Thank you to Brick88 and DojoYoyo for reviewing! Seriously, you all give me outstanding feedback; it's great hearing how readers are taking the story in as we go along. Makes all the writing worth it; couldn't do it without you! As an addendum, the pace of updating should pick up here; I had a few kinks to work out in the story's long-term plan that have been bogging me down in the past month-ish, but should be all systems go now. Hopefully. May the Force be with us.
It's a win—but it doesn't feel like a win.
"Kamino's local space is secure, but damage to Tipoca City was…worrisome," Master Shaak Ti says from the surface. "Few of Tarkin's cruiser-class ships even fell during the battle. It's clear this wasn't an invasion. It was a lightning raid, and they did their job. They hurt us. Badly."
Ahsoka presses her hand to her temple as she looks on at the briefing from the bridge of the Banner of the Resolute. Drifting capital ship hulks litter Kaminoan orbit; a planetary defense station flashes with sparks and venting oxygen-fed fires, the fortification pocked with holes from cannon fire. Beside her, Obi-Wan plants his hands on the bridge holoemitter and sighs. "What are we looking at with clone production?"
"The youth barracks were torn apart. Five-digit casualties, at least, especially among the rising classes of cadets," Prime Minister Lama Su says. "The troopers fought valiantly, but it wasn't enough to keep the enemy from inflicting serious harm. Fresh soldier production will be reduced for some time, assuming no further incursions. And our embryonic banks were also hit hard. There's no way around it, Master Jedi: Tarkin's forces have significantly impaired both near- and long-term army replenishment."
"So what does that mean?" Ahsoka asks.
"It means, Padawan," Shaak Ti says, "that every loss from here on out is going to hurt far, far more than before."
"It's not so important against Tarkin. His army forces are limited; it's his fleets that are concerning," Jan Dodonna chimes in. "But it isn't as if the Separatists have gone away, and their battle droid foundries are still churning out soldiers. Our odds in this war are not looking good. Not against the Separatists alone, and especially not when faced with two enemies as we are now."
Obi-Wan shakes his head. "There's no point dwelling on this. What's done is done. We have to deal with the results, no matter what they are. Admiral, set a course for hyperspace back to Coruscant," he says. He bows his head to the holoemitter. "Master Ti. Prime Minister Su."
Ahsoka waits as the hologram fades and Dodonna heads off to convene with his bridge crew. She has not yet had time to speak to Obi-Wan directly in the wake of the fight; she has not even told him about Anakin. It's not going to be a fun conversation. "Master?"
"He's gone, hasn't he?" Obi-Wan says quietly.
Ahsoka draws back. "He's gone."
Obi-Wan clasps his arms behind his back and stares out at stormy Kamino beyond. "I was happy that he even listened to me on Sullust. That he waited before rushing off. That he came with us back to Coruscant. I thought time might give him pause, divert him from trying to save the galaxy on his own. But I suppose this is who Anakin's always been. And all I can do is let him go. Let him face the darkness as he must." He exhales. He looks ten years older in the dim light of Kamino's weak white star. "That's my master told me. He's right. He was always right."
Ahsoka pauses before she continues. What does that mean? "During the battle—"
"I shouldn't have been short with you," Obi-Wan finishes for her. "It's…hard, however. Master Kolar fell when his ship was disabled by the Tarkinist battleships. The Council hasn't even replaced Master Windu, Master Tiin, and Master Kcaj yet after the Senate bombing, and already we've lost another of our ranks. Everyone is falling now, more and more, faster and faster." He pauses. "The Jedi. Satine. It's hard not to get caught up in it all. We're losing this war, just as Dodonna said."
"Losing. Not lost. Not yet."
He smiles. "No, not yet," he says. "In the battle—you made a call, my orders or not, and I respect that, even as I disagree with it. You have much the same daring that Anakin has always had. But daring so easily becomes recklessness, especially in the fire of battle, and we have to understand that responsibility and consequences come with those calls. The truth, Ahsoka, is that we've lost too many people over the last few years. Master Kolar is merely the latest, and I don't want to see you join that growing list." He stares over his shoulder, his eyes gazing into some imperceptible tunnel that only he can see. "I've seen what happens to people when the pain and the loss becomes too much. And that darkness…it frightens me."
Ahsoka's insides churn. Master Kenobi is not a fearful man; he has never backed down from any challenge she has ever seen. She doesn't know him like Anakin does, but she can see that mist in his eyes, and she knows the specter of total, wasting defeat is looming on the horizon before him. The hour is growing late for the Republic and the Jedi alike. They are running out of time and out of heroes. "We still have Anakin," she says.
"We do. And I've always believed in him. Even when I shouted at him and criticized him when he was a Padawan, I believed. Just as my master did," Obi-Wan murmurs. He looks to Ahsoka, his expression steeling. "Whatever he hopes to find out there on Ziost, I believe in his reasons to try. But we have to keep fighting on, with or without him alongside us, and we can't lose each other in the process, whether to death or disagreement. Because it's getting dark out there, and right now, we're all we have."
The surface of Nar Shaddaa hisses and cracks. Hulking skyscrapers levelled; ash and soot layering the rubble-strewn ground. There is almost nothing recognizable left of the dark heart of Hutt Space, where billions of smugglers, bounty hunters, mercenaries, and never-do-wells plied their trade. Acrid black clouds blot out the sky; the air roils with hazardous vapors from the Separatist bombardment. Sae adjusts her breath mask as she plants her feet in the ruins of the world and frowns. During her missions here as a Jedi, she thought it'd be doing the galaxy a favor to burn this moon to its foundations, to uproot all of its filth and crime and drive out the monsters she was so often sent here to subdue. Now, though, she only feels a pang of regret.
It was a dark life that eked out an existence here, but life nonetheless. Life snuffed out by the fleet—her fleet. Even if it was Malicos who gave the order—even if she let him bombard it, said nothing as he laughed and the turbolasers burned Nar Shaddaa's towers into cinders and glass—a weight drags on her heart. Another piece of her past life torn down and burned. There's so little left of Sae Tristess, Jedi Knight. Her old self wouldn't even recognize the woman digging her boot into this fresh ash.
All of this destruction and death just to make Darth Maul pay for the attack on Raxus. Someone paid all right—billions paid. Somehow, however, Sae imagines Maul will shrug this attack off without a second thought. Just more dead piling up as Dooku and his rival wage a war for control of the Dark Side, a war that seems to be going nowhere fast. How is this helping them seize the galaxy? What does this do to tilt the Clone Wars further in their favor? Just mindless killing.
She had thought Dooku would understand that when she reported Malicos's decision—and Nar Shaddaa's fate—to him in the wake of the bombardment. One more misstep of Malicos's to knock him down. But instead, Dooku reacts in a way Sae did not expect: He is indifferent. "It does not concern me," he says as Sae contacts him via holo. "Maul's Hutt ally is dead, that is what matters. If Nar Shaddaa dies as well, then it's one fewer cesspool from which Maul can recruit."
Sae hesitates before responding, her mind whirling. "My Lord, even ignoring the needlessness of setting fire to the whole moon when we'd already killed the Hutt," she says, "the rest of Hutt Space is not going to take this kindly. Wanton killing is only going to make us more enemies. When the other Hutt clans hear what Malicos did—"
"What Malicos did? And what did you do?"
"I was seeing to Gorgosa when Malicos gave the order without me. I was carrying out your orders. Killing our enemies, not making more of them," Sae lies. A half-truth, maybe, but Dooku doesn't need to know the details. She wants to make Malicos look bad in his eyes, after all.
"Making enemies of Hutts is no bother. Let them remember what happens when they side with our foes."
Sae shakes her head. Submission after one catastrophic loss is exactly what the scum of the universe won't do. Maybe it's not indifference in Dooku she senses, but arrogance. To someone like him—a Serenno noble, a revered Jedi Master, the Dark Lord of the Sith—people like Hutt enforcers are just filth. Trash to be swept away. She went about trying to undermine Malicos all wrong. Try another tactic, then: "Regardless, we can win battles in a better fashion than this. I can win them better."
"Better?"
"Malicos is a loose cannon. I can't reign his worse instincts in while we continue to share command authority," says Sae. "Put this fleet—including Malicos—under my command. I can carry out your orders far better than he can, and I can make him understand what order means."
Dooku chuckles. "I can see through your words. You harbor hate for the man. Good," he says. "Nurture that rivalry. Grow your hatred, act on it, and you will birth in him a hatred for you. It will make you both stronger. Give you both the focus you need to truly master the Dark Side." He rubs his chin. "But I don't need you to see to the fleet next. I have other orders."
Not exactly what she had planned when she imagined making Malicos suffer. She didn't want a rival; she wanted to smash him under her boot. "Of course."
"I received a distress call. From Geonosis," Dooku says.
Sae makes a face. "That's under Republic control."
"Yes, but not the Jedi's Republic. Wilhuff Tarkin and his splinter Republic control Geonosis now. Strangely enough, our spies have been unable to capture anything out of the system. Whatever is happening there, it is well-protected and -secured," Dooku says. "But the Geonosians have their own way of getting information out, and earlier today Archduke Poggle managed a transmission directly to my secure channel. He has a plan to escape captivity and return to our service."
"Poggle?" Sae says. Geonosis conjures bad memories and worse feelings. Thoughts of the Jedi friends she lost in the opening battle of the war. The Republic and the Order threw them away, just the first people they failed over the course of the past three years of fighting. Just like Master Gallia and Tamri. Just like Sae herself. "Why bother with him?"
"I would agree, given that Poggle provides little benefit to our cause without Geonosis and its droid foundries under our control, but he sent another curious bit of information with his plea for rescue," Dooku says. "He claims the Republic is building a superweapon in orbit, and they've relied on Geonosian labor for the past few years in its construction."
"A superweapon?"
"Yes. And I have a feeling I may know just what it is," Dooku says. "I want you to go to Geonosis. Not with a fleet, but as an infiltration assignment. Take a single ship, rescue Poggle, and learn just what the Republic—Tarkin's Republic—is doing there." He turns, pauses, and looks back to her. "And I will allow you a chance to defend your point. Take Malicos with you to Geonosis. You my authority to take the lead in this mission, including commanding Malicos as your subordinate until you return. You want to prove to me that you are his better? Then prove it."
A black little joy leaps in Sae's chest. Well, if this isn't a turn of events. Forget simply exacting some small measure of revenge: If Dooku's giving her authority to order him around on a two-man mission, she'll have all the opportunities she can imagine to shove her malice in his face. The slow, dripping revenge is so much more rewarding than the swing of an executioner's blade. "I won't fail, My Lord. I'll get Poggle. I'll find what the Republic's building."
"Do not disappoint me. I've placed my trust in you, Sae. The Republic is fractured, Maul's forces are scattered, and we are on the verge of triumph," Dooku says. "The verge of greatness. Now is not the time for failure.'
He ends the comm, and Sae looks up at the ash-raining sky, the acrid clouds, the shattered towers. And all she does is laugh.
Maybe a little good came out of this sordid affair after all. Oh, this will be fun.
Anakin took nothing of his with him from Kamino save his lightsaber. Not his Jedi interceptor. Not R2-D2, who he left with Ahsoka. Nothing but his weapon and a generic fighter from the hanger of Captain Pellaeon's Leveler and the clothes on his back. He will go to Ziost alone or not at all. He will not allow another disaster like his last trip to the planet to happen again.
Islands and crystal-blue water gleam below as he decelerates his Z-95 Headhunter over sunny, tropical Kothlis deep in Bothan Space. Not quite neutral space this world, but as close to "neutral" as any planet still loyal to the Republic can be—at least the Republic that Anakin calls his own. He knows better than to trust anyone here, however. Perhaps Armand Isard told him to come here and speak to the intelligence director's contact in order to find a secure route to fortified Ziost, but the Bothans have never handed over any information, not even the most mundane piece of data, without benefitting. Allies, maybe, but Anakin doubts that anyone he'll meet on Kothlis could be called a friend.
He drops the Headhunter down around a tiny archipelago of five granite domes poking out from the shallow seas. Cerulean coral reefs fan out into the sea. Crimson-plumed birds the size of small speeders rise on thermals above the islands, their shadows flitting over palm trees angling out from earthen crags in the rocks below. Jutting out from the side of the largest of the isles is a wide landing pad large enough to house a small freighter. A squat, cubical control building and an oversized radar transmission dish are the only other signs of civilization for miles around. Clearly not the kind of place frequented by tourists. Or, Anakin suspects, anyone outside of the Bothan Spynet.
A single grey-furred Bothan waits on the landing pad near the closed entrance to the control building. Shifty sort of man, draped in a brown cloak with his head down; he doesn't bother to look up as Anakin sets his fighter down and shoves open the cockpit. "Chief's waiting," the Bothan grumbles as Anakin dismounts. "Inside."
"Is that supposed to be a welcome?" says Anakin.
"Take of it what you want, Jedi. We both know why you're here. Now inside."
No concern about them not knowing he was coming, then. Anakin doesn't bother to fight about it, poor manners aside. He loosens his black traveler's cloak in the sweaty sea air and trudges after the Bothan into the building.
The tropical warmth dies the moment he crosses the threshold into the gloomy, claustrophobic base. The halls stretch into the rocky innards of the granite dome isle, but there isn't a sign of nature to be had in here. Steel, plastic, glass. Circuits and whirring gears. Computer screens and glowing diodes. Like a hive of intelligence and spycraft buried here in this lonely little speck of land, an amalgamated brain buzzing and thinking right where no one would bother to look. Few Bothans pass in the dreary halls, however: Either the station's crew are mostly out on assignment or at work, or everyone knew of Anakin's impending arrival and is staying well clear. Probably the latter. To see without being seen—that is their way. Anakin is just another piece of data for their network to analyze.
The station chief's office is just another node in the hub, a desolate, iron-grey-encased cell home to wall-mounted live-feed screens across Kothlis and attended to by a pair of silent, black protocol droids. A single Bothan lurks inside, young-looking, gloomy, and hunched over his desk. Only his eyes look up when Anakin and his escort enter. "You can go," the station chief murmurs in a deep, throaty voice to the other Bothan, only a flick of his index finger added in emphasis.
The door hisses shut behind him, and Anakin holds his tongue. Patience with these people. He has not had extensive contact with Bothan Space, let alone the Spynet, in all his years with the Jedi, but he knows the species well enough to understand that rash action will only worsen his position. He's the one with the need, after all. He's the one trying to get somewhere, and—according to Isard—they're the ones to pave the way. How the Bothans can get to Ziost when an entire Republic fleet led by two Jedi Council members shattered against the world's defenses is beyond him, but if anyone can figure out that puzzle, it's these people.
The Bothan watches Anakin for a moment before lifting his head. "I heard Kamino was a disaster."
"We won," Anakin says. The man is goading him. Trying to weasel out some sliver of information the Spynet has yet to learn. Let him try.
"At what cost?"
"An acceptable one."
Rising from his seat, the Bothan closes his desk console, taps the largest holodisplay on the wall, and brings up a map of the galaxy. Shaded regions of red, blue, green, and yellow denote holdings by the various factions of the war, with small colored triangles darting about hyperlanes signifying known recent fleet movements and projected advances and retreats. "Borsk Fey'lya. Bothan Diplomatic Corps," the Bothan introduces himself.
Diplomatic Corps. Sure. Even in confidence and among allies they weave curtains of half-truths and spin threads of little lies. "I think you know who I am."
"Armand Isard filled me in, yes."
"How well do you know him?"
Fey'lya looks over. "Who? Isard?"
"Yeah."
"Professionally only. He's the head of the Senate Bureau. Everyone knows what that is," the Bothan says. He narrows his eyes as he examines the galaxy map. "Come look at this."
Anakin examines the map as Fey'lya runs his finger over the faction lines. "Tarkin couldn't commit significant forces to your fight at Kamino because he already had his largest armada committed elsewhere—notably here, the last Separatist fortification on the Rimma Trade Route, Sluis Van. Our early intel coming in claims that the Tarkinists won the ensuing fight, but suffered massive casualties against the entrenched Separatists."
How does this help me get to Ziost? Anakin thinks. But he waits: Offending the Bothan will only make his path harder. If Fey'lya sees his annoyance, he does not make note of it as he continues: "At first this looks like a positive: Tarkin repulsed at Kamino and the Separatists inflicting heavy damage at Sluis Van will force his side to think twice before mounting another assault against our positions. But the problem comes when you remember that the Clone Wars are far from finished, and the Separatists aren't sitting tight," he says. He points all the way across the galaxy, to Taris. "You're familiar with what happened here."
"Don't remind me," Anakin mutters.
"Funny thing about Taris: The world's been oddly quiet ever since its seizure despite being one of the Separatists' forward positions on the warfront. Not anymore, however, as…information…states that shipping traffic has picked up in a significant way over the past week. Only inbound traffic, however, and much of it civilian. Bothan assets backtracked a substantial amount of that traffic to only a few worlds: Muunilinst, Mygeeto, Felucia, and Murkhana in particular."
"Corporate strongholds."
"Indeed. Just yesterday, while your battle group was still falling back from Kamino and the Republic's Bright Nebula Fleet failed to drive Tarkin's occupation force away from Thyferra, the Separatists launched a lightning attack up the Hydian Way and hit Corsin," Fey'lya continues, his finger tracing along the map. "The defense fleet was wiped out. Sources on the ground say the droid army's attack has already knocked out several major population centers. That's an important hub world, and it falling into Separatist hands can only mean one thing: They're advancing towards the Core."
Anakin rubs his chin. "Towards Coruscant."
"Yes. Sooner rather than later, I imagine. Our split with Tarkin means the Separatists are more confident than ever. Which goes to say, Jedi, that I hope you have a very, very good reason for wanting to go to Ziost. We need something that can turn the tide of this war, quickly, lest the Separatists wipe us out while we're busy fighting amongst our own former comrades."
"None of that seems to be bothering Bothawui."
Fey'lya scowls. "Don't question my loyalties, Skywalker. I know the reputation my people have around the galaxy. I'm not a fool. But even just on practical terms, the Republic—the one that you call yourself a part of, not the one Tarkin claims is right—gives my people the best chance to flourish. Isard certainly didn't tell me the details about what you're up to, but I'm not your enemy. And I know of your exploits well enough that I hope you're not mine."
Anakin clasps his hands behind his back. "There's a weapon on Ziost."
"A weapon?"
"I don't know the specifics, but as far as I know, it's responsible for a lot of Dooku's recent success. Will it turn the war around, I don't know. No clue. But I believe it's powerful enough that I'm willing to take the chance to go find out," Anakin says. "I can't promise you anything. I can't even promise you I'll make it through the defense fleet that killed my armada there not too long ago. But like you said, we need something. It's getting dire out there. If that's what I have to do, I'll do it. If you can help me like Isard said, then I'll welcome the help. If you can't, then tell me now so we can stop wasting all this time and I can find someone who will help me."
Fey'lya takes a deep breath and walks behind his desk. "I've a stealth ship here."
"What, like with a cloaking device?"
"No. We carved out a meteor and packed it with every sensor masker we know of. Its sensor profile is nothing more than an everyday hunk of space rock. Anyone goes visual and looks out a window, all they see is a meteor. But it's got a limited hyperdrive and engines and atmosphere, and it'll take you to Ziost. Won't need a fire a shot. Won't be able to, since it's unarmed."
"And presumably the Separatists won't bother with it, since it's just a meteor."
"Presumably."
That's a real note of confidence right there. Anakin sighs. "You've tested this thing?"
"It's the sixty-seventh iteration of these sort of ships we've used. One of these just yesterday reached Eriadu unimpeded to give us a feed straight from Tarkin's homeworld. Yes, we've tested it. This isn't your Jedi recklessness at work."
"I'm sensing a 'but' here."
The Bothan nods. "The hyperdrive is very limited. It's a one-way trip."
"Whoa, wait. That's a pretty big disclaimer."
"You Jedi are used to it, as far as I know. Ziost supposedly plays host to several ground installations, per our spy probe in the system; I imagine you'll find something to commandeer on the ground when you plan to make your escape. That being said, you also won't be going down to the planet in the ship."
"Uh…come again?"
"The meteor we carved out is large enough that it could survive atmospheric entry and threaten a severe impact to the planet—if it was a normal meteor, which the Separatists will think it is. You'll have to approach Ziost at an off-tangential angle and, when in high orbit, activate the ejection and go down via the eject module. That's the only way the Separatist fleet won't be inclined to shoot you down. The ship's remaining thruster fuel will send the vessel into the sun after that in order to hide all involvement and ensure no one catches wind of your presence."
Anakin rubs his face. This is a little more spycraft than he's used to—and it's not the pleasant kind, either. Until he'll be on Ziost, almost nothing will be in his control. "Isard knew all this?"
"Of course. That he didn't tell you any of it should tell you something."
"Yeah, you're not wrong there. Fine. No objections. I'll do what I have to."
Fey'lya taps his desk console. "My staff will see you to our launching vault. You can get going immediately. I don't have any further information about conditions on the ground on Ziost, outside of it being frigid, but I do know where the concentration of Separatist activity is located on the planet; the ship—and the eject module—will take you there. All you have to do is survive—and get a little lucky," he says as Anakin turns to leave. "Oh, and Skywalker?"
"Yeah?"
"About Isard," says Fey'lya. "He's an ally, don't misunderstand me, but he also knows a great deal. An immense deal. And, as much as it pains me to say it, he knows more than I do. You can trust him somewhat, and at times. But don't ever trust him fully." The Bothan lowers his head. "My gut tells me that not every power-hungry player in the Republic ran off with Tarkin."
"So…you're used to this sort of thing, right? Infiltration of high society and all? Standard Jedi fare. I'd think."
Tamri bites her lip as she looks up at the lights of the giant, extravagant manor house of Baron Carhai Bonamma of Manaan. It's a veritable palace. "No, not really. Not the high society part."
"Well—" Korkie begins, but he lets the thought drop. "You sounded a lot more confident when we were planning this."
"Yes, because we were safely back at the ship. Now we're here. I don't…ugh. I don't even know how to bloody curtsy," says Tamri.
Korkie looks at her and he laughs. "Well, don't go asking me for advice on that."
Tamri smiles. They don't belong here. Maybe he does, actually: Korkie looks downright dashing in his black tailcoat and white dress shirt, his hair perfectly slick and glossy under the subtle milky lighting that lines the natural-rock bridge from Ahto City to the small private isle wholly owned by the Baron, an isle dominated by this very manor house. Truthfully, the real shocking thing was Avea knowing how to shop for fancy outfits. Without her, they would've showed up to the Baron's party looking like a pair of warfighters coming here straight from Mandalore.
It's for the best, Tamri wants to tell herself—assuming Director Isard's information is right. The datapad from the Bothan on Concordia said that a Tath base was here, and there's nowhere for it to be but on the seafloor beneath the waves. They need a submersible of some kind along with any information that might narrow down the Tath facility's location, and there's no better place to start than with the man who governs Manaan. Still, Tamri would've preferred something a little less…garish. Infiltration, as Korkie said, is fine. She's gotten her hands dirty enough in the past.
But this, however, is the complete opposite of dirty. Dirty has no place around the velvet black gloves that reach up from her fingertips to just above her elbow. Her sleek black dress is anything but dirty. Too revealing, maybe, but Avea just laughed at her when she complained about that. "Really wish I could walk in normal shoes," Tamri mutters as they head down the last stretch of the bridge before the elaborate bronzium gates of the Baron's manor, moonlight glistening off of the metal.
"Try walking like a normal person, or everyone's going to know we're not supposed to be here," Korkie says. "We're supposed to be at home with this sort of thing."
Ah yes, their cover story, courtesy of Isard: Go to the Baron's party and pose as Viscount Koro Vescarion and Viscountess Eress Vescarion of neutral Hapes, recently-married nobles off to sample the galaxy with the wealth of two moneyed families united in matrimony. Tamri could've sworn the man had grinned when he'd told her that. The intelligence director's lucky he's useful, or she would've cut contact with him a while ago, Falco or not. "We should've rented a speeder," she says, eying a pair of personal luxury speeders setting down inside the estate's gates.
"We don't need a speeder, and it's a warm night. Besides, that'd cost a bundle," Korkie says.
"We have money."
"We do? What, from the Jedi?"
Tamri shrugs. "Er, no. Back when we first got to Coruscant after leaving Telos, Dominion skimmed a bunch of transactions on the stock market. I told him to stop, but the damage was already done."
Korkie chuckles. "I should ask him for tips."
"Korkie!"
"What, it's good credits. I'm sure no one missed them," he says playfully. "Besides, the walk'll give time for the others to get into position."
And that's the more serious part of tonight, Tamri thinks. While she and Korkie try and pry secrets away from the Baron at the party, the others will take advantage of the party's attention to try and find a way into the estate's security suite. Or, more precisely, to plug Dominion into the first socket they can find connected to the internal network and let him deposit a quantum-entangled copy of his droid consciousness into the system. That's Tamri's sort of work. She'd pushed to lead that group—why don't you go with Korkie, Avea; you seem like you know high society—but Avea had only laughed and told her to "have fun with the boy." Sure. Fun. Thanks a lot.
Hints of citrus and flowers waft through the air as they approach the gate, mixing with the sea-salt smell of brine and urban stink that permeates across the rest of Ahto City. Over the side of the bridge lap gentle waves, touched by the gentle light of a gentle night. Calm and peaceful. Tamri wishes she could simply wait here and look out at the sea and the moon, forget her duties, forget the galaxy at large.
But the galaxy will not forget her. There is still a war raging, and so long as others need her, she will stand for the occasion. "Remember our cover story," she tells Korkie as they align at the back of a short queue of invitees before the pair of security guards at the gate, "Hapans are matriarchal. Let me do the talking."
"Sure, but we're supposed to be a newly married couple. We need to look the part."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Korkie answers by taking her hand. Tamri breathes in sharply: "I, uh—it's not—"
"What?"
Nothing. She clamps her mouth shut and looks away, trying not to notice either her heartbeat jumping or her voice jumping an octave. She holds her composure as they advance to the gate, where a pair of gaudily-clad but bored-looking guards wave them forward. "Name?" one of them grumbles.
Tamri raises her chin. Act nobly. "Viscountess Eress Vescarion," she says. "Member of the Hapan—"
Before she can continue the guards have already reviewed a datapad and motion for her and Korkie to move in. "Go on ahead," the lead guard says, sounding more inclined to throw himself off of the bridge than stand here for five more minutes.
"Oh. Um. Sure," Tamri says, following along as Korkie pulls her forward. "Easy enough."
"Had a feeling that might happen. No one wants to stand around at a gate all day checking people in," says Korkie.
"How do you know? Go to many parties on Mandalore?"
He frowns at her. "A few."
"Oh? With who?"
He shrugs. "Mostly things put on by Aunt Satine. But if you want me to be specific, there was a girl at the academy I attended. Her name was Lagos, from a rich family from the other side of the planet from Sundari. Hair was the same color as yours. You really do look a lot like her, actually."
"Okay, that's enough," Tamri says quickly. "I get it."
Korkie chuckles. He waves to the stone path before them that stretches through the hedges leading to the double-doors of the manor. "C'mon Tamri. It's a nice night, and I imagine it'll be a while before we see this guy we're after. Let's mingle."
The manor itself is a four-story-tall stately home of polished white limestone sprawling across a fifth of the artificial island. Bleached columns line the front of the palatial complex, with spindly palms reaching thirty feet above and on either side of the path up to the entrance. Purple-furred monkeys the size of large rats—obviously imported, given Manaan's lack of land masses—cling to the trees and hoot at the arrivals, occasionally scurrying across the path to laughter. Scarlet bromeliads as large as barrels poke up from the garden foliage. The urban air of Ahto City is gone here, replaced by the aura of a tropical seclude locked away in its slice of oceanic paradise. The whole thing must have cost a fortune—which, Tamri thinks, probably says a lot about how this Baron Bonamma has been using the public coffers.
A Selkath waiter—the first Selkath Tamri has seen on the artificial isle—offers a glass of something pink and bubbly. "Thank you," she murmurs, sniffing the glass and scrunching up her face. "What, uh, is this?" she asks Korkie.
"Kuati rose champagne. Pretend to like at, at least. It's considered a luxury," Korkie says, taking a glass of his own with a smile.
"This is from Kuat?"
"Yeah. Funny, I saw this drink a lot back in Sundari, but my aunt would never let me have any. Too strong, she always said. How things change."
A glassful of her homeworld, yet it smells awful. Tamri takes a sip and resists the urge to spit it out. Tastes awful, too. Not anything like the humble servings back in that street celebration in the town of Alaren. Back when things were simpler. This noble life is not for her, perhaps. Not the life she pretends at, nor the one she was born into and never knew. "Not the best," she says, throwing back to the glass and downing the liquor in one gulp. She winces and sets the glass down on the first table she sees.
"That's, uh, not how it's supposed to be drunk. Ah, screw it," Korkie says, downing his own drink and setting it down.
Whatever that drink was, it was strong. Tamri's mind buzzes as she and Korkie enter the manor, the polished-floor foyer lined with marble and onyx in contrasting black and white walls, single-bulb hanging lights bathing the indoors in an orange-sun glow. There is no lack of partygoers: Seemingly everybody who is anybody in Ahto City is here, hundreds of well-to-do guests meandering through the halls and hallways accompanied by drinks and lovers and lust and ambition. There's an uneasy difference here as compared to the manor party on Kuat; here it seems as if the eyes in the crowd are both wider and narrower, taking things in, missing no detail, as if sharks in the water and searching for scarce prey in the shallows. Baron Bonamma's audience, Tamri thinks, is not so innocent as a few people looking to have fun. They are all here for something, just as Tamri and Korkie are.
"I'm getting an odd feeling about this place," Tamri says as she and Korkie leave the main hall for a side courtyard open to the night, where beneath that delightful dark an ivory fountain adds its chorusing to the night's revelry. An electricity bounces from man to woman to man. Stars in their recessions twirl and twinkle overhead, and perhaps it is the moment or perhaps the alcohol, but everything seems in motion.
"I've noticed it too," Korkie murmurs as they stop beside the fountain. He puts his hand on her shoulder and leans in. "Look at me."
"Hmm?" Tamri says.
"Don't look away, just at me. There's sharpshooters on the roof," Korkie says, his eyes peering just over Tamri's gaze.
Tamri reaches down her leg, towards where her lightsaber is strapped to her thigh. "What are they doing?"
"I don't know, but they're doing a good job trying not to be seen. I saw a rifle in one of their hands, though. Maybe just security, but if it is, then it's certainly a paranoid sort of security."
Tamri's eyes dart over Korkie's shoulder. Isard gave her a picture of Baron Bonamma for reference, and now she spots the overweight, green-skinned Twi'lek governor of Manaan himself on the far edge of the courtyard, mingling with partygoers. Flanking him to the left and the right are human guards in black suits looking away and pretending to be lost of conversation of their own. Subtle enough for Manaan's public to miss their intent, perhaps, but Tamri's seen too many criminal bodyguards in her assignments with Sae to miss their flexed arms and the odd lumps by their waists. "Our guy's across the way."
"The Baron?'
"Yup."
"What's he doing?"
"Talking. That's about it," Tamri says. "Isard said to try and speak with him first."
Korkie pulls her closer. "Not so obviously."
"But—"
"I don't care what Isard said; he's some higher-up chair-sitter of the Republic; this isn't his turf. We have all night. Play it slow," Korkie says. "And act natural. Like our cover. Here: Take my hand."
"Uh…what?"
"Take it," Korkie says, grabbing Tamri's hand on his own when she hesitates. "Now come on. With me."
"With…what?"
He places his hand on her waist, sending a thrill shooting in her chest. What is he doing? "We're supposed to be newlyweds at a party," he says. "So act like it to avoid suspicion. Dance with me."
She has no idea what to do, but she holds tightly to Korkie's hand as if letting go will leave her to fall into the sea. She follows his lead in the little courtyard square beside the fountain. Music plays; the soft air brushes her skin. And slowly, little by little, the sight of Baron Bonamma fades and the worries about their mission here tonight dissipate. She draws into him on her own, trusting him to do the hard work while she tags along for the ride. In her first real gala on Kuat she was too consumed with trying to find Eno Cordova on the quest for what would eventually become she and Sae's arrival on Ziost. No time to enjoy the moment. No time to know what this sort of thing really feels like. But now…now…
She shuffles her feet, lets Korkie guide her along, the two of them two gusts of the same wind, supple, elegant, her mind blank but her legs moving as if they know the motions she does not. Let them go. Let it all go.
An auto-harp finishes a slow and soft tune and Korkie guides her in, his hand curling around the small of her back, and for a moment the world itself seems to stop. The two of them face-to-face. The cut of his chin and his cheekbones so close she can trace every line of his face with her eyes. She feels frozen as the song chimes to an end, looking up at him, a bead of sweat from the dance brimming on the back of her neck. What now?
Then he lets her go, releases her hand, and bows his head in an exaggerated thanks. And she laughs, because she knows not else what to do.
"My lady," he says. Everything perfect about him. Graceful. Attuned. Noble.
She bunches up her hands, fearing that they'll run off on their own if she doesn't keep a handle on them. "I must look so stupid," she says hurriedly.
Korkie smiles. "You look right where you're supposed to be."
Tamri looks down at her feet. In the corner of her eye she can see Baron Bonamma moving from group to group, greeting guests. No, look away from your target. These are the moments you are supposed to know. The things you understand instinctively, in every person from Rim urchins to Core Worlds heirs. Little happy, fantastical moments when moments arrange right in place. But the logical overwhelms the emotional in her mind just as she wants to say again, again—another, and as Baron Bonamma makes his way from guest to guest, she straightens up. "Company."
Korkie's eyes dart to his left. The moment is over. "I see him. You wanted to do the talking."
"I'll handle it," she says, but her heart flops over and grimaces in disappointment. You fool. You'll always be a fool, Tamri Dallin.
Despite first appearances, up close the Baron is a fit man, almost a hulking one; muscle rises on his shoulders through his dress robe, and his wrists are almost as thick as Tamri's upper arms. As she maneuvers into a nearby crowd waiting on the Baron, his eyes veer from guest to guest as he greets the ones he knows and makes the acquaintance of those he does not. "—and a fine night to you," he says to a tall Zeltron woman before his eyes pass to Tamri. A strange sort of smile plays on his lips, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other in a wry grin. "I don't believe we've been acquainted, my lady," he says.
She has to keep herself from blurting out her real name, what with her thoughts still tugging and trying to go back to that happy spot beside the fountain. No, no, not now. "Eress Vescarion. Viscountess of Hapes," she says, bowing her head. "It's my honor to be in attendance, sir. My newly-wed husband, Koro Vescarion."
"My honor to provide," Bonamma says, acknowledging Korkie. "Manaan is a tad out of the way from the Hapan Cluster."
"Not too far out of the way. And what better time to see the galaxy? A war makes time seem fleeting, and who knows what tomorrow brings," Tamri says. This she can execute perfectly. It's just a role, lines in her head. Like abandoning all the nerves of her body and stepping into a puppet that merely goes along with the charade. Simplistic. Mechanical. Normal.
"If you're worried about that, then stay as long as you please. Tomorrow brings more of the same on Manaan, I assure you. There's no war here," Bonamma says. "Those creatures calling themselves Separatists—they are but a passing thing. Before long they will be pages in a history chronicle."
Tamri tilts her head. Interesting confidence. "We've stayed neutral in this on war on Hapes precisely because it seems it is not such a passing thing, in fact. You are that certain?"
"A thousand years has this Republic stood. A thousand more it will stand," Bonamma says, shrugging off her caution. "I've had precious few meetings with your people, my lady, but if Hapes has a good head, your sector will see the light and align themselves with the victors to be. It'll be over soon. And worlds like yours and worlds like mine here will be all the better for it, even as life goes on as it always had. Crashing in like the waves against the city's stilts, one after the other, time and time again, minute differences that before long blend one into another." He moves to say more, but one of the black-clothed guards suddenly leans forward and whispers into Bonamma's ear. His face flashes annoyance, then shock. He eases the guard away with his hand, bows his head to Tamri, and says, "Not the hour to worry about such things as conflict, though. A fine evening to you, Lady Vescarion. Enjoy the party."
As he leaves, Tamri leans over to Korkie and whispers, "We need to follow him."
"What was that about?" Korkie murmurs.
"I don't know, but he looked like he wasn't expecting it. We need to go see."
Just then, however the palm communicator strapped alongside her lightsaber on her thigh vibrates. She grumbles, glances to Bonamma's fleeting form, and ducks beside the fountain, reaching down with what she hopes is an inconspicuous move to pull the comm from her leg before answering the call: "What?"
"Ah. Padawan Dallin," Dominion answers as if reporting on the weather. "We have made significant progress."
"Where are you?"
"Multiple places. Soldier Falco interdicted and killed four security guards silently, which aided things."
Tamri curses under her breath as she moves away from the crowds and to one side of the courtyard. "Korkie?" she says, waving to him. "Can you follow him?"
"On it," he says, nodding. "Don't worry about it."
She does worry about it, though. That should be her assignment. He's been guiding her the whole night, and now she needs him again. But steady, steady. Keep your head. As Korkie slips off through the crowd, she turns her attention back to the comm and Dominion. "What kind of killing are we talking about? Can we not cause a scene? Is that why there are shooters on the roof?"
"There was no scene. All very professionally done. As it stands, I have identified a personal terminal of Baron Bonamma's which appears to contain a large amount of data exchanged off-world. Curiously, I have so far also identified significant and heavy freight traffic originating from Manaan—recently, and with freight launch timings aligning in a pattern to avoid Ahto City's peak traffic hours—that is also heading off-world, with hyperjumps correlating with Outer Rim-connecting hyperlanes. As for what this means, it is unknown—with more data likely to be found on that private terminal. Unfortunately, accessing that terminal requires a direct interface. I am incapable of accessing it remotely from my current location."
"Which is where?"
Kesh's voice interrupts. "Tam, he's trying to tell you we need you to get into Bonamma's private office," she says. "It's in a raised section of the manor to the southeast, fourth floor—top floor. We're not even close right now, so it's up to you. There should be a terminal there. If you can slice in—can you do that?"
"I can slice just fine, yes. That and then what?"
"Then I will handle the rest. That is all," Dominion finishes for Kesh. "A very simple affair."
So he says. Tamri looks up to the rooftops. Fourth floor, southeast. Private quarters means she'll have to weave her way out of the party and into the infiltration aspect of the night. So much for doing this cleanly. She'll have to get her hands dirty after all.