She does not listen to their opening speeches.
Padme hears them, yes, but the words go in one ear and out the other. In the first Senate session since the pair of monumental votes, it is not a chancellor who stands before the assembly on the central pedestal of leadership, but a quartet of men from two separate, competing camps. On one side stands Jedi Master Mace Windu, flanked by fellow veteran Jedi Council member Saesee Tiin. Beside Windu rises the long, imposing figure of Wilhuff Tarkin. The Jedi Master and the Grand Admiral do not so much as look each other's way when they speak.
And beside Tarkin, despite his defeat in the vote of no confidence, remains Mas Amedda. He is there purely in an advisory role as Tarkin's political chief of staff, the Grand Admiral has promised the Senate, yet Padme cannot tamp down the stew of disgust that stirs in her stomach when she looks at him. Perhaps he is no longer Vice Chair, but it doesn't take much for Padme to imagine who is whispering in Tarkin's ear from behind his throne. It's naked corruption, almost pathetic—Amedda clinging to his power even after the Senate has thrown him out after so many years. Yet, like a tapeworm, he remains to keep sucking the body dry.
"…and the Jedi Order and I promise a swift end to the instability that has plagued this chamber ever since Supreme Chancellor Palpatine's disappearance," Tarkin states as Padme stares off into space. They're just words. Promises as easily violated as Amedda's stepping down. "We leave behind the chaos and enter a period of law. A period of order. A period of justice."
Tarkin's speech elicits a round of applause from the lower seats of the Senate, but it does not take long for Padme—and any senator paying attention—to see where power really lies now. The senators are little more than background props. No sooner has Windu moved to begin nominations on a new Vice Chair then Tarkin objects, citing multiple judicial bylaws so obscure Padme questions their very existence. A vote must wait, Tarkin insists, until the Judiciary Committee has had a chance to consult with the courts and the Ethics Committee lays out proper nominating procedure during this time of interregnum. All Padme can do is watch, effectively gagged, as Windu turns and discusses matters with Tiin. Amedda says nothing, does not even move—all for appearances. Can't have the media purporting the idea that Tarkin is just Amedda's megaphone, whether that's true or not. Anything those two men needed to discuss for this session was done beforehand, without any meddlesome senators like Padme to get in their way.
She glances to her right. On the Malastare senatorial pod, Ask Aak and the entire delegation aren't even bothering to pay attention to the proceedings, instead conferring among one another with the small hologram of a Gran listening in between them. Figures, Padme thinks. Now that Aak has thrown the democratic process into disarray, he is quick to forgo it entirely and conduct all his business in backroom channels. If this is how it's going to be, then not only will a vote for the new Vice Chair not happen any time soon, but she doubts it'll happen at all before the Separatists reach Coruscant.
And as grateful she is that the Jedi are at least here to keep some semblance of reason around, Mace Windu looks entirely uncomfortable and out of place up there on the podium. But what choice does he have? It's do his best or cede the entire governing body to Tarkin and Amedda.
It's stunning how quickly everything has fallen apart in the halls of power. Two months ago the war was going badly, but politics proceeded as normal. Now mere anarchy is loosed upon the Senate. Her first thought was wrong, Padme admits. The Separatists won't get to Coruscant before this place blows. Tempers will flare in the Senate and they'll all be at each other's throats long before Grievous and Dooku set foot here.
She snorts, and in the seat next to her, Representative Binks of the Gungans looks at her quizzically. "Senator Padme?"
"It's ridiculous, Jar Jar," she says. "It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad."
The meeting in Mon Mothma's office following the session's adjournment has all the excitement of a funeral. "I have to ask," Senator Burtoni says sardonically, "is anyone actually in charge of the Republic right now? Are we all just headless animals running around in circles, only hearing whomsoever can scream the loudest?"
"If I recall, this was originally your idea," Senator Chuchi snipes at her.
"My idea was ousting Amedda, Riyo, not deciding it'd be a smart to give lawlessness a spin. I never heard you argue against it."
"The both of you, please," Padme says, her head throbbing with a roaring headache. "We've all had enough madness for one day."
At the far end of the office, Mace Windu looks out the window at the darkening Coruscant evening. "You have my word, senators," he murmurs, staring out into the drizzle. "The Jedi will not let Tarkin and Amedda have their way. It's democracy we have sworn our loyalty to. It's democracy we serve."
"Forgive me for saying so, Master Jedi, but that's exactly what Amedda wants from you," Mon Mothma says. "Contest Tarkin's moves and Amedda and his loyal senators will use every trick they have to brand you as obstructionists."
"Allowing them to proceed without pushback is worse," Bail Organa muses. "We can't keep playing politics as we always have. These are uncharted waters. We need to be forceful. We need to use every weapon we have."
That may be, Padme thinks, but what then? What do we become when we resort to the tactics Amedda and Tarkin utilize? And is it already too late to slow the Senate's descent, let alone stop it?
Somewhere, out in the hallway deep within the Senate Executive Building, a bell tolls. The hour is late.
It starts when the Banner of the Resolute's engines make the most horrific, metallic howling Anakin has ever heard a warship's drive make. Then the blue glow of hyperspace shatters and rushes to a stop, the stars rush all around the bridge's viewscreen, and the star destroyer drops into sublight speed at the edge of the Sullust system seconds before intended. It is a minor change at best, but in hyperspace, seconds mean vast distances. And that horrible sound wasn't all: The grim expression on Dodonna's face—grimmer than usual for such a serious man—tells Anakin that something has gone seriously wrong.
"Status report!" Dodonna shouts as chatter breaks out in a great din across the bridge. "Someone give me an update. Why did we pull out of hyperspace before the scheduled drop?"
The fleet commlink buzzes to life with the scratchy voice of Captain Gilad Pellaeon: "Admiral Dodonna? This is Pellaeon. We've hit some sort of gravity well. Can you confirm?"
"Can anyone here paint me a picture of what's going on?" Dodonna says to the bridge crew.
A bridge lieutenant down in the computer-lined trenches looks up at the admiral. "There's some sort of minefield littered all over the system, sir. We hit the edge of it."
"Put on the holo, lieutenant. Skywalker, come have a look with me."
Above the bridge holoemitter, a digitized display of the Sullust system shimmers to life. From the inner planets to the system's out reaches, dozens—maybe even hundreds—of tiny dots appear, casting holographic waves across the map. Anakin scowls. He knows what trap the Separatists have laid for them. "Interdiction mines," he growls. "They knew we were coming and from which direction. They forced us out of hyperspace right where they wanted us."
Obi-Wan scratches his chin and examines the display on the other side of the emitter. "No chance of retreat, then. And too many mines for us to clear before the Separatist forces see that we've arrived," he muses. "The minefield must have some sort of central control node somewhere in the system, or else the Confederate ships would be trapped as well."
"Probably on Sullust," Dodonna says as the map updates based on the first sensor scans sweeping the system. A whole horde of icons appear over the system's fourth planet—the enemy lying in wait above Sullust itself. "They know they can wait us out."
"So what're our options?" says Ahsoka, arriving and planting her hands on the emitter, leaning forward to get a better look at the picture. "Wait a minute—where are the sector fleets? We're alone here."
Obi-Wan frowns. "Either late," he says, "or they're not coming."
"Not coming?"
"Destroyed?" Anakin suggests.
Obi-Wan says nothing, but Anakin can read his expression, the way he narrows his eyes and stares into the holographic light. The sector fleets supposed to support them are from Eriadu and Malastare, both planets nearby but both among Grand Admiral Tarkin's biggest supporters. Did they receive new orders to hold off while the Jedi-led fleet was already en route through hyperspace?
No, thinks Anakin. That would be tantamount to treason—abandoning Anakin's fleet to the mercy of the superior Separatist defensive armada. Tarkin is a hard man, but not a traitor. Certainly not. There must be some sort of reasonable expectation. "They must be delayed. Separatist outrider fleets might've intercepted them on the way," he says.
"Perhaps," Obi-Wan murmurs. But his tone suggests he doubts that.
Before anyone can come up with solutions to their conundrum, however, one of the bridge officers shouts, "Admiral? Admiral Dodonna? Hostile IFF ping!"
On the holoemitter, the image of the system vanishes and the visage of a short-range Separatist picket ship appears. "A scout," Anakin snarls. "Shoot it down!"
"It's already sent an outbound transmission, sir!"
"They have our position. They know we're here," Dodonna says. "Let it go."
"What?" says Anakin.
"It doesn't matter," Dodonna replies gravely. "We're not concealed. There's no turning back, no avenue for retreat. And as long as the interdiction field is up, we can't get comms out of the system. There's no way to know if the sector fleets are coming or not. We're on our own."
Ahsoka grumbles out of frustration. "So that's it? It's just us?"
"Doesn't leave us too many options," Anakin adds.
Dodonna scans the display readout on the side of the holoemitter. "A lot of smaller ships in that Separatist formation. We're drastically outnumbered, but they don't have a lot of heavy capitals that can go toe-to-toe with our star destroyers," he murmurs.
"You sound like you have a plan," Obi-Wan says.
"The beginnings of one," Dodonna says. "We only have two options, as it is. Either way stay here and set up a defensive formation, wait for the Separatists to leave Sullustan orbit and come and get us…"
"Or we take the fight to them," Anakin finishes.
Dodonna nods. "Exactly. There's no other way around it. If we don't press now, they won't leave us alone for long. They know they have us pinned."
"So what do you suggest?"
Dodonna looks Anakin right in the eye. "We came here for Sullust. I don't see why we should change that now. Attack."
Anakin claps his hands. He knew he liked this man. Admiral Yularen was a good officer, a loyal officer, a good sounding board—but he was always too cautious, too by-the-book. Dodonna is not Yularen. He knows when caution is not an option. And with Anakin, it's almost never an option.
Dodonna keys in the commlink to the fleet. "All ships, general quarters," he says, and blue lights spring up along the floor and ceiling of the Banner's bridge. Battle stations. Dodonna points to one of the deck officers and says, "Lieutenant—get all the ship captains on the line. Have them transport every last proton torpedo in their holds to us, and have them all packed into the Banner's main hanger when they arrive. Skywalker—" he turns to Anakin— "I need you to take your squadron and lead every starfighter and gunship aboard this cruiser out into space."
"You're evacuating the command ship?" Obi-Wan says.
"Just the small craft, Master Kenobi. We're going to need all the hanger space we can get. Every cubic meter," Dodonna says. He looks around to the three Jedi and nods. "I won't lie to you. It's going to get messy, even if everything goes off without a hitch. May the Force be with us all."
Anakin smiles. This, he thinks, is where the fun begins. He turns to Ahsoka with a grin and says, "Now or never. You ready?"
"Born ready," Ahsoka says.
He laughs. "Let's not keep 'em waiting, then. Time to get this show started."
Skies like an ashen field. Ground the color of pitch. Lava rivers like veins of hell coursing across the angry ground, dividing the bleak stone and earth like cracks in a suit of chthonic armor. Cinders fall like rain from the volcanic thunderheads, heat lightning tearing at the wrath-wrought landscape. Sae looks out at it all like some fisher king in a dead land, surrounded by all this movement but so little life. Sullust surges and heaves as if rumbling from the heartbeat of an underworld god, and here she is at the center of this great churning.
And out there on that burning plain form up thousands, tens of thousands, of battle droids. Tanks, hailfire droids, mobile artillery. Massive, boxy turbolaser turrets turning in slow arcs around the perimeter of the field, each shot capable of splitting a walker in two. It is a force capable of ending the most determined of Republic assaults. Once the Jedi she called friends would've struggled mightily against these very odds. Now she commands them. She never did much commanding as a Jedi—too much rooting around in the underworld to see any more than occasional field battle—but now she finds herself right at the intersection of two opposing forces vying for one of the galaxy's most prized industrial gems.
It is an odd feeling. In some ways, it's empty: She doesn't care about the losses anymore; not the quantity of them, at least. Tamri, Master Gallia, the friends who fell on Geonosis—the blows have taken too much of a toll. She's seen clone troopers die before, Belderone and before. Killing them won't make her bat an eye now, and she doesn't care a lick for the battle droids. Just lights and gearwork. Dooku has left her alone here at the top of this sky-touching energy conversion tower—to 'make plans,' as he said—but she cares little for what happens to him either. Dooku. The Jedi Council. Leaders of Dark and Light; just champions of the same problem. Armies are just numbers; battle casualties worthy of a momentary frown before getting back to business. Meaningless, the lot of it. Battle requires a heart of ice, and her time on snowy Ziost has chilled her to the marrow.
But not all-encompassing is her apathy. She wishes it were not so—she wants nothing more than to toss aside every last connection to this world that has taken so much from her and float in the vacuous ether—but Dooku knew what he was doing when he stuck her with Pella. Now Sae can't just lie down and die. Not when she's responsible for someone. And, even if it is only a kindling, the merest of sparks in a night without end, the fire that scorches Sullust begins to melt the frost in the deepest, loneliest, most forgotten crevice of Sae's heart
"Storm's coming in," Pella says next to her in the viewing chamber atop the energy tower. It's a dark room cut from all that black stone out there, onyx furniture and obsidian walls, everything the shade of moonless midnight.
Sae watches the lightning flash with her arms folded. "Yes. It is."
"Why aren't we in orbit?" Pella says. She grips her lightsaber as if Republic forces are moments away from charging inside the tower, even though scanners only just showed their fleet dropping out of hyperspace a few minutes ago. "That's where the battle's going to be."
Sae looks down at her and feels a twinge of anguish. That lightsaber. Winter-blue before, but she had the girl bleed that crystal on the trip through hyperspace from Ziost to Sullust. Now a blood-red blade, like hers, like Dooku's and Malicos's. A proper little Sith in training, Pella Starseer. But no—Sae knows better. Dooku can say what he wants about his grand visions of a Sith Order: The only thing on Sae's mind is moving forward, and Pella is just a young girl eager for some action. If this is the Sith, it doesn't look much different from her life as a Jedi. Just a different paint job and a willingness to use the Dark Side. One mission is another; the fights the same mania of ultraviolence. There are no heroics. There never were any heroics.
"Dooku foresaw a battle on the surface. He wants them to come down here," Sae murmurs.
"That's stupid."
Yes, it is. But she knows how impossible it is to get those visions out of one's head. "Regardless, we have our orders."
Pella huffs and kicks a chair leg. "We outnumber them. We should just take the fight to them in space, foresight or not."
"I'm not calling the shots. They supposedly have a number of Jedi with them. Be ready. Stop getting distracted by what you want to happen and focus on what will happen."
"So what if they have Jedi?"
Sae scowls at her. "Don't be an idiot. You can pretend to be whatever you want, but you and I were both Jedi once. You know they're not pushovers. And supposedly it's Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi, among others."
"So? Did you know them?"
"Skywalker only by reputation. We never talked," Sae muses. "Obi-Wan, yes. We grew up together."
Pella snorts. "I hope you can do what you need to."
Sae wheels on her so quickly that Pella jumps back. "Say it again," she growls. "Do it. Go on."
Pella wilts in the face of her sudden anger. "Never mind," she grumbles.
"Don't ever ask me again if I can do what I have to," Sae snaps. She thinks back to those cowering innocent people in the spaceport on Mirial when she and Neelotas hijacked their ship to chase after Tamri and Lendon Rust. "I've done way worse for better people than you."
"Okay, fine, I get it. What do you want me to do when the shooting starts?"
A good Sith wouldn't have backed down; they would've challenged her. Pella's reaction almost makes Sae smile. "You stick close to me."
"What? Why?"
"Because there's going to be a lot of shooting."
"So? I can handle myself."
"I know," Sae murmurs. Images flash through her head. An asteroid base. A Separatist cruiser. An explosion in the black of space. "And I know that sometimes that doesn't matter a bit."
"This, uh…contact…that Master Kenobi gave you—something about your face tells you that it's not exactly a good person that we're meeting."
Tamri grits her teeth. Out here on the edge of the Myrkr system in no-man's-land between the Republic and Separatist front lines, there is no one coming to back up the War Maiden if something goes wrong. And she can easily imagine something going wrong with the woman Master Kenobi told her to meet.
"The Council wouldn't approve of it, but now's not the time for half-measures," Obi-Wan had told her back on Coruscant. "If you stand a chance at getting through the Separatist fleet at Mandalore, you need someone who can move through their space undetected. And of all the people I know who might be willing to help, only one fits the bill. Unfortunately, the Council still wants to try Asajj Ventress for war crimes, so you'd best wait until you're off of Coruscant to give her a call."
Ventress. Tamri knows who Count Dooku's former apprentice is, even if she's never crossed paths with the lightsaber-wielding woman. How Obi-Wan knows how to contact her—let alone why he thinks she fits the definition of "help"—is anyone's guess.
"Things may get a little difficult. Just let me do the talking," Tamri tells Korkie, the latter's face overflowing with skepticism. "Things'll be fine."
From her prone position on one of the couches in the War Maiden's lounge, Avea looks at her and scoffs. "It's gonna be a disaster, huh?"
"You can have a little faith in me. We fought through that whole Telos base together."
"You should know that Miss Vigaro is an extremely pessimistic person," Dominion says with an odd grin.
Avea scowls at the droid. "Whatever. Try not go get the ship blown up this quickly, Tamri."
"Hey, wizard, get up here," Neelotas shouts from the cockpit. "Got a new arrival on approach."
Advancing quickly on an interceptor vector is a crimson-painted SS-54 assault ship, a gunboat only about a third the size of the War Maiden. A ship fit for one, two max. Well-armed, low sensor profile, powerful engines. Perfect for a bounty hunter. Or a disgraced Sith apprentice. "Got a general hail and request to come aboard," says Neelotas from his piloting station. "Nothing personalized. Not even a voice message. Whoever it is, they didn't even care enough to speak with us."
"Rather uncivilized," Korkie mutters.
The Nautolan laughs. "Weird things you kids say," he chuckles. To Tamri he adds, "Want me to give her the green light to come aboard?"
"Yeah," says Tamri. "I'll meet her."
"I'll come with you," Korkie says at once.
"It's fine, I can do it alone," says Tamri. "If she knows Master Kenobi, that it's fine."
Korkie shakes his head. "Backup's always safer than going it alone," he says. "Besides, it could be a trap."
"If it's a trap, we're all dead. But fine," Tamri says. No point in arguing, especially when he's set his jaw like that. Firm. Determined. Strangely reminiscent of Master Kenobi's face. Hm.
At the boarding hatch, Falco waits with his modular clone commando blaster rifle. So he's kept at least some part of his old life around. "Jedi," he says.
"I hope you're not planning on shooting our guest," Tamri says, frowning at the gun.
"Only if you give the word," Falco says. "Might not be with the clone army anymore, but I still know what orders mean. Have your talk. Something goes wrong, that's what I'm for."
That and spilling all the details to Armand Isard, Tamri thinks. But she can't complain—she did agree to the arrangement, after all. Perhaps she'll leave that out of her report to the Council when this is over.
The War Maiden shudders as the assault ship hooks up its boarding tube. White vapor flushes and hisses; the inner airlock door opens with a whoosh.
The woman who steps forth is exactly what Tamri imagines when she thinks of the Dark Side. Small, downturned mouth. Cruel, narrow eyes. Bald head. A tight-fitting vest, dirty brown, real leather. Long, lanky build with clear muscle and sinew below. And on her belt to the right and the left of her hip—lightsaber hilts. She looks around, scowls, and says, "What the hell is this ship?"
All is quiet for a moment. An uneasy peace. Tamri looks to Korkie, frets, and looks back to the woman. "It's…er, stolen," she says. Thinking that she'd better add something diplomatic, she says, "Er…hello. Master Kenobi? You know him?"
"Of course I know Kenobi. What kind of greeting is that?" Ventress sneers, eyes appraising the trio in front of her. They settle on Tamri's lightsaber strapped to her belt. "He didn't say he was sending a Padawan." Her look moves to Flaco and Korkie. "Or a clone. Or whatever you are."
Korkie's scowl tells Tamri this meeting could go south in a hurry. "I'm Tamri Dallin," she says. "He's Korkie Kyrze. He's Falco."
"Kryze?" Ventress says, eyeing Korkie. "I see. Fascinating."
"What would you know about my family?" Korkie says.
Before Tamri can interject, Ventress laughs. "More than enough, boy. I know who the Death Watch are, and I know the Duchess they fought against," she says. "Obi-Wan Kenobi met me on Tatooine in his search for the Death Watch. I know he went to Mandalore. I know the Separatists control the planet now. And so I know Obi-Wan failed in whatever he went there to do." She looks down at Tamri. "Is that what you're trying to rectify, Padawan? Obi-Wan's failure?"
"No," says Tamri. "We're going to Concordia on a separate mission. We need your help getting through the Separatist fleet."
Before she can receive Ventress's answer, however, Korkie interjects again. "If you know Death Watch," he says, "then you know of Maul. Don't you?"
Ventress scowls at him. "Maul," she spits, "and Savage. They—"
Suddenly she stops. Tamri can just see it—a tiny, miniscule whisp of green light over her shoulder. An almost-inaudible word escapes Ventress's lips, a word that means nothing to Tamri: "Mother."
Ventress looks away. "Let us speak more, Padawan. Somewhere that isn't the airlock."
Thankfully, the others have left the lounge unattended. "You can leave us, Falco," Tamri says. "We'll be okay. I can feel it."
The clone frowns in disapproval, but true to his word, he nods and walks off. Good soldiers follow orders. And so far, she has no reason to believe he is anything more than a good soldier following her—and Isard's—orders. "Korkie, maybe you should stay."
"I think that'd be for the best," he says. There is a fire in him, she can feel. It's too hot to ignore. Son of Mandalore, scion of the ducal throne. She cannot question his drive, if nothing else.
Ventress sits down on a chair and crosses her legs. Her eyes wander, as if she spots someone else in the lounge—someone Tamri cannot see. "What do you want on Concordia, girl?" she asks Tamri.
Tamri shares her story. The Taths, the research base on the Mandalorian moon, the Jedi orders—Ventress does not relent until she's heard it all, pressing Tamri for the full story. Korkie adds his bits—the fall of Mandalore and Dooku's arrival at the destroyed palace. When Tamri is finished, Ventress leans forward and presses her fingers together. "So it was Dooku himself who took Mandalore," she growls. "A shame I did not accompany Kenobi."
At last, Tamri broaches the anxiety lurking in the back of her thoughts: "I know who you are," she says, her words slow, careful. "I know you worked for Dooku—"
"Worked?" Ventress spits. "Say it out loud if you want, girl. I was his apprentice. I knew the way of the Sith. And he betrayed me. He killed my sisters. He set fire to my home. I know Dooku far better than you or the Jedi ever will. Don't question my past."
Tamri holds her gaze, even as her heart races. Ventress strikes her as a woman who respects strength. Just hold on. Obi-Wan must have referred her for a reason. "Dooku's blockade will kill us the moment they find out we don't have Separatist codes," Tamri says. "We'll never land on Concordia without them. Not with that Separatist fleet above Mandalore. Can you help us?"
Ventress stares into space. Again, Tamri sees it—a flicker of green in her eyes. "Someone is coming to Mandalore," Ventress murmurs. "Someone who knows Dooku well." She looks up at Korkie. "You're fighting for Mandalore, boy?"
Korkie frowns at her address, but he nods. "It's my home."
"Then I will help you. Obi-Wan has the Jedi paying me well already, but I have one more condition," Ventress says. "I don't want merely to see you through Separatist orbital security. I want to tour this research facility. I can see your fate already, Padawan. From Concordia, Mandalore will call for you. You and the boy. And when you go to its blasted surface, I want to be there, as well. Someone will find you there. And I want to greet him, apprentice to apprentice."
Tamri glances over at Korkie. Whatever Ventress sees, whatever she speaks of—it is beyond her knowing. But she will not turn up the woman's help, former Sith apprentice or otherwise. "Deal. We'd be happy to have someone else along."
"One more thing," Ventress says. "If you want to stay alive in orbit, you will do exactly as I say, when I say it. I am not going to explain to Obi-Wan if the Separatists destroy your ship before you've even had a chance to land."
"That's fine. Agreed."
"Then set a course and follow me," Ventress says. "I'll stick to my own ship on the way. This one is…unsuitable. Far too bright."
She stalks off back to the airlock, leaving Tamri mystified. That green light. That sudden insight. What is Ventress seeing?
And who is coming to meet them on Mandalore?