Chapter 12. Theatrics
This night she dreams in red and white.
At first there is nothing but a thick white haze that covers everything within her arm's reach, making her feel trapped, for every step may lead into an abyss for all she knows. The haze grows thicker with every breath, almost blinding in its whiteness, it hurts, burns her eyes like a merciless sun. She tries to shout, call for help, but words are stuck in her throat, scratching, suffocating, yet failing to leave her lips and bring a blissful relief. Then, a small red stain cuts through this unforgiving cloud, it grows, spreads through the mist, and soon the whiteness is crossed by a maze of scarlet capillaries. Intricate, mesmerising, they sprawl around, until, all of the sudden, one of them breaks… and everything is engulfed in a crimson flame. She looks down at her hands, and here it is again, red, too much red. Before she can scream, for she finally recognises the ruby liquid for what it is, Leia wakes, jostled by a bleeping sound of her holo-alarm.
As far as her dreams go, it's not the worst, not really. Although it's probably telling that she's judging her dreams on the scale going from bad to worse these days… yet it leaves her on the edge, the contrast of red on white still vividly imprinted in her memory, it's doesn't fully fade in the light of the day, instead it taunts Leia from behind her eyelids every time she blinks. So, needless to say, she isn't in her best mood the next morning during a New Republic cabinet meeting, as Mon adds one more point to the agenda, closing her arguments with words that somehow ring true and hollow at the same time, especially after the Kashyyyk debacle.
"The galaxy is a myriad, wonderful place. It is home to such wild miscellany. Something the Empire, I feel, has missed. If there is to be any kind of treaty, it is vital we preserve what makes life in this galaxy special. All ways of existence. All the choices for all of us."
A politician in Leia knows Mon intends to send a message with this gesture, to celebrate diversity of the galaxy in a subtle dig to the Empire, which preferred to deny it. A gala brought up by the Chancellor is designed to showcase cultures of Outer and Mid Rim worlds, which rarely, if ever, get into a spotlight. It was conceived in what feels like another lifetime, before the Siege, so, naturally, now it's a pretty below-the-radar event, given that the galaxy has far more urgent matters to care about. Yet, should both delegations attend, HoloPress will surely follow under the pretext of caring about artistic heritage and diversity of the universe, all the while trying to catch any snippets of behind-the-scenes gossip. Still, once there, they will have to transmit the entire performance live by HoloNet to those less fortunate.
Yet, a Leia in Leia feels restless, while she would've supported the idea at any other time, here and now it feels like a distraction, so she makes her point loud and clear: the subtle art of hidden signals will be wasted on most Imperials, and any moral high ground that Mon seeks to gain will be useless if the talks keep getting stalled.
"The congress dances, but does not progress." Her mother remarks, watching little Leia doodle on a flimsiplast instead of reading assignments from her tutors.
"But I'm not dancing!"
"An old phrase, darling, used after the Great Hyperspace War."
Leia rolls her eyes, of course, leave it to mom to remember something that ancient, still, she hands over her flimsi, as mom takes it away and gently kisses her on the forehead.
"Those peace talks took nine months. Just remember not to get distracted from what truly matters, dear."
Leave it to her mom to be so spot on with her analogy, all those years later.
They are at the standstill again, as if the Imperial delegation believes they have all the time in the world, rather than mere four days left. So far only military matters, ruled by iron wills of Thrawn and Ackbar, have been resolved. Plus, some humanitarian issues and the prisoners exchange program, the latter is actually moving ahead with lightening speed and the first show of good will is scheduled for tomorrow, once the first batch of former captives will arrive on Coruscant, in the full view of HoloNet News. A silver lining for those families that have been torn apart, kept in the dark about the fate of their loved ones for years. Nothing less, though, and Leia feels frustration growing somewhere deep inside. Yet, whenever Mon sets her mind on something… one can tell that the Chancellor has a twenty year head-start in political debates. Well, it definitely helps the matters that once the proposal is brought up in the Pinnacle room, Thrawn is as enthusiastic, as if he's been offered the entire galaxy on a platter, so the rest of the Imperial delegation says yes… if not with pleasure, then with begrudging acceptance of the inevitable.
So, for all Leia's protests, frowns, and subtle clearing of her throat, this evening finds both delegations at the Coruscant opera. She suspects the venue is also a factor in Mon's insistence on this particular gala. With the Galaxies Opera house forever tainted by the patronage of Chancellor and then Emperor Palpatine, the Coruscant Opera becomes a convenient metaphor for starting anew while also going back to the the golden age of the Republic. A perfect message and a perfect symbol… fit for another universe, where the New Republic would've entered the talks from the position of strength rather than on the brink of defeat.
As Leia takes in an opulent interior of the opera, the feeling grows. Though ancient, the building is breathtaking, from gilded carved moldings and ornamental balustrades to an elaborately painted ceiling that creates an illusion of an endless open sky, adorned with blinking faraway stars, a striking contrast to the real Coruscanti skyline, illuminated instead by constellations of skyscapers, speeders and shimmering ad screens. Yet all this splendour and sense of grandeur, a riot of details and decor seems better fit for another era, another time and place.
Leia can almost physically feel a sting of irritation and impatience, and only her father's lessons help her keep a neutral mask on her face, suppressing an urge just to drag everyone back to the Pinnacle room and lock them there until an agreement is reached. Instead, she smiles, corners of her lips perfunctorily tilt upwards in a gracious, perfectly practiced motion that she learned in the Senate, the one that usually means a complete opposite of joy or happiness. Luckily, curious onlookers and patrons, whose eyes are glued to private boxes where both delegations are taking their seats, will not know the difference. Leia suspects that they will follow every motion in their box with more avid interest than a drama that is about to unfold on stage. Her only consolidation is that Luke, who has just entered a box opposite with his squadron and Faro's team, the show of unity and all, serves as a momentarily distraction, so she can catch a breath.
Leia is about to take her seat, when she hears a familiar voice, measured and deep, sounding a touch quieter than normal, possibly in an attempt to create an illusion of privacy in what feels like a fishbowl.
"Let's give it to the Chancellor, it's an interesting, if a bit outdated choice of venue." Thrawn seems to be echoing her thoughts, as his palm in white glove subtly points out arcs, intricate tapestry and gilded balustrades that caught her eye before. "The baroque design of the building predates even the Galactic Republic, from what I know, a true relict of Coruscant, an aesthetic exercise and a sensory demonstration of power, aimed to persuade as well as impress." He extends his hand towards the front row of their box. "Non-adjustable seats height is an unfortunate consequence, so I would suggest you take my seat, Senator."
For all intents and purposes, it's Thrawn who should have taken the front row, next to Mon, Ackbar, Randd and Sloane: diplomatic protocol leaves no room for debate here - ranks, titles and official positions in respective governments normally define all seating arrangements. Still he offers his seat to Leia, completely oblivious to such a faux pas in the eyes of high-ranking officials. Yet, arguing with him would cause even more of a scene, and they have attracted enough raised eyebrows already, so she concedes with a nod.
Well into the first act, Leia writhes in her chair, trying to decide if she can make up an excuse or an emergency to get everyone back to the palace and resume the talks.
"Don't let impatience ruin this magnificent performance for you, Senator."
Thrawn whispers from behind, she can feel his breath caressing her neck, and fights to suppress a sudden shiver, born out of surprise, yes, that's it, just a surprise, nothing more.
"Had you taken your seat in the first place, no one would've paid attention to my impatience." She hisses, while she would've appreciated the gesture at any other time, tonight she is restless, time is slipping through their fingers like water and no one wants to do anything to stop it.
"Indeed, but they would've seen mine." Leia discreetly steals a glance at him from behind her shoulder, and catches Thrawn putting his comlink back in his pocket and turning his gaze to the stage. Her eyes widen. Oh, that arrogant, scheming, manipulative man, of course he is after something, and whatever he's doing, he remains unseen while all onlookers in the audience focus on her! Just as she is about to fully turn around and tell Thrawn what she thinks of his latest manoeuvre, a movement in the box opposite catches her eye. A mop of blond hair is impossible to miss in a semi-dark theatre, so she sees Luke sneaking out from his box.
"Traitor," Leia sends a mental rebuke his way.
But it does help to diffuse her temper, simply because she cannot decide who has just annoyed her more, Luke or Thrawn, and splitting outrage in two unusually leads to reducing its power.
After ten more minutes, she steals another look at Thrawn. Whatever he's been doing with his comlink is over, and now his eyes drink in the drama on stage, a transfixed, dares she say, enthralled expression on his face. She mentally tucks away this new facet of the usually impenetrable Grand Admiral to study later, wondering if she is ever going to make all pieces of the puzzle fit together.
As if feeling her gaze on him, Thrawn whispers.
"Tomorrow will be here soon enough, Senator, let's appreciate a moment of calm."
He puts his finger to his lips as she tries to retort.
"We're almost at the crescendo …."
She gets a ridiculous feeling that he is not talking about the performance, even if his eyes seem to be glued to the stage.
If the Coruscant opera felt like a fishbowl yesterday, the Senate Plaza (Leia still refuses to use the adjective Imperialto describe it) reminds her of a Mon Calamari water bubble, different scale, same claustrophobic feeling of being trapped, courtesy of curious public and incessant flashes of holo-cams. Thousands have gathered here in the plaza, while officials, admirals, generals and diplomats from both sides have taken to balconies of the old Senate building, overlooking the sea of people. Cam droids float over the crowds, lenses extended, some snapping static shots with blue flashes, others capturing events live as they unfold.
"Senator Organa," Commandant Hux bows to her, a polite smile set firmly on his face. "Glad that you've graced us with your presence."
Leia does feel gracious today, so opts to ignore a thinly-veiled sarcasm, obvious to anyone who has a shred of political experience. She may not like Hux and other Imperials, but credit where credit due, their assistance with the prisoners exchange has been invaluable.
"Thank you, today wouldn't have been possible without your help. I hope we can make same progress in other areas as well."
"Oh, I certainly do, Senator, I certainly do. Are you joining the Chancellor?"
"No, the central balcony is crowded as is." There is one more reason: Leia is politically astute enough to realise that she's been in the spotlight a bit too much during the talks. While Mon doesn't mind in the slightest, mainly because she has never been insecure in her position, she has noticed telltale looks from a few fellow members of the cabinet, councillor Fey'lya and governor Sindian included, so it would do her well to fly under the radar today. "I'll take the one on the left."
"Nonsense," Grand Moff Randd cuts in, "given your contribution to the whole endeavour, it's only right for you to celebrate this moment, you can take my place next to the Chancellor." She hesitates, for she has breached diplomatic protocol once already, but Randd adds in reassurance. "Don't worry, HoloPress will still get their both sides narrative - Grand Admiral Thrawn is already there."
It's tempting, not because that she wants any more spotlight, but because she wants to be on the Chancellor's balcony to see families reuniting. While most former captives are in the crowd downstairs, select few will join Mon. After Alderaan's destruction, Leia will never get a family reunion she wants, but others will, and that's a consolation enough to keep going, to convince herself that striking a deal with the Empire is the lesser evil, if it allows the conflict to end, healing the sense of loss and tragedy.
As she enters the central balcony, Mon greets her with a smile. Thrawn remains impassive, but she has learned him well enough to notice a shadow of tension on his face, nothing more than slight tightening of skin around his eyes, but it's enough. He doesn't like the idea, and for some reason it stings all of the sudden.
"Senator Organa, what a surprise… it's a bit windy up here, may be worth taking the second row this time."
Driven by sheer stubbornness, childish though it may be, Leia takes a place squarely between Mon and Thrawn in the first row. A little while later, Mon comes to a holo-microphone to start her speech. Leia listens with half the mind, given she helped to write it, she knows each and every paragraph by heart now. Belatedly, she realises that she hasn't checked one thing, so she slightly tilts her head towards Thrawn, and whispers.
"Who's making a speech for the Empire? You?"
"I think we've been through this, it's not my battlefield of choice."
That's a bit unusual, she hasn't seen any microphones set up on other balconies, and at these events, both sides have to put their stake into the ground, so to speak.
"Well, you certainly excel at lecturing though." Leia cannot help a jab, not that she minds her conversations with Thrawn, far from it, actually, but she cannot let him think that anything gets past her. For some reason, defying his expectations and shaking him up feels immensely satisfying, plus, he deserves it, for yesterday and today, she settles her internal debate with a righteous imaginary nod to herself.
"Only in front of a willing audience," Thrawn subtly inclines his head to her side. "But it won't come to it today."
Before she can respond, the crowd erupts in applause, and Mon is coming back to welcome a few former captives, who join them on the terrace. Men and women, imprisoned by the Empire for their support of the Alliance. They look pale, tired and shaken, gazing out on a non-existent point somewhere in front of them, and Leia feels a pang of compassion. A small part of her hopes that the Imperial prisoners entering one of the balconies opposite don't wear the same look on their faces, but truth is… she doesn't know. Consciously or not, she has always tried to avoid this part of the Alliance.
The cheers are deafening, swallowing all other sounds, it feels almost like a victory celebration, for people have no way of knowing how far the both sides really are from reaching an agreement. Hope, Leia muses, is a wonderful thing, ephemeral and infinitely powerful at the same time. Hope is like the sun. If you only believe in it when you can see it, you'll never make it through the night, so she promises to herself to keep that hope alive, regardless of her inner cynic.
Then… a flash, not a blue one of cam droids, but a white hot one of a blaster shot.
Everything unfolds in hyper speed and slow motion at the same time, seconds stretch and stands still, while Leia observes as if from the outside.
Somewhere down in the crowd, the shots are fired, she spies jostled bodies and turning heads. What happens next is a mess, a haze of blaster fire, screams mixed with whine of servomotors in the air, mortar rounds and incessant holo-cam flashes, for press droids are programmed to increase snap frequency at any hint of an unrest.
On their balcony, one of the former prisoners has his arm up and extended out. Pointing at her. His face is a mask of horror, as if he is in a haze, but his arm is steady. In his hand is a small pistol: a three-shot hold-out blaster.
He isn't alone, though, all the liberated captives have them.
One points right at Mon.
Another one squarely at Thrawn.
A flash of white, then another, and she expects to feel the brining hot plasma cutting through her body, but instead falls, shielded, dragged to the ground by Thrawn.
Blood is ringing in her ears, as she hits her head on the floor.
Out the corner of her eye, she catches a white crumpled shape: Mon is on the ground.
She sees Luke, Faro and some creatures that look like Thrawn's bodyguard swarm the terrace, firing stun blasts at the scattering liberated captives.
Leia tries to move her head, but ringing in her ears, coupled with screams and sirens, becomes unbearable, she moves just an inch, and sees crimson, too much crimson on a pristine white uniform.
A stupid, stupid thought runs through her mind before unconsciousness traps her in the mist of white and red.
It's day 11.
Author's note
Apparently, a long weekend means more time to start questioning my writing, so posting it before I delete this chapter again from my drafts. I love cliffhangers just like Palpatine loves democracy, meaning I treat them as a necessary evil and use sparingly.
Wookiepedia helpfully points out that the Coruscant Opera, the most prestigious art house in the galaxy back in a day, was built in a baroque design that predated the formation of the Galactic Republic, so obviously I couldn't resist taking this fact and running with it, given we have a certain art connoisseur in the mix…
A Mon Calamari water bubble – a special something for those of us who have heard and know by heart the tragedy of Darth Plagues the Wise. Palatine told Anakin the best fairytale in the galaxy during the performance of Squid Like by Mon Calamari ballet at the Galaxies Opera house, so the huge water sphere you see on stage is what I was referring to, again couldn't resist since we seem to be taking coups and theatre here.
A plot bunny with a prisoners exchange actually comes from the new canon novel Aftermath: Life Debt, with a bit of twist from my side. Let's say, we will deep dive into that in next chapters, stay tuned.