Devastation reigns inside the Senate. Fires crackle atop torched, blackened bodies; walls turned to cinders, ceilings caving in from the aftermath of the bomb's heatwave. Anakin picks his way through the carnage without a second thought, not even bothering to check in on the progress of the survivor-seeking clone SAR teams. He will only get in their way, and besides, the destruction in here suggests that very few, if anyone, inside the Senate survived the bombing. Most importantly, however, Anakin isn't here for them. He isn't here for senators and he certainly isn't here in case the three Jedi Masters inside survived. No, he's headed down—down into the underground passages and hallways, down to the office of the supreme chancellor himself, in the vain hope that something down there survived. The hope that, in the former lair of Chancellor Palpatine himself, Anakin might find even one answer to all those questions that first sprung up on Sullust.
Remarkably little destruction mars the Senate's subterranean levels. The armored cowling beneath the supreme chancellor's podium in the Grand Convocation Chamber, designed to defend against assassination attempts, shunted the thermal blast into the surrounding promenades rather than down into the chancellor's office. The result is that while the interior of the Senate above is a ruin, these halls are untouched to the point that Anakin can instantly recognize the body lying prone in Palpatine's former office.
Mas Amedda. Dead. Either he was incompetent or, more likely, Padme's suspicions were wrong: He wasn't part of any sort of conspiracy or malevolent plan against the Republic. Just another dead politician in a building full of similar corpses. Anakin turns Amedda's body over with his foot and frowns. A blaster bolt to his gut. But not a killing blow, that—at least not an immediate death. Amedda would've had time to crawl away, summon help. But the gaping, cauterized wound running from chest to back is unmistakable. The work of a lightsaber.
Anakin kneels down and runs his hand over the fatal wound. Certainly not Dooku: Republic intelligence identified beyond doubt that the Dark Lord of the Sith was headed to Raxus. Moreover, Dooku would never risk himself so brazenly, even for an attack as momentous as bombing the Senate. One of his pawns? Perhaps. Yet something in the way how Tarkin was so quick to blame the Separatists for the bombing makes Anakin doubt they were involved at all.
If not them, then the possibilities grow grim. Either a Jedi-turned-terrorist killed Amedda—or the real perpetrators wanted everyone to believe that.
Anakin sits down in the chancellor's seat and brings up the display console. To his shock the private computer is still logged in, and the most recent access is less than two hours ago. Frowning, he searches through the computer's logs. Nothing informative. Nothing incriminating. Whoever was accessing this made sure to wipe any suspicious data. Not fools, these bombers; save for a deep scan by specialized droids that could take days, he won't find anything about the blast, or Amedda's killer, on here.
What he does find on the computer, however, are old security recordings. No use in identifying the terrorists, but potentially helpful in verifying what Dooku told him. One way or another, Anakin needs to learn if Palpatine—his mentor, his friend ever since childhood—was truly the Sith at the center of this great conflagration tearing the galaxy apart.
So many records. Hundreds, more than a thousand. A perfect way for Palpatine to examine and study the mannerisms and tics of anyone who came to speak with him, Anakin surmises. No other reason not to delete all of these old logs unless he was using them for intelligence. How many of these has Dooku seen? How many of these old records have footage of Padme?
His heart burns at that thought. Palpatine. Sidious. Was Padme just another interloper to him, then? Was he planning this very bombing, willing to kill her if it meant fulfilling the way of the Dark Side? All the times that Anakin had come so close, so very close, to telling Palpatine of his marriage—even just hinting at it. The Jedi would never understand such a thing, but the supreme chancellor? He had seemed trustworthy, always. Now all the old beliefs shred in Anakin's mind, coming apart like paper in water and dissolving into pulp. How had he ever trusted them? Any of them? Palpatine, Tarkin. The Jedi. Who hasn't kept him in the dark over all these years?
His search stops at a record dated over a year in the past, shortly after the action at Lola Sayu. Only two people in this footage: Palpatine and then-Captain Tarkin. Anakin opens the holorecord and looks on as the past plays out before him.
A pang aches in Anakin's chest as Palpatine—no, Sidious, if Dooku is right, call him for what he is—speaks: "I share your concerns, Captain Tarkin. The unaccountability of the Jedi Order does make them an odd fit as field commanders and fleet admirals…yet it is results, more so than accountability, that we seek now as the war intensifies. If the Jedi leading our forces results in triumphs over the Separatists, is changing course and alienating the Order truly in the Republic's best interests?"
"What is in the Republic's interest is control," Tarkin answers. "The fact, Chancellor, is that the Jedi act with impunity. They move with far too much freedom, and neither you nor I truly have a grasp on what they are planning. Perhaps they are simply guardians of the Republic. Or perhaps they have their own agendas, within the war and beyond it."
"No doubt. And I assure you that the thought of potential mutiny—or even simple rogue actors—arising from the Order has crossed my mind before. But surely not all the Jedi warrant your suspicion, Captain."
Tarkin pauses, steps out of the recording momentarily, then paces back in with his hands clasped behind his back. "No, not all," he says to Palpatine. "Escaping the Citadel…well, General Skywalker was not without his merits."
Anakin shakes his head. Better days, even in all the fighting. Days when he still trusted Tarkin. When he could tell Ahsoka that the Republic needed men like him and mean it. Foolish.
"I see," Palpatine tells Tarkin on the recording. "Indeed, I have taken a…certain fondness…to young Anakin Skywalker. Do not mistake him for any simple idealistic Jedi, not one as naïve and stubborn as the rest of them." Palpatine leans forward and clasps his hands. "It would delight me, most certainly, Captain, if you and he grew close. Worked together, as my trusted hands in the field. A military man and a Jedi, furthering the Republic and the pursuit of order. A union of forces. It is when we are all united in one cause, one drive, one structure, that we are most formidable."
"That seems to relate to my concern regarding accountability, Chancellor."
"Yes," says Palpatine, "it does. But the unaccountability of the Jedi is secondary, in truth, to the unaccountability of the Republic itself, Captain Tarkin. Rogue senators worry me more than rogue Jedi. And it is that unaccountability that we must one day confront. The Jedi, for all their power, will in the future be no more than one more piece to move into their correction position."
The recording ends. Anakin leans back as the holographic light dims and shuts off, his mind mush, his thoughts like wheels spinning in mud. Cryptic, Palpatine's words. Of course the old man would never allow blatant accusations and plans to survive onto record; no Sith Lord would be so foolish. But the way Palpatine contrasts Anakin and the Jedi, the division he plants when he speaks to Tarkin…it is the sort of barrier one would erect when trying to pit old allies against one another. Almost as if he had separate plans, one for men like Anakin and Tarkin, and one for institutions like the Order and the Senate. And only in struggle would those plans meet.
Anakin scrolls through more records, waving his finger over the computer's readout as his eyes scan past listings. Senators, bureaucrats, military leaders, corporate executives—Palpatine hosted them all here. Down the list, several months after the Tarkin recording, is another marked with the Grand Admiral's name—yet this recording contains an exchange between Palpatine and Amedda alone.
Again the holoemitter blurs to life, the past unfolding before Anakin and giving life to the now-lifeless Mas Amedda. "You trust him?" the former vice chair says to Palpatine in the record. "Tarkin is effective, no doubt. Worthy of promotion to the admiralty."
"If he is effective, then what issue would I have with him?" Palpatine questions the Chagrian.
"His loyalty. He is ambitious. He has already served as governor of Eriadu, so politics is not outside of his experience."
"That does not concern me."
"Military men have made the leap to political leadership many, many times throughout history, Chancellor. The ambitious have leapt from subordinate to ruler with a single army backing them."
Palpatine dismisses Amedda's concern. "If I thought as you did, Amedda, I would trust no one. Admiral Tarkin is effective. If he ever proves to be anything more, then I will give him what he deserves. That goes for anyone," the former chancellor says. He rises from his seat, his arms half-raised, his fingertips pressed together. "A time of change is upon us. The galaxy in upheaval, great forces at work to change all we have known. Defending the present is a fool's errand. Men like Admiral Tarkin will have their role to play in the times to come. Every piece will make its move. And at the end of it all—" Palpatine raises his chin— "I will still be standing atop everything. Worry not for the ambition of mere men, Amedda. Worry not at all. Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen."
Again the recording ends. Anakin balls a fist, presses it to his forehead, and closes his eyes. It is as he feared: He will not so easily find the answers he seeks. The recordings can show him every detail of Palpatine's professional life, the intricacies of a wily supreme chancellor leading a war-torn Republic, but they will offer no insights into the Sith. There is no convenient answer. No easy-to-follow path. No bright light shining through the darkness to illuminate the way forward.
No. It will not be easy. Anakin will have to make the call himself. He will have to decide on his own what is right and what is wrong—and what is necessary.
He sighs and leans back in the chancellor's chair. The facts are thus: The Senate is a wreck, Amedda is dead at the end of a lightsaber, Palpatine is missing, and Dooku claimed that Palpatine was Darth Sidious, Lord of the Sith. That is what Anakin has to work with. That is all he, the Jedi, and the surviving senators will get. That and Tarkin's declaration that he will seize the chancellorship. Temporary, he said in the announcement. But when has any grandiose measure like that truly been temporary?
The Republic is at a crisis point. The time to act is now. And Anakin knows more than anyone. He has to make the call.
He draws his lightsaber, eyes running over the polished metal. It has never let him down, not after countless missions over three years of war and more than a decade as a Jedi.
This once, this one important time, he will trust the Jedi again.
"Amedda? Dead? By a lightsaber?"
Master Stass Allie's exclamation shatters the shocked silence that claimed the Jedi Council chambers. Obi-Wan does not know what to say: Anakin's revelation of the former vice chair's death stuns him. Tarkin's greatest supporter. The man who, more than any other, has put the Republic into this perilous position. Yet someone saw fit to assassinate him, right alongside killing off most of the senators and three Jedi Masters. "Clearly he wasn't in anyone's long-term plans," Obi-Wan muses.
"This hardly seems the time for humor, Master Kenobi," Senator Chuchi murmurs. The Jedi Council is not alone in this session: Besides Anakin, several Order-allied senators have also packed the chamber on the day after the Senate bombing. Chuchi. Padme. Bail Organa. Halle Burtoni. The usual names that the Jedi have rallied around over the past several weeks. Only now their roster has shrunk: Mon Mothma is dead. Master Tiin and Master Kcaj. And the greatest causality of all, Master Windu. One of the strongest Jedi in recent memory, stolen away by a bomb of all things. The losses are mounting, blows coming faster and harder as the war progresses. Luminara. Master Fisto. Sae and Taron Malicos. One after another after another, to darkness or death.
"I am not making light of the situation, much as I'd like to be," Obi-Wan says to Chuchi. "Amedda was the primary force against naming a new chancellor. It's clear now that he was simply a tool."
"I saw a number of Chancellor Palpatine's personal recordings, Master," Anakin says. "In private, Amedda didn't seem to trust Tarkin fully."
Master Secura looks despondent, her eyes downcast and her voice low as she speaks: "The same Palpatine that Dooku told you was a Sith Lord."
"We shouldn't—" Master Kolar begins, eyes darting towards the senators.
Of course, Obi-Wan thinks. The senators don't know what Dooku told Anakin on Sullust. To them, Palpatine was but the chancellor. Yet all of them have their backs to the wall now in light of the bombing and Tarkin's seizure of power, and keeping secrets from allies is a luxury they can no longer afford.
Master Yoda, at least, seems to agree: "Passed, the time for secrets has, Master Kolar," the Grand Master says. "Laid bare, all knowledge must now be, if to weather this crisis, we are."
None of the senators speak for a moment. Padme's eyes flicker and weave between Obi-Wan, Yoda, and Anakin, her senatorial mask falling, her expressions shifting by the moment. Shock. Anger. Disbelief. "A Sith Lord?" she blurts out. Her gaze settles on Anakin and a shadow drifts across her face. "Dooku told you this?"
"He did," says Anakin, his tone flat, his eyes never looking Padme's way.
"That can't be," Bail Organa says. "Dooku was lying."
"He wasn't lying," Anakin says, turning on the Alderaanian senator.
"You have proof?"
Anakin looks away. "No. But I know he was telling me the truth. I felt it."
Obi-Wan can't ignore the look Padme shoots Anakin. Secret knowledge passed between them. Darkness in that glare. "For what it's worth, Palpatine's identity isn't the question here," he says quickly to stave off any of the other Jedi Masters noticing what he sees. "Whoever he was or may have been, the reality is that a lightsaber killed Amedda, while Tarkin claims to be supreme chancellor with one breath while blaming the Separatists for the attack with the next. Those are the facts."
"He was quick to blame the Separatists, wasn't he?" says Ki-Adi-Mundi. "But only the Separatists. The public knows nothing of the Sith; very, very few do. The lightsaber is our weapon to most of the galaxy. The tool of the Jedi. Had it gotten out that Amedda was killed with a lightsaber, the media might have pounced and blamed us."
"Maybe that's what someone wants," Anakin murmurs.
Yoda frowns. "To destroy the Senate and the Jedi in one move, planned, this attack may have," he says. "Remove any opposition to Tarkin's rule, that would."
"You can't be serious," says Chuchi. "You possibly think Tarkin might have had a hand in this?"
"A hand? Perhaps more than that," says Bail. "I always thought him Amedda's puppet. But perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps Tarkin saw his chance at power, and he removed Amedda when he was of no more use. Amedda and most of the Senate. So many obstacles gone in one swoop."
"Senator Aak was reported to have survived," Padme muses. "He was on Amedda and Tarkin's side from the beginning. What if Tarkin had help from the inside?"
Yoda grips his head. "To a dark place, these possibilities take us."
"We can't ignore that we have a self-proclaimed chancellor that the media is already bowing before, and one that was close with Palpatine," says Anakin, his tone threatening. "We're already in a dark place. We can't just negotiate our way out of this."
"No one's ignoring it," Obi-Wan cuts in quickly, raising a hand to keep Anakin at bay. His former apprentice roils in confusion. Anger. Uncertainty. As if he wants to lash out but doesn't know who to strike. It's a miracle that Obi-Wan even managed to convince Anakin to return to Coruscant rather than running off to Ziost like he wanted to, but ever since their argument before the lava runner, Anakin's temper has run hotter and hotter. It's because of that growing storm that Obi-Wan doesn't doubt for a moment what Anakin claims Dooku says to him. Especially not after what Dooku told him on Mandalore. It all lines up: Palpatine's death, Dooku's rise, and Palpatine's former subordinates—Tarkin. Amedda—grabbing at power with their former leader dead. If Obi-Wan's coalescing theory is correct, one night on Mandalore threw the entire galaxy into chaos. The picture grows clearer with each new revelation.
"The problem," Master Jaro Tapal adds, "is that as chancellor, Tarkin controls almost every apparatus that might keep him in check. The courts have been defanged for years. The Senate is mostly gone. The Judicial Forces and Sector Fleets have grown fanatically loyal to him ever since he was named Grand Admiral, and the clone army will unconditionally obey him as chancellor."
"That last part," Burtoni, speaking for the first time in this meeting, interjects, "is not necessarily true."
Obi-Wan arches his eyebrows. "Senator?"
The Kaminoan frets, closes her eyes, and clasps her hands in her lap. "Know that I am only telling you any of this because we are out of options. With one atrocity Tarkin has become a tyrant in all but name. The Separatists are still beating down our door. And we have no more room to run. If there is a time to lay everything on the table, it is now," she says. She takes a deep breath and continues: "There is a way to use the clones against him."
"That's not possible. They are sworn to the chancellor. To the Republic," Ki-Adi-Mundi says.
"It is possible, and I know it," Burtoni retorts, jabbing her finger at the Jedi Master. "The Contingency Orders. One hundred fifty of them, implanted in every clone from inception. When ordered, no trooper will disobey. And while I do not know all of the details of those orders, I do know that they include measures for…for dealing with a situation nearly identical to the one we face today. A situation where the supreme chancellor seizes more power than he was ever meant to wield. A situation where the chancellor must be removed, by force if necessary."
"If you don't know the details, how does that help us?" Master Secura says.
Burtoni scowls at her. "Kamino's prime minister, Lama Su, knows every Contingency Order to the last detail. I can arrange a meeting by holo and convince him of the gravity of the situation. I had originally planned to unseat Amedda by diplomatic means. In the end, if I have to unseat Tarkin by more forceful methods, so be it."
"Just out of curiosity," says Obi-Wan, "what does these…Contingency Orders…also include for the clones?"
Burtoni lifts her chin and regards Obi-Wan coolly. "Prime Minister Su will have what we need, Master Jedi," she says. "That is all."
"Listen, this isn't the time to argue about details. We're faced with an existential threat. The Republic is on the verge of ending, and we can't be picky about what few options we have," Padme intervenes. "Halle, you're sure this will help us? There's no other details you know that we should know?"
The Kaminoan senator shrugs. "There might be one complication."
"Let's hear it now. Better now than later," says Bail.
"As far as I know, most of the Contingency Orders can only be conveyed via a majority vote of the Senate or by proclamation of the Senate's Security Council. The former—"
"—has no chance of happening," Bail finishes, "and as for the latter, we don't even know if any members of the Security Council survived."
"One member did. At least one," Padme says. "Garm Bel Iblis commented to the media this morning. And the Security Council doesn't require quorum; as few as a single member can make announcements in the body's name."
Bail laughs dishearteningly. "Putting our faith in a Corellian senator, of all people. Some sense of humor the galaxy has," he says. "We'll have to win him over first. He's not one to bow down to authority at least. Something in our favor."
"Our best chance, this is," Yoda says. He points to Burtoni and adds, "A meeting with Minister Su, arrange. Know him, I do. Supervising on Kamino as well, Master Shaak Ti is. To an agreement, we will come."
"If it's for the sake of the Republic, he must listen," adds Master Mundi.
Burtoni shakes her head. "No, he won't. Not for the Republic's sake," she says. "But for Kamino's sake, he will do anything. And as far as I know, Tarkin has never favored the clones. If the war ended and Tarkin still reigned, I hate to think what that would mean for my people. Men like him have hated the influence we have had on the army over these last three years. If ousting the man means securing Kamino's prosperity and safety, Prime Minister Su will side with us."
"This is treason we're talking about," Anakin says. "Turning the clones against the supreme chancellor?"
"The self-appointed supreme chancellor," Padme says coldly.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan says, "we don't have any choice. Not any longer. This war has pushed us to the brink as it is, and now Tarkin seeks to stamp the boot of authoritarianism on the face of the Republic. We have no choice."
"I don't care about Tarkin. It's the soldiers I care about. We're talking about using the clone troopers as tools, and they have say in this. Obi-Wan, they're—"
"They are in this just as much as we are," Obi-Wan counters. "Search your feelings, Anakin. What is going to happen to them if Tarkin takes supreme power and never lets it go? What happens to the clones if Tarkin wins this war and declares them the next enemy? This is their fight for survival just as much as it is ours. This is the moment for us all. Them, us. Men like Rex and Fives to people like you and me. All of us."
Anakin does not answer, but he turns away, his face to the window and the Coruscant evening. He knows. They all know. This is not a situation they want to be in, because the moment they wield the clones against Tarkin, the Republic is well and truly gone. Anakin's outburst on Sullust—that democracy has died—will prove correct. Negotiation a failure; diplomacy a disaster. Only force of arms can make things right now.
Because of that, Obi-Wan knows the only possible outcome of what they are planning tonight: Civil war. It is that, or they all will fall in time. If Tarkin is bold enough to unilaterally seize ultimate power, if his people truly were behind the bombing, then he will be confident enough in time to remove any obstacle to his rule. The surviving senators. The Jedi. Anyone.
It is do or die.
"Agree to this action, I will not," says Master Yoda. "Not until agreed to it, has everyone in this room." The wizened old Jedi turns his eyes to Anakin. "Includes you that does, Skywalker."
Anakin looks to Yoda. To Padme. To Obi-Wan. "I agree with it," says Obi-Wan, "to save the Republic. To save the Jedi. To save the very freedom of the galaxy we have fought so hard for, bled for, died for—we have no other choice. Who is with me?"
"Aye," says Bail. "For the Republic."
"For the Republic," says Padme. "Aye."
"Aye," chimes in Master Mundi.
Aye. Aye. Aye. Around the room they go until only two voices remain. Anakin meets Obi-Wan's look one last time before he adds: "Aye."
Master Yoda bows his head. He, Obi-Wan knows, more than anyone here, more even than the senators, wants anything but the violence this course of action will unleash. It is a dagger to the Light, a wound in the Living Force that binds all beings. They plan strife. Scheme death. Chart the course of losses untold. But they have no choice if their way is to survive. The Separatists have already broken the galaxy in half. Tarkin will turn that remaining half against them if they do nothing. "Then," Master Yoda says gravely, "agree, I do. Aye."
"I will speak to Prime Minister Su," says Burtoni. "Padme, Bail—you see to Garm. Get the old Corellian on our side, because everything might depend on him."
"Leave that to me," says Bail. He looks around the room and bows his head. "Masters Jedi, on behalf of the Senate, for what of it remains. On behalf of the Republic, of democracy itself: Thank you for standing with us."
"Always," says Obi-Wan. "Always. To the end."
With each passing minute the situation grows worse on Mandalore.
Tamri throws herself into a blast crater as an artillery shell blows apart the terrain. She peeks over the edge to get a better view as the smoke settles. Tank fire scattering kaleidoscope-like; Basilisks peeling overhead, shooting, scattering from anti-air fire, shooting again. Mandalorians and partisans alike exchanging fire at point-blank range with droid infantry. Tamri can barely even tell who's who through the carnage. If this is what Bo-Katan meant by securing a decisive victory, it's going to come at a high price—if it comes at all.
Saw dives into the crater alongside her and raises his rifle over the lip. "Battle's getting heavy, Jedi," he says, lancing a shot at a nearby super battle droid. The automaton takes the blow, stumbles, finds its footing, and launches a wrist rocket at the pair of them. Saw and Tamri dip down just in time to avoid the blast.
"Have you seen Ventress?" Tamri says, peeking again and ducking as blaster fire comes in.
Saw shakes his head. "Last I saw, she and that Malicos were going at it. Lost them a while ago. Doesn't matter—we gotta take out that rocket infantry. They're giving the Basilisks hell up in the sky, and if we can't keep air superiority, we're done down here."
Tamri focuses. She pulls a downed battle droid's blaster to her hand with the Force, aims, and takes the leg off of the super battle droid stomping towards them. Another shot to the central processor shuts it down for good. All those grimy, crime-den missions with Sae at least taught her to shoot. At least something from all that messiness is coming in handy. "Well, come on then. I'd rather not die in a hole."
"I'm not planning on dying at all," says Saw.
He lofts a thermal detonator over the lip of the crater. It lands under an advancing AAT, rolls under its repulsorlift, and explodes beneath its vulnerable rear engine block. The tank erupts, showering the area in debris and shrapnel as Saw rises from the crater. "Come on, Jedi. Let's go!"
Tamri leaps over the crater lip, takes aim with her blaster at the first battle droid she sees, and fires. No time to watch her handiwork: She flourishes her lightsaber, knocks away an incoming bolt, and fires again. Move, block, deflect, fire. Keep moving. She and Saw weave through the chaos, friends and foe intermixed in the great morass of battle with lasers flying in from all directions. Ahead a trio of Separatist artillery tanks unleash arcing fire at a partisan position nearby, blowing it apart and sending Saw's people flying. A Basilisk roars overhead. Rocket-armed battle droids on the ground aim at the incoming Mandalorian flier and fire, missiles streaking out. The Mandalorian's skilled enough to evade one rocket, two, even three, but the fourth slams into the Basilisk's engine array and sends the war droid hurtling towards the ground, the old automaton howling one last cry of defiance as it slams into the burning sands in a geyser of flame and metal.
Saw aims at the first rocket droid and fires. The droid lets out an alarmed yelp as it topples, servos twitching. Defending super battle droids turn and unleash a hail of blaster fire. "That launcher!" Saw shouts as he dives for cover.
"Go! I'll draw fire," Tamri shouts.
The super battle droids turn on her. She raises her lightsaber, teeth gritted, jaw set. The Force is with me. Please, be with me.
She defends against one shot, two. More. The super battle droids are relentless. She dodges away, lightsaber flourishing, feet aflutter on the sand. Stay ahead of them. One droid, one shot, at a time. She bats away a blaster shot, ducks as a Mandalorian rocket veers far off course and swerves overhead, and sidesteps up to her nearest attacker, whirling, spinning, and slicing with her blade. She yells as a blaster shot misses her foot by an inch, twirling away and darting off. "Saw?"
"Take this, droids!"
The rebel leader, rocket launcher on his shoulder, unloads at a range so close he can't miss. His missile plows through a super battle droid before slamming into the pack of anti-air rocket droids, blowing them apart in a massive eruption. Seconds later two Basilisks zip overhead, pelting the artillery tanks with plasma fire and burning them down. "That's it! Go get 'em!" Saw roars, raising his fist. "Come on!"
A flash of red silences him. One of the Basilisks peels away; the other is not so fortunate. A turbolaser bolt from the heavens spears it, blowing the Mandalorian flier apart.
Tamri hits the ground and looks up. From high above, a Separatist destroyer descends. Part of the orbital fleet, she guesses, coming down to add its support to the starfighters. "Saw!"
"I see it," he shouts, landing prone beside her. "We can't go toe-to-toe with their fleet, not if they start sending more capital ships down. We gotta pull back."
"There's nowhere to pull back to," Tamri protests, aiming with her blaster and warding off a roving crab droid scampering around the flaming wreckage of the artillery tanks. "They'll just bombard us as we run."
"We don't have anything to fight a damn cruiser with, Jedi!"
Tamri bites her lip. "They're going to hit their own forces if we stay tight. We have to press the attack. Keep right in the droids' faces."
"I don't think they care too much about friendly fire right now, hate to tell you."
Saw's wrist comm buzzes, interrupting their impasse. "Bo?" he says into the comm. "Bo, they're dropping capital ships on us. We gotta scram."
"No," Bo-Katan orders. "No, Saw, stay in position. Stay right where you are."
"What? What are you—"
"Ursa's missiles are ready. We're going to swat that thing out of the sky, and then take the rest of the orbital fleet with it. Just stay alive for a few more seconds."
Saw growls and fires at onrushing battle droids. "This is crazy. I'm either ready to kill this Mandalorian, or I'm taking a liking to her."
Then the ground quakes. Tamri ducks her head, holds fast to her lightsaber and her blaster, and watches as several hundred meters away a tower rises from the ground. A building-sized warhead, a missile of massive proportion lifting off on wings of flame and liberation, booster jets kicking in and sending the javelin-shaped torpedo rocketing into the sky. A quartet of missiles follow it in short order, the whole opening salvo rising as one, weathering the small-arms fire sent up by battle droids, and arcing towards the Separatist destroyer above. The warship realizes the threat in time. Point-defense batteries send out a hail of red laser hail as the anti-shipping torpedoes race higher. There comes a burst of light, then another. Two missiles intercepted. Tamri grips her weapons, clenches her teeth. Come on.
Another burst of light, brighter, greater, orange, then red. A flare of green as shields snap. Then a light so bright it makes Tamri look way and cry out in pain as it blasts across the desert and the sky turns purple, an explosion of proportions so colossal echoing out that it shakes the very ground. When Tamri at last looks up again, the Separatist destroyer is coming apart, broken in two, the rear falling away, the nose dipping down in a flaming, smoking ruin towards the ground.
"Oh, they got him!" Tamri cheers.
More torpedoes rise from the ground and burn skyward, flaming lights ripping higher towards the Separatist fleet in orbit like fire-lit arrows let loose against the darkness. As the warheads fly, the War Maiden darts overhead, its main railgun ripping a hole in the Separatist armor lines, a trio of Basilisks close behind hitting any stragglers left standing.
All around Tamri, battle droids fall without a shot. Arcs of electricity spark over their bodies, systems shorting out, wires fried as the electromagnetic pulse from the massive explosion overhead turns them into so much scrap. The Separatist tanks, shielded against the EMP blast but now without any sort of infantry cover, ponderously turn about away from the Mandalorian and rebel lines and begin a hasty retreat. "Don't let 'em turn and run! Keep at it!" roars Saw, grabbing a rocket launcher from one of the sputtering battle droids, aiming it at the nearest AAT, and firing.
Across the battle line, the partisans and Mandalorians charge. Cries of rage and vengeance and liberation crescendo as soldiers leap onto retreating Separatist tanks, planting thermal detonators and jumping clear as the vehicles blow apart. Saw drops his rocket launcher, points to the missiles still arcing skyward as starbursts of light beam high overhead—one, another, another—and laughs. "Ha," he laughs, shaking his head, looking to Tamri, the rising warheads, his men. "Ha, ha, haha! I said it! I said we'd get 'em all! They couldn't have Onderon, they won't have Mandalore, and again, and again, and again, until we drive them back to whatever hole all these bastards came out of, and shove 'em so far down in it that they'll never see the light of day again! Ha-ha!"
Tamri, at last, lets out her breath. She throws her commandeered blaster aside, kneels down to the ground, and grips a fistful of sand as the droid tanks retreat and the Mandalorians and Saw's forces pursue, shouting, cheering, laughing. Above the sky glistens with so many new lights, missiles still streaking skyward towards whatever Seperatist cruisers might still remain up there. Victorious. She doesn't know where Ventress is, where Korkie is, who's made it and who hasn't. But she is alive, and she will keep on fighting as long as she can draw breath. She isn't so weak. She isn't alone. She can do this.
Keep moving forward. Sae told her that very advice so many times, and she's taking it to heart.
The smoke and screams disperse, and calm settles down upon Raxus.
The city is awash with security droids. Three Munificent frigates hang over savaged Raxulon in the wake of Maul's attack, dropships sending more and more droids to the surface with each passing minute to mop up stragglers and ensure order. Maul is nowhere to be seen; Grievous has returned empty-handed, vowing only to continue his hunt until the Zabrak Sith's body lies next to the corpse of his brother Savage. But the noise has died down; an uneasy, stirred hush settles over the capital, and up here in the battle-torn Separatist Senate, all is quiet.
More than two dozen senators dead down on the streets below. Several executives from the Corporate Alliance and Commerce Guilt, in Raxulon for a trade conference, also fell to Maul's terrorists. Yet here in the Senate there are no bodies, no blood, nothing but the still-life ruin of uprooted parliamentary seats and blackened lightsaber streaks marring the surroundings. Weak yellow light peers in through the shattered stained glass at the rear of the great hall, shards littering the floor. But no voices call out for help, and no one stirs save for Sae and Dooku as they overlook the shaken capital from seventy stories up.
They are quiet for a time as they overlook the destruction. Then it is Dooku, sullen, voice little more than a murmur, who speaks first: "He failed."
"Maul?" mutters Sae.
"Yes. That creature lurking in the shadows. He tried to assassinate me and he failed. He claims to be the Lord of the Sith, but he is nothing more than a pretender," muses Dooku. He turns to her, nods, and says, "You did well to kill Savage Oppress. Another failure. But you made up for your lacking on Sullust. I was right to place my trust in you."
Sae looks away. "I did what I had to."
"As we all do," Dooku says, his gaze returning to the city below. "The situation will require more of us all in the coming days and weeks."
"What situation? Raxus?"
Dooku purses his lips. "I have not received any word from Malicos, but his last report did not suggest that the rebellion on Mandalore was easing. We cannot allow any sentiment of rebelliousness or resistance to emerge after this attack, this bombing that will make us seem weak if we allow it. Our senators will cry out for action. They will demand to know why Maul and his forces were able to strike here at the heart of the Confederacy."
"And what do you tell them?"
"We need not tell them anything," says Dooku. "The Separatist Senate has played its part, but now that role is over. The Separatist Alliance was never meant to mirror the Republic. Democracy has had its day, and the sun has set on popular rule. It is inefficient. Inelegant. Chaotic, like nature, like the messy course of evolution that breeds a hundred failures for each success. What we need is order, for it is only order that will ensure no attack like this shall ever occur again. It is through order that we will trade weakness for strength, retreat for progress, and war for peace." He raises his chin, the light glinting off of his eyes. "As of this moment, I am disbanding the Separatist Senate. This will be the Confederacy still in name. We shall mark our words with the label of the Separatist Alliance. But in practice, we will be what we always deserved to be: The Sith. An empire from one end of the galaxy to the other. The Dark Side regnant as one. One ruler. One throne. One polity. There will be no separation from the Republic. There will be no negotiation. There will only be conquest and triumph. We will destroy every last one of our enemies, every world, every being. And in the end, we will erase Republic and Confederacy alike and rule through the Dark Side alone."
"They won't sit quietly and take that," Sae says. "The senators will make a fuss."
"Let them."
"Taking away any power they have will bring about the exact sort of rebellion you don't want," Sae presses. She knew, in a way, it would always come to this. The Dark Side calls for power. It tugs on your heart, draws you into its pattern with its entangling threads. She has felt the call itself. More. More. Do more. Take more. This, she imagines, is why the Sith have never succeeded for long throughout the thousands and thousands of years of galactic history. There is never enough. There is always a breaking point when things collapse, when the contentment shatters and anarchy is released. And Dooku is stepping right into the same trap that has ensnared every last Dark Lord of the Sith through time.
She shouldn't care. She doesn't care for him, truly. Perhaps she has let the Dark Side take hold of her, but Dooku is no more a leader than the Jedi Council was. Yet she feels compelled to speak her mind anyway, because if the Separatist Alliance and its bid for independence becomes the in-all-but-name Sith Empire and a bid for imperium, she knows the losses it will bring. The hurt she has felt ever since Tamri's death will multiply a million-fold across the galaxy in the battles this decision will bring. The uncompromising war between Light and Dark has only ever counted corpses. "If you keep the Senate, if you keep the pretense that the Confederacy is a war for freedom and not sheer power, this war will not be hard to win. Make it a war of conquest, and it's a fight to the death."
"Do you doubt me?" Dooku murmurs, glancing at her out of the corner of her eye.
"Not you," Sae says quickly, "but you're only one man. The Jedi taught me how small one person is."
Dooku smiles. "You are still scarred by your past. Your losses. I can feel that struggle in you now," he says. "You will overcome that weakness one day. You will be stronger than the caution you urge today. No, Sae. The Sith will not be content to share power. We will have it all. All of it."
Sae bows her head. All of it—or none of it. The war is a wildfire spreading out of control, burning hotter, consuming more with each day, each hour. And all she can do is try to keep herself and what very few people she cares about ahead of the flames. In that she has failed so far. Tamri, Master Gallia. But she has to keep trying while there's still anyone left to save. Even if that means bowing her head and saying what Dooku wants. Another day, another hour. Another step. Keep moving forward. She is still one woman, so small before it all. "Yes," she says, "My Lord."
