A/N: Thank you to Pulsar for the great review! And regarding Anakin, we're going to see what he's up to (and the Jedi…and the Republic at large…) with Sidious out of the picture here in a very different galaxy in chapter 3…
"There has always been that old, tired problem with power. To make power alone a prize above all other treasures is to forsake the future. To forget what bonds may serve and which may benefit, to surge towards an ever-fading horizon that one will never reach. I taught Sidious that power was our only goal; for generations, it has been the Sith's one true mark of strength. And yet in the end, that power broke Sidious. It drove him from the careful machinations of the Grand Plan and pushed him to betray me, all in pursuit of more power. And I, too, was so afraid of losing my power that, like him, I gave it power over me. We dreamed of a galaxy ruled by the Sith, but in our quest for ever-greater power, we forgot what rulership really means."
Plagueis lifts his chin and breathes in. Nine years. It has been nine years since he was on the cusp of a Sith-dominated Republic. Nine years have passed since Sidious betrayed him on the precipice of his former dreams. Nine years since he found Maul battered and beaten in that trash receptacle on Naboo. Nine years to observe and learn and reflect and grow stronger. Nine years to allow a very different spirit home within him.
Nine years have transformed Darth Maul, as well—and it is not just the new legs. Durasteel covered by synthskin, patterned red and black like the rest of the Zabrak's tattoos. Ideal camouflage for prosthetics. But there are only a touch compared to the rest of Maul's growth as a Sith. Sidious trained him as a warrior. Plagueis would have Maul see the larger picture. "I understand, my master."
"Do you? Then tell me: What is rulership? What makes a king, if not raw power?"
"Control."
"Yes," Plagueis murmurs. "Over one's self. Over one's enemies. Over even the Force. The Force that the Jedi would give themselves over to, we bend to our will. That is strength. But that strength starts from within. Control over yourself." He turns away from Maul, peering out of the viewscreen of this sleek and shiny yet uninspired Intergalactic Banking Clan yacht. Ahead blooms the verdant green sphere of Herdessa, a Mid-Rim planet that today becomes one of the most important worlds in the galaxy. Once he is down there Darth Plagueis must take a backseat—at least for a little while—and Hego Damask must resurface. The dirty work Maul will handle. "That control starts today. The Supreme Chancellor is bringing a contingent of Jedi with his party."
Maul growls. "Jedi."
"Obi-Wan Kenobi is with them."
Maul snarls. As Plagueis turns his head towards him, however, he lowers his face to the ground and nods. "I will carry out your orders without fail, My Lord. I will do what must be done."
"That hatred for Kenobi serves you well. Nurture it. Let it drive you. But do not let it control you, or you are no more than a slave," Plagueis says. "I did not spend the last nine years driving Sidious's influences from you only to see you become a slave."
Rising, Maul paces about the yacht's private quarters, eyes flitting out into space and to Herdessa beyond. "I will not let the Jedi, or Kenobi, stand in my way. I know my targets," he says. He pauses. "Dooku is coming, is he not?"
"He is. Leading the concerned planets faction on behalf of Serenno, alongside Mandalore's Duchess," Plagueis says. "He is not your concern. He toys with the Dark Side in private, away from the prying eyes of the galaxy, but he is no Sith. Even if he once aligned with Sidious. I have watched him and waited long enough, considering whether he was fit to stand alongside you and I. I find him disappointing."
"Why not dispose of him?"
"He still may have some part to play. Disaffected Jedi have been springing up in the Order more and more over the last few years, even if none of them have the conviction to leave as Dooku did. Just another piece of the Republic that is falling apart," Plagueis says. He folds his arms and narrows his eyes. "This very conference is symptomatic of the galaxy's decay. The Jedi, the Senate, the Supreme Chancellor—they cling to the status quo like babes to a mother. They abhor change, even when change is foisted upon them. First the Trade Federation's Naboo invasion, then Chancellor Teem's corrupt leadership, now with Chancellor Antilles and the Core Worlds' heavy-handed, centralized approach to keeping the galaxy in line—all rungs of a ladder descending into a chaos they so desperately wish to avoid. But nature abhors stagnancy. The Jedi and the Republic are an abscess to be lanced. The galaxy cries out for change, and they resist. One might say that it is not just the call of the Dark Side that tells us to destroy them. The very nature of time and space demands their destruction. From the perspective of the weak, it would be our moral imperative to end our enemies."
Maul's eye twitches. "I care not for the morality behind it."
"So you should not. Morality is an artificial burden empowering the cowardly. There will be no place for it when our plans come to fruition. Not with us, not with anyone," says Plagueis. He taps a button on his wrist communicator and murmurs, "Send him in."
Maul glances at him. "Are they ready?"
"We shall soon see."
A door on the far side of the ornate room slides open. In walks a man utterly unbecoming to the sapphire-lined white walls and the soft corporate lighting, a soldier almost seven feet tall clad from foot to neck in heavy gold armor with a blaster carbine strapped to his back, a pistol on his waist, and an electrobaton sticking out over one shoulder. His long, brooding face is lined with scars, including a deep gouge along the bridge of his nose. When he speaks to the Sith in a thick, grating voice, he does not bow: "Lord Plagueis."
"Wulain," Plagueis acknowledges. He needs no display of servility. Thull Wulain, the commander of the elite mercenary outfit known as the Thyrsian Sun Guard, has proven his loyalty—and more importantly, his lethality—over the years as the Guard became less a force for hire and more the long arm of the Sith, acting as private soldiers but in secret heeding Plagueis's commands. They are feared. They are effective. And they have no issues with facing the Jedi.
Of course, they are no longer Plagueis's only soldiers. "Your assessment of the clones?"
"They are green, but the Kaminoans trained them well. They don't treat this like their first operation. They treat it like any other day," Wulain growls. "They'll do the job. And if any don't, I'll remove the defective units personally."
"I would prefer there be no 'defective units,'" Maul says.
Plagueis points to Maul. "You and the soldiers—your legionnaires and the clones alike—will go with Lord Maul, Wulain. Slip into hiding in the forests until the time is right. Then I expect nothing less than perfection. Remember who must survive."
"Supreme Chancellor and the senators. Trade Federation. Banking Clan. Raith Seinar. Don't kill them; anyone else is fair game. I know the details. Job'll be done. No mistakes."
"See to it there are none," Maul tells him.
Wulain doesn't rise to Maul's comment. A professional, this man. Plagueis likes that about him. Cold and clinical. Sometimes he catches himself thinking that he should've had Wulain serve as the template for the clones instead of the bounty hunter. "We are far from the hour of victory. Far, far from it," he says, looking back to Herdessa as the yacht settles into orbit over the planet. "But each move, every step, brings us closer. Bit by bit we sow the seeds of discord among our enemies. And so long as we have patience, the day will come when we reap a most bountiful harvest."
Nine years. Nine years a Jedi under the tutelage of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Nine years since he left his mother back on Tatooine. Nine years in this new life, one where he feels strong, powerful—but strangely out of place. Patience, Obi-Wan has told him so many times in the past. Have patience. Let your instincts guide you. Trust in the Force and you will know what to do no matter what comes.
But now Anakin Skywalker reaches out to the Force and feels only turbulence pushing him back. Something is amiss. Something is coming. "I don't have a good feeling about this."
"Yes, the thought of seeing Nute Gunray again doesn't fill me with joy, either," Obi-Wan muses, stroking his chin.
"That's not what I meant, Master," Anakin says, tossing aside a datapad and leaning back in his seat, curling his hands behind his head. "Ah, forget it."
Obi-Wan frowns. It is just the two of them here in the salon pod of the Consular-class courier Unity by Truth, one of the small fleet of diplomatic ships ferrying the Republic's delegation to out-of-the-way Herdessa. Just a small, humble green planet in the Mid Rim, but playing host to the most important pan-galactic negotiation in years. With the Republic alone comes Supreme Chancellor Bail Antilles, a host of twelve senators including Herdessa's own representative, a whole company of Judicial Forces troops to act as security—and the Jedi. Among the Order's representatives, only Master Mace Windu is here to actually participate in the conference itself. Obi-Wan and Anakin, along with another Knight-and-Padawan pairing, are here to back up the security detail.
A big showing, but the stakes are immense. Ships from two other parties already litter Herdessa's orbit. On one side sits a gaggle of independent worlds and sectors from the Deep Core to the Outer Rim, planets and people bearing grievances against Chancellor Antilles and the Senate's push for centralization of governance—just one aftershock from the long-running ramifications of the tensions that erupted on Naboo nine years ago and have only worsened since—throwing in together to multiply their diplomatic weight. On the other side sits a number of private interests, everything from several small manufacturers and commercial unions to power players such as the Trade Federation and the Czerka Corporation, businesses and markets bearing their own grievances against both other parties at the table. The fault lines are not so easily marked: Just a year ago Czerka and the Federation waged a small-scale private war in the Outer Rim that spanned five months, yet now they are teaming up. There is no sense of union in the galaxy today, no alignments, no alliances. Only flaring tempers and raised voices. Everyone is angry at someone, even if that someone changes by the day.
A lot of talk for a lot of nonsense, thinks Anakin. Why go to all the trouble of smoothing over all of these sparring egos? If he was Chancellor Antilles, he'd lay out terms and tell everyone to get on board. Make them get on board, if necessary. "Remember that we're only here to keep an eye on things," Obi-Wan says, as if sensing his thoughts. "Leave Master Windu and the Senate to handle the chatter. It would be far from surprising to know the Nemoidians had some unpleasant surprises up their sleeve."
"The senators. Who's with them?"
Obi-Wan raises his eyebrow. "Why? I hope you're still not thinking about Senator Amidala."
"I didn't say that."
"As if you'd have any other reason to care about what the Senate is up to."
Anakin looks away and scowls. Okay, maybe that's true. He has seen Senator Padme Amidala of Naboo now and then in recent years following her appointment to the Senate; the feelings he had as a boy on Tatooine have not disappeared, but they have changed. Somewhat. She doesn't occupy his thoughts like she did in the first few years after becoming a Jedi, those turbulent years when he spun back and forth between thinking of the future and remembering his mother. Time has tempered him. Somewhat. Only somewhat. There is still a fire in him after all, and that will never go out.
Obi-Wan certainly knows that, try as he might to cool his Padawan down. "She'll be far too busy for anything except for a quick chat, so don't get your hopes up," he tells Anakin. "That's if she doesn't do something rash at the sight of the Federation. Old wounds and all that."
"Why does the Senate even let them stay around?"
"The Federation?"
"Any of these troublemakers. The Corporate Alliance. That former Jedi Master, Dooku. All these guys."
Obi-Wan shakes his head. "Dooku is not exactly on the same level as the Trade Federation."
"It sure seems that way to me. He's on the Holonet every other week railing about corruption this and Republic that."
"He brings up some valid points, if you'd bother to actually listen rather than rushing to judgment. And he is a former Jedi."
"That just makes it worse. Who leaves the Jedi?"
Obi-Wan sits down across from Anakin and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. "I don't know why he did that, aside from his testimony to the Council," he says, his face darkening. "He was a well-respected man among the Order. He was Qui-Gon's master as well, yet he left before Qui-Gon's death, so that wasn't it. It was some time before everything that happened on Naboo, actually. In truth, I'd love for the chance to speak with him while we're here. I do know he is vehemently against the corporate leagues."
"Count me in on that conversation."
"No, I don't think so, not when you're ready to reach for your lightsaber. The point is to avoid violence here, not invite it. There's enough animosity going around between everyone coming to parlay," Obi-Wan says. "You can acknowledge your feelings without being ruled by them, Anakin. Whatever Dooku's goals are—whether he simply is here on Serenno's behalf or whether he wants something else—listen before you judge. And try not to do anything too foolish when we're down there. Just this once. If nothing else, just so that we don't have to explain some new mishap to the Council, especially with Master Windu here to see it all."
"I know, I know. Patience. And all that."
"I wish you would know. One of these days, at least," Obi-Wan says, sighing. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Come on, Master. That's a little dramatic."
Obi-Wan smiles. "Fine. You'll give me high blood pressure. Not so dramatic, but enough to drive me to my wit's end. You've been good at that over the years." He looks out the window and chuckles. "Another happy mission."
"Let's hope it goes better than that last one."
"Let's hope there're fewer gundarks, at least."
"If you could do it differently, what would you do?"
Jango Fett looks up from his electrobinoculars. "You mean if I wasn't lying in soot on Corellia while waiting for a smuggler?"
The lithe woman lying beside his snorts. Human—for now. She doesn't always take this form, the Clawdite bounty hunter Zam Wesell, but after years working with her, Jango's come to accept the oddities of working with a shape-shifter. The convenience of her adaptability has certainly been worth it in this line of work. "Don't blame me for our wonderful surroundings," she says, looking up from her marksman rifle's scope at the matted stratus clouds hanging over Coronet City, the world's sprawling, polluted capital. "You're the one who agreed to the contract."
"No one forced you to agree to it too."
"The credits were pretty persuasive."
"Then don't me for it, either. Blame Gardulla for putting up that large of a bounty on Booster Terrik," Jango says, looking back through his binoculars. He sweeps the lenses across the smattering of low-lying buildings across the avenue. Basic industrial park. Grey, squat storage houses and manufacturing facilities. A durasteel foundry for starship hull plating. Smog rising from a series of smokestacks. Everything the same sort of drab. It goes well with the acrid smell of the air.
Zam eyes the wide avenue below. "Just a few trucks and supply people. Two CorSec guys," she murmurs. "No smugglers."
"He'll come alone, avoid attention. Keep on eye on the CorSec pair. That Duro of Gardulla's said that it's a crooked cop running the underground op out of the foundry. Might've recruited a few of his fellow officers into the ring," Jango says. "Terrik's just taking the product from one place to another, same as any other smuggler. Man works out of his ship and lives wherever the jobs take him. Nothing fancy."
"What'd he do to piss Gardulla off?"
"Terrik?"
"Yeah."
Jango shrugs. "No idea. I didn't ask questions."
"It might've helped."
"No, it wouldn't have."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that. Gardulla hates questions even more than most Hutts. You play along with her game upfront, she's more likely to be agreeable when she screws you over at the end. That's her game."
"So we're inevitably waiting for Gardulla to try and screw us when we bring Booster Terrik in for the bounty."
"Count on it."
They are quiet for a moment, these two bounty hunters who have worked so often together hunting more prey. The repetitive beats of this life: Every bounty is new, a unique path to each target, yet the jobs blend together. Each victim simply a means to an end, a wanted life converted to credits through labor and demand. Never enough time to even really know those unfortunate captives before they're shoved off on the bounty issuer. Job set. Job done. The violence, the pursuit—it's inherently human. The rest of the work is as inhuman as it gets.
But Jango has known far worse. That these are his better days speaks to what sort of life he knew as a young man. The fighting, the killing…it's so much simpler when it's merely a matter of professionalism. So much easier to swallow. To kill is only an act. To assign meaning is to turn an action into a wound.
"You never answered the question," Zam speaks up, still watching the street through her rifle scope.
Jango blinks. "What question?"
"About what you'd do differently. You never say anything about your past. Never thought about life outside of the hunt?"
"No."
"That was quick."
Jango watches. He waits. Then he adds, "A son."
"What?"
"I'd have a son. That's good for a man, no matter his trade."
Zam laughs. "Uh-huh. Forget I asked."
Think nothing of it. He'd rather have the silence anyway. She's a good colleague in the field, Zam, but her propensity to chat has given Jango caution on more than one occasion. He has no reason to distrust her, but if things ever went sour between the two of them…well, he is not above killing anyone. For pay or otherwise.
But it would be better if it didn't come to that.
Nearly a half-hour passes before Jango finds his man. To all the world looking like nothing more than another Corellian citizen taking a dirty, beat-up utility landspeeder into the rough side of town, Booster Terrik stands out when one knows what to look for. A big, powerful man despite his young age. A confident, upright walk, with none of the defeatist slouch that discolors so many of the workers around here. The poise of a man wholly at home in his own shoes and unburdened by any yoke. If he even knows there's a bounty on his head, Booster shows no concern about it.
His loss. A confident man and a beaten man make for the same bounty. "That's him."
"The big guy getting out of the busted speeder?" Zam says, watching through her scope. "Yeah, I see him. There's a concealed blaster on his hip."
"Another on his thigh."
"Yep. Time to go."
"Time to go," Jango says, grabbing his Mandalorian helmet resting on the rooftop beside him. An artifact of an old age. A different life. That life is gone, but the armor remains. He dons the helmet, sealing it to his breastplate, and activating his visor's HUD. Lights and displays flash before his eyes, picking out atmospheric readouts, weather patterns, potential threats, and armor status. Nothing left to chance. Not in this life. "Suit up."
Zam twirls her finger. "Unless you're going to watch while I change."
Jango cocks his head, but reluctantly turns his back on her. She grunts in discomfort. There's an ugly, fleshy noise, a gurgling, a rending of meat. Jango looks over his shoulder. "Finished?"
"So pushy. Yes."
Behind him stands not Zam Wesell—at least not how Jango usually knows her—but a pudgy, middle-aged Corellian Security Forces officer. Balding. Acne scars across his cheeks. Sad hazel eyes from a life at the local precinct spent chasing a problem that will never go away. Crime and Corellia: 'Til death do they part. "Left a uniform down on the street level in an alley. I'll slip it on when I get down," Zam says in her new guise's husky voice. "How d'you like the new me?"
"About as much as I liked the old one," Jango says. He ignores the fact that Zam is still wearing her old bounty hunter's attire—how that even fits the bulky officer he does not know—and instead he points to a freight transport cable running over the top of the street. "I'm taking to the rooftops. Terrik's going to head into the foundry; you catch up with him and tail his entourage. I'll pin him down from above when the time's right."
"I know the drill. You have no charm, Jango," Zam says, clambering onto a service ladder on the side of the roof. "'As much as I liked the old one.' No idea how to talk to a lady."
"Not unless they're talking credits," Jango says as he heads off.
Leaving Zam to her part of the job, Jango scales the transport wire and drops down to all fours, moving hand-by-hand and foot-by-foot across the thick cable over the street five stories below. He could simply fire his jetpack and jump across, but the whoosh of flame and the belching smoke is sure to catch eyes and ears. Anyone can look up right now and see him, certainly, but Jango has learned one thing over all his hunts throughout the years: The common man hardly ever looks up. Not when they don't need to.
So silence. Garner no attention. He shimmies across the wire making hardly a sound, pulling himself up to the cargo ferry loading hold on the top floor of the building across the street. As he moves up to the rooftop, however, he spots a blur of motion two roofs over. A slender shadow dipping down behind a radiator unit, then slipping away behind a smog-choked smokestack.
He is not the only one hunting Terrik.
So be it. Jango draws a blaster pistol from his holster and takes cover behind a deactivated power droid, searching for his opponent. Nothing on his HUD. Another professional. Someone who knows the value of staying unseen until the time is right.
It's a competition, then. The hunt is on.
