It is perhaps the most important negotiation of Padme's senatorial career, and she is far from the décor and glamor and ambiance of the Senate District. Here in the lower levels of Coruscant, amid the shadows and grime and pollution and crime, the fate of the Republic hangs like dust twirling in the light.
"When you said you wanted to speak, I wasn't expecting a safehouse," Padme's guest, Senator Garm Bel Iblis of Corellia, says. Not too long ago she was courting his vote to impeach Mas Amedda. Now she is beseeching his help to move the galaxy. The Senate and the position of vice chair seem so small in comparison. What a difference so little time makes.
"Given the circumstances and the…situation…we find ourselves in, it's a necessary precaution," says Bail Organa, a hood veiling his face, his body shrouded in his traveler's cloak. "If nothing else, Garm, thank you for meeting with us today."
The Corellian snorts and leans back in his seat, hands behind his head. Between the four of them in this dingy, poorly-lit safehouse—little more than two unadorned, steel-walled, steel-floored rooms with slitted windows and acrid air filtering in through the ceiling vents—Bel Iblis is the only one who fits in. In Padme's eye, he looks more at home here than he ever has in the Senate: Between his short-cropped beard, suspect eyes, brown-leather vest, and the blaster pistol worn openly on his hip, Bel Iblis looks more a smuggler or a gun for hire than a politician. "I've agreed to meet, Bail. That's all. Don't call a sabacc before you've even looked at your cards."
"Some might say that's the best time to call," murmurs Padme.
Bel Iblis grins. "I've a fondness for you, Amidala. You've got a gunslinger's spirit, even if you don't look the part," he says. "But enough with the small talk. You're not asking me here to waste time, not after what happened to the Senate. Whose place is this, by the way?"
"Mothma's," the fourth member of the meeting, Senator Burtoni, says. "She clearly has no use of it."
Bel Iblis scowls at the late Chandrilan senator's name. "Shouldn't speak ill of the dead—"
"Then don't," says Bail. "She fought as hard as any of us to restore normalcy to the Republic ever since Palpatine's disappearance."
"And look how that turned out."
"Bail, please," Padme urges, holding up her hand to keep him from escalating. "Listen, Garm: Mon and most of the Senate are gone. But if Tarkin gets his way and we all fall in line behind him, they will have died in vain. This isn't democracy. Letting one man pronounce himself supreme chancellor—dictator, more like—is the farthest thing from the Republic I can imagine. It's time we did something to put an end to this madness, to truly bring stability and popular rule back. We can't let the Republic's ideals fall without resistance. You stood by us when we sought to remove Mas Amedda from power. We're asking you to stand with us again in a far more perilous position."
Bel Iblis folds his arms over his chest. "That was then. What do I care now?"
"Pardon?"
"I told you before that I didn't care for anyone dictating who would or wouldn't be supreme chancellor. I don't care for Tarkin doing that either. But something tells me, based on this secrecy and this air of scheming—we're in a damn safehouse on Level 878, of all places, you'd have to go miles up just to see the sky—that your aims are angling dangerously close to Tarkin's."
"We are not tyrants, Garm. We're protecting the Republic. Democracy. Can't you see Tarkin's against that very principle?"
"He'd say the same of his opponents. Simply put, from where I sit, all of that democracy went up in flames with the Senate. We have to look out for our own now. And that means I have to look out for Corellia's interests, no matter what. You don't have to tell me that Tarkin's power-hungry. But you clearly want to sell me on something, so I'm telling you to prove that you're not mad for that same power. I won't support anyone—not Tarkin, not you—that puts my people in harm's way."
Padme looks to Bail. This was never going to be an easy sell, but both of them know the Corellian spirit in Garm Bel Iblis. The same fire that would never die before a would-be tyrant like Tarkin will also not waver just because they ask him politely. "I won't lie to you," Bail says. "What we'd ask of you will put Corellia in harm's way. But your world's already at risk. We all are. Tarkin will expect you to bend the knee; if you don't, he'll have no problem wiping you out. We have suspicion that he was the one behind the Senate bombing, after all."
Bel Iblis smirks. "You have proof?"
"No. But we have suspicion beyond belief. Amedda's dead, for one. Killed by a lightsaber. A ruse to implicate the Jedi, we suspect."
"That means nothing. Anyone can wield a lightsaber. Ruse or not."
"Moreover, none of his closest and most supportive senatorial allies were in the Senate at the time of the blast, save for Amedda, of course. Senator Aak most notably. And Tarkin was very, very quick to blame the Separatists for the attack, even before the building had been searched for survivors. Too quick, if you ask me."
"These are all suspicions. Don't get me wrong, I've considered similar things myself. But if you want me to through everything behind whatever your plan is just on suspicion alone—"
"We're not," murmurs Padme. "We're asking on faith."
Bel Iblis's lip twitches. "And what is that plan?"
"The three of us, along with senior members of the Jedi Order—" begins Burtoni.
"What do the Jedi have to do with this?"
"Let me finish and you'll find out," the Kaminoan hisses. "We conferred with Prime Minister Su of Kamino. We have a way of removing Tarkin from power with minimal disruption. As far as our intelligence knows, Tarkin's been seen in and around Military Center ever since the bombing. We plan to declare him illegitimate, a tyrant. And we will have him arrested. Tried. And punished."
Garm laughs. "You're lobbing accusation after accusation against him, and you think you can just arrest him?"
"Yes."
"With what army?"
"The clone army."
Bel Iblis leans forward. "What?"
"That's why we need your help," Burtoni says. "The majority vote of the Senate can issue a command to the clones declaring the supreme chancellor to be in violation of his position and responsibilities, and to issue an order for his arrest. That's obviously not possible, given what happened to the Senate. But the Senate Security Council can also issue that order. Riyo Chuchi did the real legwork here digging through the bombing victims; the rest of the Security Council's all recorded as dead in the blast."
"Except me," Bel Iblis mutters. He grits his teeth. "And so you want me to order an army against Tarkin, all based on your suspicion. Your faith, Amidala."
"For the survival of the Republic, yes," Padme says. "We can't let a tyrant go, Garm."
"What you plan is exactly what tyrants plan. You do want power."
"No, we don't," says Bail. "At the start of this war, you declared the Contemplanys Hermi provision, the right of the Corellian Sector to withdraw from Senate activities for an indeterminate amount of time, all based on your thought that the war was a misguided action."
"I did."
"Yet you came back. Rejoined Corellia with the Senate," says Bail. "Clearly you were thinking in Corellia's best interests. But I know what's truly beating in that heart of yours, Garm. I know what's inside every Corellian. You yearn for freedom. You look up at the stars and wonder what might be. That's why you hate tyranny. You hate the yoke forced on you from above, and that's why you're weighing your options. What if you didn't have to choose?"
Bel Iblis regards him warily. "What are you saying, Organa?"
"You want us to prove we're not tyrants? That we don't want control? Then here is my offer: Help us, not as a fellow senator or even a fellow member of the Republic. Help us as a friend. Help us, and once we've ridden ourselves of Tarkin and his menace, take Corellia independent. You'll have our support in doing so."
Burtoni's eyes bulge. "Bail—"
Padme cuts her off with a hand. He's off the script now, Bail Organa, but Padme trusts him. It's a bold offer, a ludicrous offer given Corellia's importance to the galaxy and its long and storied history. It's even a bit hypocritical given the war against the Separatists. It's not even in Bail's power to offer something as grandiose as independence, but truthfully, who better? No one is in charge now with Tarkin in their sights.
Yet she can see the resistance falling in Bel Iblis's eyes, and she knows Bail can hold them all together, even if it means letting some of them go. Maybe they do have a leader after all. "Garm?" she prods.
Bel Iblis jabs a finger at Bail. "You're giving me your word alone," he says. "The Republic's war machine far outpunches Corellia's. I'm trusting you don't stab me in the back."
"When has that ever concerned you? You'd fight the whole galaxy if it was that or servitude," says Bail. "And since when has Corellia ever operated on more than a promise, a wink, a few credits changing hands, and a man bold enough to fly off on that alone?"
"You can keep the credits and the wink. I want your honor and your word to issue it," Bel Iblis says. "You want me to change the galaxy. You're still fighting the Separatists, people who wanted to split just as you're promising my people now. Give me your word."
"You have it," says Bail. "The promise of me, of Alderaan, and all of us here. All of us who still live to represent our people and believe in a free galaxy. You have our promise: Help us in our hour of need, and then take your people and chart your course. Stand with us as an ally and know that if we succeed, Corellia will answer to no one. Not to the Republic. Not to a chancellor. None but your own voices."
"I'm with him. You have my word, for me and all of Naboo." says Padme.
Burtoni sighs. "And you have mine. The clones are my people's creation, Garm. That I'm willing to entrust them to your order should be enough."
Bel Iblis leans forward and presses his fingertips to his forehead. "I hope this succeeds, for your sakes and mine," he says. "If it fails…may the galaxy forgive me."
"There's a place for you here, you know. Even with Satine gone, you can stay. We need every good Mandalorian we can get, and even with this victory our resistance isn't over. The Separatist fleet's in ruins, but they have plenty of forces still on the ground, in Sundari, elsewhere across the planet. We could use you."
Korkie shakes his head. "I appreciate it, Aunt Bo, but no. It was my place. It will be again. But not right now."
A day has passed since the battle against Taron Malicos and his droid army concluded with so much wreckage strewn across the Mandalorian desert and a spreading debris field of the Separatist occupation fleet splayed across low orbit. Most of the Mandalorian forces, with Saw's rebels in tow, have since scattered to tackle other hot zones and put out fires set by the retreating droid army. Malicos—and Ventress—are nowhere to be seen. But the battle is won, and Tamri knows with momentum on their side, the Mandalorians under Bo-Katan's command aren't likely to let their home fall back under total Separatist rule. It's only a matter of time before Mandalore is free once more.
Korkie rejecting Bo's offer to bring him aboard her rebellion, however, pleases her most. "You can stay if you want," she tells him, offering it even though her mind screams otherwise. "It's your home, Korkie."
"I know. And my aunt's right; the world needs its people. But you and your team stood with us when we needed every fighter we could get," Korkie says, looking her in the eye. "A Mandalorian should return a favor given. I'll stick with you, Tamri. As long as you and Master Kenobi still need me, then I'll fight on your side. And when it's over, I'll come back here. That's a promise. To you—" he turns back to Bo-Katan— "and to you, Aunt Bo."
Bo-Katan nods. She hesitates, looking out over the night-cloaked dunes, the smoldering wreckage of the battle gleaming in the moonlight. "I understand. You do what you have to, Korkie. I wouldn't expect anything else. And you look after him, Jedi. You both look after each other," she says. "And Korkie—Satine would be proud of who you've become."
Korkie turns away wordlessly. Bo nods to Tamri, and without another word turns and leaves them in the night. So quickly they part. So do people enter one another's orbits, only to flit away back to the stars and the darkness that divides them. Yet for a time, a brief, blessed time, they know one another's light. The passing of spirits in the cosmic night, the glow of bodies amid that great deep. It's worth all that darkness to see such things like the look of pride on Korkie's face now.
"You okay?" Tamri says, her voice little more of a whisper. She reaches out to touch his arm, hesitates, loses her conviction, and pulls back.
"Fine," says Korkie. He motions towards the War Maiden, parked on the dunes a hundred meters away with the boarding ramp ajar. "Let's get going, then."
They don't get far. Saw Gerrera jogs up in the darkness, a blaster rifle dangling from a shoulder strap and banging against his armor. "Heard you were leaving," he says.
So much for the beautiful moment. "We are," says Tamri. "It's time we go. Bo and you will take Mandalore back. You can finish this fight."
"Of course we can win this. They're half-dead after that battle. It's a mop-up from here," Saw says. He opens his mouth, pauses, and holds out his hand. "Been an honor, Jedi. I'd fight with you anytime."
Tamri smiles and takes his hand. "You too, Saw."
"Another battlefield, another world. You take your path. Soon enough my people and I will take ours as well. Mandalore isn't our last stop, either," Saw says. "Maybe we'll fight again someday, once we've pushed these droids to the brink. It'll be a good day."
"I look forward to it," says Tamri. "Take care, Saw."
"And you, Jedi. Never stop fighting."
As they head down the hill towards the ship, Korkie says, "Are we headed back to Coruscant?"
"I don't know," says Tamri. "With the Separatist fleet blown up, I'm going to check in with Master Kenobi. Then we'll see."
"He didn't have any other things he wanted done besides coming out to Concordia?"
"None. But I guess we'll find out once I talk to him."
The familiar confines of the War Maiden are beginning to feel like home. The curved, high ceiling, the sloping walls, the blue and white lighting—a sort of serenity in this ship. Familiar faces. People Tamri trusts. With a real victory under her belt now—a real battle against a real foe—she can't help but smile.
But the feeling fades as she enters the dark, quiet comms room and tries to contact the Temple back on Coruscant. Waiting, waiting—it takes almost twenty minutes before she reaches one of the droid screeners that handle Jedi comms for the Temple, and another half-hour after that before Master Kenobi's visage blurs to life on the holoemitter. Tamri looks over her shoulder to ensure the door is locked before she bows her head. "Master."
"Tamri," Obi-Wan says. His face, his tone, his slumped shoulders—already Tamri has a bad feeling. "Longer than I thought before you'd check in. What happened on Concordia?"
Bit by bit Tamri fills in the details. The Republic Special Weapons Group base, the Killiks, meeting Bo-Katan and the Mandalorians, all of it up to the battle. Obi-Wan smiles at Bo-Katan's name, but little else draws out his warmth. As she winds down her tale, he interjects: "This Special Weapons Group—I know them well by now. You said Krennic's name came up, correct?"
"Yes. Who is he?"
Obi-Wan grimaces. "Not a friend. Coruscant is in turmoil right now. There's been an attack on the Senate."
"An attack?"
"I don't have time to explain the details, but don't come back here. Not while this is going on. Not while…other things are going on. Things I can't explain over a channel that may not be so secure," he says. "This news about Killiks is disturbing, to say the least, but you've done good work. I'll pass on your findings to the Council. I can't promise what's going to happen next, but all I can tell you is to stay in touch—frequently."
Tamri blinks. His tone frightens her. "What's going on?"
"I can't say. Not now," Obi-Wan says. "Please, believe me, Tamri. I would tell you if I could. But I don't know what's going to happen. Just know that…well, those who you think are friends may not be. Get out of Mandalorian space, away from danger. And keep your wits about you. Trust only in the Force."
Tamri swallows. "All right. I'm sure what to make of that," she says. She moves to bow and finish the conversation, but something holds her back. "Er, Master—"
"Yes?"
"Ventress, er…no one could find her after the battle. I saw her fighting Malicos, then I never saw her again. I don't know what happened to her."
Obi-Wan frowns. "That's a shame," he says. "She was an enemy for a long time, but there was another side to her. A better side. I hope she made it, even if the odds are against it."
"There's something else," Tamri says. She stumbles over her words, bites her tongue, afraid to say it. But she must: "Malicos…when we spoke, he mentioned something."
"What was it?"
"He…he said something about Sae," Tamri says. "Have you heard anything about her?"
Obi-Wan closes his eyes and lowers his head. "I have."
"Master, please," Tamri says quickly. "Malicos said—"
Obi-Wan holds up a hand. "I met Sae. Not long ago."
Tamri's breath leaves her throat. "Where?"
"On Sullust. In battle," says Obi-Wan. He takes a deep breath. "I don't know how to tell you this best. Dooku has her, Tamri. I'm sorry."
"Has her?" Tamri says, her voice tiny, her strength fleeing. "What—"
"She thinks you're dead. That pain has taken her. And she's fallen to the Dark Side because of it," Obi-Wan says. "I tried reasoning with her. I tried telling her the truth, but she wouldn't hear it. We fought. She is…far beyond the Light now. She is hurting beyond measure, and I don't even know if seeing you in the flesh would pull her back."
Tamri is silent. Her fingers flex and release, her heart seems to have stopped. "What?" she whispers.
"Tamri, listen—"
She switches off the feed before he can continue. Total darkness envelops the comms room, and Tamri slumps down onto the ground, hands cupped around her knees, head down. No, no. This can't be happening. Sae is alive. They can be together again. If only, if only…no.
Gone.
And she's responsible. Tamri. It's her fault. Sae's crying out for her, and it was her fault that any of this happened. She got into trouble on Mirial. She failed at the asteroid base. This all started with that.
She presses her hands to her eyes. Don't cry. Please don't cry. The others can't see you like this. You have to be confident. Brave.
Sae. Please, no.
She finds what little strength she has left and opens the door. Falco is standing not two meters outside, slumped against a wall. "'Bout time," he mutters. "Gotta give my report to Isard."
"Yeah, um. Yeah." Tamri mutters, stumbling aside as he pushes past her and locks the door. Isard. He seems so far away now. Like he doesn't even exist.
Like a dream. She walks through the halls of the ship mindlessly, unsure where she's going, head adrift, thoughts unmoored. You're supposed to be better than this. You're a Jedi. You're a leader. Get it together. But all she can think of is everything she could've done, every way she could've been better. They could've been together right now if only one thing had changed here, there. If she'd been a better Padawan.
Damn it.
Avea finds her first, down the hallway to the engine room. "Hey," she says, waving a datapad. "I was reading that Bothan's notes and—uh, you look like shit. You okay?"
"I'm fine," Tamri says, leaning her shoulder against the wall and looking away. "No, I'm not."
"All right. What happened?"
"Nothing," Tamri murmurs. "Nothing you'd get."
Avea frowns at her. "Fine. I'll leave you alone."
"No," Tamri says, straightening up. They're looking to you to lead them. Shape up. Act like a leader. She rubs her eyes, summons her strength, and says, "What did the Bothan's thing say?"
"The guy from the Concordia base. He had those notes on the other Tath installation, on Manaan," Avea says. She hands Tamri the datapad. "Have a look."
It's a roster of Manaan personnel in contact with the Concordia facility. And down the list, under the section laying out senior administrative personnel in the science division, she finds a familiar name: "Vigaro," Tamri murmurs, only half-paying attention as her thoughts swirl around Obi-Wan's revelation. "Sem Vigaro."
"My nephew," Avea says. "I've been looking too long, and I found him. He's on Manaan."
"What're you gonna do?" says Tamri.
Avea frets. "You helped me on Telos, and I helped out here," she says. "That makes us even, way I figure. I know you got bigger things to do, especially by that despondent look on your face, so I'm not going to ask that you drop everything to help me. All I'm asking is you drop me at the nearest major starport. I can find my own way to Manaan from there. Just one stop."
"We'll go," Tamri murmurs.
"Huh?"
"To Manaan. We'll go. We'll help. Master Kenobi said to stay away from Coruscant, anyway, and he didn't have any other orders. That and to let the Force guide me. Maybe it's the will of the Force we go. Or maybe I just don't know what else to do right now," Tamri mutters, words pouring out of her mouth on their own. She doesn't even know what she's saying, but it feels right. Say something.
Avea stares at her. "I…you sure you don't want to talk?"
"No. Yes. I don't know. I don't know what to do right now," says Tamri. Maybe it is the will of the Force: She can't help Sae now. She has no idea where to look, and even if she did, she heard Obi-Wan: Her master's so lost in her hurt that even her presence might not bring her back. She would try if she could, but she has no idea where to start. And without other orders, she's aimless. Coruscant sounds like a mess—an attack, whatever that entails—and Obi-Wan sounds unsure himself. All she knows is that she has this ship, these people. And if she can help them, well, that's a start. Maybe that's the will of the Force: To help where she can, in every little way, from fighting for Mandalore's freedom to something as small and personal as helping a friend find her family. She'd certainly want the same if she knew how to get to Sae. "You can tell Neelotas to set coordinates. I just need some time alone."
Avea is quiet for a moment before she nods. "All right. Thanks. Tamri. And, uh…I'll tell the others to leave you be."
Once Avea is gone, Tamri slips into the dusky engine room, slumps down next to the churning reactor with all of its blinking green and red lights, and lays her face in her hands. Back before that disaster at Mirial, Sae had told her they'd go far away once their mission was over. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere nice. That won't happen now, and now all Tamri wants is to get lost in a place as far, far away from Sae, the Jedi, and the war as she can. That same hurt that must have consumed her master now threatens her as well. Was this what it felt like when Sae thought Tamri had died at the pirate nest? This sense of dread, of helplessness? Of wondering what you could've done? Of wondering why you didn't do any of it?
She can fight battles. Charge into danger with Saw Gerrera of all people. Brave the blaster fire of whole armies. But she can't turn back time to save the person she cared—cares—about most. She has always known she isn't strong, but now, now she finally realizes just how little she can control.
She clenches her fist. No more. You can't undo that, but you can be better from here on out. You can't quit now, not while you have people you still care for, people you can protect. Don't lose another. Don't stop fighting. Never stop fighting.
Ahsoka slips through the halls of the Senate Executive Building like a phantom. It is sunset out there, the gleaming light just touching down at the horizon, the picturesque vista of the Senate District aglow in a bath of gold. One last beautiful moment for Coruscant. Gleaming towers. Airspeeders like ants crawling alone the rush hour skylanes. And in here, these halls where so many senators once went about their duties but now ruled by ghosts and echoes, the galaxy itself turns and contorts. History in the works. One era ending, another beginning.
"No word from Master Secura and Master Mundi. All seems quiet," Obi-Wan murmurs behind her. Both are clad in the trademark brown robes of the Jedi, hoods veiling their faces, lightsabers dangling from belts. Prepared. Ready. "You seem on edge."
"Of course I'm on edge, Master," Ahsoka says, peeking around the corner to ensure they are alone. No guards. No opponents. Still safe. "Why isn't Anakin here?"
"He's going to be with the clones," says Obi-Wan. "In truth, I'm glad he's there and not here."
"Why?"
Obi-Wan shakes his head. "Later I'll tell you in full. But he needs to be in the thick of things right now. In action. In the fire. Better not to bother him with the quiet work. Frankly, I'm just glad he came back to Coruscant at all."
"What?"
"Ah, nothing. Don't mind me."
"If you say so," Ahsoka says, shrugging. "Is Senator Amidala ready?"
"With the others, yes. I got her message two minutes ago," says Obi-Wan.
"A lot of work for one speech. Why can't we just contact the Kaminoans and have them send the message to the clones?"
"Apparently, Prime Minister Su's too worried that Tarkin might be tapping Kamino's outbound comms. It won't matter. There should be little security around Palpatine's former office, and he has a comm line that broadcast to every clone unit. We shouldn't need that much coverage, but no reason to take risks. We get in, Bel Iblis gives his order, and that's that. With any luck, an hour from now and Tarkin and this whole mess will be over," says Obi-Wan. "Coast is clear. Let's go."
Ahsoka scampers ahead, eyes watching for any sentries. She's not naïve enough to believe that there aren't cameras watching their every move. No doubt Tarkin, if he really did orchestrate the bombing, has this whole place tapped, watching for just the sort of sedition that a handful of senators and a whole squadron of Jedi are enacting tonight. But it is like Obi-Wan said: By the time he can do anything about it, the clones will be battering down his door over at the Republic Center for Military Operations, and the Republic itself will be back in safe hands. Tyranny averted.
"Hold up," she says as they reach another hallway intersection. Up and up in the Executive Building; Palpatine's office is on the highest floor. "Guards."
"Clones?"
"No, Senate Guards. Probably Tarkin's," Ahsoka says.
"I'll handle them. Continue on towards the chancellor's office," murmurs Obi-Wan, heading out into the hallway.
The long way, then. Ahsoka creeps around the hallway, overhearing Obi-Wan's mind-tricking. "You want to go home," he tells the four Senate Guards.
"Oh. Yeah," one of them says. "We do want to go home."
"You want to rethink your lives."
Leaving Obi-Wan to rearrange the Senate Guards' fortunes, Ahsoka opens a locked turbolift with a push of the Force, climbs in, and scampers up, using the internal wiring like a climbing rope. She waves open the door three floors up, peeks out into an empty hallway, and clambers out, hand brushing her lightsaber hilt. Steady. No one dies today if everything goes right. Tarkin in custody—alive—and his soldiers standing down in the face of the clones. Safe and sound. The Republic restored in one bloodless evening.
It still baffles her that it's come to this. Sneaking around in the Executive Building, operating clandestinely against her own side. The Jedi and so much of the military command at odds. The Senate torn apart. What a disaster. But they can avert an even greater disaster tonight if they can only pull the senators' plan off.
She stops close to Palpatine's old office, crouching down, her breath coming quiet and slow. Two Senate Guards. Handle it quietly. Bloodlessly.
"Evening, boys," she says, sauntering out of cover. "What's new?"
The two sentries whirl, force pikes at the ready. "What're you doing here?"
"Just the shift change," says Ahsoka. She waves her hand at one, then the other, tapping into the Force as she adds, "You should get out of here. It's not safe."
"Uh," says one of the sentries, "we're on duty. And it's not safe."
"Yes, it isn't. You wouldn't want to be discovered with weapons on you," Ahsoka says, waving her hand again. "You should give me those pikes. Then you should leave the building, head home, and get some sleep. You deserve it."
One of the guards looks to the other, shrugs, and says, "We deserve some sleep."
"Can't very well sleep with weapons," the other adds, holding out his force pike to Ahsoka.
She smiles. Oh, the perks of being a Jedi. "Thank you," she says, taking the vibroblades from them. "Maybe get a drink while you're at it."
"I could use a drink," says one of the mind-tricked men.
"Yeah. We deserve it."
Once they're gone, Ahsoka tries the door. Locked. Damn. She looks to the wall terminal and scoffs. Computer security. Would've been hard, once. Not now. She unplugs the slicer cable from her mechanical left hand, plugs it into the terminal, and waits. A few seconds. A few more. A few more on top of that, just to make her uneasy. Then the door lock releases with a click.
All too easy.
She throws the doors open with a wave of her hand and walks unmolested into the former executive office of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine. The Chancellor's suite, where so many heads of state and senators and important people whose names and titles Ahsoka is clueless of once met with Palpatine. Now quiet. Airy. Alone.
Cushioned benches line the suite's foyer, a reception desk just beyond to halt visitors before proceeding further inside. Ahsoka moves through them, eyes wide: She has never had the chance to look so deeply, so thoroughly, at the very height of galactic power, and yet tonight she is part of history—one way or another. Watch. Remember.
Beyond the foyer, a pair of blast doors open to reveal the chamber of office. A round, red-walled room, it circles about the centerpiece: Palpatine's public desk, his chair and terminal that connect to all official functions. Several greeting chairs line in a semicircle around the front of the desk for visiting dignitaries; in the middle sits a holoemitter for long-range data transmission and reception. Behind the desk rise two massive bronzium statues of figures Ahsoka cannot recognize. Ominous, she thinks. When she looks up at them, she feels a chill. Cold. Dark. Something not right about those statues, this room. The kind of place where a villain might lurk.
But she cannot think about this tonight. Palpatine's public terminal will do; she need not case the place rooting out the former chancellor's every last secret, much as she might want to. She swivels her head at the sound of movement beyond the blast doors, reaching for her lightsaber.
Then the doors open, and Master Mundi walks in. "Ah. Padawan," he says. "I had thought Master Kenobi would have been here first."
"He went to deal with guards," Ahsoka says, relief washing away the nerves. "We're clear in here."
"Well done. I see Skywalker has trained you well. Master Kenobi was right to put his faith in you," Master Mundi says. Ahsoka holds back a pang of resentment. As if it was all Anakin's teachings. He's not even here. Yes, he's taught her plenty about sneaking about, but she's done her work, as well. But far be it for the Jedi Council—and a man like Ki-Adi-Mundi, especially—to recognize a Padawan when they can instead look up the hierarchy and find other, older names to laud.
Master Secura and Master Agen Kolar are close behind, and with them comes the senators. Padme smiles when she sees Ahsoka. "It's good to see you, Ahsoka," she says.
"You too, senator," Ahsoka says. "No problems."
"Good. Hopefully none to come."
Three other senators follow in behind her. Two Ahsoka recognize—Halle Burtoni of Kamino and Bail Organa of Alderaan, the latter seemingly always around Padme. The fourth she does not know, but Master Kenobi has already spoken his name once tonight—the one most important to this whole scheme, Garm Bel Iblis of Corellia. A tough, stringy man, with the face of a fighter and the leathery skin of someone who's seen his share of action. Not the typical doughy senator, this man.
"Still don't see why we couldn't use the Kaminoan comms if they have a link to the clones," Bel Iblis grouses.
Burtoni scoffs. "Men like Tarkin despise Kamino's control over the cloning process. He likely has all comms from our world tapped."
"And you don't think he has comms from Palpatine's office tapped?"
"We already looked into that. We're clear," says Master Secura. "Senator Amidala? Can your droid get the terminal working?"
"He can," says Padme, ushering in the last member of the procession—R2-D2. "R2, see to the chancellor's terminal. Get it online."
The astromech chirps, waddles up the stares, and beeps a greeting to Ahsoka. "Good to see you too," Ahsoka says with a smile. "Don't let me get in your way."
R2 wheels up to the terminal and jacks in with his scomp link. A minute later and the terminal lights up with activity, R2 chirping out in success. "Good," Master Secura says, sliding before the desk and waving her finger over the screen. "Give me a minute to access the comms network."
Obi-Wan jogs into the chamber as Master Secura works. "Sorry I'm late," he says. "Guards were growing thicker out there."
"Are we clear?" says Bail.
"We are. I've taken care of them, and Master Vos and Master Billaba are leading a few others astray," says Obi-Wan. He looks up to Ahsoka and nods. "Good work getting in here."
"Never a doubt about it," she says.
Master Secura taps the terminal. "I'm in. General broadcast feed to the clone army. Every officer of note," she says, looking up. "Senators?"
"Hold on," interrupts Obi-Wan. "If that order goes out to everyone across the galaxy, we could be facing mutinies on warships, chaos across the battlefront. Can you focus the broadcast, Aayla?"
"I can," she says. "Where, specifically?"
"If we're chasing Tarkin specifically, then we need only target a group of clones on Coruscant near Military Center," says Master Mundi. "Perhaps a broadcast to the nearby clone barracks alone will suffice?"
Master Secura nods. "I'll spread the broadcast to ground-side barracks in the Senate and Federal Districts. That will ensure none of our ships in orbit get the message, but all troops in the area Tarkin could try and escape to will heed our command."
"That should be good," says Obi-Wan. He looks to Padme, raises his eyebrows, and says, "Senators?"
"Garm?" Padme asks.
Bel Iblis sighs and looks to Bail. "Your word, Organa."
"My word, Garm," Bail replies.
The Corellian closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and walks up to the terminal. He looks at it glassy-eyed for a moment, shakes his head, and says, "I just…speak into here?"
"You do," says Master Secura.
"Take your time," adds Obi-Wan. "We're with you tonight, Senator."
"For every last son and daughter," Bel Iblis murmurs, closing his eyes.
Ahsoka watches from the side. History in progress. The Republic teetering on one speech. Garm Bel Iblis clears his throat, taps the communicator, and announces to the designated clones, "I address this to the Grand Army of the Republic, on behalf of the Republic Senate. This is Senator Garm Bel Iblis of Corellia, last surviving member of the Senate Security Council. Each and every one of you soldiers listening has sworn an oath to the preservation of the Republic, an oath of loyalty, an oath that until death you shall fight for the cause of liberty, for the free people of the galaxy. I call upon you to heed that oath tonight."
"Grand Admiral Wilhuff Tarkin has proclaimed himself Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, and all titles and responsibilities that office entails," Bel Iblis goes on. "But he has taken the office without a vote, without popular support, without the blessing of the Republic people. He is unfit for duty and to issue orders. Moreover, he is a tyrant, a usurper, and an illegitimate ruler. He represents the very evil we fight against, the tyranny that will lead us all into chains. I call upon you to throw down this would-be autocrat. To remove the man who claims the right to leadership and restore democracy to its rightful throne. I call upon you, soldiers, to stand with us—not as mere clones, but as soldiers of the galaxy. Protectors of righteousness. Defenders of those who cannot defend themselves."
"I call upon you to do what is right tonight. To do your duty, and remove the man who claims to be supreme chancellor," Bel Iblis says. He closes his eyes again and takes another deep breath.
This, Ahsoka thinks, is it. The moment everything changes. The moment before which the galaxy itself shall quake. And despite her excitement, some part of her knows this is wrong. Rex. Fives. The other clones. She has known them so long to know they are far more than just clones. Far more than soldiers. They are men, friends, comrades. But now they are being used as tools—tools in the defense of the Republic, just as they are on the battlefield, but tools nonetheless. Yet what choice do they have?
It is this or nothing. Do or die.
Bel Iblis opens his eyes and looks around the room. "And so I give the order tonight, to arrest Chancellor Tarkin and end his rule," he finishes. "Execute Order 65."
"You keep saying these mad things, Jesse. You're out of your damn mind. General Windu was twice the fighter General Mundi is."
Rex shakes his head. "Fives, give it up. Show some respect for the dead."
"I am showing respect, sir," Fives says. "I've got so much respect for General Mundi that I'm doing General Windu a solid by praising him so. May he rest in peace."
"What you've done is abuse the allowance for Atzerrian ale. You're going to end up drunk if you keep at it."
"Well, no offense, sir, but it'd take quite a few more drinks for that. I'm just warming up," says Fives.
Rex sighs. Downtime at the barracks so often leads to boredom when his men have little to do besides training and mundane maintenance. The battlefront, that's where they belong. In the thick of it, General Skywalker and General Kenobi alongside them. Instead Fives and Jesse took to going drink-for-drink in the mess, and it's up to Rex to listen to the two veteran clones banter in what will no doubt by a lively—and probably ruckus-filled—evening. "Just keep it somewhat civil, got it?" Rex says. "Have your fun, but I'm not doing any paperwork or giving explanations."
"Ah, see, Rex? Gotta let loose when you're on shore leave."
"This isn't exactly shore leave. We're in the barracks."
"I'll keep watch on 'em, Captain," Kix, seated nearby, says. "Best I can."
"Thanks, Kix, but I'm afraid that's more than a one-man job."
Jesse laughs from an adjacent table. "Why don't you chime in, Rex? One battle against whoever, who're you taking—General Mundi or General Windu?"
"Give me General Skywalker and call it a day. Might even get done early."
"That wasn't the choice, Captain."
Rex shakes his head and grins. He should really put the men to work, but Fives has a point: They do need some time to blow off steam. Better here under his eye than out and about on Coruscant's streets. Still, better leave them to it—and whatever supervision Kix can muster. He's about to leave when his wrist commlink lights up. "What now?" he mutters. Then he sees the transmitter and his eyes widen. "Hold on. Fives, Jesse, Kix. Get over here."
"What?" Fives says. "Stayin' after all, sir?"
"Quiet. Just listen. It's an all-hands transmission. Senate frequency."
"Senate?" Kix says. "How, after what happened?"
"I don't know. Just listen. I'm playing it."
The holographic form of a stringy man in a vest blurs to life above Rex's wrist. "I address this to the Grand Army of the Republic," he begins.
Rex's eyes narrow as the transmission goes on. Indictment after indictment. Pleas for loyalty, for allegiance. Fives and others say not a word. And then the end: "…arrest Chancellor Tarkin and end his rule. Execute Order 65."
Rex looks up. Fives looks up. Jesse looks up. Kix looks up. The former mirth and brotherhood is gone. They say not a word. None need be said.
The armory first. Rex grabs his blaster pistols as the others pull rifles from the wall mounts. Other members of the 501st are already there, suiting up, equipping weapons. Helmets on. Rex looks back to his soldiers as they file in behind him, wordless, robotic. Their target is clear. Their orders are clear. Arrest the chancellor. Execute Order 65.
It is a short march in formation from the clone barracks to the Republic Center for Military Operations. The 501st fans out across the plaza, hundreds of blue-emblazed clone soldiers marching in total silence save for their breaths and the stomping of their boots. More soldiers file in with the formation—Commander Cody's 212th Attack Battalion banded with gold, Commander Bly's yellow-emblazed 327th Star Corps—and together they march forward as one, one spear, one weapon pointed at their enemy.
An airspeeder drops down before the formation, and Rex holds up his fist. They stop as one. No order needed. Rex cocks his head mechanically as a single individual steps out before them, swathed in a black cloak. The figure turns towards him, and Rex knows who he is following into his orders. His answer to Jesse in the barracks was the right answer.
Anakin Skywalker looks him in the eye, pulls his black hood over his head, raises his lightsaber high, and ignites the blue blade.
The soldiers call out in unison, a bass-drum beat: Ooh. General Skywalker lowers his blade and marches ahead, Rex and the clones right in cadence, their armored feet clicking against the duracrete as the ziggurat of Military Center rises before them, its great form obscuring the last light of the setting sun.
Outlying sentries—Judicial Forces men, grey uniforms, blaster rifles lazy—spot Anakin and the clones as they march up the causeway. Rex eyes as them as they confer, point to the onrushing formation, and then jog out to General Skywalker. "Hold up!" one of them shouts, raising his hand. "What's this meaning of this?" When he receives no answer, he levels his gun. "Stop! No further. Stop right there, in the name of Chancellor Tarkin! Stop and submit to arrest, or we will open fire!"
General Skywalker does not respond. Instead he whips his lightsaber to the side before slicing, decapitating the first sentry. Orders are orders: Rex levels his pistols and shoots the second guard before they can react. Beside him, Fives and Jesse lower their rifles and cut into the first Judicial Forces troops that look their way.
"We're under attack!" one of the fleeing sentries screams. "All stations alert, we are under attack!"
Quickly he is silenced. And they are firing, fighting, clones as one, blaster shots pouring like a great wave at the fortifications of Military Center as grey-armored troops pour out of the base and white-armored troops charge. Ahead of them all flashes a blue lightsaber and a knight clad all in black.
A cargo gunship drops down beside the attacking formation and dumps an AT-TE walker teamed by clones. Deep inside the perimeter of the ziggurat a juggernaut comes to life, and the two armored vehicles open up on each other, shots glancing off of their plating. Rex fires, hits an enemy soldier—enemy, enemy—and looks up as a rumbling like thunder sounds out. A spearhead-shaped jumpship takes off from the landing pads, engine billowing black smoke as it climbs into the last light of day. "Tarkin!" bellows General Skywalker. He points to Rex. "He's on that ship, I know it. Shoot him down."
Rex motions to the AT-TE and points to the ascending jumpship: "Blast him!"
The walker fires once; misses. Then the juggernaut levels its main laser cannon and strikes the AT-TE squarely in the cockpit, splitting it in two as the upper cowling blows off of the leg armature.
They are fighting, fighting. Clones and Jedi. Rex and General Skywalker. Wordless, energy in motion, death at hand. Fight. Fight. And the jumpship climbs into the sky, beyond their range and beyond their reach.
In Coruscant orbit aboard the Banner of the Resolute, Jan Dodonna receives no word of the plans ensuing groundside—not until an urgent transmission from General Anakin Skywalker blurs to life on the bridge: "Admiral? Admiral Dodonna?"
"Skywalker?" Dodonna says. "What is it?"
"There's a ship jumping from the surface," Skywalker, veiled beneath a hood, commands. "It's carrying Tarkin. Shoot it down."
"Tarkin? What?" Dodonna says. "The chancellor?"
"Shoot it down, Admiral. That's an order. That's an order from the Senate."
Blaster shots fly by Skywalker's hologram, and then it ends. The bridge officers look to Dodonna in the following silence, uncomfortable tension, billowing vacuum. "Sir?"
Dodonna takes a deep breath. An order from the Senate. An order from Skywalker. All against the self-proclaimed Chancellor Tarkin. Where do his loyalties lie?
This is what it comes to, eh? Rebellion against something. Well, maybe he was always meant to be a rebel. "Find that ship. Find Chancellor Tarkin," he says. "Find it and shoot it when you have it. We're riding with Skywalker."
"What ship, sir?" one of his flight lieutenants says. "There's a thousand ships taking off from the surface. How do we—"
He's cut short as a turbolaser blast from a nearby dreadnought slams into the shields. "What?"
"They're firing on us, Admiral!"
"I can see that, fire back!"
All across Coruscant orbit, a hail of capital ship fire erupts. Ship against ship, so many so close that point-defense guns unleash and rail against one another. "What's that ship that fired first?" Dodonna demands as he looks out at the unfolding scene. "Someone give me some data."
"It's an old Judicial Forces dreadnought, sir," his clone lieutenant commander says. "You want designation?"
"No, shoot it down. Protect our fleet—anything that shoots at our boys, kill them first," Dodonna commands. So Skywalker was right. Tarkin's people turning on them now. He could join them as an old Judicial Forces man himself, but he's worked too closely with the Jedi now, and he trusts the Order. Skywalker especially after Sullust and Ziost: If he's with the Senate, then Dodonna is with him, one way or another. There is no time to weigh options in the thick of an unexpected firefight. Only shoot, reload, shoot again.
"New target, coming out of hyperspace close!"
"On the holo," Dodonna says.
A colossal warship erupts into sublight, a round core behind three fore-mounted prongs, all black steel like space and midnight, the whole contraption more than twice as long as a star destroyer. "What the hell is that?" Dodonna says.
"Sir? Something's headed for the new contact. A jumpship from groundside, full burn—no IFF tone, not responding to hails."
Dodonna squints and scowls. Time to make a decision. Right or wrong, he has to make it. Believe Skywalker or not? Well, he's already made that decision. "Down it," he says. "If it's not responding, down it. What's our nearest warship still responding and in range of that ship?"
"Frigate Capstone Struck, bearing down on it now, Admiral. Their captain's responding green."
"Tell him to open fire, all batteries!"
Dodonna grits his teeth and watches on the monitor as the humble Arquitens-class frigate closes in on the jumpship. Tarkin, is it? Chancellor Tarkin. Dodonna wasn't a fan anyway. Skywalker had better back him up after this, if they survive the impromptu battle erupting all around them, Judicial Forces warships trading fire with vessels of the Open Circle Fleet and the orbital defense stations. Just as the frigate nears the jumpship and fires its first turbolaser blast—a miss—the flight lieutenant hollers again: "Sir, new contact's charging up some sort of giant energy buildup on those front prongs."
"Tell Capstone to break off," Dodonna orders. "Break off, now."
Too late. The frigate bears down on the jumpship just as it nears the new contact. The massive, pronged, unknown vessel aims its prow at the frigate and unleashes a golden energy lance, slamming into the frigate and splitting it in two.
"Admiral Dodonna?" the comm blares. "It's Captain Pellaeon—I saw that shot. I'm movin' in on the target!"
"Negative Captain, evade, evade," Dodonna orders. "Get us around, get our turrets on that thing. Knock it down."
"It's charging again, Admiral!"
The pronged ship turns on the Banner. As the jumpship draws close to the vessel, the unknown battlecruiser levels out on Dodonna's flagship and fires. The energy lance slams into the star destroyer, knocking half of the bridge crew off of their feet. Dodonna grips a computer console to stay steady. "Status?"
"Shields at ten, and wavering!"
"One shot," he breathes. There is no place for cowardice now, not even in the face of death. Especially not if Skywalker—and the Senate—is counting on him. "Keep up course, open fire when in range!"
"Sir?"
"That's an order, damn it!"
But the pronged ship shows no signs of wanting a fight. As soon as it picks up the jumpship in its hanger, it turns about, burning full thrust away from the orbital fight. Dodonna's star destroyer pursues, engines pushing as hard as they can. But it is not enough: The pronged ship lights its hyperdrive, blasts away into light, and shoots off into hyperspace. Into safety.
Tarkin whisked away from danger and death, from arrest and justice. And the man who would bring tyranny to the Republic is gone, gone to rally his men, loyal fleets and armies in the Outer Rim that would raise their banners and answer the accusations of their former allies with battle cries.
The Republic, at war. Against the Separatists; against itself.
END ACT 2
