CHAPTER TWO: THE TOWER

PADME

Senator Padmé Naberrie stared at the flickering image hovering just above the holo-transmitter in the audience hall of Theed's royal palace. Buttery light interrupted by the procession of columned arcades spilled over the ancient marble floor. A flock of twirrls flew by and their shadows skittered with them. Their passage left only the murmur of ornamental fountains and the distant rumble of the falls to distract Padmé from her mounting frustration. She fought the urge to stamp her foot and scream. "Surely," she bit out through clenched teeth, "there must be something you can do?"

Palpatine, her senior partner in Naboo's delegation to the Republic Senate, passed a hand over his unshaven jaw. He was a distinguished-looking man of perhaps fifty with a long, thin nose and pale blue eyes. "I have brought three motions before the full senate, and two to committee," he said wearily. "All five are pending further consideration, tabled in favor of the Chancellor's tax reforms and the grievances of the industrial seats. I am doing all that I can, Senator Naberrie. Have your discussions with the Viceroy yielded any fruit?"

"None," said Padmé, trying to keep the bitterness to a minimum. The ornate, vaulted emptiness of the audience hall sent her failure echoing out with excellent acoustics. "He refuses to consider partial remuneration, even with Master Gallia's ruling demanding a total clearance of debt. The Chancellor's tax reforms-"

"Have caused no end of grief," snapped Palpatine, his eyes suddenly hard. "If Viceroy Gunray and the Federation are willing to blockade Naboo over this, how many others among the industrialists do you think will follow their example? The Banking Clan, the Techno Union, Geonosis. Valorum attempted to walk a fine line, and his stumbles are costing the Republic dearly. Dooku gains fresh support for his pro-corporate motions with each passing day."

Padmé sighed. "I'm sorry, Sheev," she said to the older man. "The blockade is wearing nerves raw here, and I suppose I'm no exception. I haven't slept in days..."

Palpatine looked concerned. "There is no need for an apology," he said in that comforting yet authoritative voice he had, the voice that had carried so many motions through the Senate by force of oratory and charisma alone, that had won him four consecutive terms despite his humble birth. "I ask only that you remember that we occupy the same corner of the proverbial shock-boxer's pit."

"Thank you, Senator," said Padmé, a tired smile curving her lips. It vanished in short order. "Another point. The Jedi that Master Yoda assured me were en route have not arrived."

Palpatine's expression flickered, became one of incredulity. "They haven't?" His voice crackled with static. "Senator, that is most unsettling. I will inform the Jedi Council at once. You may rest assured that-"

The image vanished, replaced by diffuse lighting and the oceanic hiss of static. Padmé stared at the empty holo-transmitter, her ears ringing. Somewhere, she heard a klaxon's scream just as the audience hall's towering bronzium double doors burst open and Planetary Governor Sio Bibble swept into the room with a pair of rattled-looking Royal Guards in tow. Bibble was an aging man, though still vigorous, with a pointed white goatee and a look of extreme discomfiture on his lined face. His embroidered blue doublet was stained with what looked like soup, his thick head of white hair in disarray. "Communications have gone down throughout Theed, Senator," he said stiffly. "We are cut off." His voice trembled. "Troops are landing outside the city."

A chill ran down Padmé's spine. "I was sure the blockade was a bluff."

Bibble mopped at his glistening brow with a pocket square. "Evidently not," he said. "They have begun their invasion. The Queen is in hysterics. She refuses to leave the palace. She refuses to consider surrender."

Padmé's mouth went dry. "Does she intend to fight?"

Bibble snorted. "She is addressing the Palace Guard as we speak."

The rumble of massive turbines churning air drifted in through the audience chamber's open windows. Padmé could see dark specks floating through the air beyond the limits of the city of Theed, angling down toward the rolling emerald hills around the capital. The idea of Theed's volunteer civil order battalions holding the city against a droid army was absurd. They would be ground into paste in an hour. Surely the Queen, idealistic as she was, could see that. Then again, the Queen was twenty-two, beloved, and beautiful. She saw what she wanted to see.

"How long until they take the city?"

In answer, Bibble pointed to the distant landers. Swarms of smaller dots were detaching from the enormous ships and streaking toward the city. Droid starfighters, engines screaming in the warm summer air of high noon. Padmé's hand rose to her mouth. "Oh," she said.

QYMAEN

A thousand, thousand repulsor pods freighted with as many planetary delegations rose in imitation of the galaxy's spiral arms from the distant floor of the Senate Rotunda. Droids equipped with holo-cams darted among the nobility and politicians of the Republic like insects over a battlefield. Shafts of golden light let in by innumerable windows crisscrossed the vast expanse's upper reaches. And near the apex of the dome with its triumphant frescoes, Qymaen jai Sheelal gripped the railing of Serenno's senate pod with clawed hands, seething as he forced himself to listen to the Chancellor's blather about peace, equity and respect. Valorum had a coward's voice, a liar's manner. He spoke of peace while Kalee lay in ruins and the Huk feasted on her bones. He spoke of law while the Jedi dispensed judgment from on high, daring to usurp the place of the ancestor gods and levy justice against Kalee and her warriors. He spoke of respect while the Republic signed trade agreements with the filthy insect Huk and stuffed their pockets with Huk credits, while Qymaen's wives rotted in their graves.

"...must endeavor to avoid the needless struggle of war, to preserve the values of the Republic that has steered the Galaxy time and time again toward peace and prosperity..."

Qymaen sneered behind his mask. "How much longer will he rant?" he rasped, turning to the tall, silver-haired man at his side.

Dooku, Count of Serenno, gave an eloquent shrug. "Impossible to say." The Count's voice was rich and deep, grave with long experience. He had been a Jedi, once. Now he was Qymaen's greatest hope for Kalee, and for his people.

"Tarkin will want a rebuttal," said Dooku, his attention shifting to a gaunt, almost skeletal man standing, a look of distaste on his severe features, in the Eriadu Senate pod. "Patience, General. We will not win our cause in the space of a day, not while the gears of the Republic still grind."

On the Chancellor's Podium, suspended thirty meters above the Senate Floor, Valorum was working to his lackluster climax. He was a lean man, his grey hair cropped close to the aristocratic lines of his skull. "The blockade of Naboo is in direct violation of litigation supported by this government," he said firmly, to lukewarm applause and scattered jeers.

By the Jedi, you mean! shouted a senator from one of the lower pods.

A low rumble of support from the Rimward delegations rose behind the declaration. Qymaen could feel their antipathy, their growing unhappiness. Always those who rose high without the blessings of the gods were cast down, and Coruscant, with its glittering towers, was no exception. The Jedi did not deserve their seats of power. They were a self-serving cabal, a cancer on the body of the Galaxy. Accursed of the gods of Kalee. Qymaen still recalled the austere presence of the two Masters in the war room on Kalee, humans in long brown robes and humble tunics. And yet for all the humility of their dress they had pronounced with the authority of holy men, had stripped all rights from the Kaleesh and branded them war criminals.

"The Republic will not tolerate tactics of intimidation," said Valorum.

There was a loud chime as one of the senate pods signaled for recognition. The Trade Federation, represented by a tall Neimoidian in a black miter and ceremonial robes. Qymaen's lips peeled back from his teeth in disdain.

"The Chair recognizes Senator Lott Dod of the Trade Federation," roared Valorum's chamberlain, the blue-skinned Chagrian Mas Amedda, from his place beside the Chancellor.

Murmurs spread throughout the Rotunda as the senator's pod floated out from the wall and toward the podium. Dod himself appeared immune to the low-key uproar. He stood straight, for one of the cringing merchant-worms. The Neimoidian swept the Rotunda with his unpleasant gaze, his expression one of stern consideration. "My fellow senators," he said in that stilted, drawling way the Neimoidians had, "our era is one of prosperity, of peace, of growth and progress. The Republic is strong, and the galaxy flourishes. The hyperspace lanes have made this galaxy powerful, have welded its planets together into an iron alliance." He raised a fist, chin jerking up in righteous conviction. "The galaxy is stronger than it has ever been."

Qymaen knew the Neimoidian was building to a point, but he still felt a flush of half-mad rage at the lies pouring from Dod's lipless mouth. Dooku put a hand on his shoulder. "Patience, my friend," said the Count. Always, the Count urged patience.

Dod was looking around again, a frown growing at the corners of his mouth. He put a hand on the rail of his pod. "With so much of our success owed to the hyperspace routes and to the pioneers who blazed those trails, I am shocked at the lack of gratitude given the Trade Federation! It was our navigators who first mapped the stars! It was our crews that risked themselves in the act of blazing paths between the Core and the Outer Rim!"

"Here, here," said Dooku, and thousands of voices echoed his support. The Count smiled.

"We have shouldered the taxes imposed on our merchant fleets," said Dod, his voice rising steadily in volume. "We have endured the choking regulations of committee after committee, and for our loyalty we are denied even our most basic rights as a licensed and represented corporation! This ruling against Naboo's debts to our Viceregality, made by the Jedi with the support of Chancellor Valorum, is illegal! We will not submit to the baseless authority of the Jedi Council."

A great roar rose from the Senate as Dod let his hands fall to his sides. Senators of every race and creed were on their feet, shouting and shaking their appendages at Dod, Valorum, or one another. Qymaen's blood burned in his veins. He could see the open graves in which he had placed his wives; those whose bodies he had recovered. He could see the faces of the Jedi as they condemned his tribe, his nation, and his people. Amedda was shouting for order. Valorum looked overwhelmed, Dod smug and self-satisfied.

Dooku applauded, leading the bulk of the Outer Rim senators in a round of enthusiastic support for Dod. "This is only the beginning, General," he said over the tumult. "If a merchant's complaints can move them like this, imagine what your story will draw out."

Qymaen gripped the pod's rail, his claws squealing against the polished durasteel. His mouth twitched behind his mask, and he said nothing.

QUI-GON

Qui-Gon and his apprentice slipped from the H-wing's ventilation baffles as it settled to the ground just inside the ruined gates of Theed. The clouds of choking dust thrown up by the great craft's landing gave them ample cover as they left the staging area. The shadows of other landers cruised past, accompanied by the punishing downdraft of titanic repulsors and atmospheric thrusters. MTTs and battle tanks emerged from the lander's bay, the former already disgorging battle droids like some great amphibian coughing up its young. The droids unfolded in midair and struck the ground alert and moving. Blasters coughed and magnapeds tramped the worn stones of Theed's streets. Ochre-hulled battle tanks drifted toward the distant domes and minarets of the Royal Palace, weightless on their suspensor fields for all their armored bulk. Qui-Gon, concealed with Obi-Wan atop a shelled and crumbling stretch of ornamental aqueduct, watched droid war columns marching unopposed toward their objectives as starfighters screamed past overhead or clattered on scissor-like legs over Theed's picturesque rooftops. Resistance was weak and scattered, frightened men with blasters taking potshots at the droid battalions from the windows of their homes. People ran wild in the streets. In the distance, vulture droids swarmed a watchtower manned by Royal Guardsmen. Blaster cannons ripped the spire apart from its crown downward, sending dust and rubble cascading into the street.

"Come, Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon, turning away from the sight of the tower's collapse as the last flickers of life within the ruined spire went out. The Jedi abandoned their vantage point, striking out into the city. They stayed low, moving through Theed's tree-lined streets in the shadows of its ancient monuments and palazzos until they gained the relative safety of a shaded, ivy-choked alleyway between two luxurious canal-side residences. Qui-Gon crouched in the shadows by the canal's calm waters, his thoughts spinning. From the outset of his mission he had expected resistance from the Federation. Subterfuge, bureaucratic maneuvering. Never, though, had he dreamed they might attempt assassination. And now this. Where had the Neimoidians found the gall to move in such an obvious breach of galactic law? Something sinister moved behind the Federation's newfound bravery, pulling Gunray's strings. Qui-Gon was sure of it. If only his meditations could probe deeper, read the patterns in the Force with greater skill...

"Master," whispered Obi-Wan, his eyes on the squad of droids breaking the doors and windows of the manse across the canal. They fired their blasters through the gaping holes, tracking targets that the Jedi couldn't see. "We should make for the palace. Finding a ship and getting off-world is our only chance to get a message back to the Council."

"A wise course of action," said Qui-Gon. He stood, still watching the droids pass by in a ceaseless stream of beige, watching the slaughter at the manse unfold. "I suggest we seek another road."


They made their way quickly through the labyrinthine alleyways of Theed, daring open ground only when a canal or a break in the cityscape necessitated it. The city was a work of art, all glittering domes and subdued facades of weathered marble. Trees grew everywhere and lawns were artfully unkempt, alive with flowers. Peko birds flitted between eaves and branches. And in the thoroughfares the droids were rounding up the citizenry and kneeling them in rows. Dead Royal Guards lay here and there, their bodies ignored by the victorious army that marched over their corpses. The crash and rumble of the waterfalls that cascaded down the cliffs upon which the city was built grew louder as the Jedi neared the palace. Droids patrolled every square.

Qui-Gon felt the echoes of more deaths throughout the city, cries in the Force cut off with pitiless suddenness. A bulbous, insectile shuttle roared overhead as he and Obi-Wan passed along an arcaded walkway. "The Viceroy," said Obi-Wan. "What do they hope to gain from this? The Senate won't tolerate a move this blatant."

"I do not believe Naboo to be the Federation's true objective," said Qui-Gon. The palace was close now, men and droids exchanging fire on the steps between ancient columns now scarred by blaster salvos and detonations. Droidekas clattered over the square before the monumental seat of government while the nimbler battle droids trooped up the broad marble steps, heedless of the fire pouring down on them. The Palace Guard, lightly armed and poorly trained, were flagging. Qui-Gon watched in silence from the shadows of the arcade. He could do nothing for the dying men. "Come," he said to Obi-Wan. "We'll circle the square and try the cliffs. There should be an entrance, perhaps a hangar or-"

It struck him then, a wave of hatred that boiled the air and stole the breath from his lungs. He staggered and only just caught himself, fingers ripping through the ivy that coated the alley wall. Obi-Wan seized his arm, asking frantic questions in an undertone, but Qui-Gon's focus was shattered. The hatred swirled and twisted around him, bulling its way through the currents of the Force with vicious, single-minded intensity. Qui-Gon's vision faded for a moment, and then returned. The receding thump-thump of ion engines fading into the distance pounded against his ears. He was on his knees, hands pressed against the cold marble. A shadow moved slowly across the square, following the shuttle toward the Palace. Qui-Gon forced himself to stand, legs shaking, and looked up at the belly of a long, sleek gunship with cowled wings. He'd never seen a ship like it before, with its scarred snout and its bulbous aft engine housing. Like a sword of the antique Sith Alchemists, sleek blade and heavy pommel.

"What is it, Master?" whispered Obi-Wan. "I feel it. A burning, in the Force."

"I don't know," Qui-Gon heard himself say as he left the shelter of the arcade, striding with purpose toward the Palace. Not here. Not after so long. "Quickly now."

PADME

The droids marched through the engraved doors of the palace's throne room in perfect formation, their weight cracking tiles placed centuries ago by the founders of Theed. Frescoes of the ancient peace between the Gungans and the human colonists looked down now on the ghoulish legion. Their narrow cranial units looked neither left nor right, but their ocular slits missed nothing. Padmé watched from her place beside the Queen as the droid column split into three separate units and moved to cordon off the room. The Federation's coup had taken little more than an afternoon. Theed was firmly in their grasp, the Palace Guard sacrificed in a pointless gesture of defiance. And now the Queen, dressed in red brocade, her face painted with the black and white ceremonial cosmetics of a sitting monarch, insisted on meeting her supplanters from her throne. Bibble stood beside Padmé at the Queen's left hand, looking old and worried. The Captain of the Guard, Panaka, stood at her right with a scowl on his chiseled face.

Droids moved to flank the open doors, organizing themselves into receiving lines. They formed a corridor leading to the Royal Dais, sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows behind the throne and onto their skeletal forms. Padmé stiffened, choking down her outrage as Gunray and his entourage entered the throne room. The Neimoidian Viceroy wore his black mantle of office and a tall three-pointed miter along with a red gown of some heavy, richly textures fabric. His mottled green hands were clasped at his waist, his lipless mouth twisted into a smile. The aides in his wake were scarcely less extravagant in their choices of wardrobe.

"Your Majesty," said Gunray as he strode down the aisle between the serried ranks of battle droids. "I hope now you might reconsider your stance on our misunderstanding."

The Queen came to her feet, her mouth twisted in disdain. "There was no misunderstanding, Viceroy," she said in her high, clear voice. "A dispute was entered, arbiters procured, and the matter settled in the eyes of the Republic."

"In the eyes of the Jedi."

The voice was a low, cool rasp. A vibroblade drawn over duracrete. The speaker stepped forward, ignoring the discomfited looks directed at him by the Neimoidians. He was tall, though not unusually so, and dressed all in black. What Padmé could see of his face was covered in alternating red and black tattoos, jagged and skull-like. Even his lips were marked. Gunray, eyeing the robed man, cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together.

Padmé saw sweat on the Viceroy's brow. This one doesn't answer to him.

"Your stubbornness is...regrettable," said Gunray to the Queen. "I had hoped we might reach some equitable settlement." He shot a nervous sidelong glance at the tattooed man, standing beside him. The man's yellow eyes were trained on the dais, on the Queen's haughty face. Amidala was a famous beauty and a stateswoman of no small talent, but she was cracking beneath the cloaked man's stare. Her painted lower lip trembled. Padmé would have felt sorry for the younger woman, had Amidala not spent the lives of her guards to appear strong for a single pointless moment. Gunray had won, for the present. To act otherwise was futile.

"I do not negotiate with criminals," said Amidala, rallying from her momentary loss of face. "Arrest me, Viceroy. I will rot in prison for a lifetime before I cooperate with you."

"You're passionate," said the tattooed man to Amidala. He reached up and pushed back his cloak, revealing a crownlike array of horns that encircled his bald and equally tattooed scalp. A Zabrak of Iridonia. His cloak slipped from his shoulders and pooled on the polished marble floor. He stepped forward, mounted the dais in three quick strides to stand in front of the Queen. "Admirable."

Padmé fought the urge to scramble away at the Zabrak's approach. The Queen stiffened beside her. "I insist that-"

There was a hum, a crackle, and a flash of red light. The Queen sagged back against her throne, smoke rising from her clothes as the tattooed man hooked a long metal cylinder to his belt and, turning, strode from the dais and out of the hall. Padmé heard herself screaming, but the noise seemed to come from across a great distance. Panaka, shouting curses, had seized the Queen by her shoulders and Amidala's legs had simply...slid free of her torso. They jerked, the heels of her slippers sliding over the marble. Governor Bibble vomited noisily onto the floor.

Most of the Neimoidians watched the tattooed man leave. His stride was easy, a predator's loping prowl. Padmé pressed her hands to her mouth and tried with all her might, with every inch of the composure she had drilled into herself over a decade of political bickering and statecraft, not to curl up on the floor and bawl. She was Naboo's ranking representative now, not the dull-eyed woman with half her body smoking on the dais. Panaka was apoplectic with fury and two battle droids had stepped forward to restrain him. Amidala's legs continued to jerk weakly and Bibble was groaning as he mopped his brow with his embroidered pocket square. Droids with blasters drawn kept them penned on the dais with the corpse.

Gunray looked sick. His neck was swelling and deflating at an alarming rate, and his skin positively shone with perspiration. "Ah...Senator Naberrie," he said, his voice shaking. "I apologize for Lord Maul's...untoward action. I think it prudent that you enter my custody, now." He waved a hand and a detail of battle droids approached, rifles at the ready. An older Neimoidian, slightly hunched and weathered-looking, whispered something to Gunray, who nodded before turning back to Padmé. "Naboo is an asset of the Trade Federation now, Senator. Nevertheless, should you wish to comply with our modest demands, your support would be greatly appreciated."

Padmé said nothing. Her ears were ringing as droids advanced to prod them off of the dais, not bothering to look at Amidala's royal corpse. The droids never looked at the dead; they weren't programmed to waste time on corpses. Padmé strode across the throne room's polished floor, trying not to see the blood that several of the droids had tracked across it, and Bibble came staggering after her, still waxy and flushed. Panaka had to be dragged from the dais by his captors. His curses and threats echoed from the dome of the throne room as the ranks flanking Gunray and his coterie parted to allow the prisoners through. Padmé went mechanically with her escort. The Palace around her felt half-real, a floating world of dreams.

"Senator," Bibble said in a low, insistent voice as they were ushered quietly and in good order from the throne room. "Senator, we must-"

"Not now, Governor," said Padmé distantly. "I'm very busy." She turned as they passed out through the tall, narrow doors that led to the palace's hangar and waste disposal complex. Gunray was moving gingerly up the dais's steps, toward the throne, while aides dragged Amidala's corpse away.

Droids slammed the doors shut.