Chapter Sixty-Four: About to Fall

Each droplet of water that rolled off the pipes along the wall sent Bail's eyes darting about, the drumbeat of liquid like phantom fingers tapping. His breaths were shallow, echoing throughout the cramped subterranean hallway along with the sizzling and sparking of half-functioning light fixtures.

After Dooku's testimony, Mon had directed him to one of the Senate building's many basements. He now stood before a corroded metal door set into the pitted duracrete wall—the light above it perhaps the only one in the hallway that wasn't flickering erratically. Hell of a meeting spot, he thought as his hand rose to meet the metal door. His knuckles rapped against the rusty surface twice in quick succession, coming away stained orange.

As the door creaked open, he threw one last panicked glance behind him before turning to face the opening. Mon stood before him, her typically impeccable robes dingy in the strangely tinted basement lighting.

"Come on in," she whispered. He did as instructed, his heart rate spiking as the door groaned shut behind him.

Before him were several people he recognized—Garm Bel Iblis, Tyyrna Pamlo, Fang Zar, and a handful of other senators. Toward the back, Raymus, who seemed to be doing his level best not to look Bail in the eye. Lisbeth Holdo, a cup of tea clasped in her hands like some kind of lifeline, stood next to him.

And then there were the people he didn't know—they seemed to show up in greater numbers with every single meeting. A Quarren whose orange skin was bleached pale in spots, as though it had been burned somehow. A Bothan clad in a crisp suit, its fur a maze of black-and-white patterns. Three or four Sullustans were clustered along one wall, chatting amongst themselves in a language Bail didn't understand. A Fosh, of all things, was engaged in vigorous debate with Garm—for a moment, Bail felt a flash of panic, before realizing this one was about a foot shorter than Vice Chair Sapir.

My alliance, he thought. The group I started. And every time I see it, I know it less.

Clearing his throat, he raised a hand above his head. Whispers died out; all the faces across the room turned to take him in. None of them looked happy.

"Thank you all for meeting here on such short notice," Bail told them. His voice somehow felt both tiny and too loud in this space, a tinny echo bouncing off wet concrete and pipe. "Not the most secure spot, I know, but we felt time was of the essence."

Nodding, Garm Bel Iblis replied, "I'm afraid you're more right than you know, Organa." The words emerged from his throat in a croak—the Corellian, Bail saw, looked terrible. His normally robust posture had bent into a defeated curve, and his face was a pale that verged toward grey. "Lonn, if you would."

The Bothan took a step forward, the fur along his muzzle rippling—when he spoke, his voice was reedy, an academic's singsong. "Senator Organa, I don't believe we've had the pleasure. I am quite sorry these are the circumstances in which we meet."

Bail knew, then, what had happened.

With a snorting cough, the furred alien shook its head, half looking at the ground. "The prison where Qui-Gon Jinn was being held has been locked up tight all evening, so we have no official communications to confirm this, but hacked security cam footage shows that earlier tonight, there was a fracas at the landing platform just as Jinn and Count Dooku were being escorted to a shuttle. When it finished, four people had been killed. Three of them we were unable to identify. The fourth, however . . ."

Fishing in his vest pocket, Lonn removed a small holoprojector. A moment later, a face was floating above his paw—bleached hair chopped short, eyes wide but blinded by death. The image was pixelated, full of noise—as it flickered there, it was almost as though it were the afterimage of a ghost.

"Riyoh," one of the crowd gasped.

As Raymus Antilles bit down on his lower lip, the Bothan nodded. "Earlier today, Senators Mothma and Bel Iblis authorized Riyoh Leung to attempt to rescue Qui-Gon Jinn in transit. When these other would-be rescuers arrived, she was instructed to flee the scene. Instead, she attempted to help them, and was shot. Madame Jinn herself sustained superficial injuries, but is alive, as far as we know."

Running his tongue along lips that had been sapped of all moisture, Bail raised his hand. "I can confirm that. I caught a glimpse of her during Dooku's testimony—there to keep him cooperative, no doubt."

For several moments, the only sound was the irregular drip. Drip. Drip of water through the stone room. Then Fang Zar spoke, his voice tentative. "These other three rescuers . . ."

"All we have is speculation," replied Lonn. "However, I imagine all of us are speculating along the same lines."

"If they were Jedi," Bel Iblis broke in, "and Palpatine was already using Jinn as leverage against Dooku, surely he will use her to make the Count identify the bodies as such?"

"He won't need to." The Bothan placed the holoprojector back in his pocket and sighed. "Anakin Skywalker was present at the scene."

"Anakin Skywalker?"

All eyes turned to Mon Mothma, who hadn't spoken the question so much as yelped it. Blushing, she cast her gaze down at her feet for a moment, then swallowed and looked Lonn in the eye. "He ran into me not twenty minutes ago. He was soaking, bleeding—he barreled right past me heading for the turbolifts."

Without warning, Bail wanted to be sick. The water running down the walls glistened with a sickly color, and the scrape of his own shoes against the duracrete sounded far louder than it should. Swallowing down his nausea, he took a shuffling step forward, drawing the Bothan's eyes to him. "Is it possible," he managed, keeping his voice low, "that the Jedi weren't finished? That they could try to grab Qui-Gon again, here, and Skywalker found out about it? That he came to prevent it?"

No one answered. As his eyes flitted from face to face, Bail saw uncertainty, and sudden fear, and dawning horror.

Clenching his fists hard enough that his nails bit his palms, he looked at Mon and shook his head. "We need to leave, now, and disband meetings long enough for this to blow over. If Tarkin can tie us back to any of this—"

"Riyoh was too careful for that," a rumble cut across him—Garm Bel Iblis, a sudden sharp anger in his eyes. "She promised me before she set out that nothing would tie her back to us. In all the time she worked for me, she was as good as her word."

Now is not the time for you to jeopardize our lives because you're pissed that I insulted your agent's ability to cover her tracks, Bail almost shot back, but he remembered the grief on his colleague's face a few minutes ago and held it in. "Garm," he said instead, holding his voice to such exaggerated steadiness that he knew the others would be able to see through him, "if Riyoh is traced back to us, Palpatine has a solid link between our organization and the Jedi. Has proof that we tried to assault a Republic facility. And if anything else goes down tonight, our odds of hiding the connection decrease."

"Is that how we repay her?" snapped the Quarren Bail didn't recognize. Its face-tentacles wriggled with sudden fervor, its skin shading toward crimson. "Riyoh was not a liability. She was a person, one who gave her life to try to spring your friend from Tarkin's grip, Senator Organa."

At that, the silence broke. A murmured noise of assent rose up throughout the room—not loud, but solid, and growing. Garm Bel Iblis muttered a sharp "Hear, hear," looking as if he very much wanted to hurl Bail out of the room.

Bail opened his mouth, running through his options even as the murmurs grew. Garm, I'm so sorry, but the best way to honor Riyoh is to keep what she was fighting for safe. Or Yes, Qui-Gon is my friend, it's my fault, blame me if you want as long as we take a step back. Or It's easy for all of you to talk about honor when you don't have any Jedi connections already out in the open, hanging over your head like a damn sword about to fall—

Before he could choose, a long, high drone reverberated through the room.

There were gasps of panic—the group drew back from the door, as though someone were going to burst through at any moment—but then the drone faded away, replaced by a voice crackling over the basement's aging PA speakers. "Attention, everyone. We have a Code Red situation. The Senate building is under lockdown. All persons present, please make your way to the central Senate chamber. I repeat, the Senate building is under lockdown. All persons present, please make your way to the central Senate chamber. You are required for an emergency briefing."

As the voice lapsed back into the emergency drone, the basement lights kicked themselves red. The drip of water was lost in a din of panicked questions and outcries, everyone moving for the door at once—

And then Mon raised her voice, only barely able to make herself heard but loud enough to turn heads in her direction. "Everyone, please! We must remain calm. Panic will only draw suspicion. No matter the situation outside, we are going to proceed through this door in an orderly fashion, head to the central chamber, and keep quiet."

She was right, Bail knew. But even as he nodded and stepped aside to allow others to file into the hall, his entire body was screaming at him to find the emergency tunnels, get out on foot, and then scramble for the nearest hiding place.

It must have been another Jedi rescue attempt. It must have been. Bad enough on its own. But that wasn't the deepest fear gnawing at Bail.

What if it was somehow something worse?


The people of Coruscant have begun to rest easy. As the rain trickles away to silence, young couples put away the candles and switch the lights back on, blackouts undone; parents, humming softly, lull their little ones to sleep with promises that there will be no more storm tonight. The promises, of course, are not just for the children—though the parents won't admit it, they need the comfort too. All this time after it happened, they still find they're too easily reminded. Bolts of electricity call up memories of laser blasts streaking down; rumbling thunder carries with it memories of towers crumbling.

It would be so good to forget—to go back to the way things were, to rest in the assurance that whatever enemies assailed Coruscant are banished forever. But white-armored troops still roam the streets all these months later. Wreckage still lies in accumulating heaps, never to be repaired. And though reports from the front line are as promising as they've ever been—nightly holonet bulletins sing the praises of the Republic's finest as they take back world after world—whispers have only grown. Rumors that something is coming.

So when, a few minutes after the storm has died, the red-alert klaxons begin to blaze—personal comm devices and holonet monitors and datapads across the planet all flaring with the same wail of danger, danger, danger—it's not a surprise. Just confirmation of what everyone has known would come someday, somehow.

Hush, lovers tell other lovers, mothers whisper to their woken, newly crying children. It's just a test. Or something else stupid. We'll sit up and watch the news—just to be sure—but things will be just fine.

None of them believe it.

Person to person, home to home, a trillion beings turn to the nearest holonet screen. For several moments, there's nothing—just the same EMERGENCY BROADCAST graphic that was last seen months ago, when Maul and Valis were pounding at the door.

Then the letters fade, and in their place is Chancellor Palpatine.

Nearly every day, during the siege, this same face would emerge on the screens of Coruscant to inform the planet's citizens of what was being done to secure their safety. Children grew to trust it; adults came to feel something like love for it. Palpatine has always been popular, but in those dispatches he became something more—a fellow sufferer who nonetheless has every confidence that his people will emerge whole and strong. A leader who can at once inform an entire world and lend comfort to each individual. A father who recognizes that things are grim, but who refuses to let himself show anything but strength, resolve, and hope.

It's because of that face that, across Coruscant, billions begin to fear.

For while the Palpatine of tonight still has the old strength—still carries in his eyes his determination to see his citizenry through whatever crisis comes their way—for the first time, he also looks afraid.

As he gazes into the camera, a planet goes silent. Everyone—from the Underworld to the highest penthouses—waits to see what horror, what impossible threat could cause even the chancellor to doubt.

Then he swallows, and says, "Good evening."


All the way into the central Senate chamber—walking past the dozens of Coruscant Guard clad in white and blue armor who had sprung up out of nowhere, hands gripping blaster rifles, eyeless gazes scanning everyone who passed them—Mon had stayed calm. But when Palpatine emerged on the executive pod, she clutched at Bail's hand. "My god."

Perhaps it was the way the chancellor held himself—slightly hunched, as if flinching away from threats above. Perhaps it was the brief unsteadiness as he placed his hands upon the edge of the podium. No matter the reason, Bail knew exactly what his colleague was feeling.

Palpatine was shaken.

Dronecams whizzed by the largely empty pods—between their little group of rebels and the dregs of those who hadn't yet departed after Dooku's testimony, only a third or so of the Senate had been here to assemble. That didn't matter, though—the cameras only had eyes for the chancellor, orbiting around him at regular intervals as he gazed off into nothingness. What they transmitted, Bail knew, the rest of this august body would receive in absentia—no one would be ignoring a red-alert broadcast.

Besides the whirr of the cams and the muffled sound of marching boots from outside the chamber, it was quiet as death. Bail found himself frantically scanning Eriadu's pod, waiting for Qui-Gon to emerge, but it remained empty. If she's not still here, he thought, why has an alert been raised? No need to lock down the Senate if the Jedi try to spring her from a prison in a different district.

Or maybe, he answered himself, with a possibility that spiked his heart rate with both hope and dread, she's not here because they were successful. They got her out—Skywalker was too late.

Come to think of it, he thought, frowning as he scanned from pod to pod, where was Skywalker? Surely if the whole building had been locked down he'd have to still be skulking around somewhere—

"Good evening."

Mon squeezed tighter, hard enough to make Bail's fingers ache, but he didn't care. Squeezing back, he turned his eyes back to the executive pod.

Palpatine's words hung there for several moments; he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, then exhaled, like a frightened debate-team student who'd forgotten his lines. Against his will, Bail's fear was suddenly not of Palpatine but for him—what on earth could possibly have brought the man from his usual self-assurance to this?

Opening his eyes, the chancellor took one more steadying breath. Gripping the rail of his podium, he cleared his throat and repeated, "Good evening.

"To those watching the broadcast of this address, I had hoped this alert system would never again need to be used. It is with deep sorrow that I intrude upon your evenings—your peaceful rest—to deliver this message. But it is a message that needs delivering. It is a message that concerns every one of us.

"There is no easy way to say this."

And at that, again Palpatine seemed lost for words—his eyes flitted from pod to pod, taking in senators not with his usual calculated care but seemingly at random. At his side, Mas Amedda reached up to squeeze his shoulder; nodding gratefully, the chancellor pressed his hand against the speaker's, then faced the dronecams once more.

"Tonight—approximately half an hour ago—members of the so-called Jedi Order made an attempt on my life."

From Bail's side, Mon let out a sudden gasp of pain—vacantly, he realized he'd squeezed her hand hard enough to risk causing some real damage. As he let her fingers slide away—as a chorus of murmurs rose all around the chamber—his awareness of his surroundings dimmed. Suddenly there was just a tunnel, surrounded on all sides by faint white light. On one end was him. On the other was Palpatine, continuing to speak.

"Only the prompt intervention of Senate security saved me. Even as it stands"—here Palpatine winced, before slowly peeling away the cloak that covered his shoulders—"they were nearly too late."

Horrified outbursts sounded throughout the cavernous dome. The left shoulder of the chancellor's tunic was stained deep scarlet—blood that had yet to fully dry.

You were so sure. You were so sure it was Qui-Gon that she was all it was that nothing else could have happened—

"That my assailants were members of this sect is beyond any doubt," said Palpatine—and here, all at once the traces of his old voice were back, his conviction ringing behind the statement as much as was possible under the circumstances. "Each of them carried a weapon known as a lightsaber. And before they tried to kill me—before they in turn were slain—the leader of their group made his position very clear."

Mas Amedda pressed a button on his console. A moment later, hissing static filled the chamber—a recording from security tapes.

"You are going to die.

"All you had left to take care of was the Jedi. The last step in your master plan. But you didn't plan on me."

Specks floated across Bail's vision. As darkness hovered at the corners of his eyes, he bit down on his lip, knowing that if his mouth were to open, he would scream. No no no not him why did it have to be HIM—

"Nor was this an isolated incident," Palpatine said, gravely shaking his head. "Tonight saw multiple, coordinated Jedi attacks on strategic locations across the capital. While the government can only reveal limited information about these attacks at this time, I can confirm that one of them was a direct assault on a Republic detention center that involved no fewer than four additional Jedi."

A brief blip of relief—Oh god they think Bel Iblis's operative was a Jedi too, they won't connect her back to us at all—immediately drowned beneath the flood of wordless terror pouring through Bail's bloodstream. Whatever his fate was, it was no longer tied to Riyoh—it was tied to someone much worse.

For several seconds, Palpatine was silent. Then, when there had been sufficient time for those present to absorb this latest information, he said, "It is clear that the Jedi Order wanted an immediate end to the investigation concerning their influence on this august body—and on the course of the war. To achieve that end, they were willing to use any means necessary, including the assassination of both myself and Director Wilhuff Tarkin. I tell you this not to alarm you, but to communicate the depth of this threat to the Republic. While we've fought so hard to bring the Clone Wars to a close—to achieve peace and rebuild—another war has been brewing under our noses. Its agents have made their move. It is up to us to answer."

A few rows distant, someone—Bail never saw who—roared in sudden affirmation. Perhaps it was a loyalist senator, one of Palpatine's old friends. Perhaps it was one of their own group, trying to veil their true feelings. Either way, they were on their feet, applauding.

Moments later, everyone in the chamber had joined them.

As Bail forced himself to rise, bringing his hands together with vicious force, he strained to hear what was coming next. For Palpatine was not waiting for the applause to die—he was suddenly shouting over it, raising his hands, letting his words carry the affirmation of the entire number present. "Rest assured, my fellow citizens, that never again shall I allow the enemy to stand upon our very doorstep! Never again will this great Republic be threatened at its very center! The Jedi have struck, and failed—now we shall ensure they will never strike again."

At this, the strain grew too much—Bail watched the chancellor wince, and rest a hand upon his wounded shoulder. A hush fell over the chamber, once again filled only with the dronecams' buzz and the Coruscant Guard's distant strides.

Exhaling in a low rush, Palpatine looked directly into the cameras once more. "The troops who even now stand guard outside these hallowed halls are members of the 501st Legion, the Grand Army's finest division. They have been called upon to defend this august body—and defend us they shall. From this moment onward, the Grand Army of the Republic will execute the will of this Senate in bringing Jedi traitors to justice—ensuring that security and peace are paramount.

"And with this, my friends, I must leave you. Rest assured that the best medical professionals on this planet will have me mended soon enough—and when that is done, our work must continue. You have my pledge that it shall."

Concussive applause echoing around them, Mon hissed to Bail, "We're getting out of here, now. My office."

As they turned to leave, Bail could have sworn he felt Palpatine look at him directly.


"Don't worry," she told him as soon as they'd closed the door, "I sweep the place once a week for bugs, Garm's idea." Without waiting for a reply, she began pacing back and forth across the cramped little space, wringing her hands together harder than Bail had. "As long as they assume Riyoh was a Jedi and don't do any further digging into her background, we should be all right. What I'm wondering now is whether whatever plan we had in place to get Jinn offworld could be executed on a larger scale."

Softly, Bail said, "Mon."

"Surely the Jedi have been seeing to evacuation themselves," she continued, "with the way things have been progressing, but with all tonight's news it's obvious some of them are still on the planet—if we had some sort of clandestine route set up for them to depart Coruscant, it could—"

"Mon."

Pausing for a single step, she looked at him and then resumed pacing. "You're right, there's no way to do it without leaving ourselves exposed—and we'd have to make contact with the Order directly, which isn't safe the way things are. And who knows if they'd even want the help—if they're trying to assassinate a sitting chancellor they may not take kindly to senators in general right now—"

"Mon."

She stood frozen for a moment, then collapsed into her desk chair and ran her hands down her face. "I do apologize. Tension getting to me."

"Mon, I know which one of them tried to kill him."

At that, Bail's colleague simply sat quiet for a while, her eyes squeezed shut. Her nostrils flared alarmingly wide, for Mon, rapidly expanding and contracting with an audible rush of air. Then, with a deep exhalation, she nodded. "So do I. The one Padmé brought to us. This is . . ."

When she opened her eyes, she looked stricken. "Bail, this is our fault. We should never have let him leave your palace once he expressed that as his intention."

Hearing it said aloud, Bail felt some small relief. His chest, which for the last ten minutes had felt like every vein within it was dammed, loosened with such suddenness that it was almost nauseating. Out in the open, then. No pretending otherwise. "We can't focus on that right now, Mon. Whatever we should or shouldn't have done, it's over. Windu made his choice." Swallowing, he felt his nostrils strain for air. "Unfortunately, that isn't the end of it."

For a moment, she looked puzzled—then understanding dawned. "Naboo."

A shaky laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "Co-conspirators. In a break-in that was intended to turn up information that could get Palpatine deposed from office."

What little color had remained drained from Mon's face. "Bail, no one was ever caught—"

"But one of us did take responsibility." A bitter smile played across his lips at the memory. "Windu. Under an alias, of course. At the time, it was meant to draw the heat away from me and Padmé. Noble, you could say." Now it was his turn to pace, turning and turning over the same few feet of carpet. "How long do you think it'll take them to dig around in the history of the man who tried to kill Palpatine before they draw that particular connection?"

"Even then," his colleague persisted, shaking her head rapidly, "that's just him on his own—"

"But I was still there, Mon. Present at the site of the break-in when it went down. Made myself quite memorable to buy the others time to get out of the vault." He ground his heel into the floor and turned away from her. "Can they prove a connection? Who knows. Probably not. Can they dig up enough circumstantial evidence to make proof irrelevant? You already know the answer to that."

The tightness in his chest had begun to clench harder once more—he could feel the slow thud of his heart against the sternum, like some kind of laboring animal. Swallowing, he watched the door, his brainstem half convinced the Coruscant Guard would burst through at any moment—that, bug sweep or not, they were listening in, ready to arrest him once he'd incriminated himself enough.

"I have to leave the alliance, Mon."

When he turned back to meet her eyes, the skin of her face had gone from translucent to ashen. "Bail," she said, sounding as though she were speaking around a lump in her throat, "the alliance was your idea—"

"—and you know better than anyone that doesn't mean I'm useful. No matter what I do—no matter how much I outwardly play nice, applaud at speeches, vote in step with Palpatine while furthering our agenda under the table—it will never, ever be enough to wipe away what I've done in the past. Every day I'm terrified to take two steps without it somehow being tied back to Obi-Wan, or Qui-Gon, or some other Jedi. And now this."

Once again, the crazy urge to laugh welled up—here he was, lecturing Mon Mothma about political strategy. Only took these circumstances to get there.

"I'm a liability, Mon. A millstone around the alliance's neck. You already know that. You just made the mistake of becoming too close a friend of mine to tell me so."

When he'd finished, tears glistened in her eyes. But, because she was Mon, she blinked hard, sighed quietly, and then nodded. "I might have put it a bit more diplomatically."

As he surprised himself by grinning, she rose from the desk, crossing the few paces necessary to stand face to face with him. "The door is open for you, should you wish to return. And I do hope that, as long as you hold a Senate seat, every so often you'll stop by this office for a drink?"

You know I can't, he thought, grin fading. Aloud, he said, "Of course."

Before he could stop himself, he'd reached forward to embrace her.

They held each other for a long time.