The jarring buzz of his comlink startled Count Dooku from his meditations. It was Ventress. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features. He had specifically instructed her to avoid contacting him unless it was absolutely necessary. Whatever it was, it had better be worth interrupting his planning to disrupt Sidious. "Ventress," he answered, his tone clipped, "What is it?"
"My Lord," Ventress' voice crackled through the comlink, laced with a hint of breathless excitement, "I went to Christophsis to confirm Skywalker's location. On the way, we encountered a clone... a deserter. He's willing to betray the Republic."
Dooku's brow furrowed, skepticism warring with intrigue. "A clone deserter?" he echoed, pacing restlessly across his opulent study. "I had thought all clones were fanatically loyal to the Republic. Are you certain this isn't a trap?"
"He provided us with intelligence regarding the Republic's attack strategy on Christophsis," Ventress explained, her voice radiating a confident assurance that momentarily eased Dooku's apprehension. "He confirmed that both Generals Skywalker and Kenobi are leading the assault."
Dooku already knew Anakin was on Christophsis, thanks to Padmé's heartfelt plea for the young Jedi's safety. This intel, while confirming Padmé's message as genuine, was hardly groundbreaking. "Anything of actual value, or just common knowledge of no importance?" he pressed, his tone betraying a hint of impatience.
"He provided a detailed breakdown of their troop deployments, and he was willing to destroy their cannons," Ventress elaborated, her voice tinged with a hint of pride. "Valuable intel, my Lord. Enough to cripple their offensive."
Intriguing, but still not enough to justify the risk. "Did he offer any explanation for his... betrayal?" Dooku inquired, his mind racing. The implications of a clone turning against the Republic, against the very entity that had created them, were staggering.
"He claims to feel like a slave to the Republic," Ventress revealed, her voice laced with amusement.
"He's not wrong," Dooku murmured, a flicker of sympathy momentarily eclipsing his skepticism. The clones, for all their unwavering loyalty and impressive combat prowess, were essentially slaves, their very existence a testament to the Republic's desperation and its willingness to compromise its ideals in the pursuit of victory. "I had thought that the Kaminoans had eradicated any inkling of such independent thought within their genetic makeup."
"Apparently, they were not as effective as you and Sidious believed," Ventress interjected, her voice tinged with a hint of dark amusement.
"Indeed," Dooku agreed, his mind already racing with possibilities. If the clones were developing a sense of individuality, a desire for autonomy, then this could be the key to breaking Sidious's grip on the Republic. "We must find more clones who share this sentiment, who yearn for liberation from their servitude." He paused, a plan beginning to form in his mind, a daring gamble that could tip the scales of the war in his favor.
"What shall we do with them, my Lord?" Ventress inquired, her voice laced with anticipation. "Shall we assemble an army of deserters?"
"No," Dooku countered, his tone dismissive. He did not want to give Sidious a hint of this development, but he needed to still take advantage of this opportunity. "We will remove their inhibitor chips. But without Sidious's knowledge."
Ventress's brow furrowed, her confusion evident. "Inhibitor chips, my Lord? What purpose do they serve?"
Dooku had forgotten about Ventress's lack of knowledge on this subject. "They ensure the clones' unwavering obedience to Sidious," Dooku explained, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They are programmed to respond to certain commands, commands that override their free will, turning them into mindless puppets dancing to the Sith Lord's tune." The memory of Order 66, a chilling directive Sidious had ordered him to add to the troops chips years ago, sent a shiver down his spine.
"I will remove the chip from this clone as soon as possible," Ventress declared, eager to prove her worth.
"Do so," Dooku commanded. "And inform him that the Separatists will provide sanctuary for him, and for any other clones who seek liberation from the Republic's yoke. Tell him they will find safety and freedom on Serenno. Offer them hope." He paused, his gaze hardening. "But warn him, and any others who join him, to maintain absolute secrecy. Our enemies cannot discover this… initiative."
"How do we prevent Sidious from discovering our actions, my Lord?" Ventress pressed, her voice laced with a hint of apprehension. "His network of spies is vast, his influence pervasive."
Dooku's mind raced, the enormity of the risk pressing down on him. If Sidious discovered his plan, his carefully crafted rebellion would crumble under the Sith Lord's wrath. He had to tread carefully, to conceal his true motives, to weave a web of deception that would shield his actions from his former master's prying eyes. "Tell the clone to spread the word, but to avoid mentioning our involvement," he finally responded, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. "These clones are merely deserters, seeking refuge from the Republic. We offer them an escape from the Republic, nothing more." He paused, his gaze hardening. "And should Sidious inquire, I will assure him that these clones pose no threat to our cause. They are only temporarily gone, and still have their chips." It was a gamble, a dangerous game played in the shadows, but Dooku was determined to see it through. He had to find a way to dismantle the Republic's corrupt institutions and the Sith's insidious grip. And perhaps, just perhaps, these clones, these unexpected allies, could be a part of his future army. He could only hope that his plan wouldn't backfire, that his carefully crafted deception wouldn't unravel, and that the Force would guide him towards a better future for him and the galaxy.
The bridge stretched before them, a narrow concrete and steel artery leading into the heart of the enemy's stronghold. A silent, ominous sentinel against the backdrop of Chaleydonia's sprawling skyline. It was the only direct path into the heavily fortified city center, the outer districts left eerily undefended, and Anakin's unease intensified. What would the trap Admiral Trench had entail. Anakin reached for his comlink, to attempt to contact Admiral Yularen. Static crackled in his ear, the signal jammed. They were cut off. Isolated. Trapped.
Before he could voice his frustration, a transmission request blared through the comlink, the Separatist insignia flashing menacingly on the small display. Obi-Wan, his face a mask of grim anticipation, nodded, "Answer it, Anakin."
The holographic image of Admiral Trench, his reptilian features twisted into a cruel smirk, materialized before them, the backdrop of the Separatist fleet a chilling testament to their precarious situation. "It appears you Jedi have fallen for my little ruse," Trench sneered, his voice a grating rasp that echoed the clacking of droid battalions on the bridge. "I offer you a chance to surrender peacefully, Jedi. We have no desire for unnecessary bloodshed."
Anger flared within Anakin, a hot, indignant surge that made his hand twitch towards his lightsaber. "We will never surrender to the Separatists!" he retorted, his voice laced with a defiant fury that echoed the unwavering resolve of the clone troopers at his side.
Trench chuckled, a dry, reptilian sound that sent a shiver down Anakin's spine. "Then prepare to lose," he stated, his gaze cold and calculating. He severed the transmission with a snap, the holographic image dissolving into nothingness. Anakin frowned, confusion momentarily eclipsing his anger. Why hadn't Trench said "die"? The answer, unwelcome but undeniable, whispered through his mind. Dooku. The Sith Lord still held out hope for Anakin's allegiance, a dangerous allure that tugged at his conscience. It made perfect sense, and it fit with Dooku's past actions.
"We must secure that bridge, Anakin," Obi-Wan urged, his voice a steady counterpoint to the escalating tension. "Before those reinforcements arrive." Droids were waiting on the far side of the bridge, their blasters glinting ominously, a metallic tide poised to engulf them. But they were still manageable, their numbers a fraction of the force Trench would undoubtedly unleashed upon them.
"Move! Move! Move!" Captain Rex barked, his voice a sharp counterpoint to the rising tension. The clone troopers, their faces grim but resolute, charged towards the bridge, their blasters spitting a symphony of fiery death. Laser bolts ricocheted across the bridge, a deadly dance of light and destruction.
"Take cover!" Rex commanded, his voice barely audible above the deafening roar of blaster fire. The clones, trained for this very scenario, dove for cover behind scattered crates and debris, returning fire with a precision that spoke of their unwavering discipline.
Anakin, a whirlwind of blue energy, leapt onto a nearby crate, his lightsaber deflecting a barrage of laser bolts with a speed that defied human reflexes. The Force flowed through him, a conduit of power and precision, guiding his every movement. He could sense the fear of the droids, their programmed obedience overriding any instinct for self-preservation. This was no fair fight, no battle of equals. It was a slaughter, a grim prelude to the future conflict that might await them, but in reverse. They pushed forward, inch by bloody inch, across the bridge, the ground littered with the smoking husks of deactivated droids. Their initial resistance, a mere delaying tactic, had crumbled under the relentless onslaught of the clone troopers, their superior training and unwavering determination proving decisive. As they reached the far side of the bridge, a new wave of dread washed over Anakin. The ground trembled beneath his feet, the air vibrating with a deep, ominous rumble. The roar of engines, closer now, louder than before, announced the arrival of Trench's reinforcements.
"Artoo, how many?" Anakin asked, his voice laced with a desperate urgency. The astromech droid beeped frantically, activating a holographic display that revealed a chilling truth. Hundreds of troop transports, their angular forms blotting out the twilight sky, were descending upon their position. The numbers, staggering in their sheer magnitude, outweighed their own forces a hundredfold. They were hopelessly outmatched, facing annihilation.
"Sir, we have artillery at our disposal," Captain Rex reported, his voice a steady beacon amidst the rising panic. Other clone troopers were assembling the heavy cannons, their movements swift and efficient, a testament to their unwavering discipline.
"How many droids are still entrenched within the city?" Anakin inquired, his gaze scanning the area, seeking a defensible position.
"Three quarters of their forces were positioned on the bridge, sir," Rex informed him, his voice laced with a hint of grim optimism. "The remainder are scattered throughout the city. We should be able to neutralize them with minimal casualties. The trouble will be with the reinforcements."
"Let's focus on fortifying our position here, and using our cannons," Obi-Wan commanded, his voice firm and resolute. Clone troopers scrambled to assemble makeshift barricades, utilizing the wreckage of destroyed droids and scattered debris to create a defensive perimeter.
Anakin, his heart pounding in his chest, watched the preparations, a gnawing sense of helplessness consuming him. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and trapped. He closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force, seeking guidance amidst the encroaching darkness. He could feel Padmé, a distant beacon of love and hope, her presence a lifeline in the swirling chaos of his thoughts. He would not fail her. He would not allow these brave soldiers to die in vain. He would find a way, even if it meant defying the odds, or even fate itself. This was just his first battle, the start in a war that would consume the galaxy. And he, Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight, husband, and reluctant warrior, would win.
The emerald jewel of Rodia swelled in the viewport as Padmé's Naboo Star Skiff pierced the planet's atmosphere. Lush, verdant jungles stretched across the planet's surface, punctuated by shimmering lagoons and sprawling, interconnected waterways. Islands of civilization, each encased within translucent domes, dotted the landscape, a testament to the Rodians' ingenuity and their resilience in the face of their challenging environment. Padmé felt a pang of sadness as she observed the planet's beauty, her heart heavy with the knowledge of the suffering that lurked beneath the idyllic façade. She was here on a mission of mercy, a desperate attempt to alleviate the hunger that gripped Rodia, a consequence of the senseless conflict that now engulfed the galaxy. Her destination, the domed city of Iskaayuma, glimmered in the distance, a beacon of hope amidst the vast expanse of jungle. As her ship approached the city, the translucent dome shimmered, parting to grant her access. With a gentle whoosh, the skiff glided into one of the many landing bays, its sleek form a stark contrast to the bustling activity of the hangar. Padmé, her senatorial robes flowing gracefully behind her, stepped out of the ship, her gaze immediately settling on the familiar figure awaiting her arrival. Onaconda Farr, his green skin a vibrant counterpoint to the metallic gleam of the hangar, stood patiently near the landing platform, his expression a mixture of relief and apprehension.
"Uncle Ono," Padmé greeted him warmly, a genuine affection lacing her voice.
"Padmé," Onaconda responded, his voice laced with gratitude, "Thank you for coming. I know this is a difficult time for this, especially with the war." He gestured towards a nearby exit, his expression turning somber. "We can talk more... privately, inside."
"Of course," Padmé agreed, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed the tension in Onaconda's demeanor. He must be under significant stress due to his people's troubles. She followed him towards the exit, accompanied by Threepio, her protocol droid, his polished golden exterior gleaming under the hangar lights.
As they exited the hangar, Padmé's gaze swept over the cityscape. Iskaayuma, a vibrant metropolis of towering structures, hummed with activity. Rodians, their green skin a kaleidoscope of hues, went about their daily lives, a semblance of normalcy amidst the encroaching shadow of hunger. She knew that beneath the surface, desperation gnawed at the heart of the city, a grim consequence of the disrupted trade routes and the callous manipulations of those who profited from war. Onaconda led them towards a towering structure, its sleek, organic design a testament to the Rodian's architectural prowess. He had a room prepared for them, a quiet sanctuary where they could discuss the dire situation without prying eyes or eavesdropping ears.
As they settled into comfortable chairs around a small, elegantly crafted table, Padmé knew it was time to address the elephant in the room. "Uncle Ono," she began, her voice laced with compassion, "I want to assure you that the Republic will respond to your people's suffering. I will work tirelessly to provide aid, and to alleviate the hunger that has gripped your world."
Onaconda's face, etched with worry and exhaustion, betrayed his skepticism. "I appreciate your words, Padmé," he responded, his voice laced with a weariness that tugged at her heartstrings. "But I have yet to see any tangible evidence of this aid. My people are starving. They are dying."
"I will personally petition the Senate," Padmé vowed, her voice filled with a conviction that mirrored her own desperation. "I will fight for Rodia like I do for Naboo, for the resources you need to survive this crisis. You have my word."
A flicker of gratitude crossed Onaconda's face, a momentary spark of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. But then, his expression morphed into one of utter despair, his eyes filled with a pain that made Padmé's blood run cold. "Padmé, I…" he began, his voice cracking with emotion. "I'm so sorry. I had no other choice."
Panic surged through Padmé, her instincts screaming danger. "What did you do?" she demanded, her gaze searching his face for an explanation.
The answer came not from Onaconda's lips, but from the menacing clank of battle droids marching into the room, their blasters trained on Padmé and Threepio. She felt a cold dread settle over her, a sense of betrayal so profound it nearly stole her breath. "The Separatists," Onaconda confessed, his voice a barely audible whisper. "Nute Gunray promised me food for my people. All I had to do was join the Separatists… and invite you here."
"You can't trust Gunray!" Padmé exclaimed, her voice laced with a desperate urgency. She had seen firsthand the Neimoidian Viceroy's ruthlessness, his callous disregard for sentient life, his willingness to exploit entire worlds for profit. To trust him with the fate of Rodia was sheer madness.
Footsteps announced the arrival of Nute Gunray himself, his spindly form draped in opulent robes, a cruel smirk twisting his pal face. "Senator Amidala," he greeted her, his voice a sibilant hiss that sent a shiver down Padmé's spine. "We meet again. It seems fate has a curious sense of humor, wouldn't you agree?"
"Uncle Ono," Padmé pleaded, her gaze fixed on the Rodian, seeking the compassion she knew was there. "He wants to kill me. You must know that."
"He promised me he wouldn't harm you," Onaconda responded, his voice weak, his eyes filled with a haunted sorrow that mirrored the depths of Padmé's own despair.
"And I will honor my promise," Gunray interjected, his gaze fixed upon Padmé, his tone laced with a false sincerity that made her skin crawl. "On Rodia, at least," he smirked. "Of Rodia there may be an unfortunate accident."
Padmé could see the realization dawning on Onaconda's face, the crushing weight of betrayal as he understood the true nature of Gunray's bargain. He had sacrificed her, his friend, in exchange for his people's new food.
"I'm sorry, Padmé," Onaconda whispered, his voice filled with a grief so profound it shattered her heart.
"I know," Padmé responded, her voice a mere whisper. She couldn't blame him. He had acted out of desperation, a desire to save his people, a noble intention, and fallen for Gunray's insidious manipulations. The droids closed in, their metallic forms a cold, impersonal barrier between her and freedom. She cast one last glance at Onaconda, his face etched with a sorrow that mirrored the galaxy's own pain. She had to believe that, somehow, she would escape this trap. But for now, all she could offer was a silent prayer. She had escaped every other assassination attempt. She would escape this one, too. Maybe Threepio could still send a message for help.
"Master," Count Dooku began, bowing his head respectfully, though resentment simmered beneath the surface. He loathed these summons, these jarring intrusions into his carefully crafted plans. Yet, he knew better than to defy the will of Darth Sidious.
The hooded visage of the Sith Lord, bathed in the eerie blue glow of the holocom, crackled into existence. "Yes, Dooku," Sidious's voice, a gravelly rasp that sent a shiver down his spine, echoed through the opulent study of Castle Serenno. "I have a new mission for you."
Dooku closed his eyes, silently beseeching the Force. Please, let this not jeopardize my plans for Skywalker. He couldn't afford another setback, another obstacle thrown in his path by the Sith Lord's machinations. He had to tread carefully, to weave his own schemes within the tapestry of Sidious's grand design, and without him noticing.
"What is this mission, Master?" Dooku inquired, his voice carefully neutral, masking the fear that gnawed at his insides.
"You will orchestrate the kidnapping of Jabba the Hutt's son, Rotta," Sidious commanded, his voice a chilling whisper that seemed to slither through the very air. "And you will ensure that the Republic is framed for the crime."
Dooku's brow furrowed, skepticism warring with a flicker of intrigue. While the mission seemed straightforward enough, the potential consequences were far-reaching. Jabba the Hutt, a notorious crime lord whose influence extended across the Outer Rim, was not one to be trifled with. Then again, Jabba was known to be quite fond of his son. Perhaps this presented an opportunity, a chance to turn this task to his advantage. He could force Jabba to free slaves, and even if it barely had any real effect it would at least look to Anakin like he truly cared about his homeworld.
"Yes, Master," Dooku responded, his voice laced with a newfound determination. "It shall be done."
"Do not fail me, Dooku," Sidious added, his tone a chilling blend of warning and dismissal. The words, though unnecessary, hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the price of failure. Dooku knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that Sidious's wrath would always be swift and merciless.
He bowed his head once more, severing the connection with a sense of relief that bordered on exhaustion. This mission, though potentially beneficial to his own plans, was a dangerous gamble, a tightrope walk above an abyss of uncertainty. As the holographic image of the Sith Lord faded into nothingness, Dooku activated his comlink, summoning his personal protocol droid. The droid glided silently into the study, its photoreceptors fixed upon Dooku with an unwavering attentiveness. "Master Dooku," the droid greeted him, its voice a modulated baritone devoid of inflection, "You summoned me."
"Yes," Dooku responded, his mind already racing ahead, formulating plans, weaving a complex web of deception designed to achieve his own objectives while seeming to achieve those of his treacherous master. "I require confirmation. Is the village for the clone army deserters prepared? Are the facilities adequate? Are the surgeons ready to receive them?" He had tasked Ventress with locating and extracting these rogue clones. They were a valuable asset, and a potential weapon against Sidious's control.
"Yes, Master Dooku," the droid replied, its voice a soothing balm to Dooku's anxieties. "The village is operational. The surgeons, highly skilled in cybernetics and neurology, are standing by, awaiting your orders."
Dooku nodded, a sense of satisfaction settling over him. "Excellent," he murmured. "And my shuttle? Is it prepared for immediate departure to Tatooine?" He had to move swiftly, to stay ahead of Sidious's plans, and to slowly turn this game to his advantage.
"It is, Master Dooku," the droid responded. "The shuttle is fueled, provisioned, and awaiting your arrival at the hangar."
"Then we depart within the hour," Dooku commanded.
The weight of solitude pressed down on Padmé as she paced the confines of her makeshift cell. It was a small, sparsely furnished room, its only window offering a panoramic view of Iskaayuma's bustling cityscape, a cruel reminder of the freedom that had been snatched from her grasp. She chided herself for her naiveté. How could she have been so blind, so trusting? She had assumed that her visit to Rodia was a straightforward humanitarian mission, a chance to help a friend in need. Now, she was a prisoner to Nute Gunray. She glanced at the heavy door, its metallic surface cold and unforgiving. Two battle droids stood guard outside, their emotionless visages and gleaming blasters a constant reminder of her precarious situation. Had she been too eager to see the good in Count Dooku, to believe in the possibility of dialogue, of a peaceful resolution to this senseless war? Disappointment, a bitter taste on her tongue, mingled with the fear that gnawed at her insides. She had to escape. She had to find a way to contact the Republic, to alert them to her situation, and to prevent the Rodians from becoming pawns in the Separatists' grand scheme. But how? Her comlink, she had foolishly left behind in her haste to answer Onaconda's summons. She cursed her own carelessness, her naive assumption that a communicator would be unnecessary for such a seemingly innocuous visit.
Her gaze fell upon her handcuffs, their metallic gleam a mocking reminder of her captivity. They were standard-issue cuffs, their locking mechanisms familiar. A small, defiant smile touched her lips. Luckily, she had a contingency for such situations. With practiced ease, she maneuvered the cuffs, bringing them to the top of her head, her wrists deftly manipulating the hidden lockpicks disguised as ornate hairpins. These were her secret weapon, a reminder of her time spent as Queen Amidala, a time when subterfuge and disguise had been essential tools in her arsenal. She would never have imagined she would need them here, but she was glad she had still brought them. With the lockpick gripped between her teeth, she carefully inserted it into the keyhole, feeling for the familiar tumblers, her wrists twisting slightly to gain the necessary leverage. A soft click echoed through the silent room as the cuffs sprang open, a small victory that fueled her determination. Now, for the more challenging part of her escape: getting the droids to open the door. She approached the window, its transparisteel surface offering a breathtaking view of the city, and then a terrifying view of the distance to the ground. Taking a deep breath, she hoisted herself onto the narrow window ledge, her heart pounding in her chest, her fingers gripping the smooth surface with a desperate intensity. With a practiced agility that belied her senatorial robes, she scaled the wall, her feet finding purchase on the textured surface, her body pressing against the cool metal. Reaching the ceiling, she paused, taking a moment to compose herself, to formulate a plan. Then, her voice a theatrical projection of relief, she called out, "Thank you, Master Jedi! You saved me!"
She hammered against the transparisteel window, mimicking the sound of a lightsaber clashing against a blaster, creating a convincing illusion of a Jedi assault. The droids reacted instantly. "Uh-oh," one of the droids exclaimed, its modulated voice laced with a programmed panic. "A Jedi! We must stop them!"
The heavy door hissed open, a metallic invitation to freedom. Padmé, her heart pounding with anticipation, dropped from the ceiling, landing gracefully on the unsuspecting droid. Her hand shot out, snatching the blaster from its grasp, her movements fluid and precise. "Help!" the droid sputtered, its voice a garbled cry cut short by the deafening blast of the blaster. Padmé didn't hesitate, she knew her survival was paramount. She raced through the now-open doorway, her senses on high alert.
Her priority was to contact the Republic. She needed reinforcements, needed to alert them to Gunray's trap, and to the Rodians' plight. She sprinted down the corridor, the metallic walls blurring past her, her mind racing, desperate for a solution. She had to reach a communication room, a lifeline to the outside world. Up ahead, she spotted a door marked with the familiar symbol of a comm station, her heart leaping with a surge of hope. She burst into the room, her fingers flying across the control panel, frantically attempting to establish a connection with a Republic vessel. She had no time for subtlety, no time for encryption protocols. She blasted a message, her voice a desperate plea that echoed through the comms system. "This is Senator Amidala! I need immediate assistance! I am being held captive by Separatist forces on Rodia!"
Silence met her plea. Only static crackled in response, a symphony of despair that mirrored the turmoil within her. Then, a voice, a familiar baritone that sent a shiver down her spine, broke through the static. "Senator Amidala," Count Dooku's voice, a mixture of surprise and amusement, echoed through the room. "What an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to this... precarious situation?" His holographic image materialized on the display, his regal presence both a source of hope and a chilling reminder of the dangerous game she was playing.
Padmé quickly enabled encryption on the signal, her mind racing. Dooku was her only hope. She desperately hoped he would help her. "I don't know what you can do about this, Count," she explained, her voice carefully controlled, masking the desperation she felt. "Your Separatists are the ones who captured me. They're planning to kill me."
Dooku's brow furrowed, his expression a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. "I never authorized any attempt on your life, Senator," he stated firmly.
"So, you only authorized my capture?" Padmé countered, her tone laced with a hint of accusation.
"No," Dooku responded, his gaze steady. "I have no desire to capture you either. I believe that, in time, you will join me willingly. I have no need for force or coercion."
Padmé scoffed. "Your actions speak louder than your words, Count. Your Separatists have tried to kill me twice now! Not exactly the best way to win my trust, wouldn't you agree?"
Dooku's expression softened, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes. "I apologize for the actions of my... associates, Senator. They often act with excessive zeal. May I inquire as to the circumstances of your capture?"
Padmé's anger flared, her carefully constructed Amidala composure momentarily cracking. "I was trying to help," she exclaimed, her voice laced with indignation. "Senator Farr's people are starving! I came here to offer aid, to find a solution, and your Separatists turned it into a trap!"
"Calm yourself, Senator," Dooku said, his voice soothing, attempting to de-escalate the situation. "I will rectify this situation. But I require your discretion. For now, tell no one except Anakin of my involvement in your release." He paused before adding, "Actually tell him about me helping you."
Padmé's mind raced. Did Dooku know about their marriage? Or was he merely assuming a close friendship between them? Either way, his request was not unreasonable. She would likely have told Anakin about the entire ordeal. Honesty, she reminded herself, was the foundation of any good marriage. "Deal," Padmé responded, her tone clipped. She wouldn't want to broadcast this conversation to the entire galaxy anyway. They would brand her a traitor, and she would face expulsion from the Senate.
"Excellent," Dooku responded, a subtle smile playing upon his lips. "I will transmit the necessary orders to Gunray. He will release you immediately, along with sufficient food supplies for Rodia."
"What if the Rodians want to rejoin the Republic?" Padmé pressed, unwilling to abandon the people she had come to help.
Dooku's smile faded, his expression hardening slightly. "You cannot expect me to send aid to a Republic world, Senator," he responded, his voice laced with a hint of displeasure. "However, as long as they remain with the Separatists, their needs will be met. You see, Senator, we care for our people. It is one of the many ways in which we are superior to the Republic."
Padmé's jaw clenched, frustration warring with the relief that flooded her. She knew, deep down, that Dooku was using this situation to his advantage, to further his own agenda, to paint the Separatists in a favorable light. But the lives of countless Rodians hung in the balance, and she had to choose her battles carefully. "Thank you, Count," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "I appreciate your assistance." She severed the connection, her heart pounding with a mixture of relief and apprehension. Dooku had saved her, but at a cost. Rodia would leave the Republic. She glanced at the orders Dooku had transmitted, their official seals a tangible reminder of his influence, of the power he wielded within the Separatist movement. This was a dangerous game she was playing, a game where the lines between ally and enemy blurred, a game where the stakes were the fate of the galaxy. But she had no choice. She had to believe that peace was still attainable, that a better future was possible, a future where Anakin, her beloved, could finally lay down his lightsaber and find peace.