The light hangs. The air stills. The galaxy waits. And Director Krennic walks forward towards the most important moment of his life.
He is not alone, yet in spirit and in knowledge there is none here but him. Alongside him walks Mas Amedda, the Chagrian grumbling and adjusting his robe's cufflinks. It is silent down in the halls beneath the Senate's Grand Convocation Chamber, these halls that lead to the office of the supreme chancellor and the podium that rises with each senatorial session. There is but a foot of space between the two men as they walk, no security guards in sight, no aides, no senatorial pages. Yet they are worlds apart in their minds. Krennic can only imagine Amedda's thoughts: Tarkin has told the man that they are here for the Grand Admiral's concession speech, one grand statement to the Senate to surrender his custodianship of the governing body and return democracy to its rightful place. Elect a new vice chair, name a new chancellor. The Republic back on course.
Krennic knows, however, that they are here for a different purpose. A much, much different purpose.
"Even now, I cannot understand why Tarkin is going through with this," Amedda mutters. His eyes darken beneath the soft ceiling lights. His shadow grows long, like a man before a sunset. A tower in the last light of day. "Organa and Amidala's walkout changes nothing. A political stunt, nothing more. And he will surrender his authority over that? Letting the Jedi and those rogues have their way at the first sign of resistance?" He scowls, even as Krennic holds his tongue. "I thought him to be of stronger stuff. Chancellor Palpatine trusted him. Perhaps I was a fool to do the same. Perhaps I never should have brought him into this."
"Perhaps," Krennic murmurs.
On they walk through these lonely halls, men so large, yet to Krennic it suddenly all feels so small. "This can still be delayed. Put off. He can still see reason," Amedda says to himself. He looks to Krennic. "I need you on my side, Orson. I've supported you, both to Palpatine and to Tarkin. You owe it to me."
"Owe what?" says Krennic, avoiding eye contact.
"Your position. Your role. Everything," Amedda hisses. "Tarkin has to see reason. He can back away from this. We don't have to surrender."
No, Krennic thinks. We don't. For despite what Amedda thinks, Krennic knows Tarkin has no intention of surrendering. Not to the Senate. Not to the Jedi. Not to anyone.
They reach the purple-inlaid closed doors of the chancellor's office, directly below the very center axis around which the Senate itself revolves. Here is the seat of political power in the galaxy. The very heart of the Republic. Palpatine's office once. But today it is not Palpatine waiting inside for them.
Krennic presses the door's buzzer to gain access. The doors do not budge; there comes only an unlocking click. "Pathetic," Amedda spits. "Tarkin won't even open the doors for us."
"Allow me, Vice Chair," Krennic says, opening the doors with a swipe of his finger across the access console.
No guards inside. No one at all at first glance: There is only senatorial regalia and decorations, along with, at the rear of the room, the chancellor's podium. Its seatback is turned to Amedda and Krennic. If anyone sits in it, they are concealed from view. "Tarkin," Amedda growls as he stomps inside the office he has known over two decades of work as vice chair. "Tarkin, face me. This is madness. You don't need to do this."
Slowly, so slowly that Krennic feels as if time itself has stilled the moment, the seat turns to face Amedda. But it is not Tarkin sitting at the chancellor's podium.
Amedda gasps in surprise. "You."
Hosha Tath rises out of the chancellor's seat. As tall and burly as Mas Amedda is, Hosha still looms over him, her blank white eyes sucking in Krennic's stare, her shock of white hair drowning out the room's subtle colors. "My apologies, Vice Chair, for the deception," she says.
Amedda recovers from his surprise and raises his chin. "Where is Grand Admiral Tarkin? He said he was giving his concession speech today. Here in the Senate, in just fifteen minutes. The whole Senate is assembling above us right now."
"Tarkin is not here," Hosha Tath says, rounding the podium. Her steps slow. Her words slow. Every measure hanging as if the galaxy itself waits on baited breath. "And he need not be here to witness this. I'm sorry, Vice Chair. You have given so many years of your life to the Republic. This is not a fitting reward for such a loyal servant."
"What are you talking about?" Amedda growls.
Krennic knows his role now. He backs between Amedda and the door while the Chagrian is facing Hosha. With one swipe of a finger, Krennic closes the doors and locks them. Amedda hears the click and turns. "Orson?" he says, his voice rising in pitch. "Orson, what is she talking about? What—"
His voice fails him as Krennic pulls a blaster pistol from his cloak.
"Chancellor Palpatine trusted you. Chancellor Valorum before him," Hosha says, advancing on Amedda as the Chagrian freezes. She draws a small silver cylinder from her belt and Amedda's eyes bulge. "You have done more than almost anyone to preserve the Republic during these dark times. But this war has proven that the old order cannot win. And in times like these, the only thing to do is to bring about a new order."
Amedda shakes his head, pointing frantically, first at Hosha, then at Krennic. "Traitors," he heaves. "You can't do this. I've supported you both. Palpatine supported you both." He jabs his finger at Krennic. "Tarkin will never forgive treason. He will have you both executed!"
"Tarkin ordered this," says Krennic, raising his blaster. "Forgive me, Vice Chair."
Amedda's mouth gapes. His arm falters, falls. His shoulders slump, his eyes darken. As if in that moment life and light depart.
Krennic pulls the trigger.
The blaster bolt strikes Amedda in the stomach. He shouts. Presses his hands to the smoldering wound. Eyes searching in desperation for answers in this final minute.
Hosha comes up behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder, pressing the silver cylinder to his back. "The Republic thanks you for your service, Mas Amedda."
A blue lightsaber blade erupts from Mas Amedda's chest. There is no shout. No scream. Only his eyes widening and his body crumpling to the floor. And in one great moment, Mas Amedda, vice chair for two supreme chancellors over more than twenty years, falls dead.
Hosha deactivates the lightsaber. "The podium is ready," she says, stepping over Amedda's body. "We have ten minutes now, Director. It's time for us to leave."
Krennic looks down at Amedda's body. Smoke curls off of the barrel of his blaster. "So it is."
Three days have passed since Tamri and the Mandalorian resistance found the doomsday vault. Three days since Bo-Katan sent out a general plea to every last one of her rebels still operating on Mandalore, urging them to group up on their position. Three days since they turned on every last signal beacon and sensor in the vault in order to draw the Separatist occupation army to them and force a battle for the planet. Freedom or occupation. Separatist control or an independent Mandalore.
Three days and Tamri guesses they have gained no more than a few thousand soldiers in total. A few gunships, some ground speeders. It isn't much, and she's starting to regret telling Neelotas yesterday to take the War Maiden and the others and wait this fight out on the far side of the planet. The threat of orbital fire and Separatist starfighter support overrode the thought of bringing the War Maiden's weapons to bear—and if any Separatist capital ships were to dip into the atmosphere during the battle, the little patrol ship wouldn't stand a chance. Still, the extra guns would be nice, because what the Mandalorians and Saw's partisans have assembled barely constitutes an army. But this will have to do, because it is an army—a real army, a big one—that they are facing now.
The previous night Saw Gerrera and his partisans set up a shield dome over the hanger entrance to the vault, a kilometer away from the hatch Tamri found that led them down. It's an advantageous position atop a hill surrounded by dunes, the high ground from which they can see for miles and miles in any direction. But the shield covers only three hundred meters in diameter, and out there on the desert flats are thousands and thousands of battle droids now encircling the Mandalorian position. They first began arriving last night shortly after the shield went up, more droids appearing every hour, backed by AATs and homing spider droids. The sort of army designed to contest a dedicated Republic assault, not a battalion of rebels.
And now that they have the Mandalorians surrounded, they will not wait much longer to attack. Enough concentrated fire and Saw's shield will fall. Tamri could not sleep with her nerves electric, the lump in her throat growing larger as the surrounding army swelled. Now it is high noon, the sun directly overhead, the heat spiking, and she watches from atop the ridge alongside Korkie, Ventress, Bo-Katan, and Saw as a small group steps out from the front of the Separatist army line and advances to the edge of the shield dome. "Something going on out there," Tamri murmurs, looking at the scene through a pair of electrobinoculars.
"Give those to me," Saw says before surveying the scene for himself. He looks, scowls, and nods. "A human. A few Nemoidians. Couple of those warrior droids with the electrostaffs."
"That's him," Ventress growls.
Saw looks to her. "Who?"
"Dooku's new apprentice. Taron Malicos."
"You're sure?" says Tamri.
Ventress bares her teeth. "I can feel it. The Dark Side is strong with him. He will not be here to show mercy."
"Good," murmurs Bo. "I'm not in the mood to show mercy, either."
A bright flash explodes in the air above Malicos and the advance party, followed by a starburst of white smoke. "Signal firework," Korkie surmises. "They want to parley."
"Or bait us into a trap," Tamri says.
"Shield'll hold. Not much they can do with so few people. We got snipers trained on their position already," Saw says.
"That won't do much if he has a lightsaber," says Korkie.
"I can handle that," says Tamri.
Ventress scoffs. "No you can't, Padawan," she says. "I'll see to it. I know Dooku's style. Whoever Malicos is, Dooku will have given him his lessons."
"You're not going alone," says Bo. She points to Saw. "You and me. Let's go down and see what he says. You—Ventress. Keep us covered. Jedi, you come too. The more lightsabers the better if we're dealing with a Sith. I learned my lesson with Maul."
"I'll join you," says Korkie.
Bo shakes her head. "No. You stay here."
Korkie glowers. "I've trained for negotiations since—"
"We're not here to negotiate. We're here to fight," Bo growls, shutting him down. "Now shut up and sit tight here, Korkie. The last thing I need is anyone extra getting in the way."
"It'll be fine," Tamri tells him as she follows Bo down the hill.
The shield shimmers and swirls in the air, the energy dome a dreamlike blue-purple mirage against the harsh aridity. Ray shields—defenses good enough to stop laser bolts and energy munitions, but allowing Malicos to pass through effortlessly as Bo, Tamri, Saw, and Ventress halt a dozen meters before the dome's edge. Malicos's companions—a trio of burly Nemoidian enforcers that Tamri guesses are field commanders, along with the MagnaGuard droids backing them up—do not follow him inside. "Quite the drama you're putting on, Kryze," Malicos says as soon as he's through the shield. "I'm almost entertained."
Tamri sizes him up. He's nothing like Count Dooku: There is no elegance to this Dark Jedi, no class, no refinement. Especially given that Malicos is shirtless, his hairy chest and muscled abs bare to the sun's glare. He hasn't shaved in weeks, his dirty brown hair long and tangled. Wild eyes; the look of a born killer. Ratty, ragged pants. And to top the savage look off, his left arm is a monstrosity of nightmare made. Jagged, hard edges sticking out of artificial skin. Red lines zig-zagging like lightning from fingertips to shoulder, the whole limb looking as if it was grafted on in some sort of mad scientist's surgical opus. Horrifying. Barbaric. He almost looks feral. If this is the Sith, Tamri cannot see why anyone would join them.
"You're the one they call Malicos?" Bo spits.
"Guilty," Malicos answers. "I see you know me. Although maybe that's a given, based on your company." He looks at Ventress, tilts his head, and chuckles. "Oh, I know who you are. Recognize that face."
"Do you now?" Ventress says with a dangerous tone. She looks him over. "Looks like life with the Dark Side hasn't been kind to you. Maybe you should go run back to the Jedi while you still have the chance. I hear they're the forgiving sort."
Malicos laughs and waves his finger at her. "Ah, Dooku said you had quite the personality, Asajj Ventress. I am so glad when I meet someone who lives up to their reputation. I hope your fighting prowess does the same when we inevitably cross blades."
He looks back to Bo. "I must say I'm slightly disappointed," he says, his eyes turning to Tamri. "The Mandalorians bringing along a pet Jedi. That's a no-no in Mandalorian culture, as far as I know. And you're really scraping the bottom of the barrel for this one; just a little Padawan. That all the Jedi can afford these days? No, don't move your hand, girl, I can see that lightsaber on your belt." He frowns at her. "Question is, who are you, and why did your master let you out of the Temple to tromp around with Dooku's failed apprentice and a bunch of Mandalorians?"
"Why's it matter to you?" Tamri says. She sounds braver than she feels: Her heart thuds against her chest, and her throat threatens to close up. Malicos was a Jedi Master once. She has no doubt Dooku wouldn't have picked him as an apprentice unless he could fight.
"It doesn't matter to me. I just want to know. And frankly, you should be grateful. The longer we talk here, the more time you have before I kill you all," says Malicos. He opens his mouth to continue before pausing. His eyes narrow. He stares at Tamri. "Hold on. I do know that face." He hesitates, raising a finger up to his chin as if teasing the words out. "You were the one the pirates had. The Haxion Brood. On that asteroid base."
Tamri's stomach flops over, her nerves firing at full intensity. Malicos levels his finger at her. "Dallin," he says. "The one I was going to bring to Dooku. Until…until…" he smiles. "Until Sae got in the way. When she and I first met."
Ventress looks to her. Tamri feels as if she's about to explode. "What do you know about Sae?"
Malicos leans back and laughs. "Oh, you don't know? Oh, this is great. She's with us, girl. With me. And Dooku. All because she thinks you're dead, and that pushed her over the edge. She blubbers about you so much. Tamri this and Tamri that. Boo-hoo, all very sad. You really didn't know? Ha!"
"Liar!" Tamri snaps.
Ventress grabs her arm before she can draw her lightsaber. "Don't rise to his bait, girl."
"Ah, the hell with you, Ventress. She's much more interesting to me," Malicos says, waving her off. He turns his attention back to Bo. "But enough with the fun, already. Kryze: I'm feeling rather generous today."
"That makes one of us," Bo growls. "Take your forces and leave, Malicos. All of them. Every ship, every battle droid. You're not supposed to be on Mandalore."
"I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, which is wherever I want to be," Malicos counters. "No, your offer's terrible. Rejected. Here's mine: You surrender. You and your mad dog Gerrera there—don't deny it, dog. Stop looking at me like that."
"Come make me," Saw snarls.
"If you wish, but something tells me she's in charge, so why don't you go hide behind your Mandalorian friends?" Malicos says. "Anyway: You two surrender to me. And Ventress and the girl—you two as well. I have such wonders to show you. Dooku has such wonders to show you." He motions his hand to Tamri and smiles. "And think, little girl. You can be with your beloved master again. Like a happy family. Isn't that a good offer?"
"Cram it up your backside," Tamri spits.
"Well that's not very Jedi-like."
Bo does not budge. "Answer's no, Sith."
"I didn't even finish. Goodness, no wonder this shitpile of a planet's so backward. You primitives can't even listen," Malicos says. "You four surrender, and the rest of those soldiers that I can see arrayed up on that hill can run free. Scurry back to those termite mounds you call cities. We'll hunt them down eventually, but live to fight another day, eh?"
"No."
"Your life for the lives of your people. What kind of leader are you, Kryze? How selfish can one woman be?"
"Still no. Mandalore doesn't surrender. Not even in the face of extinction."
Malicos shrugs. "History is going to remember it differently, Mandalorian," he says, "once I've destroyed this little rebellion and turned Sundari into a field of glass. But have it your way. I'll give you five minutes to run back up that hill and offer up your final prayers to whatever heathen gods you worship on this dungheap. Then my army will batter down this shield and kill you all."
Bo puts on her helmet. "I don't need five minutes. Now's fine," she says, raising her arm.
The shield drops just as the earth shakes. From atop the hill a Basilisk war droid bursts from the hanger entrance and leaps into the sky, jump-jets aflame, the ancient automaton alive to fight again after four thousand years of dormancy. Atop the droid rides Ursa Wren with a rifle in her hands, and when she calls out the Basilisk bellows in a metallic-bestial war cry, levels its weapons snout at the closest spider tank, and fires a missile.
So quickly the negotiation ends. The warhead strikes the droid before the Separatists can react. Fire and debris plume. Atop the hill a thousand Mandalorian and partisan rifle scopes glisten in the sunlight and two more Basilisks leap into the clear blue sky.
Malicos howls in rage. His lightsaber snaps to his hand, red blade bursting to life. Ventress's lightsabers ignite a second later as the Sith apprentices of past and present square off.
Tamri brings her saber to her shoulder and lights up her green blade. The time for talk is over. Now it is kill or be killed, fight or be forgotten, for the battle for the survival of Mandalore and the Mandalorian people is on.
All across Raxulon, on every holographic billboard and display, there is Count Dooku's face.
Today he stands before the Separatist Senate, the Confederacy reeling after unknown attacks on its border with Hutt Space paired with the Republic's successful march up the Rimma Trade Route. Dooku is here to remind the Confederacy that they are winning this war. To urge them on. To instill that same patriotism that drove the Separatists to breaking free from the Republic in the first place. To fight on under his guidance, his strength.
But he is just one man. Just a pretender. A Jedi playing at being a Sith. And Darth Maul is about to show all of Raxus and the entire Separatist Alliance just how small Count Dooku is.
"Savage, you see to the South Entrance. Ensure any fleeing Separatist senators do not make it far," Maul orders as the two Zabrak walk down a crowded merchant corridor. Hundreds of pedestrians shuffle all about them down this moneyed walkway, and all of them are too busy with their mundane lives to give more than a passing glance to the two hooded Sith. Just two men in black robes. Oddities, curiosities, but where in the Confederacy can one avoid such things? This cobbled-together mess of a polity, all of it united by the will of one man, one Sith. One usurper who stole away Maul's right.
"They will not get past me," Savage growls. "There are two Pyke teams set to be back there anyway. You'll be exposed on the north end, though."
It never fails to amuse Maul how Savage thinks of them as brothers more than as Sith. Maul's opinion of his brother has lightened since Sidious's death and the debacle on Mandalore, true, but not to that extent. They are still master and apprentice, even if Maul allows his apprentice a measure of freedom far beyond what Sidious allowed him. There is fraternity between them, yet still each most know their place. That is the way of the Sith. Ah, Savage. You have so much more to learn. And when Tyranus is gone and the Sith belongs to me and me alone, I will show you it all. "It is of no concern. I will not attack openly until I have killed Tyranus. After that it will not matter. The city will be in chaos. You and I will regroup, find a ship, and get off this world. The men will have to fare for themselves."
"I understand," Savage growls.
Maul turns to him. "Use caution," he says. "Tyranus is not alone here today. I have word that the cyborg, Grievous, is here as well. And Tyranus has more than one apprentice. One of them, a former Jedi named Tristess, is also here. If either or both of them cross your path, kill them. Do not hesitate; show no mercy."
"I will destroy them."
"Good. Then go, brother. Go, and let us be done with Count Dooku forever."
Savage nods. "Good luck, brother."
I do not need luck, Maul thinks as Savage stomps away through the crowds. I have the Dark Side. It is mine.
In ten minutes he is at the gates of the Separatist Parliamentary Building, a massive, towering semicircle installation covering more than a square kilometer in area. Massive silver spires jut up beside formidable marble statues of armored guardians bearing shields and lances. A whole company of battle droids, assisted by elite Nemoidian enforcers, stand watch outside of the building's welcome plaza, a sprawling park of stone and greenery and natural life designed to contrast the duracrete and metal that dominates the Republic Senate's environs. It is all mere scenery, in truth—the park, the towers, the guards. Just a background for Maul's ultimate triumph.
He knows better than to fight his way in, however. He waits patiently in a small queue outside the gates, and when he comes up to the ostiary, he does not pull out his lightsaber, does not even use the Force to trick his way in. He takes the subtle, smart way of entering the Separatist Senate: He presents a pass.
"Checks out," the gatekeeper nods. "Go on in, sir."
How easy things are when one doesn't lose their head. And when one has Black Sun stealing for them.
Down gilded hallways and through statue-lined foyers goes Maul. He passes two tour groups and three more security checks before he finally arrives at a gate through which no pass will grant access, deep in the bowels of the Parliamentary Building. Here he is directly below the Separatist Senate itself, with only the turbolift beyond a pair of guards preventing him from ascending fifty stories, entering the senatorial chamber, and killing Tyranus once and for all.
First he must deal with these two guards. "Sorry, sir," one of them says. "No entrance permitted beyond here. Secure area only."
"I am authorized," Maul murmurs, waving his finger before the man. He turns to the other, taps into the Force once more to dominate the man's mind, and adds, "I go where I please."
"You're clear," the first guard nods, his eyes unfocused. "Go on in. Go on now."
The second guard nods to his companion. "Yeah. After all, he goes where he pleases."
The turbolift is almost silent, so quiet that Maul has a moment to rest and close his eyes. One story. Two. Three, four, ten. So close now. Closer, closer. I am almost here, Tyranus. You have mere minutes before your reign over the Sith, and your life, are at an end.
A green wisp snakes behind Maul's closed eyelids. He does not see her, but he hears Mother Talzin as if she is in the turbolift with him: "Go, my son. All of Dathomir stands with you today. Go and have our revenge. Go, and kill them all."
The turbolift opens. Maul takes a deep breath. Before him a tunnel leads down to a golden light, beyond which lies the Separatist Senate itself. He can already hear Dooku's voice.
Maul walks forward. Destiny is at hand.
"Have we forgotten?" Dooku booms before hundreds of senators. "The Republic is not strong, my friends! For three years we have fought for our freedom, and for three years we have kept it! We are strong, and we know our enemy!"
You know nothing, old man. Your enemy is not the Republic. It is not even the Jedi. I am your enemy. Only me.
"We cannot give up the fight. We weep for the fate of Bimmisaari, mourn the loss of Sullust. But we have so much still to gain. The Confederacy of Independent Systems will not fall merely because of some unknown assailants and the Republic winning a few battles. We will endure. We will fight. We will not be thrown back into slavery, into the Republic's chains where we might find only darkness."
Only fools and cowards fear the darkness, Tyranus. You have never known it. I have always known it.
"So we must stand, brothers and sisters, members of the Separatist Alliance! We must stand for our worlds. For our people. For our very liberty itself, nothing less than our pride and our lives and our principles. We will throw the Republic back. We will have peace on our terms, so long as we stand. Stand with me. Stand together. And together, we will win this war. We will triumph!"
You will die. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Maul emerges from the tunnel as the Separatist Senate applauds Dooku. There he is, atop the raised position at the far end of the room, the south end. Rows and rows of politicians raising up on either side of the grand hall, crystal windows bathing the entire scene in light. How fitting. In his final moments, Tyranus will see that even the Dark Side itself has abandoned him, and that the light he rejected will claim him in death.
Only one senator spots Maul as he steps out into the light. A diminutive Bimm sitting nearby, his applause frozen, his mouth ajar as Maul lowers his hood. Then another senator spots Maul and freezes. Then another.
Maul shakes off his cloak. Someone screams.
From his position high above, Dooku looks down. And for a moment, a beautiful, satisfying moment, Maul sees the confusion on his face.
Look upon me and despair, pretender. Look upon the knife coming out of the darkness.
Maul draws his lightsaber. The eyes of the Separatist Senate have fallen upon him. Silence replaces the applause.
He ignites one red blade. Pauses—just a moment. Then he ignites the second.
Now, Darth Tyranus, your reign and your empire will end.
Tarkin is late for his own speech.
Mace Windu waits in the Chandrilan senatorial box alongside Saesee Tiin and Mon Mothma. Despite Senator Organa and Senator Amidala's protests, a number of the senators who had joined their walkout—a majority of them, Windu would estimate—have returned, emboldened by Tarkin's promise to renounce his custodianship of the Senate and immediately commence a vote on a new vice chair. Windu will not join him on the chancellor's podium for this. He hates that the Jedi had to be involved with the Senate at all, this mess of governing and arguing and gamesmanship and politicking. This is not the place for the Order. It is especially not the place for a man of action like him. But above all else he is sworn to defend the Republic and democracy by any means necessary, even if it means making a fool of himself during every senatorial session.
He is certainly glad that it seems that this mess is coming to an end, however. Assuming, of course, that Tarkin actually shows up to deliver his speech.
"Five minutes late already," Master Tiin grumbles. Other grumbling joins him from around the Senate. It's not quite a packed house, but at least three-quarters of the body is here. Far more than needed to finish an immediate vote on a new vice chair; they have quorum with room to spare.
"It is unusual," Senator Mothma notes, as serene and regal as ever. Yet Windu can feel an uneasiness about her, akin to the same uneasiness he felt when she and Senator Amidala were arguing about returning to the Senate. She is uncertain about this, even if she was willing to compromise. "Tarkin is punctual if nothing else. A military man through and through, if not a political one."
Windu looks over the edge of the senate box. Strange. Another box is missing its representative: Malastare. "Senator Aak's not here either."
"Aak?" Mothma says. "After all he did to land us in this trouble, he's absent now?"
"I don't like this," Windu says. "There's not even any announcements about the delay, or any statements from Tarkin or Amedda. We're just waiting and wondering."
Tiin nods. "If you don't mind, Master Windu, I think I'll have a look around. Something does feel off, I agree."
"Go ahead," Windu tells his fellow Jedi Council member. "I'll remain here with Senator Mothma in case Tarkin shows soon."
Once he is gone, Mothma shakes her head and sighs. "It's a shame it even came to this."
"What came to this?" says Windu.
"Everything. The Senate. Friendships built over years shattered by this division. Even the war itself. It's pounded democracy with a sledgehammer. We have fallen far. We're far from our ideals, as a Republic, as a galaxy. Fundamentally, the Republic is broken," she says. "Rim Worlds and Core Worlds at each other's throats. Worlds that have known only safety during this war battling with worlds that have been attacked again and again. We have so much to repair. The corruption during Chancellor Valorum's reign only grew worse during Palpatine's, boiling over into open conflict. I suppose if Tarkin is truly here to give up his power, then this is the start to rebuilding it all. But it will be a long road, an arduous process to return to functioning democracy. True power by the people, not by special interests and bureaucracy and, stars forbid, the military."
"Every road starts somewhere," Windu murmurs, eyes scanning the Senate. Nothing. Below he spots Tiin inspecting Malastare's box. "A single spark can ignite a fire."
"Not the imagery I was going for, given how destructive fires are."
It is then that the floor opens up and the chancellor's podium emerges. Windu crosses his arms over his chest. Time to see if Tarkin will make good on his promise.
But he squints, and he does not see Tarkin. In fact, there is no one on the podium at all. As the aperture beneath the podium closes and secures the chancellor's office below, Windu looks down at Tiin. His fellow Jedi Master shakes his head. Nothing. What is going on?
"I have a bad feeling about this," Windu murmurs.
"There's no one there," Mothma says as cries of indignation and confusion crop up around the Senate. "Where is Tarkin?"
Suddenly—movement. A metal sphere the size of a Toydarian lifts off from the podium and hovers in the air. Windu feels the Force shift.
Mace has always had a unique gift as a Jedi—the power to sense shatterpoints. Breaches in the Force, fault lines in time, space, and destiny. Tiny moments like singularities, where one move, one infinitesimal shift, can change events, lives, eras. One second and the galaxy. So many possibilities hanging on such moments. They come rarely and pass quickly, and so few Jedi can sense them. But Windu can.
And he senses one now. A fracture; a fault. Events are in motion. When Windu reaches out with the Force, he senses something else—the nature of that orb floating in the middle of them all.
It's all he can do to shout as loud as he can: "Bomb!"
Screams; shouts; panic. There is no time. Mace cannot evacuate this place. He throws all of his focus into the Force, pressing down from every angle in an attempt to crush the bomb, destroy it before it can detonate, render it harmless. Focus. Focus. Use the Force. Save these people.
But whoever designed the weapon took this very possibility into account. Some piece of the bomb relents under Windu's Force attack. One side dents and bends in. The metal heaves and breaks, letting loose the bomb's contents—
—that contact the air and explode.
The chain reaction overwhelms Windu's focus. The first aerosolized droplets of the bomb's payload erupt and channel into the rest of the munition. The metal warps momentarily as the cascading reaction bursts against the shell and is compressed for mere fractions of a second, the blast superheating within that growing starburst at the center of the Senate. Then the shell, already weakened by Mace's attack, breaks open. Windu's concentration is thrown back. The Force is no match for raw destruction, and the explosion roars out in every direction.
It is all Windu can do to throw himself between the blast and Mon Mothma. It is irrelevant. Neither will survive. A pointless gesture of heroism that history will never know as the explosion rips through the Senate, consuming senators, Jedi, democracy, all.
