The storm has faded; light shines upon Ilum.
Ahsoka shields her eyes as she departs the caverns. Brilliant blaze across the fresh snow. The heavens piercing through the dark clouds. Like everything is beginning to be set right once more, the darkness that descended so low, so ominous, thrown back. But Ahsoka's work here is not yet finished. First she must find Rex, see what troubled him enough on this lonely frozen world for him to call for her aid. So few outside the Jedi Order have set foot here, but if there is a malevolent newcomer arriving on Ilum with ill intentions, it is the duty of every Jedi, Ahsoka included, to stand in the defense of this sacred place. It is as much their home as the Jedi Temple is.
She sets out across the icy wastes as the temperature rises, the wind dies, and beads of snowmelt gleam like diamonds scattered across the landscape. Rex's signal isn't far, but the slippery conditions, only growing more treacherous with the sun's reemergence, makes hiking a treacherous proposition. Ahsoka pulls her cloak tight around her shoulders and takes it slow. No need to rush. You are no longer a Jedi without a lightsaber: Even if it's only a crystal, your weapon has called out to you. The Force has tested you. And still you walk on.
She finds Rex in a narrow grotto adjacent to a deep, ice-blue glacial fissure that cuts into the surface and drops down into a cold, bottomless black. Ahsoka leaps over the crevasse, digging her cybernetic heels into the ice to hold her footing. Steady. No need to worry. You have this. "Rex?" she calls out as she approaches the grotto. "You there?"
Rex sticks his head out above the grotto's lip, clone helmet on to keep out the cold. "Over here, Commander."
She drops down into the grotto. It's shady, the snow firmer, the footing more reliable. By the near end of the grotto Rex motions towards a man-sized hole in the ice, exposing a tubular bore hole tunneling away into frozen darkness. "I found this out here off of a weak EM signature, just strong enough to pick up over the blizzard earlier," he says. "I had a quick look inside. Apparently some sort of modular analysis set-up was still giving off readings, even though someone had shut down all the accompanying machinery. Slip-up, most likely. Fortunate for us."
"Machinery for what?"
Rex waves her inside the bore hole. He lights up the interior with a glow stick, the neon green light eerie, ghost-like, against the claustrophobic ice. Jagged, probe-like metal devices protrude from the walls, most no larger than Ahsoka's hand. "As best as I can tell, they're prospecting scanners," says Rex as he indicates the probes. "Supposed to drive 'em into the ice and scan for materials. But there's more."
He leads her on. Down several dozen meters there opens a hole through which pours freezing air. Rex drops his glow stick down the hall, cracks another on his knee, and holds up a climbing anchor with an attached rope. "Found these littered in the tunnel, so I put 'em to good use. You need a hand down?"
"I've got it," says Ahsoka. Moving past him, she crouches at the edge of the tunnel and looks down. The fallen glow stick lights up so little. Darkness down there, darkness and cold. But the mystery of just who has come to Ilum intrigues her, and without a second thought she drops down.
Perfect landing. She straights up, looking around. A subterranean cavern, much like the crystal caves, but this is not a Jedi sanctuary. Before her sprawls a most unnatural formation—the beginnings of a trench, a long, narrow, straight cut-out line in the ice, far too straight for nature's touch. She picks up the glow stick and holds it out. Glistening markers in the trench wall. Kyber crystals. Too tiny for lightsabers, most of these, but whoever began carving out this trench could not have missed those. Not just missed: When she looks closer, her heart skips. Indentations in the trench wall. As if someone was prospecting here, mining crystals. It's not a major operation, certainly not anything on an industrial scale—more like a preliminary search and identification. Someone came here to penetrate the Jedi's shield and determine if this world was ripe for the taking.
"Hey," she calls up to Rex, "did you take a look down this trench?"
"I did. Come back up. I have another thing to show you."
She hauls herself up with the climbing rope, the action easy, natural. Her artificial limbs don't feel so heavy now. Not so foreign, so alien. Bit by bit, she's making them her own—and where she is slow to accustom, the Force is stepping in to aid her. Patience, it whispers. You will not master this change overnight. But with patience, with focus, you will come out of this trial all the stronger.
Rex waits for her with a steel globe the size of a small droid. No, not the size of a droid—it is a droid, albeit a deactivated one. Black-orb eye along its front, a small, disc-shaped repulsorlift below. "Found this down there when I took a look," he said. "No power. But I was able to extract its memory chip. Logs were wiped, no surprise. But its factory protocols were still intact. Innocent stuff mostly—design number, batch lot, industrial minutia—but those protocols included security coding programmed in for the buyer's sake.
"So—you could figure out who the drone was originally sent to?" says Ahsoka.
"I could, and I did," says Rex. "The Republic Corps of Engineers."
Ahsoka's mind blanks. She looks down to the tunnel, back to Rex. "The Republic?"
"The Corp's officially part of the army. Part of the Judicial Forces back before the war broke out, but I have no idea what a drone of theirs would be doing here," says Rex. He holds up the droid. "Best I can tell, this would've been an assistant to someone working on-site. Keeping an eye out for what they missed, identifying mineral deposits lodged in the ice, locating loose footholds to avoid accidents, the like."
Ahsoka takes the droid from his hands and looks it in its de-powered eye. Few secrets left, she thinks, but that makes it all the more suspicious. Someone went to the trouble of wiping this droid's memory, yet didn't bother to take it with them when they left. Did they not think the Jedi would find this place? Did they not care about these remains, so long as the important details were scrubbed? Too many questions, too few answers. But they have a lead, albeit a disconcerting one. One more trail leads back to the Republic, just like from Thyferra, just like from Senator Sandral. It's all connected, this mystery. She can feel it. But the only question is: Who is at the center of it all?
Sundown descends on Dantooine, and Padme moves into action.
"Not a word, Threepio," she says as she crouch-steps out of the maintenance tunnels and exits out into the shadowy alley behind the ministerial manor. Strewn litter in the cracked street—disposable tea cups, paper packaging, battered wooden planks, broken datapads. A light cargo hauler floating half-in and half-out of the freight garage. A pair of gruff male voices float out of the open bay. Padme turns to C-3PO and R2-D2, presses her index finger to her lips, and sidles up to the edge of the garage, her hand reaching for her concealed blaster pistol.
"What're they in such a damn hurry for? Shoutin' and gettin' snarly. Is it about that fight in space from a coupla days ago?" mutters once voice.
The other coughs. "Nah. Some big shot here. Politician."
"Eh?"
"Senator I think. Coruscant. Ah, none of our problem. We're supposed to be getting these crates down to the basement. Hurry it up with the loader."
Padme leans across the edge of the garage just enough to peek inside. Two men, each in dirty, wrinkled uniforms. They won't have a clue who she is, much less about what she's looking for. But if they have security access to the basement level, they could come in handy.
Two choices then: Try and win them over with diplomacy, or pursue aggressive negotiations. This is no time to be subtle. Whatever Anakin found out in the countryside, it sounded serious—and urgent. If there is evidence in the basement levels of corruption running rampant through the Republic, she needs to find it by whatever means necessary. And based on what she overheard from Matele's conversation with his associate, there is corruption aplenty in here.
"Threepio," she says, turning back to the protocol droid, "I need you to get their attention. Draw them both to the back of the cargo hauler."
"I—me, my lady?" he stammers. "I could hardly do such a thing, in fact—"
"It's just for a second. Lure them over. Make something up. You can do it."
R2 whines. Threepio looks between the two of them, eyes wavering. "Oh, all right," he gruffs, shuffling forward as fast as his servos can take him.
Padme sets her blaster to stun. She can't afford a prolonged firefight. Not even a brief shootout. Two shots, two stunned men. Then close the door, lock them in the hauler, and keep going. She can't be seen, not by any staff, not even by these two freight loaders. A shame she can't simply sneak past them, but this is the best chance she'll have—and without knowing what Anakin is up to, she needs to hurry this up. Figure things out before he comes running back to tear up the place in another furious rescue.
Threepio wanders around the hauler and holds up his arms. "Oh, I say! You there!"
"Eh? A droid?"
"What do you want?"
Threepio pauses. Padme tightens her grip on her blaster. "I must note that your arrival is without in-person authorization. If you would please see to this—"
"What're you talkin' about? We got clearance."
"Yes, verbal, but due to recent security measures, safety protocols have risen. I am sure you understand," Threepio lies. "I have a datapad—if you would simply both provide fingerprint identification—"
"Really?"
"Oh, most certainly, sirs," Threepio says, picking a broken datapad off of the ground. Padme can only hope the two men didn't see that. "It will only be a minute—I imagine you can understand how much of a hassle this is for me, as well."
The men grouse, but they approach. Padme kneels down into a firing stance, leveling her blaster and setting it to stun. These aren't battle droids. Just innocent men in the way. No need to cause any lasting damage. Certainly no excuse to take a life, if she can avoid it.
It is over quickly. As soon as Threepio has the men around the back of the hauler, Padme aims and fires. One, two. A pair of blue stun bolts snap from her pistol and catch the men squarely in the chest. Lights out. They crumple to the duracrete, unconscious before they land. "Threepio, R2, help me put them in the hauler," Padme says, grabbing the first man's legs. "We can't have anyone checking around until we're done here."
Luck strikes with the second man. With Dantooine being a backwater world, security lacks the identiscans and genetic readers of protected worlds like Coruscant. Here verification still relies on old tools such as badges and passes, and when Padme pats the man's pocket she finds a slim, square chip-read pass with his picture, name, and credentials. Once she and the droids stash the men in the vehicle and throw the freight door shut, she heads to the garage's far personnel entrance—conveniently marked as basement access—and slides the badge into the reader. The reader chirps and the door unlocks with a click. Easy. Why can't it always be so easy? She should've tried stealth and infiltration on Taris rather than taking the diplomatic route. Might've avoided needing to have a certain Jedi rescue her that way.
The pleasant-white décor of the upper floors of the manor are nowhere to be seen here. Cracked duracrete walls, bare white electric strip lighting, chemical hazard warnings on wall-mounted, rust-spotted fire suppression nozzles, a gonking power droid hooked up to a box outlet and staring face-first at the wall—it looks more like a construction site than Dantooine's house of government. Padme isn't here to see the sights, however. Consulting with R2's holomap, she continues down the corridors, letting the astromech droid jack in to a maintenance terminal in order to ensure she isn't walking into some unforeseen security trap. A little paranoid, maybe, but too many diplomatic trips have turned hostile over her years in the Senate for her to let her guard down. Especially when she's alone.
The plodding of footsteps sends her ducking into a supply closet. She doesn't have time to beckon Threepio and R2 before a trio of maintenance personnel round the far bend in the hallway. Padme closes the door just in time. She crouches down with her blaster at the ready, hoping the droids find their hideaway. So close, now. Just a few hallway turns away to finding the source of whatever and whoever was snooping on Anakin—and to figuring out what secret is enough for Governor Matele to demand Anakin's silencing. She can't let a maintenance shift change stop her.
Fortunately, she doesn't have to. As the staff near, a hissing sputters from the walls. Moments later cries of surprise sound out, followed by the tromping of boots running off in the opposite direction. Padme waits—one-one-thousand, two—counting to ten before creaking the door open just enough to peek out.
Pale globs of fire suppression foam clot the floors and walls. The spray nozzles continue to spew out their flame-killing gloop, throwing out streams of paste that stick to the walls and drip down in noodle-like messes. A terrible mess, but Padme breathes a sigh of relief. Either the maintenance crews will be off to solve the issue, or they'll run off to avoid being held responsible for the clean-up. No matter which outcome, it buys her a little more time.
R2 wheels around the corner, chirping. Threepio admonishes him as he trails in the astromech droid's wake: "Really, was that necessary? Look at the state of this place. What a calamity."
"Good thinking, R2," Padme reassures the droid. "Let's get to the receiver terminal from Anakin's transmission. We can't stay here long, with or without a distraction."
Back down the hall she slips, blaster at the ready. R2's distraction has cleared out any opposition, however, and she and the droids reach an unobtrusive, plain metal door halfway down a hallway without interference. This should be it. R2 plugs into the security access port by the door and Padme stands ready. No windows, no other entrances. Perfect place for an ambush.
The fire suppression distraction worked better than she anticipated, however: Only whole mountains of flame retardant greet her when she enters. One computer station near the door fizzes and sparks, its monitor flickering, still logged in with credentials. Whoever was here, they had no intention of sticking it out through the mess. Padme wipes off the haptic interface board to access the interface, but R2 beeps and shuffles over to a small terminal at the back of the room. "He says that this is the receiving location of Master Anakin's coordinates," says Threepio.
"Get me in to the system," says Padme. "Try and find some sort of…ah, communications records, transmissions archives, anything that looks secure or classified going off-world. Especially anything going to and from Coruscant."
R2 chirps in the affirmative. The droid is through preliminary security and into primary access in seconds; it only takes a few moments more before R2 brings up correspondence listings. Padme looks over him as he works, her eyes scanning. Old history, these records. Request after request sent by Governor Matele over a year ago to various aid and infrastructural entities within the Republic—the Senate Agricultural Committee, the Department of Rim Economic Assistance, the Bureau of Pan-Galactic Transporation. Every time Matele emphasizes Dantooine's need for planetary relief for citizens and government alike given the planet's position so deep behind Separatist lines, and every time he receives only polite rebuffs and nebulous promises. Padme frowns. Despite her suspicion of the governor, she can't help but sympathize with his position. It's obvious from the tone of the authorities he was in contact with—no help was coming. Dantooine was on its own. The Republic abandoned this planet.
More recent correspondence. "Stop here," Padme tells R2 as she reads. More pleas, but this time not to civilian affairs, but military agencies. One name coming up repeatedly, and as Padme reads on, she spots that this contact responds favorably to Matele's aid requestions with firm promises, fixed dates, and set quantities of relief. A military man—assistant director. Orson Krennic.
"Copy these," she says as she keeps reading. "Make a copy of every correspondence with this Krennic. And make sure to cover your tracks. We don't want to leave a record of this."
As R2's processor whirs, Padme glances over one damning correspondence, the one that tells her that Matele is in far too deep to claim innocence. It's a message from Krennic, a relatively recent one—this time with the title "Director Krennic" rather than assistant director—and this time it has a request of its own for Dantooine's governor:
Governor Matele:
Had conversation with Sandral w/r/t T. Tath's excavation on moon of Jedha. Findings suggest additional k crystal deposits on Dantooine near settlement of Khoonda, geo coordinates provided. Send team to confirm, y/n. If y, prepare prospecting group; further detail to be provided. If y, will have H. Tath contact you re: instructions for mining deposits.
-Dir. Krennic
Padme shakes her head. Taths. Just as Matele suggested in the conversation Padme overheard. So they were working together, or at least via Orson Krennic. Worse, it means the Taths, as Director Isard had told Anakin, aren't Separatist—at least not overtly. Working with both sides of the war—between them and the banks, it's all nauseating. No concern for the lives being chewed up in the conflict, the chaos wrought. Just profits and power-gaming.
Another message from Krennic catches her eye, this one less than a month old:
Matele:
Victory over Sep. at Ord Cantrell means Orinda Sec. Fleet freed up. Re-routing destroyer task group to Dantooine via Tarkin authorization. Intel suggests Sep. incursion to Dantooine imminent. Suspend operational arrangement w/H. Tath until Sep. attack likelihood/force projection complete.
-Krennic
A fire builds in Padme's chest. These rats. They had prior knowledge of Separatist activity out here and no one told the Senate. No one coordinated with the rest of the Republic military or with the Jedi. It was just Krennic and Dantooine—and, if this message is correct, Tarkin on his own authority as newly-named Grand Admiral—dictating strategy on their own. She understands the reality of war and the necessities of the military command structure, but if these collaborators were happy to direct aid, both civil and military, all on their own without any outside input or even notification, then how much else were they doing?
And, of course, there's this implication that the Taths' involvement runs far, far higher than even Padme could have envisioned. Does Tarkin know about the Arkanians? Mas Amedda is Tarkin's backer; does he know?
Just then Threepio, still investigating the console near the door, cries out. "Oh, Mistress Padme!"
"Keep copying, R2," Padme says before turning towards the protocol droid. "What is it, Threepio?"
"I'm afraid this security blotter has shown something quite problematic."
Padme shoulders past him and wipes anti-fire goop from the screen. It's an exterior security camera feed with visual input from two minutes ago. Two security guards, guns at the ready. One steps forward as if to confront a visitor before his head goes oddly slack, his shoulders too relaxed. His companion looks his way before mirroring his behavior, nodding slowly, oddly, and letting his weapon arm untense.
A hooded figure waves his hand at each guard, then at the door. It slides open as if by the Force. No—not as if. Anakin.
"Of course you go in the front door, Ani," she sighs. "Threepio, stay with R2. I'm going to find him."
"But—but Mistress Padme, if security returns—"
"I have a pretty good idea of where security's going to be converging real soon," she says, eyes drifting to the monitor. "R2, once you finish copying those files, you and Threepio head back to the ship. Anakin and I will meet you there. Then we're getting off of this world. We have what we need."
She retraces her steps, moving back to the freight garage—complete with dull voices and pounding coming from inside the locked freight hold on the idle cargo hauler—and weaves her way up the maintenance halls. When she steps out into the upper-floor corridor where she overheard Matele's conversation, she finds no one around to confront her. Security lights flash overhead, glaring yellow and red. Whatever Anakin's doing, it's set off a ruckus. She keeps her head down, moving low and fast, blaster ready in case of trouble.
Trouble appears in the next hallway. Padme slides open a security door only to duck behind it just as quickly. A quartet of security troops—light armor, heavy pistols, open-faced helmets, expressions halfway between determination and terror—facing down an unseen opponent. "Stop right there," one of the guards says, his voice shaky. Padme waits. They haven't seen her yet. Whoever the guard's talking to, he has his full attention. "By order of the law—"
"Get out of my way," a familiar voice growls. "Where's the senator? Where's Senator Amidala?"
"Right here," Padme whispers. She sets her pistol to flash and steps out from behind the door. A snap of her fingers gets the guards' attention. Then she looks away and fires.
The pistol produces a brilliant flare, bright white light that sends the guards stumbling back and covering their eyes, their faces contorting into winces and grimaces. Then, as if by the very air, all four are thrown by an invisible force into the wall. They crumple, groaning, a tangle of limbs. Padme rounds the bend to see Anakin straight and true, his lightsaber out, his left hand raised in the aftermath of the Force Push that dealt with the guards.
He deactivates his saber. She holsters her blaster. Then they're running, Dantooine fading away as they collide body-to-body, arms about each other, hearts as one. No words. Simply a long kiss that speaks a story entire. "I was worried about you," Anakin says as they separate. "Looks like I came just in time."
"Funny. I came up here to rescue you," Padme laughs.
"Oh yeah? You'll have to convince me of that one later," says Anakin with a smile.
Padme lets him go, even though she doesn't want to. She never wants to. "Have you come across Governor Matele on your way up here?"
"No," says Anakin, "although I want a few words with the man. Specifically regarding why three swoop bikes attacked me on the way back here. Thanks for R2's warning, by the way."
"I've got words for him, too," Padme says, "because I found evidence that'll put him away in a cell if he doesn't want to talk."
Anakin shakes his head. "I hate missing the good stuff. Well, let's go figure out where this guy is, then. Hope he didn't run."
They find Governor Matele in the most obvious spot possible—the governor's office. Rural Outer Rim drama, Padme thinks, clearly has a long way to go to catch up to the rest of the galaxy. Matele looks out from beneath his desk as Padme and Anakin enter, then rises quickly with a blaster pistol drawn on them. "Stay back!" he says. "Don't come closer."
"Governor, stop with the low-budget theater and give up," Anakin says, igniting his lightsaber. "Put the gun down."
"I'll use it."
"I'm sure you will. Now what good's it gonna do?"
"Matele, I have evidence on what you were doing," Padme says. "I found your private terminal in the basement. I know who you've been talking to."
He shakes his head. "I've no idea what you are talking about."
"Last chance," says Anakin, taking a step forward. "Surrender or it's going to get ugly."
Matele snaps the gun and fires. Anakin blocks the blaster bolt lazily, then reaches out with the Force. The blaster flies from Matele's hands as a shocked look blooms on his face. He steps back, mouth ajar as Anakin steps forward. "Wanna try again?"
"You can't—I won't—" Matele stammers. He backs up towards his office's window, looking out and towards the ground outside as if judging the fall. "You won't take me!"
"Stop it, this isn't a holonovel."
"Last time we vacation in the Outer Rim," Padme mumbles to herself.
Matele turns as if to break for the window. Anakin grumbles and waves his hand: "You will slow down and take a damn breath, already."
The governor turns, eyes downcast. "I'm going to slow down…just have a breath…"
"Better?"
Padme steps up. "Now it's time you do some explaining, Governor."
Obi-Wan rubs his chin as he waits inside of Bail Organa's senatorial office. The wait is killing him. Getting transmissions clear and in real-time from Coruscant to the Outer Rim can be a real hassle even in times of peace, but now with the Holonet in such high demand between civilian sources and the military, pan-galactic communication is a nightmare. At best, holographic forms come out blurry and shaky, but at least words are clear and meaning understood. At worst, nothing gets through at all, the signal lost somewhere in the light years of deep space between here and there—and then there's nothing to do but wait.
Someone explained it to him in detail once. The Holonet operates via hyperspace-linked comm buoy relays beaming data in sync throughout the civilized galaxy. Because communications can only be sent up to a data size limitation in a single transmission, priority is assigned to each incoming and outgoing data package. Official governmental and military sources receive the highest priority for transmissions, with the Jedi Order's own comms sharing that priority band. In theory, every Jedi and Senatorial communication should supersede any civilian or other non-governmental data package via any Holonet comm buoy, ensuring clear, crisp, real-time transmissions every time.
In theory. In practice, like everything else, theory goes out the window. Sometimes a timely bribe to an Outer Rim governor ensures that lower-priority comms move up the hierarchy. Sometimes urgent military transmissions require a buoy's full transmission bandwidth. Sometimes pirates destroy comm buoys (usually for the sheer fun of it, in Obi-Wan's experience) and messages are forced to route through alternate relays, clogging up the local system. Given the sheer vastness of space, it's easy for things to get messy. And so Obi-Wan waits.
"My apologies, Master Kenobi," Bail Organa says as they watch a blinking blue holographic orb thrum above his desk. Communication pending. "I didn't think it was going to take ten minutes just to get through."
"We are trying to contact Christophsis. For all we know, the Separatists have attacked it again," Obi-Wan muses.
Bail smiles. "If so, this time I'll let someone else coordinate the relief efforts."
"Good times," Obi-wan says with a grin.
While they wait, Obi-Wan watches the news feed on Bail's desk-mounted holoscreen. Military triumphs and war victories; little more than rah-rah propaganda by the news outlets to pacify the public. It wouldn't irk Obi-Wan if it wasn't Grand Admiral Tarkin's victories that the media was so quick to laud while bemoaning every valiant defeat led by the Jedi in the contested Galactic North. "Tarkin again," Obi-Wan murmurs as he looks on. "They're happy to leave out that he's not actually in the field leading those fleets."
"He's been a guest enough times on these news shows to make that clear, I suppose," says Bail. "Yet still they're Tarkin's victories, not the Republic's victories. If Amedda is trying to make the public associate Tarkin's name with success, he's doing a good job."
"Never thought about buying the media yourself?"
"Thought about? Plenty of times," Bail chuckles. Then his expression falters. "But done so, no. The news should be objective. People should know truth, not be baited into supporting whatever war stories that Amedda and his cronies wish to tell. Things like this are one of the main reasons that peace is so hard to achieve. Who wants it when war is so much more entertaining for the sheltered masses here on Coruscant? With the fleet in orbit, who's going to attack here, after all?"
Obi-Wan can't disagree. The Separatists have rarely so much as tried launching attacks against the heavily-populated and -industrialized Core Worlds. The few Separatist holdings in the Core and Colonies—Cato Nemoidia, Balmorra, Foerest—have been subjected to constant assault by Republic fleets since the war's beginning. With most of the Republic's losses—territorially and casualty-wise—occurring in the Rim, he can see why the Core-dominated news audiences could not care beyond limited rationing here and there about the need for peace.
And, in more a foreboding light, he can see why the Republic's member systems in the Mid and Outer Rim might flock to support a man like Tarkin. He is one of them, after all, a native son of Eriadu. And when the news is happy to promote his march up the Rimma Trade Route—victory after victory against already-weakened Separatist positions—who looks better to those besieged, battered Rim worlds: The man liberating their worlds, or the Jedi, constantly on the front line against the absolute worst that Count Dooku can throw against the Republic?
He frets. The Order cannot afford to play politics, not in a war of this magnitude. But Amedda and Tarkin are clearly happy to do just that in light of Chancellor Palpatine's absence. Obi-Wan has a bad feel that this sort of divisiveness isn't going to end well, especially given the corruption that he and Bail—along with the rest of the Jedi Council in step with Organa, Padme, and their band of stubborn senators—are investigating.
A clip from one of Tarkin's recent public proclamations plays: "Consider the Republic's victories at Yag'Dhul and Wroona," Tarkin announces. His high cheekbones give him an imperial, untouchable aura on camera. "It is not with half-measures that we will crush the Separatists. They are beyond words, beyond diplomacy. They have no word in their lexicon for peace. They know only mindless slaughter of innocents. We must answer them shot for shot. Only with overwhelming force will they fall before us. Only when they no longer doubt the Republic's might, and instead fear it, will they understand our mettle. They have killed Republic citizens in the millions with impunity. Men, women, children. All races, all peoples. No more, we say! To their savagery, their barbarianism, we answer only with this: We will not bow. We will not tremble. And we will show them no mercy."
Bail shakes his head. "No mercy," he murmurs. "They turned the surface of Yag'Dhul into slag. A rear admiral named Kendal Ozzel under Tarkin's command was leading the fleet that did it. Not a peep on the news. Not a mention of how many civilians died in their orbital bombardment. The Separatist fleet lasted all of fifteen minutes against Tarkin's ships. Then they spent a whole day after that blasting Yag'Dhul from orbit. The battle was already won. There was no need besides exactly what Tarkin said—fear."
"No mercy indeed," muses Obi-Wan. "When innocent people are branded Separatists, the enemy, animals—suddenly no one cares about deaths anymore."
"It's sad," says Bail. "Worse is that Tarkin's not entirely wrong. Wroona capitulated without a fight after what happened to Yag'Dhul. Fear. It worked. But what we're becoming in the process…I don't have words."
No, thinks Obi-Wan, and neither do I. They are leaderless, the Republic, and with the absence of a real chancellor, everyone with a little power is free to go wild. This bizarre period has to end. The Senate needs to come together and elect a new chancellor, and needs to do so quickly. But with Amedda and his faction at odds with Bail and Padme's, who's to say when real leadership will rear its head again?
Democracy is messy. Cumbersome. Above all, slow. But is this still democracy?
The hologram, at last, blinks with a reception icon. "We're through to Christophsis," Obi-Wan says.
"Remind me again what you know about this man," says Bail.
"Only token knowledge from what Jedi sources could find," says Obi-Wan. "Galen Erso. Administrator with the Republic Corps of Engineers. Project lead on some effort concerning crystal-based energy management. Stuck out on Christophsis with his team, but, as the story goes, he's an old confidant of Orson Krennic. If we want to know more without Tarkin bothering us, it's a start."
"I'm just glad he agreed to talk. And hopefully without tipping off his superiors."
Yes, thinks Obi-Wan. Hopefully. A risk worth taking, but if Erso is the deceitful type, this could end up disastrous.
From the very start, Obi-Wan has the impression that Erso has at least a shred of honor—that or he is a very good actor. As soon as the man's humble holographic image blurs to life, he bows and clasps his hands behind his back. "Master Jedi," he says. "Senator Organa. It's an honor."
"The honor is ours, Administrator," says Bail.
Erso is anything but memorable. Mid-thirties, maybe, and a day or two past needing a shave. Ruffled, plain uniform. Unkempt hair. Obi-Wan supposes that appearances are the least of concerns on war-torn Christophsis. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Administrator Erso," says Obi-Wan. "Our apologies for the short notice."
"It is no trouble at all, Master Jedi. In fact, it's a welcome relief to hear a friendly voice and not the emergency management system warning of Separatist incursions."
Bail chuckles. "All too familiar with that," he says. Then his tone thickens as he gets down to business. "Administrator, we'd like to have a quick chat about the work you're doing as part of the Corps of Engineers. Crystal-based energy production, as I'm told."
"That's the gist of it, Senator. We're developing new ways of harnessing maximum energy production from various types of energy-housing crystal formations. Christophsis is a planet rich in crystal formations. It's the best place to handle our work."
"If I may ask," says Obi-Wan, "have you experimented on kyber crystals?"
Erso looks surprised at the question, but not in any way that makes it seem as if he's hiding information. Especially not as he offers up the next answer: "We have, Master Jedi. We had a shipment from Jedha some time ago. Another few, larger, from Coruscant more recently. Kyber crystals have offered unparalleled energy transmission compared to our other samples. It's, well, almost miraculous."
Obi-Wan glances at Bail. "And the outcome with these developments…what is your team looking to do with the results?" says Organa.
Erso's face is the picture of inoffensive. "The goal's been clear ever since I was hired, Senator. We're developing new energy generation regimes in order to bring war-torn worlds up to speed faster. Undo some of the damage caused by the fighting. With the solutions my team's coming up with, we can rebuild faster, repair quicker. Make it so that in mere weeks catastrophic battles and lengthy occupations are but bad memories for whole worlds."
Somehow Obi-Wan doubts that is all, but whether Erso knows that there's more going on or not is yet to be seen. "Moving on, there's something else we wanted to ask about," he says. "Rumor has it that as a student and in your early career, you were acquainted with one Orson Krennic."
Erso's eyebrows rise. "Krennic? Yes."
"Can you tell us about him?"
"He is an ambitious man," says Erso with a shrug. "Acquaintance is a good word for our relationship. I wouldn't go so far as calling him a friend, but he has helped me out several times in the past. I'm on this team because of his recommendation."
And there, Obi-Wan thinks, it is. Erso doesn't know everything. Krennic is keeping him in the dark, using him. Does Erso even know that Krennic is with the Special Weapons Group? For that matter, does he even know the Special Weapons Group exists? Whatever their actual relationship is now, Obi-Wan doubts it involves merely researching new methods of energy generation. After all, Tarkin was quite keen on shutting him and Organa out of any further knowledge when they went to meet Krennic.
One thing is already clear, however: This whole loop, kyber crystals and corruption and credits—it all goes to the highest levels. Taths and Tarkin and wayward senators, all linked together. This is a threat right in the heart of the Republic. How much further, though? How deep does this crevice run? And where does it end?
Run. Run.
With their new ally in tow, Tamri wastes no time in leaving the corpse-strewn Tath server room behind. "The hanger's on the top level, right?" she asks Kesh as they hurry out into the halls, her breath coming in pained wheezes. Being cooped up in cells has done a number on her physical fitness. "You're sure they have a ship there?"
"Yurica Tath's personal courier is currently in the hanger bay, Padawan Dallin," Dominion says, his voice as calm as if telling her the weather. Too calm for a human replica droid that just cut down two dozen Tath soldiers in seconds. "So long as we can get aboard, I can access its systems to begin start-up sequence and prepare us for departure."
"Good. I'm not dying after we got the hard part over with," Avea grumbles as they run.
Tamri pants. "In my experience, the getting out is the hard part."
"Please just shut up and run, Jedi. I don't want to hear it until we're in hyperspace."
A disruptor shot misses Tamri by an inch as she rounds a corner. She ducks behind cover as Avea leans out with her blaster rifle and returns fire. "Two more behind," Kesh says, firing with her pistol. "Avea?"
"Re-routing drones from lower levels to keep security occupied," Dominion says, stepping aside at precisely the right time to let a blaster bolt past. "They will be here in sixty seconds."
"Too long," says Avea. "Any other security systems you want to get on them, droid?"
"Apologies. My connection to the system is limited. It will take time."
"Go handle the guy in front. I'll take them," says Tamri, drawing her vibrosword.
Kesh looks at her worriedly. "You sure?"
"Sure. Go. Clear the way."
Tamri levels her blade and confronts the two trailing attackers. Echani warriors the both of them, pistols drawn—but when the lead sentry sees Tamri with her blade he tilts his head, smiles, and holsters his gun. He shouts something in Echani—too high-pitched and smooth a language for her (although she has never had a gift for languages anyway)—and draws his own blade, his companion doing the same. Honor. What a rare thing. An alien word on the worlds Tamri has spent time on in the course of her Jedi missions with Sae. Honor has never seen Nar Shaddaa's streets. But here it is before her now, in the belly of the beast, swords drawn. She could just pull the pistol Avea gave her and blow them both away. Sae would tell her to do so, certainly—there is no time for honor in a fight. Just keep moving forward, however you have to. But to Tamri now, what Sae always counselled suddenly feels wrong. There is a place for honorable combat. And given the destruction and horror of the Clone Wars, let alone the kind of depravity and nightmarish sights she saw on the likes of Nar Shaddaa, perhaps there should be more places for it.
She steps her left foot forward and lowers her sword, tipping the point to the two Echani. Shoulders squared. Jaw relaxed. Focus. Let the Force guide your moves.
The lead Echani moves into action. He feints left, jabs—easy block—and then darts in for a killing stab. Tamri knocks aside his blow easily. She stays limber, loose. Quick and light. Like a bird, a fish in the sea. Weightless. Without burden, without fear. There is no emotion, there is peace. The Echani is anything but a slow opponent, however: He darts in and out with her motions, steel blade of his vibrosword barely knocking against hers before he whirls away. Training and skill and so much practice. But he does not have the one thing she has, even if she is no master of it: The Force. She sees his spin into a jab before it happens, ducks, and slices at his knee. Her vibrosword rips through flesh and sinew like thin air. Metal slicing tendons. He crumples with a cry. The other Echani moves forward as his companion slices at Tamri from the ground. Two-on-one, but one a disabled foe. Tamri weaves through them, then leaps back, using the downed Echani as an obstacle against his companion. The second warrior dodges away to avoid hitting his friend. Tamri feints at the downed man, draws the second Echani's counter, and then strikes.
Easy hit. She cuts at his hamstring, steel tearing flesh. Another one down. No kills. No need.
A roar at the end of the hall draws her eye. A black blur rushing up from behind the Echani. She's seen this before, if only recently—a vornskr. And not the Force-hunting hound from the train car; this one is bigger, angrier. But as she raises her sword to stop the beast, a violet blaster shot cracks out and downs the vornskr with a perfect strike to the head.
She turns. Avea stands with her rifle at her shoulder. Was she there the whole time, watching Tamri fight? Huh. "C'mon," she says, eying the groaning, wounded attackers. "Don't have time to mess around."
Fine by Tamri. She's done here anyway.
Kesh leads them to an emergency access ladder, then climbs up to the highest level in the base. It's cold in these halls, the air biting as if winter claws its way in through the base's walls. "Not far from here," Kesh says as she hurries on, her arm ruler-straight as she aims her pistol. Inexperienced. No fighter is she. "We can just get there, get the ship, and go. No one else has anything else they need, right?"
Avea sighs, but shakes her head. "Hope you're good for something," she mutters to Dominion.
The droid smiles. "I suppose you will see, Miss Vigaro."
"Gods, now he's getting smarmy."
Down the hallway, past another pair of guards that Avea and Tamri cut through, then up to a security door that Dominion opens with as much energy as yawning. On the other side sprawls the Tath installation's topmost hanger bay, a cavern of metal and lights and machinery. An assembly of guards pop up from behind cover, only to find their cover quickly driving away as Dominion takes control of the automated cargo mover they are hiding behind. From there it only takes Avea's pinpoint shooting to level the opposition. She glances at Dominion. "Huh. Nice teamwork."
"See? It'll turn out fine," Kesh says to her.
"Don't think I'm happy about this, Kesh. But I'd rather wait until we're airborne to get angry. Now where are we going?"
Kesh points to a slender, chisel-shaped craft at the center of the hanger bay. "Right there."
A strong ship, Tamri thinks as she takes a moment to admire it. Powerful vessel, almost hungry. Maybe seventy or eighty meters, the size of a light corvette or systems patrol craft. It'll easily house the four of them. The ship's front dips into a sturdy, flattened slice like a blade's edge; at its midsection rise six equidistant, trapezoidal protrusions from the hull in a ring, each as long as a snub fighter. At the ship's rear a pair of prism-shaped engines stick out, with a boxy, squat tail between them. Not the Evening, this. No more flying around in beat-up freighters.
"So where do we get on?" says Tamri.
"Boarding ramp?" says Kesh, indicating a lowered ramp near the fore.
"Or you just don't get on. It's my ship, after all. I'm not keen on you stealing it."
Tamri turns with a heavy heart. As expected, as she knew she'd face before she left. Yurica. But not the temperamental, slender Yurica Tath from those nightmarish sessions when she was but a prisoner and a test subject. The Arkanian woman has traded her lab outfit for fish scale-organic armor, white and blue and gray, plates running from foot to neck. A silvery, anchor-like instrument hooks in to the gauntlet that guards her left forearm. With her wispy white hair bound up in a high ponytail, she looks far more the part of a warrior rather than a spoiled noblewoman. The image is bolstered by the gleaming electroblade she carriers in her right hand, purple lightning already buzzing and humming across the heated steel. "No need to kill you, Tamri," Yurica says as she levels the blade at her. "Kesh and the Echani I don't care about. I'd like my droid back, too."
"Hell with you," Avea snarls.
Tamri stops her with a wave. "Get the ship going," she says. "I'll deal with this."
"What? You're sure?" says Kesh.
Dominion heads for the vessel. "Padawan Dallin is right. Come. Let us begin start-up procedures."
Avea backs off with her rifle raised, hesitant—but Tamri can see the beginnings of trust in the way she looks at her. It's a start. Once they board the ship and it is just Tamri and Yurica alone, the Arkanian smiles. "Now is your chance. Cooperate and I'll even let you have the run of the place. I won't keep you in a cell anymore. You can live in luxury."
"Here's my offer: You can walk away and stay alive," says Tamri. "I don't need to kill you. I can still feel what you did to me, but I don't need revenge. But I won't hesitate, either."
Yurica laughs. "That's the only way I die, silly. Mother will kill me if I let you just leave. And she's coming back soon. Wait a little while and you can see her again."
Tamri senses hesitation in the Arkanian. Just a hint of it, but enough to work with. She is a Jedi, not a killer. She has to try and solve this nonviolently if at all possible, work with anything she has. Even if Sae would tell her to kill the Arkanian and get it over with. Not this time. "Listen to yourself," says Tamri. "I heard what your mother was saying about you back when you had me as a prisoner. She doesn't like you, and you sure sound like you don't like her. You're not an idiot, even if I want to think you are. Run away. Go do something else. Live an honest life and stop all this needless cruelty. You don't have to let your past define you."
Yurica snorts. "You don't know anything, Jedi. There is no running away. Not from the likes of her."
Without letting Tamri answer, Yurica activates an energy screen from the device on her left forearm. A portable ray shield, built for melee combat. Quiet. Lethal in its own way—that much energy discharging into an opponent would be deadly. Tamri swallows and steps back. "I'm leaving whether you like it or not," she says, trying one last time to solve this peacefully. If you want to fight, then so be it."
"So be it, then," says Yurica, grinning.
She takes a step towards Tamri. Then a shot rings out, a violet blaster bolt connects with her skull, and before Tamri can even clash blade-on-blade once, Yurica falls to the ground dead. That quick. That anticlimactic. She looks away to see Kesh standing with Avea's rifle, her arms shaky. "Did—did I get her?"
A weight falls off of Tamri's chest. She lets out a long, pent-up breath. "Yeah. You got her."
Kesh drops the rifle, looking unsure of what she just did. Then the Selkath's face contorts and she spits at Yurica's body. "You bitch," she shouts. "All that you did, all the things you said—"
Tamri grabs her arm. "Kesh, please, not now."
"Every time you made fun of me and called me—"
"Can you get mad later? We have to go!"
Kesh relents, her shoulders slumping. She looks close to tears. Nonetheless, she follows Tamri up the ship's boarding ramp as they make to leave.
The inside is military pragmatism combined with sleek luxury. Steel walls that curve out and up, projecting a feeling of airiness and nullifying claustrophobia. Yellow-white lights letting out a soft, sunny glow. Even the air is nice, a faint, flowery scent, subtle but sweet. Like someone combined a star yacht with a gunship. "Up here," Avea calls from down a short hallway.
The cockpit: A small, cozy set up of three seats, two raised and side-by-side, a third situated before them and sunk into a slight pit. No transparisteel here to look out to the outside—everything is down by holographic viewscreens, so many digital displays blurring to life. For safety's sake, Tamri guesses. It's all state-of-the-art, high-tech wonders and marvels. The Taths don't spare any expense on their starships. And hey, Yurica won't need it anymore…
"What happened?" Avea says from one of the two raised seats.
"She's dead," Tamri says. No need to tell her it was Kesh that did it. They can worry about the emotions later.
Avea smiles. "Good. Sick bastards, the lot of them. Get in your seat, Jedi. Let's get going."
Tamri looks around. "Which one is mine?"
"I don't know. This is the piloting seat, I think. Take that one up front."
Tamri sighs and settles down. "Do you even know how to pilot this?"
"Nope. Do you?"
"No, but…"
Avea laughs, suddenly in high spirits, as if one Tath's death has made everything worth it. Which, Tamri thinks, it probably has. "This is gonna go terrible," she chuckles.
"Blazes," Tamri says. "You sound like Neelotas."
"Who?"
"An idiot. You'd like him. Just get us going, please."
"I will activate the start-up sequence," says Dominion, settling into the seat beside Avea. He pulls a cable out of his left wrist—nifty trick, that—and connects it to the console before him. "Engines warming," the droid says. Then he looks around and smiles. "Ah, a marvel of technology and engineering. The War Maiden."
Kesh snorts. "What a stupid name. Can you get anymore egotistical than that?"
"I dunno, I kind of like it," murmurs Tamri.
"Really?"
"Actually, me too," says Avea.
"No, come on."
"Can we argue about the name later?" says Tamri as the ship shudders, the engines roaring to life. The hunger, the power. Not just a star yacht, but a combat-ready craft. "Kesh, they aren't going to shoot us down when we fly out, are they?"
She shrugs and looks to Dominion. "I don't know. Are they?"
"Doubtful," says the droid, his eyes half-closed as if dreaming. As if this is all another average day. "I left one of my secondary subroutines in the Tath computer network. Last I checked, it was currently deploying all remaining drones to engage the Tath security forces and diverting essential personnel from engaging weapons systems. Secondary noncombat droids have also been mobilized into combat roles."
"And when was 'last you checked?'"
"Two-point-two-seven milliseconds ago, Miss Shurroth."
Tamri shakes her head. "Great, awesome, probably not going to die on takeoff. Let's go."
"Got it. I think," says Avea, moving a lever. "Off we…maybe go."
An understatement, that. The War Maiden bellows as it surges out of the hanger bay. The whole ship thunders, the engines blasting. The cockpit comes to life, holoscreens lighting up, digital displays beaming. All about the cockpit views of Telos emerge in holographic glory, snow drifting down from steel skies, the pleateau that houses the Tath installation rapidly shrinking below. Then the displays surrounding Tamri's seat burst to life, and she discovers that this isn't the pilot's station, nor the co-pilot's. Not even navigation, nor engineering. It's the weapons seat.
For a small ship, the War Maiden lives up to its name. She looks over the displays floating about on all sides of her seat as fast as she can—already the sky is turning dark as the ship thunders through the cloud cover and burns for the stratosphere. Centrally-mounted spinal railgun on the middle trigger; an anti-shipping weapon, she guesses. Three missile boxes—that must be what three of those six trapezoids on the hull were—carrying twelve torpedoes each. A rear-mounted flare launcher as a countermeasure device on the tail. To top it all off, seven retractable point-defense rotary blaster turrets positioned all around the hull for a full field of fire, two turrets capable of targeting any fixed point at any given time.
Much, much nicer than the Evening.
"Oh, bugger," Avea says as the sky blackens and the curvature of Telos becomes visible.
Kesh looks over her shoulder. "What?"
"Can you not do that? I'm trying to fly."
"Well, what is it?" says Tamri.
Dominion looks amused. "Six Vulture-class Trade Federation droid starfighters on an intercept course. Along with a Commerce Guild systems patrol craft that is currently attempting to connect an identification friend-or-foe transponder with our system."
"Then send an IFF tone back," says Tamri. "Can we not get shot down by the local Separatist authorities?"
Dominion is stoic. If the droid is trying to live and become more human, he has a long way to go. "Yurica Tath had not left the installation in months. The local Separatist authorities change their IFF markers bi-weekly. Unfortunately, Yurica had not had anyone update these systems."
"Crap," mutters Avea. "Strap in, people."
"Where am I supposed to go? There's three seats," complains Kesh.
"I don't know, find a toilet or something."
With no IFF tone coming, the droid starfighters beeline for them. "Target locks," Avea says, gritting her teeth. "Does this thing have weapons?"
"Yeah, I got 'em," says Tamri.
"Then shoot at them!"
But Tamri waits. A targeting display opens up on the holographic screen before her, a series of concentric circles in three dimensions about a central figure—the War Maiden. Yellow triangles indicating hostiles just entering the furthest of those circles. Missile lock. Still Tamri waits. Closer, closer. Her display beeps. When the nearest droid fighter enters the innermost targeting circle, the display whines and the label Armlock flashes.
Tamri punches the only obvious indicator: Fire.
She watches the front holographic viewscreen as a trio of purple darts shoot out into space, then curve back and around the ship. On the targeting display, the six vulture droids peel off their pursuit. Too slow: All three torpedoes hit home, and six starfighters are now three.
"Whoa," says Avea. "Ship's got some teeth."
At the copiloting station, Dominion punches in hyperspace controls. "Beginning faster-than-light sequencing," he says. "Where should we go?"
"Coruscant," Tamri says quickly.
"Is that where we're going?" says Avea. "Actually, screw it. Coruscant. Fine. Just somewhere that's not here."
"Beginning coordinate establishment for hyperspace," says Dominion. "Sixty seconds and counting. Please continue to hold off the hostiles, Miss Vigaro and Padawan Dallin."
He doesn't have to tell Tamri. She keeps her finger near the missile lock icon as the surviving droid starfighters converge. "They're getting kinda close," says Avea. "If you're going to do something, please do it."
A new icon flashes: Auto-targeting. Tamri hits it. Then her holofeeds shift and blur; seven visual camera lines display all around her as the point defense turrets extend from hull and snap into protective positions about the ship. Tamri can only watch now. As the droid fighters close in, the rotary cannons open fire. Rivers of automatic laser shot spills into the cosmos, green energy blasts cutting away as the vulture droids fire off-target preliminary shots before rushing away from the counterfire. They are hopelessly outmatched. As they pass by the ship, the rear-mounted point defense cannons go silent and the dorsal-mounted turrets take over, tracking the starfighters with concentrated fire. They rake two of the vulture droids, blowing them apart in a rush of flame and metal.
The last surviving vulture droid rushes forward to avoid the fire, but it heads right into Tamri's sights. Too easy. The spinal raingun's targeting signature whines as the vulture droid nears, and Tamri hits its auto-firing mode. As the starfighter veers past the War Maiden's fore, a brilliant violet flash bursts, the ship rocks—and the last enemy explodes. That quick. Too fast for the eye.
Avea sighs. "That's enough fun for one planet. What happened to Kesh, anyway?"
"Back here!" a small voice comes from down the cockpit hall.
Before Dominion gets the hyperspace coordinates prepared, however, Avea's face pales. "Uh—big signature coming out of hyperspace."
Tamri looks over her shoulder. "Separatist?"
"I don't know. It's big. Real big."
Tamri brings up the long-distance scanners at her station just as the signature enters local space. It's a ship—she thinks. Massive. Three kilometers long, black steel. A central orb surrounded by three thick, blade-like runners that make the ship appear like the head of a colossal fishing spear. "What is that?" she breathes.
"Ah," Dominion says. "Mistress Hosha has arrived."
Tamri looks to him. "What?"
"That is her battlecruiser."
"She has a battlecruiser?"
Avea shakes her head. "Got an IFF tone. I don't know what to do with it."
"Nothing to do. Finishing hyperspace coordinates," says Dominion. "It will only be a moment."
"Please make it a fast moment."
Tamri picks up an energy signature spiking at the fore of Hosha Tath's ship. "Uh, guys?"
"We are ready. Beginning hyperspace jump," says Dominion."
Avea swears. "Hurry!"
Just as the black of space blurs and warps with the faster-than-light jump, a brilliant golden energy lance cuts over the ship, missing by mere meters. Tamri's heart skips. But then the War Maiden lurches forward, hyperspace rushes at them, and the ship escapes, Telos gone, realspace gone, the danger behind them.
Hyperspace. Towards Coruscant. Towards home. Tamri exhales and slumps down.
Avea peers over the piloting console at her. "Let's not do that again, huh?"
"Yeah," breathes Tamri. "It's time to go home."