One after one the votes come in. For, oppose, for, for. In the Senate's Grand Convocation Chamber, over a thousand senators enter their votes and wait, eyes flicking about to their neighbors, suspicion in the air. Fear, anxiety, mistrust. The building blocks of galactic democracy reduced to the simmering tension that has thinned the Republic's firmament so greatly that it threatens to tear and come apart. A millennia-old union that binds tens of thousands of star systems and quadrillions of sapient beings suddenly so vulnerable and fragile like an old man, stooped and reduced, the vigor and liveliness of youth only a faint, fading dream. Anarchy salivates on the sidelines; conflict growls like a hungry lion. And above in the glare of the sight-scorching sun do the vultures turn in their solemn circles.

Obi-Wan and Anakin watch the voting from one of the guest vestibules situated around the Senate chamber. Two votes to decide the fate of the Republic, Bail Organa mused yesterday as the Jedi Council had met with a handful of their leading senatorial allies. One for renewal—the vote of no confidence in Mas Amedda thrown down by Padme. The other a plunge into darkness—Ask Aak's vote for military custodianship over the Senate and civil governance until a new Supreme Chancellor is sworn in. Suddenly the Separatists seem so small. The battlefront so distant. Present and future stand as still as statues—another vote, another, another. Oppose, oppose, for, for.

"This is ridiculous," Anakin grumbles as Riyo Chuchi casts her votes on Pantora's behalf—for Amedda's downfall, against military empowerment. No surprise there, Obi-Wan thinks; Chuchi has always been in the Jedi Order's corner. "All this voting and procedural crap. If everyone's so adamant that Chancellor Palpatine's gone, then just name a replacement and get on with it."

Obi-Wan sighs as Herdessa's Shea Sadashassa votes. Same results as Chuchi; she's another of the peace coalition's supporters. A little momentum in their favor, here. "Thinking a tad dictatorially, are we?" Obi-Wan rebukes Anakin. "We don't simply name replacement members of the High Council, either. Our allegiance is to democracy. This is a necessary part. Even if it means having to bear with outrageous propositions like Senator Aak's."

"Come on. If something sounds outrageous, you don't bother with it. That's how it is when we're discussing battle plans. That's how anything gets done."

"Yes, and I'm sure Tarkin and the other military elites around him would agree. I'm also sure they'll be happy to bring such thinking to the Senate, if Aak's proposal passes," Obi-Wan murmurs. "That's exactly the kind of thinking we don't need right now. We're different from Dooku and the Separatists because we cling to our ideals."

"They have a senate."

"Yes, and it's little more than a mouthpiece for Dooku's ideology. You know who leads them: Gunray and the rest of the Separatist Council in league with Dooku; that's who we're up against, not Separatist senators. Use your head, Anakin. If we turn into them, then how many other worlds will break away? How long will the Republic even have?"

Anakin's face is stone. His eyes are embers. "As long as we can defend it," he mutters. "That's how long."

Obi-Wan shakes his head. Still so much the boy he was as a Padawan. Strength and battle first, talking later. But this is not the battlefield; this is not fighting a foe who has their blaster trained on you. And if it comes to that, then the Republic really will be finished, no matter how much Bail and Padme and the other senators of their coalition struggle. No matter how much the Jedi fight, they are only so many who can do only so much.

The voting stretches on for hours; backroom deals are struck even as votes are cast. Alliances form and fall; rivals materialize in minutes. The representatives from Athulla, a Core Worlds planet, and Outer Rim-based Kirdo III have to be separated from escalating a war of words into a fistfight. In the end, Amedda's fate is sealed: Overwhelmingly, by a margin of more than two-to-one, the Senate votes in favor of Padme's motion of no confidence. A new Vice Chair will come, and with them, hope for new leadership and a new dawn.

But it is the second motion—Senator Aak's military authorization proposal—where things break down. At first Obi-Wan thinks that all is well, that democracy has triumphed and this nonsense thrown aside and named for its lunacy. Aak's proposition fails. But all those subtle, hushed maneuverings and agreements lead to an amended proposal, a flash vote, and Obi-Wan's peace thrown aside with Amedda and the norms of the Republic upended. By the slimmest of majorities, the amended proposition passes: The military will take temporary custodianship of the Senate—in conjunction with the Jedi Order.

Anakin grins when Amedda's chief of staff, the Umbaran Sly Moore, announces the results to the Senate. "Well, that's something," he says. "Cheer up, Master. Amedda's gone, we're on the route to getting real leadership again, and in the meantime, the Jedi keep the ship steered in the right direction."

Obi-Wan looks into the crowd of senators. Not far away, Padme leans against the railing of her repulsorpod with an expression of utter disbelief. She knows, as he does, that this compromise is merely a placation to a few critical senators. The Jedi will have a word in things, yes, but any decision will only come via compromise with Tarkin and his military followers. The divide in the Republic between the militant Rim worlds and the stability-focused Core will only grow more and more as each faction rallies behind their ideological leader. Until a new Supreme Chancellor is sworn in, the Senate itself is neutered, powerless—and how long will that election take? He has a feeling that if Tarkin decides to obstruct things, it could be a very, very long time before democracy crawls out of hiding.

"You were right the first time. This is ridiculous," he says, eying the lower-seated Rim senators who congratulate each other. Of course they see who's really winning here, even with Amedda's downfall. The Vice Chair is but a sacrifice. "Come on," he adds to Anakin. "I need some air. Let's leave this place."

"Why the long face? You're on the Council; you should be happy. Oh, fine, I'm coming, wait up."

Obi-Wan steps out into the hallway as Anakin trails after him. "What you see is what those who came to the compromise want people like you to see," Obi-Wan hisses to him as they make their way towards an exit. "By naming the Jedi as a senatorial custodian alongside the military, it makes us culpable in whatever happens next."

"It gives us power and authority, doesn't it?" says Anakin. "If we want the war to end, we can make it so! We can start up peace talks if the Council really wants that. If we see a planet to liberate, we do so. No discussions. No voting. No budgeting. Just point and act."

Obi-Wan sighs as they board a turbolift. "That is the problem. We have a target on our back now," he says as the lift hums and zips down floor after floor. "By pulling the Jedi into this, the senators ensured we can't simply operate as we always have. The Order will have to negotiate and compromise with the military on senatorial affairs, taking away resources we could use elsewhere. Not to mention that I have no idea how the war front itself will look like. For all three years since the fighting broke out, we've relied on the Senate allowing the Jedi to launch whatever combat operations we see fit. It's not been a perfect arrangement, but it's worked. Will Tarkin be as amiable?"

"Look, I hate how the media talks him up as much as anyone, and how they love to dump on the Jedi—and I can't stand his supporters with their sunrise-o'clock rallies—but Tarkin himself is an officer. Not a tyrant. And even if he gets any power-hungry ideas, you and the Council will be there to do something about it."

Obi-Wan arches his eyebrows. "Thanks to Amedda's decree, he has singular control over the sector fleets and Judicial Forces, and now he—again, singularly—has control over one-half of the Senate's custodianship. Whether he is or isn't a tyrant by nature, the power this gives him certainly seems tyrannical to me. I don't like it. And I don't think he'll want to co-operate easily with the Jedi when it comes to making senatorial decisions."

"Well, I think so," Anakin says as the lift opens and they step out into the open-air, ground-floor promenade. A light rain batters the pavement as stormclouds move in; gusting winds send wind chimes into a maddening tinkling. Merchants and patrons pull up the hoods of their raincloaks and dip their heads. "Tarkin's a practical man. The military's nothing if not practical. We'll be fine. You'll see."

"I hope so. Although if anything happens soon, we won't be around to see it."

"Uh, okay, what's that mean?"

Obi-Wan frowns and looks out into the gathering rain. "The Council's been wary of Tarkin's fleets marching up the Rimma Trade Route, and now those same fleets are positioned to strike at Sullust," he says. "But our earlier intel about Separatist retreats from the area were…somewhat off the mark."

"What?" says Anakin. "Every planet they've taken—Yag'Dhul, Vondarc, you name it—has only been lightly defended."

"Yes, but while we thought the Separatist pull-back from those worlds meant a general retreat from the area, what it actually seems to have meant was that they were concerned about a defeat in detail against Tarkin's larger force," says Obi-Wan. "The Separatist fleets retreated to Sullust, but no further. They're making a stand there, and it's not some modest flotilla in orbit above the planet. It's a full-blown armada. Tarkin's forces won't be able to take it without help."

Anakin snorts. "So…off to battle, again?"

"Off to battle, again. You and I are being sent alongside Master Secura and Master Vos as part of a combined fleet operation. We're to link up with Tarkin's ships from the Malastare and Eriadu sector fleets at the edge of the system before moving on Sullust and breaking through the orbital defenses. On top of that…well, the Council wants us to keep an eye on the sector fleets. They're Tarkin's tools, his primary edge that has gotten him such popularity so quickly."

Anakin scoffs. "They're still Republic. They're allies, not enemies."

"Then it's worth ensuring that everyone's still on the same side here," says Obi-Wan. "Why the doubting? You always want to get back into battle."

"Well, sure, but not when it's so…weird-feeling," Anakin mutters. "It's like we're all watching each other now."

It's not like that, Obi-Wan thinks. It is that. We are watching each other. The Republic's unity is at its breaking point. Enemies on the outside, and potential enemies within. So few places are safe. So few houses are homes. And the number of refuges diminish by the day. How long until there is no safe ground left?

"Pardon me for my concern, but this…this is a dangerous game."

Director Krennic sweats in his office in the Center for Military Operations. The lights are too bright today, the hum of the holoemitter too abrasive, buzzing like a rustled beehive. Every time he's forced into talking with Tarkin and Amedda—prostrating before them, more like, given the influence of these two powerful men—he can only count the seconds until the meeting is over. At least they're not here in person this time, but with the magnitude of the Senate's vote, the gravity of the meeting feels far, far more pressing than ever before.

"A dangerous game?" Tarkin snorts. "Merely an exchange of hats, Director Krennic. The Senate is a minor concern, and before long it will be of no concern at all. Spare me your exaggerations."

Tarkin's air of casualness baffles Krennic. "Vice Chair, you cannot feel the same way. The Senate voted to end your political career today, and that hardly puts me and the Special Weapons Group in a position of safety."

"Calm yourself, Orson," Amedda says. "The next step in the Senate is to ensure a vote of a new Vice Chair proceeds in an orderly, democratic fashion, with all necessary steps taken. Until that time, Grand Admiral Tarkin will oversee congressional proceedings, and I will remain on in a…ceremonial…role."

"With the Jedi. I saw the vote. It's not just you."

"The Jedi are stretched far too thin to cause trouble. I understand that these times of change are trying, but do not let them distract you," says Amedda. "You will have your resources, your secrecy, and the security of your position and division…if, of course, you continue to provide acceptable results."

"Which leads us to our current concern," Tarkin adds. "The affairs of the Senate are the business of myself and Vice Chair Amedda, Krennic, and ours alone; your business is the Ultimate Weapon. It has been over a week since your last report. Your tardiness is unbecoming for a senior officer."

Krennic swallows. So much for trying to turn this conversation towards their troubles. "I understand," he says quietly. "And, the…well, progress…"

"We are waiting, Director."

"I warned you before, you and Chancellor Palpatine," Krennic says to Amedda. "The Geonosians do not make good laborers, despite what projections said. Work…it has slowed."

Amedda does not so much as blink. "Slowed?"

"Timing—"

"You have Archduke Poggle as a captive and control of the whole of Geonosis, along with an entire sector fleet in orbit above the world. What do you mean by 'slowed?'"

"I need stronger laborers," Krennic says through gritted teeth. "I promised a fully functional prototype of the Ultimate Weapon within a year—"

"Yes, you did."

"—and I can see that through, but only with better labor," he finishes, ignoring Amedda's interjection. "Stronger laborers, more resilient. Smarter designers for engineering problems. The Geonosians are fine at maintaining secrecy, but they're subpar at everything else. And the longer this takes, the more likely that unforeseen events will occur. For goodness's sake, Senator Organa and that Jedi were here sniffing around. What if that happens again?"

"It will not, so long as these unforeseen events do not occur," Tarkin says. "And if they do, I will hold you personally responsible. You know the magnitude of your effort. You know the weight upon your shoulders. If the Ultimate Weapon is as powerful as Chancellor Palpatine believed it to be, it will hold entire star systems captive merely by the fear of its power. It can end the war and rid us of the Separatist menace once and for all. If you cannot handle that, then you can go the same way as your predecessor and I will find a director who can manage."

Krennic grits his teeth and holds his tongue. The more he says, the more Tarkin will use it against him. "That being said," Tarkin continues, "I will see to it that your labor issue is resolved. Wookies from Kashyyyk are known for their strength. Mon Calamari are known for their engineering prowess. Other races, races that will likewise draw little notice from the galactic community, can also suffice. Selkath, perhaps. You will be provided with the labor you need."

Krennic blinks. Both Kashyyyk and Mon Calamari are Republic worlds. Where is Tarkin going to come up with thousands of these workers to fill his labor hole, particularly given that the Ultimate Weapon's construction requires the utmost secrecy? The Geonosians are a captive population; keeping them in line has been little trouble. But adding workers from around the Republic into the mix will ensure that leaks get out somewhere, somehow. It's not as if they can simply enslave them; this isn't Hutt Space where slavery is not only legal, but prolific. Although that would solve the labor problem. "Pardon me, Grand Admiral, but how are you going to provide me with all that?"

"That is not your concern, Director. Focus on completing that weapon. You are fully aware of the consequences of failure," Tarkin says. "See to it that those consequences never materialize."

Krennic bows his head as Tarkin and Amedda's holograms shimmer away and the conversation ends. Then he slumps back in his chair and sighs. What a mess this is becoming. The Ultimate Weapon, the Republic Senate, all of it.

Tamri has no idea how Avea afforded an apartment this nice—and right in the Senate District, to boot—but she is impressed by the Echani woman's abode. Wroshyr wood doors—real wood, not imitation—and polished bronzium braziers lining an open-air veranda. Soft white balmgrass-paper sliding screens dividing each room in the apartment's interior. Green stone statuettes of stylized draconic beasts the likes of which Tamri cannot place. The subtle, pleasing smell of lavender and citrus staving off the acrid fumes of aircar-polluted Coruscant. Something like this requires the kind of riches that usually only business magnates, senators, and other crooks can afford. "So…how exactly did you get this place?" she asks as she runs a hand over one of the paper screens. "Did you always own this?"

"Nah. Just got it," Avea says, lying down on a couch and drinking wine from a crystal goblet. "Figured Kesh, the droid, and I needed a place to stay for a while until we figured out our next steps."

"You could've gotten a hotel."

"I could've, yeah."

From the veranda's doors, Dominion smiles. "I provided Miss Vigaro with the credits, Padawan Dallin. I believed it a proper way to reimburse her for my inability to provide her further details on the whereabouts of her nephew in Tath service," the human replica droid says. "It amounted to two-point-two million. Before closing costs."

"I see," Tamri murmurs. "And how did you get two million credits in the span of…the less than two weeks that we've been here?"

"I inserted a subroutine from my intelligence processing core into a public banking terminal in the local business quarter and used it to skim fractions of credits off of a large number of corporate trades on the stock market. It took the entirety of a trading day."

Tamri frowns at him. "Should you have done that?"

"Come on, financial crimes aren't real crimes anyway," Avea says, finishing her wine. "Why are you here, by the way? I thought you were going back to your Jedi stuff and abandoning us peons."

"I am doing Jedi stuff, but I'm not abandoning the peons," says Tamri. "I, er, actually wanted to see if you…well, you were willing to help me."

Kesh steps out onto the veranda. "With what?"

"You know that Tath installation Dominion mentioned on Concordia that was talking to the Telos base?" Tamri says as the Selkath takes a seat beside Avea, shoving the Echani's feet away to make room. "I told the Council about that—"

"What council?" murmurs Avea.

"The Jedi High Council. What council did you think?"

"I dunno. Just a question, sheesh."

Tamri closes her eyes. "Fine. Whatever. I told the Jedi Council, and they were concerned enough that they want me to investigate it. Master Kenobi—never mind, another Jedi, you probably won't know him—"

"I know who Obi-Wan Kenobi is, girl. I've seen the news."

"And you don't know what the Council is? What are you even watching?" Tamri says.

"I didn't say I didn't know it—"

"Can we please just get on with it already?" Kesh interrupts. "Preferably before someone here has too many drinks and stops listening."

Avea grumbles but says no more. "Thank you," says Tamri. "Anyway, Master Kenobi paired me up with a Mandalorian he says will help us navigating…well, Mandalorian stuff that might be on Concordia. Also he gave me another contact's transmission line and told me to contact her in order to learn a way through the Separatist fleet guarding Mandalorian space…but I'm not supposed to contact her until we're off of Coruscant for some reason."

"Delightful. More friendly faces," Dominion says, his voice so flat that the hairs on the back of Tamri's neck stand up at attention.

"Don't contact her on Coruscant. That sounds just a little suspicious," Avea mutters.

"Yes, I don't know the details. He's a Jedi Master and on the Council, he's not going to lie to me," says Tamri. "But in order to do all this…I kinda need the ship."

"I got plans for it already," mumbles Avea.

Tamri grimaces. "Er…what kind of plans?"

"She's half-drunk, ignore her," Kesh says. "If you're inviting us along, though, I'd love to join in. I got stuck trying to figure out what to do next, really. I've never had the whole galaxy open to me like this. It's almost paralyzing, you know? So many options and I'm at a loss at which to choose."

That was easy. But she never expected much resistance from Kesh. "Okay. The rest of you?"

"I share Miss Shurroth's enthusiasm," says Dominion without the slightest enthusiastic lift to his voice. "I know full well that the Taths were working on quite a number of fascinating concepts. I look forward to seeing all that was at their disposal. Furthermore, they created me. I may be able to learn more about my own design and inspiration by glimpsing a wider view of their operations."

Huh. She hadn't known what to expect from the human replica droid, but it wasn't eager acceptance. That only leaves on. "Avea—"

The Echani scowls at her. "It was your only lead to my nephew, right Dom?"

"Correct. My apologies once more," Dominion says.

Tamri looks between them. "You're calling him Dom now?"

"It's easier to say. Dominion is a mouthful," Avea says. She sighs and sits up. "Fine. But I'll go along only because I'm looking for Sem. Don't get in my way if I find something important, Jedi."

"No problems here," says Tamri. "Master Kenobi wanted me to get underway by tomorrow at the latest, so if you're not too comfortable here…"

"Yep. We get it. Enjoy it for today," Avea says. "The Jedi will pay us for joining along with you, right?"

"Actually, that's a good question," Kesh says, looking worried. "I'm a little short on legally-gained credits."

"I could resolve that in a hurry, Miss Shurroth."

"Legally-gained, not whatever you did."

"I'll speak to Master Kenobi," says Tamri. "I need to get back to the Temple anyway. I'll see you all tomorrow back on our ship, then."

Tamri doesn't have long back at the Temple, however, before a youngling hurries up to her. A young boy, still years short of being chosen as a Padawan, maybe eight or nine years old, but he shows no hesitation before her. A far cry from the mouse she was as a youngling. "Padawan! Padawan Dallin," the boy says as he bows before her. Awkward, gangly bow, but at least he's trying. "I'm supposed to give a message to you."

"Oh. Hello," she says to the youngling. "Who's it from?"

"An ugly man," the boy chirps with a bright smile. "He said he's going to wait for you outside down the big steps."

"Er, okay. Does the ugly man have a name?"

"Yup! He said it's Rose—er, Rossano. Rossano Rastic. That's it. He said he was eager to meet you and that his boss had sent him."

Tamri frowns. The spy from Belderone that she and Sae were supposed to meet? How did he survive? For that matter, how does he even know she's here? What does he want? She doesn't want to see to him at all after everything that happened—on Belderone and after—but something the boy said pricks her attention. Rastic's boss—who? Why? She shrugs. "Okay. I'll see him. Thank you."

"Uh-huh!" the youngling says, running off before Tamri can say anything more. She watches, smiling. Even as quiet as she was as a little girl, there were times she felt like that—like she could race off to anywhere and do anything. A Jedi in training—what more could any kid want to be? Anything was possible. Now she knows just how naïve that idea was.

She has no idea who to look for as she trots out of the Jedi Temple and down the great staircase that marked the end of the Processional Way. She looks up to the imposing stone statues of the great Jedi Masters of old and spots one off to the left. Odan-Urr, the great Jedi archivist. The master who's holocron took her and Sae from Ossus on towards Korriban. It's chilling to look at that statue now, to be reminded of everything that's happened. The memories flash by in an instant. Dooku's lightsaber flashing in the old library. Lendon Rust betraying them and firing on her outside on the mountain slope. Cold wind, arid dust in the breeze. She shivers.

"Ah! There you are. Padawan! Over here."

She looks up as a balding, skinny, lanky man in a red-trimmed black cloak hurries up to her. "I'm glad you got my message. I, er, felt a little funny just waiting here, everyone looking at me all odd-like," the man says as he brushes off his cloak. "Ah—manners. Rossano Rastic. Your master did me a great favor, getting me out of captivity like that."

Tamri shakes her head. "Uh, all right. I'm Tamri. I don't know what you're talking about regarding Sae, however."

"She broke me free. Got caught up in a sting back on Belderone—nasty business, none of my fault, you see—before I was all set with the clones, ready to meet with you and your master. Spent ages in captivity, one place then the next. Finally, what do I see on an old asteroid base run by some pirate scum? A Jedi, coming for me. Got me out, sent me off in a real clunker of a ship with a grouchy Nautolan pilot. Messy stuff, but a good woman, Sae. Is she around, by the way? I was sent to find you, but—"

"She's missing," Tamri interrupts. She didn't hear half of the word jumble that just spewed out of Rastic's mouth, and she doesn't care. This worm. He talks about what happened on Belderone so casually, as if Falco and the clones didn't die because of his mistake. And the asteroid base—was he there, as well? And he was the reason why Neelotas and the Evening weren't around for a quick an easy escape, hm? She should punt him right off of the temple mount.

But she minds her manners and keeps her cool, if only because Master Kenobi or some other Jedi Master might be watching from the top of the stairs. "What do you want? How did you even find me?" she asks Rastic.

"Nothing bad, I assure you—ha!" he says with a nervous tick. No wonder the Separatists snagged him. Idiot. How did he ever get a job in intelligence? "My boss—er, boss's boss's boss, really, he's the big man on top of it all—wanted to fetch you for a chat. I guess he knew we were once set to meet and all, so here I am, the errand boy."

Probably a career change for the better, that. "Who's your boss?"

"Oh, probably should keep that secret. We can discuss that—or you can discuss it with him, I suppose—if you'll just come with me."

Tamri folds her arms over her chest. "No. Tell me who he is or I'm going back inside."

"Well—hold on, now—"

"I don't trust you," Tamri says. She tries to tamp down on her anger—where does it come from?—but like back on Telos, it bubbles up bit by bit until it's now getting a hold of her tongue. "You got captured on Belderone when you were supposed to be our contact. You messed things up there. Then you messed things up for Sae and me on the asteroid base, the same mess that ends with me here today and Sae missing. I don't like you much, and I really don't want to go anywhere with you. Tell me who wants to see me so bad."

Rastic sighs and leans close. "I'm with the Senate Bureau for Intelligence."

"I already know you're an intel guy, damn it."

"Okay, okay, Master Jedi. No hard feelings," he says, holding his hands up. "Armand Isard. Director Isard. He wants to speak with you."

The Bureau's director? Tamri scowls. "Fine. I'll go with you. Only to speak, though, I'm not agreeing to anything."

"Oh, that's fine, fine. Just, you know—following orders."

"Maybe try thinking rather than just blindly following," Tamri grumbles. "Wouldn't have gotten any of us in this mess in the first place."

The Senate Bureau for Intelligence's headquarters are nothing like Tamri expected. Just an average-looking building, little different from the offices around it, and its security little more than standard for a secure installation. Nothing crazy. Certainly nothing worthy of the reputation built up by the Republic's most formidable and feared intelligence agency. This is where it all happens? A bored-sounding, pretty receptionist, bland white overhead lightning, plain metal flooring, and aesthetics so milquetoast that Tamri feels drowsy just looking at it all?

"We don't actually have a lot of the real work done on-site here," Rastic says as he leads Tamri into the building and down the halls. "Mostly just admin business. Takes a lot of documentation to work with the Senate, hey?"

"Just point me where I'm supposed to go. Then please, leave me alone," Tamri mutters.

"Oh, right, right. In a hurry, I get you."

He ushers her into a boring room with metal walls, metal flooring, metal ceiling. A few scattered chairs. For a moment, Tamri thinks she's been tricked. But then, a minute after Rastic closes the door and leaves, she hears the subtle scraping sound of something moving. Metal on metal. Is this room twisting? Lowering?

Then the lights flicker—off-on—and the scenery changes abruptly.

Holograms, she thinks as the shock fades. The most impressive holographic display she's ever seen envelops her on all sides, so realistic, so lifelike, that she could forget she's still standing on a bland metal room. A tired yellow sun shines weakly overhead in a tired grey sky. She stands on stone brick flooring, crumbling architecture around her as if she's in some primeval ruin. The sight beyond one hip-level wall to her right reveals nothing but clouds and emptiness beyond. As if she could fall right off that wall and tumble into nothingness forever. As if she's not in a bare metal room in the middle of Coruscant but bearing witness to all of creation from the heavens.

Slowly she realizes that she is not alone. She turns to find a man seated on the lone chair in the ruin, his hands clasped on his lap, one leg bent over the other. Square-cut jaw. Bright green eyes. Slicked gray hair and a perfect navy blue dress suit. Beside him atop a slender side table rests a half-empty glass filled with an ice cube and a translucent green drink. When he speaks, it was with calm, knowing authority: "Tamri Dallin."

Tamri has a last look around before speaking: "Are you the director?"

"Armand Isard," the man says, nodding. "Director for the Senate Bureau of Intelligence. My apologies for sudden meeting, but information changes quickly in this line of work."

She frowns. He isn't the Council; he doesn't intimidate her. Anything he can ask of her is just an offer, not a command. The old Tamri might have bowed respectfully and remained quiet, perhaps, but that was before Belderone and everything that came after it. "You should find better spies," she says.

"If you are referring to Rossano Rastic, I assure you that he was one of my better agents when he was tasked to rendezvous with you and Sae Tristess on Belderone," Isard says. He takes a drink and scowls. "Captivity broke him. But he has his uses in administration, and that only. He knows it. And he knows he won't receive better employment elsewhere now. Not if I have anything to say about it."

Tamri tilts her head. Left unsaid is the implication that Rastic knows too much as a former spy, broken or not. She doubts Isard is the type of men to let former assets walk away without some kind of safeguard in place. Generous men like that don't lead intelligence agencies. "What do you want from me?" she says.

"I didn't expect you to be direct, based on my reports. Although I imagine surviving your ordeal on Telos has to do with that."

"How do you know that?"

He takes another drink and smiles. "Information is my trade, Tamri. It's my job to stay informed."

"Fine. Tell me something interesting, then."

"I can imagine what troubles you, and I can tell you that I have no information regarding the whereabouts of Sae Tristess," Isard says. As Tamri opens her mouth to respond, he cuts her off by raising his hand. "I had a file on her activities in the criminal underworld, and I know you joined her on a number of those over the years as her apprentice. Unfortunately, wherever she disappeared to, she was quite keen on avoiding attention. What I suspect, however, is that she is not in good hands—if she is alive."

"What does that mean?"

He presses his fingertips together and leans forward. "Count Dooku has taken a fallen Jedi Master as an apprentice. The Jedi Council is aware of this fact, as are several ranking Jedi not on the Council. His name is Taron Malicos. What my intuition tells me is that Dooku is recruiting; previously he had a woman named Asajj Ventress as his apprentice, after all. I am aware that you and Sae ran into him during your most recent mission. If she caught his eye, perhaps he took her captive in order to recruit another follower."

"No," Tamri protests immediately. "If he tries that, he'll fail. Sae's a Jedi."

"So was Malicos. And Dooku," Isard muses. "But that is beside the point. I brought you here today to speak of the future, not the past. Your future, in particular. And Concordia."

Tamri steps back. "How do you know that—"

"Please, Tamri, we've just had this discussion."

She stops and takes a breath. Perhaps he does intimidate her a little. "That's Jedi business. It's my business alone."

"Hardly," Isard says. "A conversation overheard at Dex's Diner suggests that it is also Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi's business, as well of that of the nephew of the late Satine Kryze, Korkie. Now it is also my business. I find Hosha Tath a particularly formidable threat, after all, and I wish to stay one step ahead of her own intelligence capabilities. Her organization is hardly deficient in that regard."

Tamri walks to the edge of the holographic tower and looks out into the open sky. "What do you want?"

"First off, to warn you of the escalating situation on both Mandalore and Concordia," Isard says.

"What situation?"

"A rebellion has been underway on Mandalore ever since the Separatists occupied the planet—one led by a Bo-Katan Kryze, the sister of the former Duchess," Isard says. "She has established war camps on Concordia and recently has been joined by a paramilitary group from Onderon led by a partisan named Saw Gerrera."

"So be careful, got it."

Isard frowns. He waves his hand, and an off-brown orb rises from the skies below the holographic ruin. No, not a orb, Tamri thinks as she squints and the globe nears. A planet. A miniature representation of Concordia, complete with bright red indicators dotting the planet. It hands before her in that empty void, huge and dark and dangerous. "Gerrera was heavily responsible for forcing the Separatists off of Onderon. That he had both the strength and the will to take his fight against the Separatists beyond his homeworld came as a surprise to even my agents. He is radical in his fight, and I suggest you stay clear. Bo-Katan Kryze is no diplomat, either," Isard says. "If you plan to stay long on Concordia, I imagine you'll run into their forces as they battle the Separatists. Keep in mind that collateral damage is not something that gives Gerrera pause."

"So be careful."

"More than that," Isard says. "I want to know why the Taths have a research installation on Concordia. I am aware—loosely—of their interest in breeding Killiks. What I don't know is why that is occurring on a Mandalorian moon."

"Neutral space? Or formerly neutral, at least."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's more," he says. "Arkanians are the most gifted scientists in the galaxy, and the Taths are the elite of Arkania. Whatever they are up to, it is for a reason—and I want to know every last detail regarding the threat they pose. They did hand over their adopted home of Taris to the Separatists without a fight, after all. In that effort, I want to dispatch one of my agents with your team, so that he might report back to me."

Tamri shakes her head. "No. No way. I had enough with intelligence agents with Rastic."

"This isn't Rossano Rastic I'm referring to, but you should know him," Isard says, taking another drink and emptying his glass. He pushes it away and it slides out of existence, apparently out of the holographic scene. Then it returns a moment later, full to the brim. Isard takes another sip before continuing. "His former designation, before he was retired from the army, was RC-1417. His name is Falco."

"Falco died on Belderone."

"Did he? I'm sure he'll be interested to hear that," says Isard. "Or not. He isn't much for idle chat."

Tamri opens her mouth, but no words come out. Another dead man still alive. How? "Wh—" she starts, the words failing.

"He is more resilient than you gave him credit for. That should put your mind at ease regarding my offer. If nothing else, he is a reliable gun on your side to protect your team. As a clone, he is dutiful and loyal. And he knows how to keep secrets. He wouldn't be my agent now if he didn't," Isard says. "All I ask is that he be allowed to send me regular reports on his findings. In return, I'll keep you updated on what I know will help you."

Tamri isn't convinced. Whether or not he's telling the truth about the clone commando being alive—and now with the intelligence agency, on top of that—she doesn't like the idea of having an agent along on Jedi business. Sure, she's bringing Avea and Kesh and Dominion—not to mention Korkie—into this. But none of them are reporting to the director of the Senate Bureau. At least as far as she knows.

"If it will earn your trust, I have another contact who can help you," Isard says. "A pilot. And someone you can trust, I assure you."

"I'll make up my mind on that."

"As you say. In any case, Tamri, you need not give me an answer right away. I'll send Falco to the hanger your ship's waiting in. He'll meet you there. If you take him aboard, I'll take that as you accepting my offer. Deny him and I understand," says Isard. "And one more thing—the pilot will be waiting for you just outside this room. I imagine you can make up your mind quickly regarding him."

He waves his hand and disappearances in a flash. Then the scene shifts and blurs, shimmering light and darkness. Unsettling. Tmari closes her eyes, stands still—and when she opens her eyes again, she's back in the bare metal room. Like she never even left. Which, she supposes, she didn't.

Isard. The man gives her the creeps, but there's no denying he's well-informed. She doesn't want to take his deal. No matter who he thinks she can trust.

Time to get this day over with. She opens the door to leave, only to find that—true to Isard's word—a visitor waits in the hallway. A burly Nautolan, his arms folded, his shoulders relaxed.

He looks up at her exit and grins. "Hey, little wizard," Neelotas says. "Been a bit, hasn't it?"

"It's not a battle we approach, Sae. It is destiny. I have foreseen it."

Sae keeps her head down as Dooku leads her back down the Celestial's tunnel inside the pyramid. She clenches her fists, if only to stave off the voices. They came from everywhere in here, in this claustrophobic darkness where the sloping ceiling presses down as if at any moment it will collapse and crush the life out of her, entomb her in this beating heart of the Dark Side forever. Yet Dooku seems to thrive here; the Celestial and its visions enter his every conversation with her. Prophecy. Destiny. Foresight. He is growing obsessive.

Perhaps she should be worried. But she doesn't care. Right?

As if answering his thoughts, Dooku shifts the conversation: "How goes your training of Pella?"

Sae swallows hard. Pella. She doesn't care about the girl. She doesn't care. Keep telling yourself that. Keep believing that you don't remember failing Tamri every time you look at Pella. "She's certainly not in any danger of running back to the Jedi," Sae murmurs. "Angry, that girl."

"Hone her anger. Sharpen it into a spearhead. Then throw her against our enemies," Dooku says. "That you are capable of. You can refine her, something Malicos could not. I would not have given the girl to him for training."

"Where is he? Still hunting that Maul?"

Dooku scowls, his cheekbones sharper than ever in the shadow-rich dusk of the pyramid's bowels. A door before them opens like a sphincter into some hellish tract and the walls close in just a little more. Sae glances up. Has the ceiling always been that low? Have those odd tube-like protrusions always come down like that? This place is a nightmare; she can't even be sure of what's real and what's not in the Celestial's prison. The Force is so thick here, choking. Accursed thing. Let it flow through you. Wield it like a weapon. Jedi, Sith, Light Dark. She'd rather the Force just leave her alone already. Hasn't it taken enough?

"Malicos made contact with Maul on Saleucami," Dooku says as they walk on. "He failed to kill him, partly because Maul is joined by a former apprentice of mine, the Zabrak Savage Oppress. I cannot waste Malicos on policing our own space against Maul's incursions, particularly if he cannot even kill Maul when they meet. I have re-tasked Kalani with patrolling against Maul and re-assigned Malicos to deploy to Mandalore."

"Mandalore?"

"A rebellion has intensified there. Mandalore is an excellent staging ground for a future offensive into the Inner Rim and the Core Worlds, but only if it is pacified," Dooku says. "That is his job."

Good luck, thinks Sae. She has heard all the old stories about Mandalore and the warrior culture from that world. How it tore the galaxy apart in the Mandalorian Wars four thousand years ago. Planet after planet falling to those people. Now just another world, another cog in the great gears of Dooku's ambition. But old fires that still burn can spark into a blaze at any time. Something tells her that Malicos won't find his job easy. "And we head to Sullust in the meantime."

"Yes," says Dooku.

He leads her into the Celestial's chamber. The raging vessel of the Force is quiet today, still churning and roiling in its recessed pit, all starfire yellow and abyssal black whirling together in a hurricane of energy and the Force, but not burning Sae with memories and images the moment she looks down into its madness. Dooku smiles patronizingly at the Celestial. "It showed me a vision of the battle to come. The Jedi will come to Sullust in force, and we shall meet them on its volcanic surface, you and I. Pella, too. I saw a dark tower ringed by fire, lightning striking its peak. Obi-Wan Kenobi with his lightsaber ready. And the Jedi I look forward to the most, standing in shadow and fog. Anakin Skywalker."

Sae gazes at the Celestial. "Why is Skywalker so important?"

"You know his power, I imagine."

"Of course."

"There is much more to him than being just another Jedi Knight," Dooku murmurs. "I have seen a vision of who he could be. There is an aura of the Dark Side about him. A powerful Sith he could become, if only he accepted his potential. His destiny." Dooku smiles. "My Sith Order is not an order for mere Force-users, Sae. It is for the strong. And Skywalker would have a place in it, alongside you and Malicos. With me. Taking the galaxy, toppling that decrepit old Republic and the blind, foolish Jedi, and creating an empire that could last a thousand years. I have seen ships by the tens of thousands stretching from Coruscant the Outer Rim. I have seen an order, a new order, imposing its will upon the galaxy. And we will be the ones to make that new order. Skywalker's power could make us unstoppable."

The Celestial shifts in its den. Dooku looks up and away into the darkness, but Sae sees it move, just a tad, its dark center focusing straight at her. A lancing pain strikes her temple and she grimaces, closing her eyes to ward off the pain.

A vision. So quick, so momentary. Not into the future, this one. The past. Tamri aboard the Evening as they descended to Ziost, the frantic escape from Dooku and Korriban still fresh in their minds. Master, are you sure about this? Tamri says in the vision, her voice as clear as it was then. I know what I heard on Korriban, but we can still go back. We can still call the Council, figure this out. Get some guidance. It's not too late.

Now a taunting bubbles up from deep in Sae's mind: Well, why didn't you go back? You didn't listen to her. You didn't really believe her. But now you're going to listen to him? How can you be sure he's right? You can't even trust yourself; why would you trust him?

Master Gallia's laughter echoing in her mind. Then her words come together—not a memory, no visions, just the words of a lesson from when Sae was but a young Padawan and Master Gallia still alive and at her side.

Sae, she had said then, after a particularly violent incident during a mission on Balmorra to root out insurgents, they know we're Jedi. But many people in the galaxy don't see Jedi as peacekeepers, or even good people. To them, we're as much a problem as they are to us, and nothing we can say will change that. Perspective begets reality. All the objectivity in the world won't change what you see with your eyes and hear with your ears. The conundrum of life is that truth is simultaneously universal and deeply, deeply personal. Few will believe another's idea of reality when their eyes and ears are telling them something very different.

You never did listen, did you? Fool of an apprentice. Fool, fool.

Sae opens her eyes. Dooku is still looking away. The Celestial is still looking at her.