guards and so many plants and fungal trees that Anakin thinks this place could rival the royal gardens on Naboo—although he only knows about those because Padme dragged him there once while they were both on leave. We could stay here forever, she'd said then as they walked alone through the hedge maze. Then she'd laughed. All we'd have to do is run away from the Senate and the Jedi Order. It'd be that easy. Yet in the moment it had seemed easy. So easy to give in. So easy to set aside the war and the politics and all the places and people who dragged him away from her.
Like this. Gah, why can't he stop thinking about Padme now? This is the last place he'd want to take her, this den of serpents all clad in gilded robes. Vipers bedding in silk, feasting on rats served on silver platters. Rooting around the filth of the Lower City would be an improvement. At least it'd be honest, and if someone crossed him the wrong way, he could simply draw his lightsaber, rather than pretending to laugh at their jokes. It's as bad as all of those horrible Senate parties that Padme—no, there you go again. Stop thinking about her until you're not stuck with Hosha Tath.
It would've been better if he could swap places with Obi-Wan. Their assessment of the Taths was way off: Hosha is not her cousin. She is, he mulls, a socialite at heart, too quick to gab and gossip, none of the scheming and strategy in her that clearly lights up the head of the cold and clinical Solan. His chances of getting anything interesting out of her about the treasure vault or about the Sith artifact on Empress Teta are slim.
But he has to try, anyway. If nothing else, it will give him something to do besides looking at flowers. "Now that we're alone," he says as they veer off the main maze path and into a private courtyard, "I wanted to say I'm sorry about your brother. I was the one who found him, after all."
Hosha bites her lip. "It's all right," she says. "In truth, he was a vile person. I imagine he brought his death onto himself. Still, he was my brother. My parents are gone, and now Ternon is, too. Solan is the only family I have left."
"Bit of a harsh way to talk about your brother. If you don't mind me asking, what made him vile?"
"This and that. The people he consorted with. Dregs, mostly. His obsession with wealth. Not using it, just having it. Gathering credits and hoarding valuables he did nothing with. Much like his brains. What a waste of a man."
"Huh. Sounds like a collector."
She smiles. "That's a kind way of putting it."
"He ever collect anything good? I mean, if you have credits and like hoarding valuables…well, sounds like they go hand-in-hand to me."
"What kind of good? Interesting good?"
"Yeah."
She shrugs. "I suppose he had a few interesting finds. Some archeological relics from thousands of years ago. A lot of Core Worlds trinkets from the High Republic days. Most of it was nonsense to me."
Blast it. If only Hosha had died and he was here talking with Ternon. "You're telling me your brother had artifacts thousands of years old and you never took a look at them? Smart woman like you? Heck, I take a look at some of the old Jedi artifacts in our archives from time to time, and I don't even know what I'm looking at."
"Do you spend your time working on your flattery, instead?" she says, grinning. "Come, Jedi, there's far more interesting things in the world than my brother's hoarding habits. Come. My brother is giving a speech soon in our garden forum. Let's have a watch from the overhang."
A bad feeling wells up in Anakin's chest. He knew her dismay at breakfast was an act, but she is too quick to deflect, too quick to change subjects, to draw him off. Yet if he presses, pursues, it will be too obvious. This is all Obi-Wan's fault. If he hadn't already sent Ahsoka off to investigate whatever communications tower he found, Anakin could've had her digging through the vault.
That ill feeling does not diminish when Hosha leads him to the overlook above the amphitheater. Anakin can see both Solan and Obi-Wan on the stage, flanked by larger-than-life holograms of what look like planetary leaders or politicians. If it's Solan's speech, why is Obi-Wan up there?
Before he can ask Hosha, Bal Vigaro appears to their right as if summoned out of the foliage. "Excuse me, Mistress," the Echani majordomo says, stepping past Anakin (and smelling overwhelmingly of flowers—Padme would probably be laughing at him right now as he recoils) and leaning in to Hosha. "Personal message for you."
Hosha takes the disc-shaped palm holotransmitter from Vigaro's hand. "One of my friends's son's betrothal," she says to Anakin. "I was expecting it. Care to join me to listen in?"
This just keeps getting worse. "I, uh, think I'll watch the speech," says Anakin. "If you don't mind." That bad feeling keeps growing. It's the amphitheater, he thinks. He knows. If something is going to happen, if the Taths do have something malevolent planned, then it has to be Solan. He has to be the mastermind. This gathering, the crowd. It's like a grotesque play set up for some horrible climax. He hopes Obi-Wan knows what he's doing, but all Anakin can do for now is watch and wait for something or someone suspicious to catch his eye. Going off to listen to frivolities with Hosha is the last thing he needs to do. Maybe she even wants him to look away, to get distracted.
"I understand," says Hosha. "I imagine this will be quick. I'll be back to join you in no time."
"Don't worry about me," says Anakin, but Hosha—along with Vigaro—is already gone.
His eyes watch the crowd. Ears perk up for any sound out of place. Any weapons? Any droids? No, nothing yet. Keep watching. Stay vigilant.
Yet he is so focused on the crowd, on Obi-Wan, on Solan, that he does not see Hosha Tath disappear into the gardens. He does not watch as she clicks a button on the disc holo, does not feel the vacuum-cavity of the artificial, technological bubble of silence that envelops her as the communicator projects a field of privacy around Hosha. Anakin does not see her activate the holo's image. Does not witness as the shifting blue figure of a hooded, robed man shimmers to life.
And he most certainly does not hear what she says next.
"Greetings," Hosha says, the holo ensuring no one will overhear her, "Lord Sidious."
"Hosha Tath," croaks the hooded man. "It is time to put our plan into motion."
Hosha bows her head. "All is prepared, my lord."
"Good. Do not concern yourself with the Jedi beyond what is necessary," says the hologram. "Beyond their immediate usefulness, they need not interfere in our plans. Now go. And do not disappoint me."
Once more Hosha dips her head. "It will be done."
Then the hologram dies, the bubble of silence falls, and Bal Vigaro steps forward and leans in to whisper in her ear: "Are we to begin, Mistress?"
"Yes," she says. "Make ready."
The majordomo withdraws a scoped blaster pistol from beneath his robes. "I am always ready."
Anakin's suspicions are not entirely wrong.
From the moment he steps onto the amphitheater stage with Solan and the crowd breaks into applause, Obi-Wan can feel that something is about to go poorly. He scans the crowd. Commoners, nobles. No one that stands out as an assassin. No battle droids ready to storm the gardens. No Count Dooku. There is only the crowd and before them Solan Tath, his arms oustretched as if to receive the energy of their adulation, suddenly transformed from restrained and stoic to the apple of the audience's eye. This is the man they see. Just as much a celebrity as a visionary, larger than life. More than just a man. Someone chosen, like a hero of destiny to drag Taris back to the glory days of thousands of years past, deliver it from the smog and the pollution and turn a rust-tainted ecumenopolis into sunlit silver spires stretching tall to the horizon.
To Solan's credit, he starts off his speech as if this is all an honest affair. After the thank you for being here and it is an honor come the promises: Ten million credits to Tarisian Lower City educational charities. Another two million to environmental initiatives. He had the crowd won from the start, and now they will never leave.
Then, at last, in the midst of yet another round of applause, he sweeps a hand towards Obi-Wan and says, "It is not just Taris we must think of, my friends. Taris is but a beacon of light amid a galaxy thrust into darkness by war. But there are so many of us searching for peace, fighting for peace, in the midst of all this, not just me, not just you. Here today to join me in that fight to save this galaxy is someone you have all likely seen on the holonet broadcasts from the front lines of the Clone Wars. Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, a hero of the Republic."
Obi-Wan waves sheepishly. Solan has thrust him into an arena that is most certainly not his specialty. But he cannot spring the trap unless he pretends to walk into it first, so on he marches. "Hello," he says, far too quiet for the clapping crowd to hear.
"Please, Master Jedi, please, come forward, speak up," says Solan, suddenly so exuberant as if an imposter has replaced him. "We are both of us warriors for peace, and on Taris we pride our neutrality, our pursuit of better days in the middle of this war that never seems to end." He beckons for the crowd to quiet, and they, on command—like droids, like thralls—settle into silence in moments. "Master Kenobi, if I might ask that you speak to our crowd about one issue we have heard so much about as of late."
He nods. "If I can."
"On the holonet, we hear of the Separatist Alliance pushing forward on every front," says Solan. "The Senate claims they wish for peace. For diplomacy. Why is it, with the Separatists achieving so many military victories, does the Republic not sue for peace? The Separatists claim they want only their own breakaway state. If that is so, why can the two sides not come to an agreement? Why all the fighting? Why all the death? Why the need to so vigorously defend our neutrality here on Taris so that we might not get caught up in the madness?"
Oh, this is a right mess. Already Obi-Wan can see where Solan is going. It is just like their conversation on the bridge. Why do you keep fighting if you just want peace? Why not agree to their terms? The argument itself is so simple, so easy for the crowd to hear, yet the real reasons—the nuances of the war, the shades of grey that blend into every battle, every decision, every regret—are so complex. Where does Obi-Wan even start to defend himself, the Jedi, the Republic? "We stand for democracy," he says, "for the right of all free people in the galaxy to decide their own fate. The Separatists are led by Count Dooku, a man granted full military and political control by the oligarchs of their ruling council—"
"They have their democracy, the same as yours," Solan counters.
"Their democracy is nothing but an assembly of appeasers who grant Dooku and the Separatist corporate leaders what they wish. Among their leaders is the same Trade Federation who blockaded Naboo more than a decade ago and subjected its people to horrors beyond description, all for energy rights. Then there is the Corporate Alliance, the Banking Clans, the Commerce Guild. Do these sound like democratic institutions to you?"
"No," says Solan. "They sound like corporate entities who all have seats in the Republic Senate. If they are so heinous, then why does the Republic keep them around? If they oppress the common people, is the Republic therefore not complicit?"
Truthfully, Obi-Wan knows there is no defense for that. There is no reason for the Trade Federation to have a seat in the Senate—no reason save for rampant corruption that anyone can see. Still, he cannot back down in the middle of this argument, lest he reveal an opening for Solan to exploit. "That is not—"
"And if that is true," Solan pushes on, turning his back to Obi-Wan and holding up a finger like a teacher lecturing a schoolchild, "and if the Republic is willing to overlook the fate of its own commoners in its efforts of war and governance, then what does it show its enemies, such as worlds seized from the Separatists in battle? What does the Republic show the League of Neutral Systems, who would resist its oversteps? What does the Republic show neutral planets like Taris, who will not join in the death, the killing, the carnage? Already the holonet brings news of instability on Mandalore—the same Mandalore entitled as the leader of the League of Neutral Systems. Is that the war's doing? The Separatists' doing? The Republic's doing?" He spreads his arms before the crowd as the audience grows loud and raucous. "Let not I tell you whose doing it is, my friends. Let not Master Kenobi here tell you, either. Let only your eyes tell you, and let me show you who would bring violence to your world, your streets, and your people!"
The holograms at the side of the stage flicker and morph, warping into one coherent video feed behind Solan and Obi-Wan. The image clears, and with it clears a figure.
Obi-Wan's heart drops.
It is Ahsoka, her lightsabers lit, standing defiant in the middle of a skybridge bustling with pedestrians. "This," Solan says to the crowd, "is an emergency news feed from mere minutes ago. Master Kenobi promises he fights for peace, but as he speaks of democracy to you now, his fellow Jedi brings terror to our planet!"
A trio of Tarisian police come into view, backing Ahsoka down with rifles leveled. "You are under arrest," one of them says. Then the sound blurs, static cutting in even as Obi-Wan sees Ahsoka's mouth move—saying something that would invalidate this whole narrative, surely—before the feed restores the noise a moment later. "I won't say it again," the guard says.
Obi-Wan can do only but watch. Ahsoka's eyes dart to the side, as if she hears something behind her. She ducks forward. Jedi instincts. Saving her, no doubt, but at this moment only making her look all the guiltier.
Then the bridge explodes.
The audience shrieks, gasps. The video feed shakes, quakes, and when it steadies once more Ahsoka rises amid strewn rubble and debris as all three security guards lay fallen and civilian bodies litter the wrecked skybridge. The sound returns. Screams. Howls. Pleading.
There it ends. Ahsoka, alone among the dead.
"You do not bring democracy, Jedi," Solan booms, whirling on Obi-Wan as the crowd protests, as loud as a storm, "you bring the war!"
Obi-Wan raises his hand to protest as a blaster shot rings out. A red bolt lances from an overhang high above the amphitheater stands and strikes Solan in the right shoulder just as he points his accusatory finger at Obi-Wan, throwing him back, sending him spinning to the ground. He cries out. The crowd shrieks.
"Assassin!" Solan bellows.
The hologram whirs to life once more. Now it shows the amphitheater, and it zooms in to the overhang. Like with Ahsoka, there is only one figure standing with lightsaber drawn. Anakin.
The Jedi, the crowd screams, pushing, shoving, scrambling for the exits. The Jedi shot him!
"Guards!" Solan howls. "Security! Apprehend these killers!"
This is not what Obi-Wan had intended by springing the trap. A pair of Echani men hurry onto the stage before him, each toting an electrostaff. They thumb the weapons' activators and send violet lighting ablaze across the staff ends, ready to fight, ready to clash with a Jedi. It is clearer than ever, as the crowd surges towards the exits, that this was all planned. The manor security must have let him and Anakin out of their rooms at night, fed them the information they wanted. No doubt Ahsoka found something in the comms tower, and the Taths planned for that too. It is all one giant trap.
But there is nothing Obi-Wan can do but draw his lightsaber.
The glow. The hum. It always ends like this.
"Surrender, Jedi!" one of the Echani snarls as Solan, clutching his shoulder, scampers off-stage and hustles after the crowd. "Stand down!"
Obi-Wan raises his blade and settles into a defensive stance. Keep them at bay. Find Anakin. Get out of here. One thing at a time.
Fortunately, for once this morning something goes right.
As the two Echani close in, a lone figure comes sprinting out from behind them and leaps into the air. Anakin, with saber drawn. He shouts and smashes into the ground between the two Echani, sending out a wave of telekinetic Force energy that sends the guards flying. "Done chatting yet?" he says as he links up with Obi-Wan, lightsaber at the ready, searching for foes.
"Yes, I think it's time to make our great escape," says Obi-Wan. "We need to find the fastest exit and link up with Ahsoka before this gets any worse."
"Follow me. I found their speeder garage last night."
"Are you sure that's reliable after what's happened here?"
"Do we have another choice? You want to walk to Ahsoka?"
Obi-Wan grits his teeth as a blaster bolt comes flying out of the garden foliage. He reflects it with ease, sending it off into the air. "Feel free to lead on at any time!" he says as he reflects another shot.
"This way. Come on!"
And they run, master and apprentice, brother and brother, Jedi against a world that in the short breath of a darkening morning has turned against them and calls for their blood.
Midnight on Serenno.
Again Count Dooku dreams. He twists and turns through the churning black, eyes closed and mind wide open, thoughts that are not his pouring in from so many unseen angles. He raises his hand to fight his demons but his hand budges as if trapped in thickening duracrete, and his lightsaber is nowhere to be found. The darkness warps and forms, deforms, breaks apart and rematerializes, a freak show of nightmares fracturing and reforging. The voice, though—the voice is the same as before. And it never—she never—leaves.
"What do you think will happen, Dooku? Tell me. What is the way of the Sith?"
He struggles, growls, grits his teeth. Mother Talzin is everywhere and nowhere, beyond his eyes, his ears, his hands, his weapons, yet she infects his dream like a virus. You have no power over me, he thinks, but his mouth does not move and the words do not come.
Talzin hears anyway. "I have all the power over you, Count. You cannot escape me. You cannot escape your own destiny. Can you see it coming? Here, let me show you."
The dream moves again. The dark recedes. Light returns. It is night—but not on Serenno. Crystal—no, glass. A glass house. Palace? A throne. Red lightsabers cutting through the dusk. Laughter. Dooku knows it.
His master. Darth Sidious.
"Can't you see, Dooku?" Talzin says. She laughs. "You follow like a pet, and Lord Sidious thinks of you as one. How long will he tolerate such a weak apprentice? Do you think you will rule by his side? Do you think there is any future here but the one you can make? Look. Look. See for yourself."
The glass palace shatters on infinite edges. Fractals spiraling into the mind's twilight. Dooku struggles and turns, spins—wake up, wake up—and closes his eyes in the dream, as if that might spare him from Talzin's taunts. When he opens them the darkness is gone. The lightsabers are gone. Lord Sidious's laughter is gone.
Winter is before him. Snow-swathed mountains like seraphim. Tormented black trees as if some infernal char cooked this place long ago and left only ashes for the snows to veil. Before him there is a mountain, and it is within the gaping cavern in its side that Dooku sees it. There: See the glow. Feel its warmth. Something is calling. Something that is both light and so, so dark.
"Do you see it now, Count? Look at your fate. Look at your destiny. What is the way of the Sith?"
Then he wakes. Again his bedsheets are drenched in sweat, and Dooku sits up, grumbling, pressing a hand to his forehead. Crescent-moon pale light peeping through his satin-curtained windows. He throws off his blankets, stumbles to his feet, and shambles to his bedroom's holoemitter, checking the door before he activates it to ensure his privacy. Closed. Locked. Good.
A few button punches later and the holo blurs to life. General Grievous emerges from the coalescing blue light, kneeling in all his digitized glory. "Yes, Count?"
"Grievous," says Dooku. Why is he calling Grievous? The general knows what to do. No, it is not him—it is Dooku who does not know what to do. He knows what his master, Sidious, wants. He knows what he is supposed to do. But is it what he wants?
Is it the way of the Sith?
Why does that sound so familiar?
"Do you need something?" Grievous asks. "Soon I plan to strike at Teyr, to draw off the Ghorman fleet as you instructed. I will destroy them and return to Thyferra."
Inspiration stirs in Dooku. His master would not like this, but he feels compelled to speak up. To say his own words. To…disobey. To give instructions to Grievous that Lord Sidious would not at all approve of. For once as a Sith—perhaps the first real time—Dooku veers onto his own path. It feels bizarre. It feels troublesome. It feels tempting.
It feels good.
"A Jedi Master commands the Ghorman fleet," says Dooku. "Taron Malicos. He is an expert tactician, and he will give you a challenging fight."
Grievous cackles. "Excellent. He is nothing. I will massacre him and crush his pathetic fleet."
"No, general, you will not," Dooku says. Grievous narrows his eyes. "You will take Malicos alive and send him to me."
"Alive?"
"You heard me, Grievous. Alive. Directly to my estate on Serenno. As few people as possible shall know of this. Am I clear?"
Grievous looks as if the thought is repugnant, but he bows nonetheless. "Yes, my lord. And if there are other Jedi?"
"Do as you see fit," Dooku says. "If you can take them alive, then do so. I expect Malicos at the least."
"Why do you want them alive?"
Dooku leans forward and scowls. "Because they may be useful to me, and by association, to you," he snarls. "Am I clear?"
"Yes, Count."
"And one more thing, Grievous," Dooku continues. "Call it instruction."
Grievous coughs. "Instruction?"
"You have done well combating the Jedi so far in this war. But you have never learned how to truly destroy them. You can kill a Jedi with your lightsabers. But to fully break a Jedi, make the ones they care about suffer. Make them wallow in their regret. Force them to either swallow their anger or embrace it, and show them how weak they really are," says Dooku. "Because to break them is so much more satisfying, and useful, than to kill them."
Grievous laughs. "You can be assured I will break them. Every last one of them."
"Good. That is what I expect."
Dooku switches off the holotransceiver and lets out a long, slow breath. The path of his own making is beneath his feet now. He has stepped forward onto alien terrain. Lord Sidious cannot know of what he just told Grievous. He cannot know of what plans are already swirling about Dooku's head.
Dooku does not have a real plan just yet, nothing manifest formed in these few minutes since he awoke from a mostly-forgotten dream on peaceful Serenno. Yet he can still hear whispers, even beyond the dream. Voices. No—one voice, a voice he cannot quite pinpoint, but a voice he knows well. He can feel it.