Chapter Nine

Political Manoeuvring

Mace Windu spoke calmly to the blue holographic image of the Chancellor, observing the politician with veiled interest. Palpatine's face was craggy, his eyes rimmed with blue circles. But his body was as tall and straight as ever, dressed in crimson robes, and his mouth was a resolute and grim line.

"I assure you, Master Windu, I fully intend to forfeit my emergency powers as soon as the war has ended; after all, I was not in favour of receiving them in the first place, as I'm sure you'll remember," Palpatine said with a ghost of a smile, "You know as well as I do that I love democracy."

You know as well as I do, Mace thought grimly, that if you love anything other than power, I have not seen it.

But instead of saying what he thought, Mace bowed and said, "Yes, Chancellor. The Jedi are pleased to serve the Senate," he said, with just a hint of emphasis on the last word; Palpatine's power play was getting far too advanced, for too successful. The Republic was almost a dictatorship in everything but name.

"And I'm sure you know that they are also in favour of carrying on with the war until Nute Gunray and the Separatist Council are brought to justice," Palpatine said, his eyes unfathomable.

"Of course."

"Now… How many Jedi are returning to the Core? We need as many as we can possibly get; with Grievous dead, we can use this opportunity to rout the Separatists."

"We're extremely shorthanded," lied Mace; if Palpatine really was being watched by Sidious, he wanted to full the as-yet unseen Sith Lord into believing the Jedi were weaker than they really were, drawing him out to strike too early, "We only have about fifty experienced Jedi available; myself, Agen Kolar, Saesee Tinn, Shaak Ti, Plo Koon, Kit Fisto, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Aayla Secu—"

"Is young Skywalker about to be sent on a new assignment?" asked Palpatine.

I knew it, thought Mace with a hint of satisfaction; you've got an agenda about the boy… But what?

"Master Yoda and I believe he should be sent with Master Kenobi to liberate Master Mundi."

"I see; but perhaps he should come to Coruscant, for the time being. I'm sure Master Kenobi can handle the liberation of Master Mundi; we know he's extremely capable."

"Why do you wish to split up the most accomplished team of warriors in the Jedi Order?" Mace asked, bluntly. Sometimes, when you're playing Sabacc, you must put most of your cards on the table…

Most. But not all.

"Because Anakin is somewhat of a hero… A role-model," Palpatine said.

"When the role-model of every child on Coruscant is Anakin Skywalker, I'll worry; children should never idolise warriors, not even one of Master Yoda's stature."

To some who didn't know Mace Windu, the reference to Yoda's stature may have been taken as a pun. But, if you knew Mace Windu, you'd know it wasn't. Mace Windu doesn't joke, and hadn't joked for years.

"I agree… These are sad times," Palpatine looked down and shook his head wearily, "But it could help the public themselves; increase morale," And support for the war, and you, Palpatine… "You know politics. Not your favourite subject, I'm told," chuckled the old politician.

Mace ignored the light-hearted jibe, "Yes, Chancellor."

Palpatine inclined his head and the hologram flickered out of existence, instantly bathing Mace's unlit room into complete darkness.

Mace sighed and flicked on a light switch, before flopping onto his thin bed. He massaged his shiny, bald skull, deep in thought. What was Palpatine's strange, almost obsessive interest in Skywalker? It was strange, without reason…

And, when Mace Windu looked at the links between the two in the Force, the links stank of the Dark Side.

The Force, though, in those troubled times, always seemed to stink of the Dark Side.

"Ventress is secure in the prison deck," Obi-Wan said, his back to Anakin in the out-of-the-way secondary communications room. The room itself was dark, lit only by the round holoprojector in the middle which cast ghostly cyan light across the two Jedi, and the rectangle of yellow light that seeped in through the open door.

Obi-Wan pressed a button on a control panel and the door slid shut quietly. He sighed, his shoulders sagging, and turned to face Anakin, who sat on an acceleration couch.

Obi-Wan turned and took a step forward, until he was bathed in deep blue light. His features looked tired, haggard, in a way they never had before. He was emotionally stressed, worried for his best friend.

Anakin, however, looked impatient to leave the room. He was leaning back in the couch, fidgeting. Ominously, his body was a liquid mass of darkness, hidden by the deep shadow of the room.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan begun slowly, "We have to be honest with each other."

Anakin's Force-aura briefly became ridden with a deep, strange guilt, which instantly made Obi-Wan wary. But before he could probe Anakin's emotions, the powerful Jedi Knight's Force presence skulked away from his mental fingers.

"I am being honest with you. I just don't know what you're asking," Anakin said, a little too strongly.

"What's bothering you? Don't deny it Anakin; something's eating you, chewing away at your very soul. I can feel it, just as easily as I can feel Yoda's power, or Palpatine's scheming."

Anakin tensed suddenly, then leaned forward until his eyes gleamed in the eerie light. His face was a mass of blue and black, a very… Discomforting view.

"The Chancellor is a good man, Obi-Wan. He fights for democracy. For freedom. It's not his fault that the Senate force more and more powers into his hands; it's not his fau—"

"Force power into his hands?" Obi-Wan asked with a tired chuckle, "Was that a pun?"

"This is serious, Obi-Wan! Who is trying to tell you that Palpatine is a bad man? He's a hero; a champion of freedom! Why can't you and the Council see that? Are you so blind that you can't see a humble, determined old man who's trying to do the Galaxy some good is a hero? I'm the most powerful Jedi alive! I would sense it if he was plotting and scheming!"

"Anakin, Anakin," Obi-Wan said, waving his hand dismissively, "We can argue about the Chancellor some other time. We need to talk about you."

Anakin's eyes flashed angrily, but he slumped backwards into his seat obligingly, until his face was invisible again, obscured by an opaque cloud of darkness.

Much like how the darkness seems to hide the Chancellor's true intentions, thought Obi-Wan, unnerved by his mind's disturbing simile.

"What is it Anakin? Is it Padmé?"

Anakin's legs, the only truly visible part of his body, went taut and still.

"No, Master."

"Anakin, I can't cover for you for much longer—"

"You're not covering for anything!" hissed Anakin.

There was a few seconds of silence.

"Anakin. I'm very happy for you."

Anakin raised an eyebrow, "Happy for who? Obi-Wan, you're jumping at shadows. I'm just…"

"Just what?"

"Sick of everything. The fighting. The death. The war. The hopes and the dreams. The failure and the losses."

"Anakin, the war's over."

Anakin leaned forward, into the light, and his face was a mask of sheer anguish and pain, "It'll never be over. Not for me. You can live with it, Obi-Wan. You've always been a Jedi… But I… I was normal. I had friends, I had a mother who loved me. I had experiences. Anger, rage, jealousy, love, fear… Everything. And I've lost so much in this war. I can't shut it down… I can't sleep at night without thinking of Siri, or Eeth, or Neeja. I've lost so many friends. The war will never end for me."

Anakin stood up and strode from the room, leaving Obi-Wan to stand alone, his head bowed, his brow furrowed.

POTENTIAL:

The alleyways were dark, and a figure, as dark as the night, moved stealthily within the darkness. A billowing black cloak flowed behind his body, which was also clothed in black. The face of the shadow was also covered in black material, and the only bright thing on his form was a shiny, snub-nosed pistol, bright grey, with a big, fat suppressor protruding from the barrel. The rain battered off the figure and the gun as he swept forward.

Unlike most of the rare vampires, Draxon was very high tech; indeed, from his gun to his gadgets to his car to his black suit which protected him from the sun's painful rays. And like most vampires, he never took more than a pint of blood from each victim; a vampire always extracts his blood from the victim's face, as there are fresher nutrients up there, but those nutrients are usually drained by the first pint.

The figure didn't wait a moment. He bent down to his victim, and drained perhaps a pint of blood from his helpless victim. He pulled his cloak tightly around him, and returned the gun to his belt. He moved swiftly to a fire stair at the side of a building, and leapt dramatically to the first stairway, which had been a good three metres above the ground. He moved swiftly up the rickety metal stairs, and reached the top of the roof. He came to the edge of the building, and looked down his nose at the bustling city streets, twenty five stories below. He raised his arms, and his cloak suddenly moved upwards, connecting with his arms and turning rigid, like the wings on a vampire bat. He then leapt forward, flying off the rooftop. He glided forward, looking down on the bustling city. He soared above the citizens, sometimes just five floors above their heads. But with no light above them to reveal him, they would simply see the grey glint of his gun, which they would probably interpret as a star peeking through the clouds for a brief second.