A/N: Thank you to DojoYoyo and Guest for the great reviews; glad you both enjoyed the chapter (and the rather explosive end of the formerly-united Republic, now breaking into smaller and smaller bits…). Thanks also to everyone who's followed along, as we move into Act 3 and the course of a war turning more and more chaotic…
ACT 3
Aboard a ship full of thousands of crewmen and soldiers, Anakin Skywalker stands alone.
He grips the handle of the parked speeder bike beside him, closing his eyes, shutting out the sound of the rain and wind battering the hull of the Leveler. These are typically the times when he would want anything but peace: The war-drum cadence of adrenaline and energy, pre-battle nerves electric and live. But all Anakin has felt since Dooku's revelation on Sullust is turmoil. Turmoil over Sidious's identity as Palpatine. Turmoil regarding the clash of Light and Dark that Obi-Wan warns him of, one that he himself cannot deny exists. Turmoil regarding what has happened to the Republic. To the Jedi. To the galaxy.
It is over, that old world he once lived in. Everything that came before is over. This is a new era, an age of chaos, of violence, of schism, when a grand galaxy full of so many thousands of worlds will become smaller and smaller until it is no larger than the space within a single being. Even Padme seems so far away now, both in distance and in his heart. The more chaotic it all gets, the more he has no idea what is right, what is fair, and what is so horribly wrong.
But he intends to find out. He will know the truth behind it all before this is all over. And he opens his eyes.
"Sixty seconds 'til we're in position, Skywalker," the audiospeaker above blares in the cramped armor hanger. Captain Pellaeon's voice crackles with battle stress. They're all feeling now in the wake of the Republic's split. It's easy to shoot at battle droids. It's much harder to clash with the men you so recently called your own.
Anakin will fight anyway. "Understood, Captain."
Rex, helmetless and wearing a stoic look, pulls up beside him with a datapad in his hand. "You're sure this is a good idea, General? Going in alone?"
"I'm sure," Anakin says. It's been three weeks since the battle on and above Coruscant, the brief but violent fight when Tarkin escaped from Garm Bel Iblis's accusations of treason and nearly a sixth of Coruscant's defensive fleet fled with him. Then came the defections: System after system from the Inner Rim to the boundary of Wild Space, stragglers who might've sided with the Separatists but didn't now finally breaking free from the decaying Republic. Tarkin's recent conquests went first: Thyferra. Yag'Dhul. Sullust. The man's march up the Rimma Trade Route provided the core of his new polity, and the contagion only spread from there.
Eriadu. Malastare. Rim worlds by the dozen across the Galactic South felt the shift in galactic power and made their choices. Too quick and too orderly a shift of so many loyalties of so many powerful worlds: Tarkin and his people must have secured their allegiances some time before the fighting broke out. The Republic still has the Core and select other worlds and systems of importance, but they have precious little else as the war closes in from all sides. They cannot afford to lose any more ground.
Especially a world so valuable as this. Anakin had hoped to be off to Ziost by now after meeting with Armand Isard in the wake of the clash on Coruscant, but news that Tarkin's Outer Rim fleets were advancing on Kamino itself in an attempt to decapitate the Republic army in one quick attack stayed his hand. He will learn the truth. He will know what is Light and what is Dark. But he will not forsake his men. For all of Anakin's questions surrounding the Jedi Order, he has no doubts at all about Rex and his brothers.
"Ahsoka's already dropping down with a relief force from the battle in space," he murmurs to Rex as he waits for Pellaeon's signal. "The Tarkinists have a vanguard that's already breached the city's defensive perimeter, and we're going to oust them before any reinforcements can join in. Once I'm out, head straight for Tipoca City's central cloning arrays. Work from the top down. I'll fight from the bottom of the city up and rally whatever on-site troops I can, including Master Shaak Ti if I can find her. We'll meet in the middle." He pauses, takes a breath. Lets it out. "It's your home, Rex. We're gonna protect it. I'm not letting it fall. Not to the Separatists who attacked here once before. Not to Tarkin's rebels now."
Rex does not question him. He never has. "I know, General."
"In position," Pellaeon calls over the comm. "Now or never, Skywalker."
The bay doors creak open with the moaning of grinding metal and churning gearwork. The orderly air inside the hanger falls back; rain and wind surges in. Outside a wall of precipitation reduces visibility to near-zero conditions, a sky-silver curtain of rain pounding down from grave-grey clouds. "Give them hell," says Rex as Anakin mounts his speeder bike.
Anakin nods. "I will."
He jams his feet against the pedals and the bike leaps forward. In a second he is out of the bay and into the elements, the drowning cold and sinking air and the chaos, the bike falling, falling from a thousand feet up. Its repulsors kick in, but it's too high: The lift is minimal, only enough to slow Anakin's descent, not stop it. He looks up, squints against the rain, and sees the Leveler ascending, little more than an arrowhead shadow against the oppressive weather.
Then a pair of V-Wings buzz by. One after another. One shooting, one fleeing, brother turned on brother.
Anakin clenches the control vanes. The speeder bike plunges towards the world-ocean's surface, nose leveling out as altitude decreases. Then, with little more than fifty feet to go, the repulsorlift finds a hold, the bike corrects, and Anakin races forward as sea spray bursts around him on all sides. He drops down to a mere meter above the water, dipping behind an enormous wave just beginning to crest. He rides the wave up, hunched over the bike console. Faster. Faster.
Over the top. The wave comes crashing down, and a pod of aiwhas bursts up from the sea to the sky to Anakin's left, the great creatures climbing, crying. Anakin dips down from the wave to the surface, zipping forward as his visibility clears to reveal the battle for Tipoca City raging before him.
A crimson-colored Consular corvette defends against a swarm of attacking fighters, laser turrets firing in sequence with the city's own ground-based cannons as grey-painted ARC-170 fighters drop proton torpedo after torpedo. One of the corvette's shots picks a fighter out of the sky, and in a rush of flame and smoke it crashes down not a hundred meters from Anakin. He banks left and away, racing over the resulting wave. Leaning to his right, he reaches over the side of the bike, hand racing through the sea spray. Two more ARC-170s explode above the city before their companions bombard the corvette's engines, rupturing a fuel line and throwing up a fireball. The vessel lurches drunkenly, steering away from the city's airspace as it falters, systems failing, before it finally slams into the ocean in a geyser, a shipwreck dropping fast like a whalefall towards the sea bed a hundred fifty kilometers below.
Anakin pushes the bike to the limit. Speed. Give me speed. He can hardly tell who's who up there in the skies with both sides using the same ships, but it doesn't matter now. He has his objective. He knows just what to do. The rest of the fight is out of his hands. Obi-Wan and the star-side forces can worry about the fighters.
He downshifts the speeder bike and ascends as he races under the city's scowling carapace, pulling up past maintenance catwalks and extreme weather clone training platforms, looking for one place in particular. There, directly ahead. The bulbous dome of the central cloning facilities, the sweet spot for the Tarkinist attack. The Republic's advantage, their best weapon, lies with the clone troopers and their unshakeable resolve. Break that, and this war may as well be over already.
Anakin slows as he approaches a gantry. He kicks the bike into neutral and leaps off onto the crane, steadying on the slick surface. The briny taste of sea, sour-bitter in his mouth. The screaming of fighter engines and the drum-roll blast of turbolaser batteries. And the rain falls.
He sprints ahead, pausing only when his balance gives out and he stretches his arms to keep from falling. No guardrails out this far; nothing but a twenty-meter plunge into the sea below if he slips. He finds his footing and keeps running. No time to pause and catch his breath. Run. Fight.
Reaching the end of the gantry, he drops down onto a cargo loading catwalk. From there it's a quick jog into a processing bay. No enemies yet—stacked cargo crates, a few spherical reconnaissance fliers, sterile white light. No blaster fire. No shouts. No screams. Anakin hurries on.
He plunges into a hallway bathed in the scarlet scowl of emergency lightning. Two dead clones on the ground, plain white armor. Hadn't even been assigned a unit. Anakin stops only to eye their wounds. Blaster fire. And on the one to the left, a gouge to the left shoulder that nearly took the poor man's arm off. Vibroblade? No, too ugly a wound. Almost like the sort of thing an animal would inflict.
Shouts ahead draw Anakin's attention. He pounds forward, heart thumping, lightsaber flying to his hand at his call and bursting to life as if a weapon animate. A soldier rounds the hallway intersection before him. It's not a clone. Nothing so professional. A grey-armored man—little more than a youth, really—with face full of terror and a chest rising and falling so quickly that he's lucky not to hyperventilate. A volunteer soldier, one of Tarkin's former Judicial Forces or Sector Fleet troops. Until so recently loyal to the Republic, now with his side chosen for him, marching on and on by order and discipline—or is it fear that keeps this doomed man in line? He looks up as Anakin rushes forward and his eyes bulge.
Has he ever seen a Jedi, this poor, lost soul who is alone at the end? Does he even really believe they exist? Space wizards with swords of light, throwing objects around with a mere thought, leading columns of white-armored troops in a grand army the likes of which the galaxy has never before seen. Was it all beyond his station, beyond his imagination?
Did he ever think he would be here?
Does it matter?
The man raises his rifle with shaky arms, the gun's barrel too low to cause any fatal damage to Anakin even if he fired. "Stop," the man shouts, tremors in his voice. "Put the weapon down! Put it down!"
Men like this are not made for the Clone Wars. He should never have been in this place. But none of this was ever supposed to happen.
Anakin pulls with the Force. The man's knees buckle and he flies towards Anakin, screaming—a scream cut short as Anakin slams his lightsaber into the soldier's chest and throws him away like refuse. He peels around the corner without slowing down just in time to see a clone trooper throw a door shut and back away with his rifle leveled. The clone looks back and shouts, "General! General Skywalker! Don't come this way, they're killing—"
A force slams into the door. The metal shears and a javelin of debris impales the clone trooper through the soft armor lining at his neck, blood pouring from the wound, the man gasping and dropping to his knees. And now, as the killer scuttles through the busted doorway, Anakin levels his lightsaber and gets his first look at Tarkin's real soldiers.
Tarkin is a tyrant. Power is his calling, not fairness. Men like the grey-armored fool Anakin just killed are not enough to build an empire; tyrants require strength. Might. Fear. And the looking hulk rearing up before Anakin now embodies all those things.
Obi-Wan mentioned it in his hyperspace briefing. An ancient, sapient species thought extinct, rediscovered and given life only to be twisted into demented purpose as shock troopers. Monsters found by the Jedi less than three weeks ago at a remote base on Concordia, of all places, by nothing more than a Padawan on an investigative assignment. But clearly, based on the beast roaring at Anakin now, Hosha Tath has been molding these monsters for quite some time.
A Killik. A war machine of time and mad science born. The behemoth insect stands almost as tall as the ceiling, its jagged attack arms like spiked tree trunks, lower utility hands each carrying a heavy blaster rifle like a handgun, legs sturdy oaks rooted to the floor as if declaring that the beast will not take one step back. Intelligent. Malevolent. And, unlike its human companion who failed to slow Anakin, this beast isn't afraid of a Jedi at all.
The Killik snarls and fires its rifles. Anakin blocks, reflects a shot right back—and the insect guards with its bladed arms, the blaster chipping the chitinous exoskeleton but leaving the monster unharmed. It bellows a challenge and stands its ground.
Anakin raises his lightsaber to his shoulder, roars, and charges.
Maul drifts and dreams.
He has been in this position before, he thinks in the between-space dividing wakefulness and null sleep. In the wake of the disaster on Mandalore when Sidious died. When Tyranus stole Maul's vengeance. Now Tyranus steals the moment once more as Maul leaves Raxus in shame and defeat, Savage dead at the hands of that black-haired woman. His brother, dead. His apprentice who in truth showed such promise, such strength. Perhaps he would have challenged Maul one day and overthrown him, taking the mantle of the Sith through righteous force of will. The only way, ever since Darth Bane created the Rule of Two. The Way of the Sith. The way that Tyranus forgot.
Still, Maul has questions. There was something to that woman, that apprentice of Dooku's named Tristess, something Maul felt as they locked eyes. She bore a red lightsaber and was strong enough to kill Savage. Clearly she was caught up in the Dark Side enough to warrant Tyranus's favor. Yet the hurt and the pain Maul felt in her…perplexing. Not Sith-like at all. Almost like a Jedi. Not a fallen Jedi embracing the Dark Side for power, but someone lost. And the way she stepped in to defend that lightsaber-wielding girl…how strange. Maul shouldn't waste his time on interlopers, pretenders just as much as Tyranus. Yet now, with no apprentice and the whole galaxy open to him in the wake of utter defeat, he is still thinking ahead.
A sight amid the drowsing dark draws his thoughts away. He is alone out here on a stolen shuttle, light-years away from Raxus in hyperspace. Alone but not alone. Asleep but not asleep. For a green mist billows up in this world that is not a world, and Maul, the dreamscape somnambulist between the stars and the mind-void, walks forth into the coalescing scene.
Before him bursts Talzin into wispy other-life, her spirit risen in the mist. "My son," she says, a scheming smile playing on her lips even in the wake of Savage's death.
"Mother," Maul mutters, his thoughts wading through the fog. "You have helped me thus far."
"I will always aid you," Talzin says. "Sidious may have stolen you from my arms, may have branded you as his apprentice, but you are my son. The scion of Dathomir. Bearer of our hopes and dreams against a galaxy base and venal. You will show the galaxy its sins in time. You will show it our power." She lowers herself before him. "Even if you must do so without your brother."
"I have stood alone before. I will do so again," Maul murmurs, staring into the mist-painted deep. "I will stand on my own, just as Sidious left me when he betrayed me. But I am not a fool enough to think I did not have help. I must muster what forces I still have against Tyranus's inevitable counterattack in the wake of my failure, but it will not be enough against his armies. Not alone." He looks up to Talzin. "I need a new weapon to wield against him. I need you to show me where I can find one."
Talzin swirls around him. "You are the future of our home," she says, "but you are not the last warrior of Dathomir. Another exists. Lost, like you. Bent, but not broken." She spreads her arms wide. "And in her, you might find the aid you seek."
"Her?"
"A captive of Dooku in the wake of a battle. The last of the Nightsisters. Asajj Ventress."
"Ventress. Savage spoke of her. He did not speak kindly."
Talzin shakes her head. "Savage knew only his path. He died fighting, as he lived. But the last sister is not of his blood. She is a dagger in the dark. A phantom, like you. A ghost to the world, yet still she may kill. But Dooku would destroy her, turn her into another of his beasts," she spits. "His apprentice, Taron Malicos, has taken her to the fortress world of Ziost. There she is but a prisoner. She will not escape on her own, not while Dooku knows her power and seeks to enslave her. But as I aid you, you in turn might aid her." She blows a breath of the mist before Maul's eyes. "Look deeply and tell me what you see."
The scene shifts and shimmers. An ache lances Maul's temple and he groans, shuddering. "Ash," he mutters. "Falling ash."
"Not ash. Snow."
"Skies in storm. A vortex. And below it all, a…a pyramid, and in it…"
The scene evaporates. Only the mist and Talzin amid it. "Take care," she says, her tone suddenly sharp. "There is a great power on Ziost, the power I spoke of to you some time ago. It is a power that is also a poison. It speaks not in challenges but in riddles, wars not with force but with seduction. It has Dooku in its grasp already. And if you give in, if you allow your temptation to take you, it will poison you too."
"If it is power, I need it. Look at me! What else do I have? I need it."
"No," Talzin chides. "That is how the Celestial will seduce you, if you let it. You have all the power you need, Maul. Inside you. And with Ventress, you will be even stronger. Go to Ziost. Free her from Dooku's shackles. And the two of you will let loose your wrath upon the galaxy as you and Savage once did."
Talzin fades into smoke. The scene twists, fractures, shatters like a mirror as Maul's body breaks into an infinite puzzle. Then he opens his eyes.
The cramped confines of the shuttle. Hyperspace spiraling beyond the transparisteel cockpit. Maul shakes his head and presses his fingertips to his temple. Do not be tempted, she warned. But a strange, rebellious thought slithers into his head. He has listened to her advice so far. But he is the Dark Lord of the Sith. Is he listening to Mother Talzin, or is he obeying?
Do not be tempted by that power on Ziost. But he is already tempted.
"You know why we're here. If you're still here with us today, then you know what we must do. We suffered days of chaos and madness in the wake of Chancellor Palpatine's disappearance, and our pleading, our adherence to our customs, our traditions, our very way of life and rule was answered only with malice. Our enemies multiply, and they spring forth from our very ranks. We must answer them now with strength of our own. And that—that begins with leadership."
Padme watches on in the great hall of the Senate Executive Building as Humbarine senator Bana Breemu speaks to the surviving senators assembled here today. There are so few of them. A hundred fifty, maybe. Maybe not even that. Many of the survivors from the Senate bombing took their worlds with Tarkin and defected, leaving the Republic with so few voices to represent its myriad peoples. But those who survive must continue on. They cannot wait for all of those member worlds and sectors who lost their representatives to vote on new ones, not with how long that process could take. They need to act now, put aside all that indecision and law-weaving and rule-manipulating that defined the interregnum after Palpatine's disappearance. His death, if Anakin is right. Palpatine. Sidious. It is still too hard to believe.
But she and the other assembled senators here in this column-ringed, crimson-carpeted, vaulted-ceilinged hall can make things right today. They may not be in the Senate itself—no one will be using that building for some time—and this impromptu assembly may lack pomp, but they will make it work. It is time to right all of those recent wrongs. It is time to elect—elect—a chancellor.
There is no Tarkin and Amedda and Aak to stop them now.
Once the speeches have ended—once they feel like a Senate again, even one without a home—the politics returns. "Halle," Padme calls to Senator Burtoni as the assembled senators break off into pods of discussion and debate across the hall. The same question playing across two dozen different conversations full of negotiation, bribery, promises, and maneuvers: Who will lead us? "Halle, don't ignore me."
The Kaminoan senator turns to her with an amused expression. "What are you blabbering about, Padme?"
"Given that we're finally getting on to what we should've done all this time," says Padme, looking around at the others, "we need to do this right. It's going to take multiple rounds of voting to find a majority-elected chancellor. Candidates are going to come and go. We might be here for days. We need to come to a consensus on one candidate and then have as many people back him as we can. You worked with me, with Bail, with Riyo all this time. We fought against Tarkin and Amedda. Let's put our heads together and work out something now."
Burtoni laughs. "Where do you think you are?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"We worked together, yes. We had the Republic to save. And I had my people to protect, my world, which as I hear from reports, is under attack right now by Tarkin's ships," Burtoni says. "I have to look out for my interests. We were never friends. We were allies in a time of need. I'm glad we worked together to keep at least some of the Republic intact and to keep Tarkin from sinking us into a dark age, but now we know where the lines are drawn, and we can return to politics in earnest."
"Yeah? And what does that mean?"
The Kaminoan grins. "It means, I hope your candidate crashes and burns. I intend for the next chancellor to support my interests, not yours."
"It's the Republic we need to think about! Don't go back on that now just because we've won one fight."
"No, it's the Republic we've already protected. If we shatter any further, we'll be nothing but wayward worlds," Burtoni says. She chuckles and shakes her head. "See? This argument right here. This is why we'll never be friends. Not even allies, unless necessity demands it. We want the same big idea, Padme, but we'll never agree on the details. Oh, don't frown. This is democracy. This is what we fought off Tarkin for—the right for you and I to argue until the wee hours of the night and at the end, still disagree. We'll come together when the whole needs it. And at all other times, we'll split apart because our very natures demand it. So long. I'd say good luck, but I wouldn't mean it."
Padme huffs as Burtoni walks away. As soon as they save the Republic, she decides to throw a wrench in things. Of course. They hated each other before this chaos began. They'll go back to hating each other now that Tarkin's gone.
Bail Organa walks up, eying Burtoni. "What was that about?"
"It seems our alliance with Halle's over," Padme mutters. "We preserve democracy, and she goes right back to exploiting it."
"How so?"
"I tried to convince her that we needed a compromise candidate, someone to quickly elect as chancellor. She laughed at me. That's the polite way of putting our conversation."
Bail is quiet for a moment, then begins to laugh. "I fail to see what's funny about that," Padme groans.
"It's almost a good thing, isn't it?"
"A good thing?"
"Well, before, Halle was always an obstacle. Someone I never truly wanted to work with. She proved herself, certainly. We wouldn't be here without her," Bail says. "But it's almost a sign of normalcy that she's right back to clashing with us. A sign we're getting back to normal. Like flowers blooming in early spring."
Padme shakes her head. "Really? Awkward comparisons?" she says. Then she, too begins to laugh. "I don't even know what to say."
"Give it a chance. We can go back to enjoying arguments, rather than dreading them," Bail says. "I'm going to go get a feel for the mood. Maybe we'll find a compromise candidate anyway, with or without Halle Burtoni."
Yes, thinks Padme as she watches Bail go off to mingle. Yes we will have a candidate. We will have a chancellor again. And I know how we're going to do it.
Quickly she gets into action. You want politics, Burtoni? It's on. "Riyo," she says, hurrying towards the first pod of senators she sees. "Riyo Chuchi, if I can grab you away from that for just a minute."
The Pantoran senator breaks away from the group. "Senator Amidala?"
"You're a much better socializer than me," she says, wrapping her arm around Chuchi and leading her away into a secluded spot beneath a column. "I need you to go spread a rumor."
"A rumor?" Chuchi says, eyes doubtful.
"Well, it's the truth, so it's not really a rumor. A stretched sort of truth. A story."
"I hope we're not already resorting to cloak-and-dagger tactics."
"No, nothing so grisly. But you heard Bana's speech: People are looking for a strong new chancellor, someone to take the reigns and restore stability. Nobody's going to vote for the next Finis Valorum," says Padme.
Chuchi snorts. "I certainly hope not. By the way, scuttlebutt has it that Breemu's quite popular. She might get quite a few votes."
"Let's try to avoid that. Not because I don't like Bana, but because I have someone much better in mind."
"Who?"
"Bail."
Chuchi scrunches up her face. "Bail? As in Bail Organa? For supreme chancellor?"
"That's what I said. It's only natural. After all, Garm Bel Iblis isn't with us here anymore, because it was Bail who singlehandedly—that's important—won Garm over and thus ensured the clone troopers stayed loyal."
"Well, that's sort of true, but also not really, because—"
Padme holds up her hand. "Ah, ah, no, no one else needs to hear that anything else happened. What people know is that Garm declared Tarkin a traitor on behalf of the Security Council, and the clones ousted Tarkin. They don't know the rest. We do. Let's keep it that way and use the story to our advantage."
"Halle Burtoni knows the rest, though."
"Halle's old and cranky, and you're more fun to be around. That's why you're going to be spreading the story about how Bail saved the Republic. The true parts and the…exaggerated parts," says Padme, motioning with her hands as if putting together a puzzle. "Besides, if Halle tells the story, everything's just going to think she's drumming up support to give Kamino more money. Pantora's out of the way. You look like a neutral party. Your support will go a lot further."
Chuchi sighs. "Oh, blazes, what else is this exaggerated story going to entail?"
It's a straightforward, yet compelling, story Padme concocts on the spot: Rather than Bail, Padme and Burtoni—with the Jedi in league—convincing Garm to declare Tarkin a traitor in exchange for Corellian independence, the tale instead makes Organa out to be a hero, rallying dozens of senators—all of whom died in the bombing, of course—in a last-ditch resistance to oust Tarkin, only to have the Grand Admiral-turned-tyrant commit his full force against the fledgling movement. By luck alone did Organa survive to bring Garm aboard at the last possible moment, right as Tarkin planned to launch a military movement to crush all resistance across the Core Worlds.
And those Core Worlds, of course, are her primary audience, Padme's second weapon alongside her mostly-fabricated tale. Both the Separatists and Tarkin's new rebellion sprawl across the Rim. Bail, from noble and fair Alderaan just a short jaunt away from Coruscant, is a natural counter. Most of the surviving senators are from the Core. They'll listen. Maybe they'll even agree.
Chuchi seems less than impressed. "This is…a little reckless, even for you," she says. "Bail's a good man, and yes, he did a lot of the heavy lifting to get Garm on board—and that even meant letting Corellia go—but all that other stuff…"
"Relax. It'll go great," Padme says. "We'll make sure you get a good position after it's all over, too. Now let's get to it. Time's ticking."
Where does all this optimism come from? Just three weeks ago she was lamenting what appeared to be the death of democracy, of the Republic's very heart. Now she feels reborn, renewed. It's as if Anakin's rashness has become contagious.
Anakin. For a moment her optimism fades. Her husband, out there on the battlefront again. Kamino, just as Burtoni said, fighting their own. Always on the run to a new fight. Don't let this all be for nothing, Ani. I want a Republic that's more than just ideals. Come home soon.
Hours tick by. Drinks and discussion pass. Promises change hands. Verbal daggers spar, knives slipping from tongues. But at last they have a vote after hours of diplomacy and politicking, and three candidates emerge from the pack, vying to succeed—truly succeed—Palpatine as supreme chancellor: Bana Breemu, the Senex sector's Terr Taneel, and Bail Organa.
"This is your idea, isn't it?" Bail says to Padme in the wake of the first vote, as the senators break off once more to vie between the three chosen candidates. "I didn't come in here today thinking this was going to be an outcome."
"Definitely not. You know, I heard Riyo saying some absolutely wonderful things about you earlier," says Padme with an innocent expression on her face. "You should probably start with her."
Bail looks unconvinced. "I'm sure she came up with those wonderful things all on her own," he says. Then he sighs. "So be it. There are far, far better leaders here than me. I actually thought you would be a candidate for chancellor."
Padme laughs inside. No, no. They need someone strong, yes, but also someone honest. Someone compelling. She is far too willing to bend the rules for that sort of thing. It's like Garm said: Deep beneath that senatorial air and her past as royalty, she has a gunslinger in her. She can give speeches and kiss babies and weave between political alliances, but more than anything, she's best when she's shooting from the hip with Anakin at her side. It's those times when she's truly invincible.
Maybe they can shoot somewhere a little more sophisticated than the likes of Dantooine or Geonosis next time, however. "See, Bail: This is why you're meant to do this. A bad chancellor would be ecstatic to grab power. You, instead, look like you'd rather be anywhere else. It's the people who don't seek power who are meant to wield it." She smiles and places her hand on his forearm. "You're meant to do this. And you won't do it alone."
He sighs. Then he nods. "I trust you," he says. "And if all of these senators agree with you, then I trust them."
Another vote, this one inconclusive. Another round of negotiating. Then, at last, as the hour draws late on Coruscant, they have a third and final vote to decide who will lead the Republic.
Seventy-two votes. That is what it takes to win with a majority among the one hundred forty-three surviving and loyal senators assembled here tonight. And Bail Organa takes seventy-four votes. Senator Organa before: Chancellor Organa now.
The sweetest part of the moment the results are announced, Padme thinks, is the look of fury on Burtoni's face. You don't want to be friends, hm? Well fine, Halle. I didn't want to be your friend either. Now we can both live with it.
As senators congregate around Bail, offering congratulations and toasts, Padme grabs Chuchi and laughs. "You," she says, "are a wonderful, wonderful person."
"Can I, er, get some extra security when I go home?" Chuchi says. "I think Burtoni's thinking about having me killed."
Padme laughs. Oh, the fun they're going to have now.
After nearly a half hour of handshaking and well-wishing, Bail breaks free from the senators, walks up to a raised position before them all, and clears his voice. "Some prepared words would help right about now," he begins, "but that would make it look like the fix was in."
A smattering of laughter. Polite. Understanding. Nerves, too, but Organa is no Tarkin. This is not a tyrant standing before them today. "I would like to start by thanking you all," says Bail, his tone growing serious. "Not for voting for me, but for having faith in our system to come out here today. Democracy's messy. It's led us here and there, to war and then to the brink of tyranny. But we've pushed on. We persisted. And our ways have prevailed, even in this small victory, of moving on from the madness that has engulfed the Republic since Palpatine's disappearance."
For a moment Padme wonders if Bail will drop Anakin's suspicion. Palpatine isn't who you all think. But he does not: Instead, Bail pauses, nods, and pushes on, leaving the former chancellor—and perhaps Lord of the Sith—to rest in history, respected, reviled, and regarded every way in between. The past is the past. They are the future. "Senator Breemu said it well when we began tonight," he continues. "We must be strong in the face of our foes. We must not back down. We will fight in the face of tyranny. Dooku, Tarkin—we will fight them. We will fight on their worlds and ours. We will fight with every one of our soldiers and every one of our hearts. We will fight. We will survive. And we will endure."
The hall is silent. Bail takes a breath: "But we will do more than fight. We will do more than survive. I do not stand before you today because I represent merely the Republic's interests, or even just Alderaan's. I am a man. A son and a husband. And I want to do more than fight. I want to live. I want to see a future where children of mine can play in the light of a sun that is ever rising, where our fathers and mothers can rest in the warmth of a westerly breeze. Because life is more than simple strength: Life is connection. It is beauty. It is kindness." He looks Padme's way. "It is hope, hope that our best days are never behind us."
"So I would ask you tonight to shoulder the heaviest of burdens: I ask each and every one of you to join me in pledging your effort, your every breath, your last breath if need be, to fight on so that we all may live. And to never, never, forget what living means. That is what we have endured for. That is what we fight on for. And that is what we will triumph for. For you and me. For our parents and our children, for our pasts and our futures. For our people and our worlds." He raises a glass. "For the Republic."
"The Republic!" sound calls across the hall.
Padme raises her glass, and when she offers her words, she means them: "For the Republic."