บท 12: Chapter VIII: No Prisoners, Part 1
(Author's Note:)
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Well, it's official, here we are headed into Book canon, the next few chapters follow the novel Star Wars: The Clone Wars: No Prisoners. This part of the story serves to develop the relationship and character dynamics of Kellian and Ahsoka, as well as the history between Kellian and Pellaeon for use in the Rebellion part of the story. So far we haven't seen an extended campaign dynamic between Ahsoka and Kellian which is a key reason I'm doing this arc. So far it's largely been Exposition between the two of a past tutor-student relationship and if I'm being honest reading the relationship content between them is a little awkward for me, and I wrote that shit. I will forewarn you though, that this here chapter will contain an interesting conversation with Ahsoka, on its own and for the moment it won't matter too much, but down the line we'll see. Another reason I'm doing this is because of Jedi Master Altis being in the story, which will become a crucial point of contact later down the line. At any rate, this will be fun, that conversation I mentioned? That's gonna be my favorite part of this chapter to write, but I won't rush it.
One thing I want to bring up is that this first chapter will have little deviation from the book's opening chapters, and the reason for that is because the book's opening chapters require very little deviation because Kellian's involvement in the first four thousand words is almost non-existent. Which means that the first Kellian POV will be your cue to start getting invested for the aforementioned conversation between Kellian and Ahsoka.
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(Captain Gilad Pellaeon's Cabin, Republic Acclamator-Class Assault Ship Leveler, Dantus Sector, Outer Rim Territories)
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(Gilad Pellaeon POV)
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Gilad Pellaeon looked at himself in the mirror as he lathered up his face for his task at hand.
Shaving.
He couldn't help but grunt as that one stray thought of his recent calling before the promotion board.
'So who wants to make Admiral, anyway?'
All braid and memos. Is that any way for a fighting man to spend his days? Committees, budgets, politics. No, thank you. He has a war to win.
Anyway … the command of a warship is all that anyone in this game wants, should want, because this is what it's all about. He didn't join the navy to write memos. Captain Pellaeon suited him just fine.
So they could keep their promotion board, gentlemen. He didn't require their validation, after all, he was in a position they weren't. He was part of the secret think tank, the War Trust. He had connections they did not, a connection he suspected they all envied. These men on his promotion board were all old and powerful, yet not one of them received an invite to the secret project under the purview of General Ordo, yet someone like him had? Even as a correllian born child to affluent parents within the sphere of influence that was the senatorial department of his homeworld, Gilad Pellaeon knew that as much as his parental connections had helped him, they would do him no favors in the face of the men on the promotion board.
''Ah, damn it.'' Focusing back to his task and his reflection in the mirror, he notes he'd just cut himself. Quickly he dabbed his cut with a Bacta patch, and was pleased to note the cut was healing fast…00
'Stang—either this mirror is cracked, or I'm starting to get wrinkly. Hallena won't like that.' He thought, a soft smile forming at the thought of his lover.
"Sir?" Lieutenant Meriones raps on the bulkhead. "Sir, you asked me to let you know when—"
"I'm shaving, Lieutenant …" The boy's like one of those hyperactive little rodents on Ber de Val, all mangy hair, twitches, and zero attention span. "I need to concentrate."
"Might it not be safer to use a depilatory rather than a razor, sir?"
He and Meriones were not from the same navy, that much has long been evident. And he had connections. That's the only way he could possibly get a commission. There are some bitter jokes in the Republic Fleet—if you're warm, you're in. Eyesight test: we don't test 'em, we only count 'em. And so on. The selection board seems to require only a pulse and the right social background these days. In his time, his connections got him his foot in the door, his skill and talent earned him his place. Meriones connections got him a seat and commission, despite his lackluster talent or skills. Though, the lad was certainly a skilled organizer. That was half the reason Pellaeon tolerated him.
We're new to all-out war. The Republic's never had to fight like this before, not since the Great Galactic War of ages past. Now we all find out what we're made of, even Meriones.
No wonder we had to buy a clone army …
"Very well, Lieutenant, you'd better spit it out before I sever my jugular."
"Chief engineer reports that we're ready to slip, sir. And there's an encrypted message from an Agent Devis."
There's no smirk in his voice. He has no idea about Hallena Devis—and him. Ideally he'd like to keep it that way. "I'll be on the bridge as soon as I'm done. I'll take the message here."
What's she up to now? Why is she contacting him like this? Hiding in plain sight?
There's really no need to worry. Is there? Hallena is an intelligence agent. A spy: a spook. If anyone can take care of herself in a dangerous place, it's Hallena, and that's what makes her so appealing. He doesn't find weak women attractive.
Even so … He still worried, Hallena was special, she had a rare fierceness and fire his past flings did not have, not like Hallena did at any rate.
The Leveler was fresh from a refit in the Kemla shipyards, with more than a few extra bells and whistles. He'd always gotten the prototypes. Maybe the Fleet board thinks he'd be no great loss if any of their new experimental toys blows up. So now they needed to find a quiet spot in the Dantus sector, a long way from any trouble and well away from the yards—a few days' work-up to iron out any problems, just as they're supposed to.
Then they can finally get on with the business of the war, and he specifically can help fulfill his duties to end this war that much sooner.
The console of his desk chirps to let him know Hallena's message has been transferred from the bridge.
"Very good, sir." The rodent-child waits as if he expects Pellaeon is going to read it in front of him. "Oh, one more thing, sir."
"Yes …" Pellaeon replied, trying not to convey the fact his patience was wearing thin.
''Captain Rex sends his compliments and asks if he might join Leveler for an acquaint. He has new troops and a green Padawan to bring up to speed with this class of vessel."
"Certainly." Rex was a solid, sensible chap. He also tells very good jokes when he's not playing the obedient soldier. "No General Skywalker?"
''No, sir. Just his Padawan. A Togruta female."
So Rex is free to tell jokes in the wardroom. Good.
''Very well. Let me know when he's inbound. Dismissed."
Pellaeon goes back to shaving the old-fashioned way, and worrying about Hallena whether he had cause to or not. Yes, he knows his predilection for unsuitable women has effectively killed his promotion prospects. Unbecoming for an officer, they say; he should be more discreet, settle down, get the right career wife to match a spotless career status. But they have a short time in this galaxy, and he swore long ago to live that time to the fullest.
There's a war on. His time may be … short.
'Now let's read that message. No, she doesn't say where she is. She never does.'
Ouch. The little rodent was right about that blade, though.
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(POV Shift: Hallena Devis)
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Agent Tarrast was correct when he said thar the dust that blew in from the plains was pale gray, as fine and as clogging as ferrocrete powder, but felt like getting blasted in the face with some foul chemical.
It was a small wonder that the locals kept their windows and doors tightly shuttered at this time of year. Hallena kept her kerchief over her mouth and nose, but the dust still managed to work its way into her eyes. Her vision blurred; blinking didn't clear it. She was forced to shelter in a doorway on the main square while she tried to rub the kriffing stuff out of her eyes.
Now she understood why the Athari were so prone to spitting in the streets. They were very good at it, too—accurate, discreet, and almost elegant in their technique. Since she'd arrived a few days ago, Hallena had learned to dodge the streams and even manage an occasional well-aimed squirt of her own.
Fit in. Go gray—blend in with the population, like you've been here all your life …
It was just like wine-tasting in a smart Coruscant tapcaf, except the flavor filling her mouth was the flat mineral-based bitterness of dust coating her tongue, not a rich, fruity Ondo Lava—
Wait now, is this stuff toxic?
Doesn't matter, with the practice she has had, she recited her techniques mentally, before releasing.
Swirl. Lean a little. Aim. Spit hard.
Hallena put a bit of force behind it. Sometimes it was more difficult than it looked. She was aware of someone walking toward her, head lowered against a steady wind that never seemed to drop, and then she realized why Gilad always warned her when they sailed his personal yacht to test the wind direction before dumping liquid overboard.
Splat.
''Aw, terrific.'' Said a male voice. ''Lady, can't you even spit straight?''
She had to shield her face with her hand. Sharper, bigger fragments of dust stung her eyes. Her gaze traveled up from a dark, wet patch on the leg of a pair of tan pants to the indignant face of their owner.
''Sorry.'' She was careful to maintain the right accent. ''Let me clean that up.''
''You looking for the carpet shop?''
Ah. She knew the response she had to give. She felt better already. ''I hear it's closed midweek.''
The man was in his forties, thin-faced and balding. He stared into her eyes for a moment, then winked. The simple code had been confirmed. This was her contact.
''Galdovar.'' she said. It probably wasn't his real name, and she didn't care if it was or not. All that mattered was that he was the man she was supposed to meet; and that was all she was going to trust. He wasn't a random stranger she'd spat upon. Trust didn't come easy in her line of work. Trust got you killed. That was why she placed it solely in herself, and why her hand was still resting on the blaster hidden in the folds of her coat. ''You'd better be, anyway.''
''I am, so at least I got my pants ruined by the right woman. Come on. Let's get inside.'' He indicated the far end of the deserted road with a discreet nod of his head, then looked down at the damp patch on his leg. ''Original way to identify yourself, Agent Devis.''
''No, I really did miss the spot.'' She admitted. Now it worried her that she hadn't been alert to anyone following her or watching her. It was a basic intelligence procedure, as unconscious as breathing; situational awareness. ''How long have you been watching me?''
''A few minutes.''
Stang. If he'd been a sniper …
But he wasn't, and she was fully alert after a moment's lapse. The building at the end of the road was an office complex with shops and tapcafs. As they entered, the world changed; the deserted streets full of swirling dust that made Athar look like a ghost town gave way to bustling life conducted wholly behind shuttered doors. Athari citizens went about their business under cover during the windy weeks of late autumn.
''Up the stairs," Galdovar said, gesturing with his thumb. "Second floor. Union offices.''
Hallena blended seamlessly into the bustle of Fathalians. She spoke Basic with a convincing Athari accent, and—like most of them—her skin was black and her hair dressed in neatly coiled plaits. Nobody had any reason to suspect she was a Republic spy, sent to infiltrate and assist the Janfathal government.
She'd been in Athar, thd Janfathal Capital City for less than a week. The place wasn't quite the same picture that the intelligence briefing had painted. Places seldom were.
"In here?" Hallena gestured, one hand still deep in her pocket.
''In there.'' Confirmed Galdovar. ''After you.''
No, she wasn't that dumb.
The doors parted and she followed him into a routinely time-worn office with pleekwood desks and shelves that had seen better days. The interior doors, though, looked as if they'd been smashed down and repaired; two of the panels were bright new wood, devoid of any patina or termite scarring.
''Burglars?'' she asked. ''Or are you just slack on building maintenance?''
''Got to look the part.'' Galdovar said. ''And we know exactly how a union office should look after the authorities have raided it, don't we?''
He was one of those who normally did the raiding. She had to concede the point. Sounds of movement behind the repaired door made her check automatically for a way out if this meeting turned out not to be one she'd bargained on. The only place she felt safe these days was on a Republic warship, and not just because of Gilad; the entire galaxy was in turmoil. The front line didn't end at planetary boundaries, or sometimes even within families.
Hallena walked into a small back office filled mainly by a battered table. If it hadn't been for the two heavily armed men sitting at one side of it — she could spot the outlines of weapons as well as anyone — she might even have swallowed the cover story about this place being an administrative office for the Union of Fabricants, Plastoid Molders, and Allied Trades, Local 61.
''Well, well.'' She said. Their eyes locked on hers as if they weren't entirely sure she was genuine. ''Unity is strength, people, power to the workers, and all that. So what have you got for me?''
The younger of the two men raised a bleached-blond eyebrow. He didn't offer any introductions. ''I'm glad you're getting into character.'' He said sourly. ''We think the people you're looking for are these two.''
He shoved a holoimage projector across the table, flicking his thumbnail against the controls to activate an image. It was a snatched shot of a man and a woman caught in mid-stride as they hurried toward a speeder; they were in their early thirties, heads covered by factory workers' caps, like thousands of other laborers in the city.
''Merish Hath and her boyfriend, Shil Kaval.'' he said. ''The usual troublemaking variety of malcontent.''
Hallena studied the image. The JanFathal police couldn't just pick them up and make them disappear like they usually did. The Regent had held absolute power for thirty years; he wasn't going to get a hard time from his judges because he'd had them all jailed some years ago. But pieces in this particular puzzle were missing.
It was her job to find them.
''We'd like this sorted.'' Said the younger man. The stark contrast of his eyebrows against his ebony skin was hypnotically weird; he was obviously more senior in the hierarchy than he looked, or else he was just massively arrogant. ''We don't want or need a few million droids landing in our backyard uninvited. The troublemakers we've been monitoring have been a lot more active in the last few weeks like they're preparing for something.''
''Maybe your Regent should concentrate on building a proper army instead of blowing his budget on internal security.'' Hallena took the holoimager and transferred the image to her own device. The more she saw of some of the Republic's allies, the less weight she gave their strategic value. ''So can you get me into their circle, or not? What's my cover identity?''
''Well, Sister Devis—'' He began.
''Please tell me you haven't used that name …'' She interrupted.
Blond Brows sucked his teeth, clearly annoyed at the interruption. ''We might be a long way from Coruscant, ma'am, but we're not country bumpkins. Your ID says Orla Taman. You're a union convener from Nuth, which is far enough away to explain why you're not one of their little cabal, and you've been in prison for a few years for your unpatriotic activities. Now you're out and looking to sow dissent and hasten the glorious revolution.''
Blond Brows passed her an identichip and a few battered personal possessions of the kind that a newly released prisoner might have: an old-style comlink, a few folded sheets of tattered flimsi that looked like a precious letter hidden and reread for years, and a holozine on the virtues of obedient citizenship of the kind that all those freed were given on release to keep them on the straight and narrow.
Hallena looked them over carefully. ''Got it.''
''Okay, then we get you into the armaments factory tomorrow morning, and you line up for a job. They take casual labor by the day or week.''
''Do I have an impressive résumé?''
''You're fully proficient in removing metal swarf from factory floors. A genius with a broom.''
It certainly beat passing herself off as a brain surgeon. There was no arcane professional knowledge to bluff through when she was pushing a broom. She didn't even have to pretend she'd done it before. ''Very well. I'll head back to my modest hovel and go begging for work tomorrow.''
The older man sitting beside Blond Brows spoke for the first time. He looked like a chunk of granite that had been dumped by an avalanche, all square solidity and craggy grayness, the kind of man who would stand firm until time flowed around him.
''If you're caught…" He began slowly. ''They'll kill you and go to ground, and we'll have to start all over again. We might not have the time to do that.''
It was the simplest of statements, dazzling in its fact of being self-evident.
''Sounds like every job I've ever done.'' Hallena got up to leave. One hand still rested on her blaster. ''I'll be back in touch when I have something useful for you.''
Maybe. She'll see how it goes. This is for the Republic after all.
The granite-and-blindness double act didn't move as she took a step or two backward without turning. For some reason, she felt more wary in this building among nominal allies than outside, surrounded by potential assassins.
If they ever venture out in this wind, of course …
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Back at her lodgings, a stark and cramped little room above a grocery store, the ubiquitous dust had crept through every gap and left a convenient intruder warning system across every flat surface. Hallena closed the front doors behind her and stood listening for a moment, checking who might be where. When she studied the thin coating of dust, footprints, and scuffs had worn a clean path between the side doors to the shop and the owner's living quarters across the passage. The layer on the stairs was still undisturbed, though. Nobody had gone up to her room since she'd left.
She had no real reason to check. It was just a habit; a careful, wary habit.
The shop doors parted and the elderly female owner stuck her head through the gap, smiling to reveal more gaps than teeth. ''Won't last much longer, my dear.'' Rhe said.
''Regular as sunset, that wind. It'll die down by this time tomorrow, and then the rains start.''
''I remember.'' Hallena lied. It sounded as if the woman didn't think she was local. ''I used to visit Athar as a kid.'' Don't push it, don't get a conversation going. ''I'm going to get a job tomorrow. I'll be out all day.''
''You're a bit secretive, you are.'' The woman notes.
Stang, is she Force-sensitive or something? That risk had never troubled Hallena before, but the war had suddenly made her aware of how many beings there were who could sense her feelings or even try to shape her thoughts. Spies liked to be the ones who did the shaping and sensing. It was the natural order of espionage.
''I've just been released from prison.'' Hallena said at last, suitably awkward. ''It's not something I want to brag about. Don't worry—it's nothing violent or dishonest.''
''It never is." The woman said, suddenly serious. ''It's always political these days.''
Hallena didn't take it any farther. She retreated to her room and spent the rest of the day tinkering with her comm kit—minimal, concealed within the old comlink, nothing that would make her look too well equipped in this austere world—and observing the activity in the street below through a small clear patch in the grimy transparisteel pane. Yes, the wind seemed to be dropping; a few more people were out on the walkways, some wearing goggles, others with their mouths still covered by scarves, but they seemed to know that respite was coming.
How long am I going to be here?
Hallena was glad she'd never been a sleeper, living undercover for a lifetime until a controller she'd never seen finally called one day and gave her a mission within a society she might have grown to think of as her own. Short bursts of being someone and something else were much more manageable.
She can only live so much of a lie.
Gil Pellaeon knew exactly what she was and accepted her for it. That was a rare source of honest stability in her line of work. She didn't even keep a holoimage of him with her: too risky, like any genuine personal possession that might identify her if she was captured. But Gil understood the nature of their relationship — where snatched moments, denials, no real prospect of routine, daily, comfortable domestic bliss like other couples - because his job wasn't so different.
Will either of us survive long enough to get out, to retire? Gil … no, he loves his ship. She'll have to join him one day.
That night, Hallena slept fitfully with her blaster on the nightstand. In the early hours, noise from the street woke her; her dozing brain told her it was drunks outside, typical Coruscant nightlife, but she snapped fully alert into Athar, JanFathal, where wild revelry wasn't routine.
The voice was a scream, a protest, not drunken shrieking. Lights played on the buildings opposite. The crunch and thud of doors being forced open gave way to speeders revving their drives. When Hallena got a glimpse of what was happening from the window, she saw a man and a woman being bundled into a vehicle marked with the livery of Athar's not-so-secret police. One masked officer brought a bludgeon down on the head of the man in one practiced movement as he shoved him into the police speeder. The arrest was suddenly over. The lights swung around; all the vehicles sped off. All that remained was the gaping doors of the house opposite, yellow light streaming onto the pavement, and the complete absence of any neighbors coming out to see what was happening.
They must have heard it all.
This had to have been pretty common in Athar for lights not to be switched on and drapes pulled aside to see what was happening.
Common enough for everyone to know to mind their own business.
Hallena pondered on the irony of friendly governments, reminded herself she was here to win the war and not the battle, and then — somehow — went back to sleep.
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(POV Shift: Jedi Master Kellian Ordo)
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Kellian had sent Talisibeth to Senator Amidala, asking for Senator Amidala to teach Talisibeth about diplomacy and galactic politics. As well as the nuances of diplomatic etiquette and and of course about various cultures and the sub-cultures. He'd sent her to Amidala because it gave him an opportunity to discretely rendezvous with Gilad Pellaeon to link up with him and pass on some data. But he also wanted to link up with Ahsoka, Rex, and the company to take part in the Janfathal campaign.
But, he also had another less than-noble reason for joining the side trip that Anakin had Rex take Ahsoka on. Actually, his reasons were not much different than Anakin's. Where Anakin wished to visit Padme, he wished to make contact with Master Altis, and have Mara and her mother sent to him. It could backfire on him badly, but he and Altis had much more in common than Kellian would ever admit to anyone other than Altis himself, and in a setting where they had complete privacy.
"Am I getting on his nerves?" He heard Ahsoka ask Rex.
"As if." Kellian heard Rex say, and he could see a little frown wrinkling her nose. "Now, why would he ever think that?"
She gave Rex a narrow-eyed stare for a moment, almost theatrical, searching the T-shaped visor as if she was trying to look him in the eye, and then grinned.
"You're hard to read, sometimes."
"Everyone needs a break from combat, littl'un. Even Jedi. And even if it's spent training. That's all." Rex told Ahsoka.
''He's right you know, on and off the battlefield you learn to take the moments when they appear.'' Kellian told Ahsoka.
''Still, he could have been nicer about it.'' Ahsoka complains.
Ahsoka interrupted his thoughts. ''What's so special about Leveler?'' She gazed out the viewscreen as the shuttle came alongside the warship. "Looks like all the others of her class."
''All ships have their own peculiarities.'' Rex called up the schematic of Leveler on his HUD with a couple of rapid blinks. ''Even ones that look the same. But Leveler's just had a refit, so she's got some experimental toys for us to try out.''
''Destructive toys?''
''Advanced concussion missiles. Prototypes designed for orbital bombardment and ship-killing. So if they're not destructive, Pellaeon better ask for a refund.'' Rex said.
Kellian felt as the shuttle rumbled as it aligned with the aft bay and settled on its dampers with a slight shudder. As the ramp went down, Ahsoka bounced out first, ahead of Rex and Kellian, with Kellian electing to hang back a bit. As Rex put his boot on the deck, Captain Gilad Pellaeon walked across the durasteel plating in his gray working rig and came to a halt a few meters away. His stance said that this was his world, his ship; and the captain's word was the law. Something that Kellian could respect.
Pellaeon looked down his nose at the tiny Togruta Jedi, not unkindly, but out of necessity. Ahsoka was short. She might have acted as if she were Wookiee-sized, but nothing could change the fact that she was small—and a kid. A few crew paused to watch, some clones, some nonclones. Rex hovered on the brink of intervention.
''Ma'am.'' Pellaeon nodded formally, clicking the heels of his polished boots. ''Welcome aboard. First thing we do is get you kitted out in proper rig." He glanced over his shoulder. ''Chief? Chief, get Padawan Tano some fireproof fatigues and safety boots. Smallest size the stores can find. Cut off the length if you need to.''
Kellian watched in wry amusement as it was clear that Rex hadn't actually thought to warn Ahsoka about Pellaeon's old school navy attitude and thus the fact that suitable attire for the acquaint would be needed. It was a sensitive topic to be sure, telling a female what to wear, especially a Jedi, even if she was a fourteen-year-old. Besides, Pellaeon was something of a ladies man. The captain kept his eyes fixed on Ahsoka's own.
''I didn't have to wear fatigues on any other ship.'' Ahsoka said stiffly, looking as if she'd been slapped.
''You're not suitably attired, my dear.'' His tone was very paternal for a moment. ''We do not expose flesh in this ship, not only because it's unbecoming, undisciplined, and distracting, but because a ship is a dangerous place. Sharp edges, noxious chemicals, hot exhausts, weapons flash. Safety first, Padawan. Cover up.'' He said his tone going from paternal to stern in an instant.
''But I fight like this.'' Suddenly Ahsoka was any youngster defending her choice of fashion to a stuffy parent, not at all like the Jedi she was at all. She looked down at her bare legs and midriff as if she'd suddenly realized she had them, Kellian takes the opportunity to appreciate Ahsoka. ''And I never get hurt. Admiral Yularen let—''
''Admiral Yularen may do as he wishes in his own ship. This vessel is my domain. You'll cover up, please, Padawan Tano.''
''But I always—''
''Not in my navy.''
Kellian was deeply amused by the exchange, he'd have to have words with Ahsoka later and let her vent. Rex meanwhile had no choice but to stand at attention and wait for the battle of wills to end. Pellaeon simply waited silently, and then extended one arm out to his side as the Fleet Chief came striding toward him with a pair of solid boots and folded dark blue coveralls.
Pellaeon took the items without even looking around and handed them to Ahsoka.
''Thank you.'' She said, chin down in defeat. Then she trotted back up the ramp.
Pellaeon's shoulders relaxed visibly. ''Good grief, Rex, doesn't Skywalker tell his underlings to put clothes on? What does he think this is, a cruise liner?''
''Would you like me to ask him, sir?''
''Rex, you're enjoying this …''
''Me, sir? Never, sir.''
''We're both captains, Rex … it's Gil. Drop the sir.''
''Navy captain outranks army captain, sir. Strictly speaking.''
''Shut up, for goodness' sake, man, and come have a drink.''
Eventually, Ahsoka strode back down the ramp of the shuttle, blue fatigues belted tightly at the waist, over-long sleeves rolled up to her wrists, and presented herself to Pellaeon.
"Will this do?" Poor Ahsoka, she looked so embarrassed. The brightly colored stripes on her three head-tails looked more vivid than normal blushing no doubt, something that Kellian had learned to see through different species and subspecies of species such as Twi'lek, Miralian, and of course Togruta over the years, sometimes their blush was one of discomfort, sometimes anger. He imagined it was a little of both this time. ''I just want you to know that it's so baggy that I'm going to trip over it and break my neck, that's all. Not very safe.''
''You'll grow into it, my dear.'' Pellaeon said, looking satisfied. ''And Jedi are too spatially aware to trip, yes? Chief Massin will show you to your cabin.''
Pellaeon waited for Ahsoka to vanish through the bay doors behind the Chief, then turned to Rex. ''How long a respite do you need?''
''I'm told two to three days.''
''Ah, not your request for downtime for your men, then.''
''No'' Rex said carefully. ''General Skywalker has his reasons for wanting to operate alone, whatever they might be, and his Padawan is still at the over-curious stage. I really appreciate your help, Captain.''
''My pleasure.'' Pellaeon beckoned to the troopers; one of them followed them up like a herd dog. ''Besides, you might be able to help me knock some of my crew into shape. Ah, for the days when a commanding officer could dump a useless minion out the airlock without having to worry about filling in forms …''
''Very unsporting, sir.'' the trooper said. ''Unless you give them a fifty-meter start.''
Pellaeon laughed. But like all humor in this war, it was a thinly worn veneer over permanent anxiety, and the crew did end up dying in a hard vacuum, and the only way most personnel seemed able to cope was to joke in ways that seemed inappropriate to beings cocooned in peace and safety.
''It's going to be boring, sir.'' The trooper said to him as they walked down the passage to the mess deck. ''And in a good way.''
''Make the most of it.'' Rex said. ''Catch up on some sleep. All of you.''
Two or three days of relative idling was what Skywalker thought that they needed. All Rex had to do was to keep Ahsoka occupied, Kellian meanwhile simply had to pass on some data to Pellaeon, and meet with Master Alits.
A tiny figure came striding down the passage toward them, coping remarkably well with a pair of durasteel-capped safety boots. Ahsoka's head-tails bounced like braids.
''I'm ready, Rex.'' She beamed. ''Show me the concussion missile bay.''
As soon as she and Rex disappeared, Kellian revealed himself.
''Careful Pellaeon. I've been here the entire time, and you didn't notice me.'' Kellian says.
''General Ordo?'' Pellaeon says in surprise, before recovering quickly and snapping a sharp salute. ''Forgive me, General, I was not informed of your arrival.'' Says Pellaeon.
''It's fine, Captain. This trip, strictly speaking, never happened. Rex isn't cleared for this type of delivery, since it was on my way, I figured I'd hand it off to you. The latest data package from our little trust. Upload it to your databanks and you'll have access granted to War Trust Data. There's a cipher packet that will be uploaded to your personal data terminal in your quarters. Retrieve it at your earliest convenience, and keep it on your person at all times. There's a small explosive inside a code cylinder in this case. That's your key to upload the cipher packet to. It's keyed to your biometrics and your heart rate. If the sensors in the cylinder feel you're being coerced or threatened, it will lock you out for twenty four hours and forty six minutes. There's also a set of data visors in there. The visor will help you to make sense of what will appear to be a mass of glitchy or scrambled semblance of data.'' Kellian tells the Captain.
''Understood, General.'' Pellaeon said swiftly.
''Very good, Captain. I'll speak with you later, I should check on Rex and Ahsoka. Knowing Ahsoka, she's gonna be a handful..kind of like her master I suppose.'' Kellian says, before departing.
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''Who does he think he is? Telling me what to wear!?!'' Ahsoka vented indignantly.
''You have to understand Ahsoka, Pellaeon's old navy. In his generation, what your wearing would see a soldier served with a severe reprimand for allowing a woman of any notable rank to wear.'' Says Kellian.
''But Admiral Yularen never complained, nor did Master Skywalker, Rex, or even you for that matter.'' Ahsoka continues.
''Ahsoka, Rex has been bred to respect chain of command, he's not going to question you about your attire unless you're wearing a Huttese Slave-Girl outfit. As for Anakin, he's a liberal and a maverick. He's not going to suppress you by telling you what to wear unless your health is at risk. Yularen is also of the old navy, but he's from the younger generation than Pellaeon. As for me? I don't complain because why would I?'' Kellian says, and Ahsoka stops, turns to look at him, and puts her hand on her hip, elbow bent.
''Meaning?'' She asks.
''You want me to spell it out for you? Fine, wouldn't make it any less true. Ahsoka, I don't complain about your attire because why would I? I'm a man, you're a woman. I find the opposite sex attractive, and you? Ahsoka your beautiful.'' He tells and she blushes fiercely.
''You can't say that!'' Ahsoka protests. ''You're a Jedi Master, and I'm a Padawan, it's not proper.'' Ahsoka said.
''Ahsoka, that might be true, but you and I aren't that far apart in age. You're fourteen and I'm seventeen. So fucking what?'' He tells her.
''But the Jedi Code-'' She began.
''Does not forbid sexual attraction or liaisons.'' Kellian interrupts. ''Ahsoka, Rules say we can't form attachments, fine. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate your beauty, and how your attire shows that off. I've been attracted to you for years, surely you must have felt something when we connected our beings and connection to the Force during the Balmorra Run through the nebula to Kalida shoals?'' Kellian told her. ''Look, Ahsoka, one thing you'll learn is that how one interprets the Jedi Code, and how they explain that interpretation more often than not affects how others and the council see them. I can find you breathtakingly beautiful for your age, and not run risk of breaking the Code.'' Kellian said.
''Kellian…'' Ahsoka said breathlessly, her montrals blushing fiercely.
''Ahsoka, sometimes you don't need an explanation, sometimes, things just are the way they are because it feels right. Like how I feel when I look at you. Think about it, and tell me when you awake.'' Kellian tells her, before taking his leave.
'I may live to regret telling her that.' Kellian notes mentally.
--------------------------------
(POV Shift: Ahsoka Tano)
--------------------------------
Ahsoka had spent most of the night lying awake, thinking about Kellians words. As a Togruta, all her life, she'd struggled with forming attachments and bonds. She'd had trouble more than once because of her Togrutan instincts for community and forming bonds. But Kellian's words gave her considerable cause for thought.
Going over the Jedi Code in her mind, as all Younglings were taught, she considered carefully what it meant and how Kellian's words could be taken.
There is no Emotion, There is Peace.
There is no Ignorance, There is Knowledge.
There is no Passion, There is Serenity.
There is no Chaos, There is Harmony.
There is no Death, There is the Force.
Ignorance of knowledge and Information could lead to fear. Fear leads to hatred, and hatred leads to war. Being too emotional caused one to risk falling to the Dark Side, but being apathetic could blind one to others emotions, and their own risk of falling. Chaos benefitted no one, Harmony ensured balance was kept. Passion like emotion could bind one to darkness. The Sith were said to use it to gain power, a Power that more often than not blinded them. The tenet on Death was simple, it meant that just as every living thing in the Galaxy had been touched by the Force, when they too inevitably died, they returned to the Force and joined it in keeping balance.
But Kellian's words opened a new kind of dialogue. Was it truly possible to have feelings that could lead to emotions and attachment and yet not forming attachments? She did not know, maybe she could ask her Master… no, Anakin wasn't the right person to ask about that sort of thing. Her Master was great and all, but she understood he was too emotional and headstrong to be a suitable source. She'd ask Master Obi-Wan, but the truth was as much as he'd likely try to provide her with an answer, he'd also lecture her more than give her an answer.
Maybe…Master Ti? As a Togruta herself, Master Shaak Ti was someone who would have had to deal with the same biological instinct of community and forming bonds that Ahsoka herself was dealing with. And perhaps she would also offer another perspective that Anakin and Master Kenobi could not.
She had much to think about, and she hoped this temporary rotation to another cruiser would give her time to think things over.
--------------------------------
(POV Shift: Sev'rance Tann)
--------------------------------
The shame she endured could not afford to last. Stripped of her position as Supreme Commander in favor of an overly glorified droid? Defeated by a second-rate Jedi? She needed to redeem both herself and her reputation.
But she could not target Shen-Jon, but she could possibly lure him out of hiding. She could target the students of Echuu Shen-Jon's master, the Jedi filth would feel obligated to intervene, but she also needed to earn back her master's trust.
He valued her enough to save her and salvage what remained. She was kept alive by a mixture of cybernetics and Force-Healing techniques, but she needed to prove that her master had not erred in that decision.
Turning to her Tactical Droid, she sneered at it before speaking.
''Tell me about any active operations of import.'' She ordered, her voice laced with weight and the pain of the cybernetics.
''There are operations of import in the space of Jabiim, Mimbam, Balmorra, and Fath.'' Says the Droid.
''Who's been assigned to the relevant operations?'' She demanded.
''Count Dooku has assigned Dark Acolytes to Jabiim, Mimbam, and Balmorra. Supreme Commander Grievous has been assigned to Fath, but is currently bogged down on Iridonia.'' The Droid informs, and immediately, Sev'rance sees the opportunity.
''How long is Grievous expected to be delayed on Iridonia?'' She asks.
''Current tactical estimates indicate a week, less if he receives the troops and supplies he's ordered.'' The Droid responds curtly.
''Redirect those supplies to me, and update me on the Fath campaign. We'll do the Supreme Commanders Job, and take the Fath System for the Confederacy.'' She decides.
''The Supreme Commander won't take kindly to that.'' Her droid notes.
''I do not care! Just do it! Or I will find a Droid who will.'' She screams furiously, before clutching her chest. The Cybernetics that saved her life were also a lesson taught to her. She was not anesthetized when she had them applied and they were implanted in a way that continued to cause her some significant pain. Her pain and anger were the only thing that kept her from death. But more than that, it was her hatred that ensured she survived.
She would repay the Republic and the Jedi for all that she had suffered a thousand fold.
Such was her promise.
--------------------------------
(POV Shift: Hallena Devis)
--------------------------------
''YOU!'' Yelled the overseer at the factory gates. He was strikingly pale, and for a moment Hallena thought he was an albino. But he was just very blond, an oddity in Athar. "You, with the red scarf! You want some machine shop work?"
She realized he was pointing at her. She stood in the ragged line of laborers outside the munitions factory, just one of a crowd waiting for work assigned by the day.
Great way to miss security checks. Some dictatorships are so wonderfully dumb.
''No, sir.'' That was always the hardest act for her: pretending to be deferential to arrogant and smug individuals who did more harm to the Republic and her allies than good. ''Just sweeping up. You got any jobs?''
The gray dust had drifted everywhere like fine, grubby snow. At least the wind had dropped.
''We've always got sweeping jobs.'' The overseer said, kicking a pile of dust into the air by way of demonstration. ''Especially now. Get in here. Where's your ID?''
Hallena edged her way to the front of the line, drawing surly and envious glances as if she were being accorded some kind of privilege. As she turned sideways to edge between two men — remember, mind your body language, think passive, think humble—she caught the eye of one of them, and it was a moment of reminder, of revelation. She looked into the eyes of a starving man; not literally, because he
seemed solidly built, but a man desperate to find a day's work, and perhaps she had snatched it from him. The man stared back. It was just a heartbeat, not even a second.
She had never seen that look on Coruscant, not up close. Suddenly she understood the heart of the enemy she was facing; and it scared her more than warships and invasions because it could not be shot down, bombed, or brought to a negotiating table. It was the face of desperation, of a fear and need so primal that it could be mobilized to do anything.
We've picked a loser here.
This place is ripe for revolution. No wonder the Seps want to move in. One push, one coup—
''What are you kriffing well waiting for, then?'' The overseer yelled. ''You want this job or not? I got a hundred ready to take your place, sweetheart.''
''Sorry, sir.'' Arrogant barve. I hope I have cause to drop you … ''Right away, sir.''
Hallena jerked her eyes away and pushed through the line. She hadn't realized it had been that obvious. It was just a split-second's glance. She'd have to be much more careful in a society where everyone was clearly geared up to watching and denouncing their neighbor to survive.
She held out her fake identichip to the overseer. He took it, slipped it into a chip reader, and stared at the display. It wasn't the first time that she'd stood on that knife edge between life and death, hoping that her cover wasn't blown, but—
Hey, she's not behind enemy lines yet. She's here with the Regent's consent and knowledge. Why is she feeling like this?
The overseer smirked as he glanced at the readout. It must have shown him her prison record. ''Learned your lesson, then, troublemaker?''
''I just want to keep my head down and put food on the table.'' She said.
''If I get a single sniff of you stirring up the rabble in here, I'll personally cut your throat.'' He threatened.
Yes, this was the hardest part of undercover work. Not staring down the muzzle of a blaster; not dreading discovery and a lonely, anonymous death, undiscovered and a long way from home. The most unbearable moment for Hallena Devis was the biting her lip while a piece of scum like this insulted her intelligence, and not dispensing the instant justice he richly deserved.
But she could likely find a few moments to give him a beating later in her busy schedule. And if she couldn't it shouldn't take much to arrange it.
''Like I said.'' She murmured lowly, keeping her head down and her eyes low in deference as she'd been trained to when encountering a situation such as this. ''I want to eat. That's all. I can ill afford to cause trouble now can I?'' She says.
The supervisor seemed to feel that he'd gotten his point across and was satisfied by her response. ''Report to the personnel office.'' He said, stepping back to let her pass on into the compound. At his movement, the rusty main doors parted with a loud and unpleasant screeching sound, letting her pass on in, and the following clanging, hissing, throbbing noise of a busy and poorly maintained factory spilled out in a deafening wave just as the sound of the doors began to subside. It hurt her ears, as she walked in, even with her head lowered. Walking through the cavernous hanger made her wish desperately she'd taken on those cybernetic upgrades for a fraction of a second, but she quickly squashed that notion.
Cybernetics could be very useful, but they could also be a dangerous liability in fieldwork for intelligence operatives such as her. A simple stun grenade could cripple an otherwise effective agent if their Cybernetics be they internal or external were improperly insulated, used sub-standard materials, or were otherwise outdated. What's more is that ear implants would do little to drown out the sound hurting her ears right now.
Even so, as she walked through the Hanger, she noted that past the assembly lines were scores of workers sealing small cannisters or checking durasteel components against measuring rods, but nobody took much notice of her. One man did glance up, smiled sadly at her, then went back to riveting a durasteel sheet around the curve of what looked like a poorly built exhaust.
That had been part of her briefing. The Fath sector was rich in valuable ores and minerals, and that was unfortunately undervalued by how poorly trained the industry in the regional sector was. The Regent of JanFathal might rule the sector, but his power was checked and balanced by the guild families who'd elected the monarch's regent for generations. JanFathal was ruled by a King in name only, in truth, the Regent reigned and had been the dominant power for the last three centuries. The royal family was symbolic these days, even so the Regent was beholden to each of the Five Janfathal Guilds. The Five guilds of JanFathal were the Artisan, the Merchant, the Shipwright, the Agriculture, and the Military Guilds. The Merchant and Military Guilds were the strongest, even if the Military Guild wasn't technically Military.
At most, the military of Janfathal was a poorly maintained, paid, and trained Royal Guard, the Secret Police was the true strength of the Military Guild. Traditionally the Head of the Military Guild was the Prime Minister of the Government and thus a key figure in the hierarchy of leadership for the Fath Sector. However, in recent years the Artisan, Shipwright, and Agriculture Guilds had been able to begin displacing the Merchant Guild. Enough that in order to prevent a Civil War, the Regent was forced to elevate the head of the Artisan Guild to that position, and elevate the head of the Military Guild to the position of Grand Vizier.
That was a large part of why the issues here were so bad. The three guilds sought to remove the Merchant and Military Guilds from power and absorb them in order to create a new hierarchy where the workers would be able to rule.
By the time Hallena got to the personnel office, which amounted to a shabby falling apart cubicle at the far end of the factory floor naturally, a scruffy droid that looked in worse shape than the metal being hammered all around her was watching very intently.
While the one arm that seemed to be in good shape continued shuffling flimsi and the other - less well-maintained arm - tapped on an accounting pad, it reached out behind itself with a manipulator mounted on its back. A broom arced around in that third hand and almost smacked her in the legs. If anyone was doing an efficiency study, the droid scored a clean hundred every time. Hallena idly wondered what it was doing with its legs under the desk. No limb was idle, that was for sure.
''One broom.'' The droid said. "You break it or lose it, you pay for it. You sweep the entire production area floor plus the refreshers and the corridors. Ten-minute meal break when the klaxon sounds. You go home when the place is inspected and approved by the overseer. If he approves, you get paid and come back again in the morning. If he doesn't, you get nothing and don't come back. Any questions?''
Hallena was sorely tempted, but her discipline had kicked in fully now. She didn't even think of a sharp retort. It would only cost her.
''No.'' She said, and took the broom in both hands, quarterstaff-style. ''I don't need a floor plan to find my way around, do I?''
The droid was incapable of sneering, but it managed to convey its disdain and disapproval pretty well simply with pauses that would have made an actor envious.
''What's to find?'' It said at last, but no less dismissively. ''Eyes down, find the dust, push the broom. Stop when you can see the original color of the tiles. Anything else you find dirty—clean it.''
--------------------------------
So Hallena had managed to disappear instantly into the shrouded existence of the workforce. So far, so good. She headed for the refreshers and concentrated on looking authentic.
Stang, they stank. If she needed any excuse to hide away from the factory floor, a pail of disinfectant and a brush would be the perfect cover to retreat out of here. Nevertheless, she got to work. A quick and discreet sweep with the bug sensor set in her wrist chrono showed there was no surveillance cam making sure the workers didn't linger too long in here with a copy of a holozine.
Is the rest of the planet even half as vile as vile as this?
Republic Intel said it was. But it wasn't the Republic's problem. All that mattered was stopping the Separatists from overthrowing the Regent and invading the planet.
Maybe they can overthrow the regime and the guilds when the war's over. This isn't an ally she liked very much …
The one good thing about living in a dictatorship like JanFathal, though, was that the information underground, the exchange of whispered news and gossip, was a lot faster and sharper than in the complacent walkways of Coruscant, where they were more worried about smashball scores and scandalously dressed holovid actresses. That was democracies for you: they didn't know what they had until they lost it. Here, information was precious. Secrets mattered. And within an hour, Hallena backed out of a refresher cubicle to find the path of her broom blocked by two workers in dark gray coveralls.
Their working clothes had probably been another color once, but that gray dust got everywhere.
Hallena paused and leaned on her broom.
''My mama used to say to lift your feet when a lady was doing the cleaning …''
The two were familiar. They should have been. She'd studied their holoimages for long enough.
''Sister Taman.'' The female worker said, holding out her hand. ''I think you're among friends again. I'm Merish Hath, and this is my comrade Shil Kaval. We're union.''
''Union.'' Hallena said slowly. ''Got me a few years in jail.''
''Times are changing.'' Said Shil. "But not fast enough." There was an underlying meaning to the way he said that, Hallena noted. It raised her suspiciousns, something she made sure To convey subtly through the small facial expresses the Special Operations Brigade had taught her to manipulate. Like bee'd been taught, she quickly covered that suspicion by going back to sweeping. ''Don't expect me to help you speed 'em up …''
Merish had effectively blocked the exit. It was all working better than Hallena had hoped. ''They say you were a committed activist in Nuth before the Regent had the town razed to the ground.'' She made sure to hesitate as much because of training as it takes to covertly recall her oh so great and informative briefing, and the Intel she was provided with. But luckily she had been offered something to latch onto.
Her ''Allies'' had never informed her about the razing of Nuth. And it could be used in a way to cover herself until she learned more about that left out detail. ''I don't want to talk about it.''
''And we've got more supportive friends to call on now the war's kicked off.'' Hallena paused at that, letting a quick look of interest veiled in surprise and uncertainty pass over her face, before she straightened up, and maintained a skeptical face. Desperate people did indeed do desperate things. This was, just as Intel had said, the route to the Separatist infiltration here. It was going to be a more straightforward job than she thought.
Maybe just a few weeks. Maybe, just maybe she can find some time with Gil.
Maybe She won't feel bad at all when she looks back at how she stopped these people putting their Regent's head on a well-deserved spike.
''This had better be good.'' she said. ''I'm not doing any more time inside.''
''You won't need to.'' said Merish. ''All that's going to change.''
Hallena managed one more careful moment of hesitation and then shook the woman's hand. Shil patted her on the back.
Now—now she really was behind enemy lines.
--------------------------------
(POV Shift: Anakin Skywalker)
--------------------------------
Padmé loved surprises. She was certainly going to get one now.
Anakin Skywalker teetered on the parapet two stories above her balcony, judging the leap he would need to make to land on the rail below and then slip through the transparisteel doors unseen. There'd be the security cam recording to erase, of course - little Force wipe, swiftly and discreetly applied - but he'd become very good at that. He understood the need to protect politicians in a war like this. His own wife didn't need protection from him, though.
He was lucky that Kellian's Padawan wasn't in currently. Kellian had sent him a communication asking for passage to the Leveler. Rex in turn suggested taking Ahsoka there as he was friendly with the ship's captain.
In that communication, Kellian had mentioned that his Padawan had been sent to Padmé For diplomatic training and education. Because of that, Anakin had been able to avoid an awkward encounter with Padawan Enwandung-Esterhazy. R2 had hacked her schedule with Padmé to ensure the girl was sent to some errand or class for a few hours.
Still, Anakin lamented the necessity of all this sneaking around.
This is crazy. It shouldn't be this way.
He stared out over Galactic City. At night, it was magical, a starfield in its own right; scattered pinpoints of every color across the spectrum, hubs of intense light, nebula-like effects of an illuminated tapcaf sign seen through the gauze of a steam vent. And for all that light, all that life above and below and around him, he was invisible. Nobody noticed a man in a dull brown bantha wool cloak merging with the shadows and contrasts of a building that stretched a thousand meters into the night sky.
Beautiful, much like Padmé. Even if it wasn't quite the same kind of beauty. Growing up a slave on Tatooine, Anakin had learned to look beneath the glitz and glamor to the pervasive, corrupting undercurrent that infested any society. Coruscant was no different.
Anakin took a breath as much to calm his mind at the onslaught of bad memories as it was to steady himself, he held the breath, released it. and jumped.
The wind caught his cloak and slowed his descent a little bit, but he was braking his descent with the Force anyway. The sensation on his skin was not one of falling but of feeling the world accelerate past him. When his boots hit the permacrete fifteen meters below, the cushioning effect made him wonder what it was like for ordinary beings to fall that far.
Unpleasant no doubt. Certainly painful, and lethal. Does he really know what danger feels like to other people?
No, he didn't, and it made him marvel again that ordinary men, men like his troopers, would follow him into situations that he could stroll through with Force assistance and they could not. He hoped he never forgot that humbling knowledge.
He opened the side door carefully and slipped in, still ready to deflect a blaster bolt if he startled her. ''I'm home.'' He called. ''Padmé?''
The bedroom doors parted sharply and she stepped out into the living room, face covered in a thick white paste and a towel wrapped tight around her hair.
''You could have called first…'' She said, lips hardly moving. She sounded like one of those voice-throwing acts where a guy made his performing akk dog look as if it were talking. ''Don't make me crack this. I have to leave it on for an hour.''
Anakin tried to hug her as best he could without getting close to whatever the goop was on her face. It seemed to have set hard, like plaster. ''You don't need all that. You're beautiful enough without it.''
''Even a Senator is entitled to a girl's night in with a beauty mask and a holozine.'' She rebuked.
''I can go back to the Outer Rim if you like …'' He teased.
''Don't you dare.''
"Have you heard the one about the Trandoshan who goes into a tapcaf?"
''Don't make me laugh.''
''Well, the Trando goes up to the barkeep and says—'' He began anyway.
''Don't.''
''—he says, 'I'll have four mugs of—'''
''Don't!'' Padmé froze for a moment and then burst into giggles, hands pressed hard to her face. When she took them away, chunks of the mask fell off like the collapsing façade of a building. ''Oh, I've cracked it … great. All that waiting, and now I've got to apply it all over again.''
''No, you don't.'' He said, and took her hand. ''Come on. I've taken a couple of days off, and we're not going to spend it on beauty treatments …"
Padmé followed him to the refresher door. ''Days? Where's Ahsoka, then?''
''I left her with Rex and Kellian.'' Anakin ushered her gently into the room. ''Rinse all that gunk off. Come on.''
Padmé turned on the faucet and splashed her face with water. ''You do place a lot of responsibility on Rex, Ani. Above and beyond.''
''He can handle it.'' Anakin watched the white-faced stranger transform back into his wife. He had so little time with her, and it was always furtive time, stolen time, so even these silly moments felt intense and precious. ''Ahsoka might talk like she's the Grand Admiral of the Fleet, but she respects Rex. And I suspect some lessons are easier when learned from him instead of me.''
''Rex can be very charming when he wants to be.'"
Anakin bristled instinctively and then felt stupid about it. ''He can also bring her back down to ground level pretty fast when needed.''
''So we have a couple of days.''
''And it's not like we can go out and be seen together, is it?''
''I get the idea.'' She grinned as she dried her face, then unwound the towel around her hair. ''Discretion … look, this city runs on gossip, and we can never be too careful. Make some caf, darling, would you? I'll just tidy myself up.''
We can never be too careful.
She'd said it before; he knew that well enough, even though he resented it more each day. Just walking around Coruscant —any world, in fact—reminded him that they couldn't do the trivial things that any ordinary couple took for granted: a stroll in a park, a drink in a tapcaf, a trip to the theater. Sometimes he struggled with his simmering anger about it all, and at others he wondered how he could take his Jedi calling seriously while deceiving not only the Jedi Council, but Obi-Wan as well.
If I don't believe the Order is right about attachment … What else am I going to reject? Where will it stop?
This war was the only clean-cut thing about his life apart from Padmé; he had a real, tangible enemy trying to kill him, and he loved Padmé to the point of sickening fear at the thought of her ever being taken from him. Those were the twin certainties in his life. So he fought, and he loved, because he knew how to do both.
But philosophy was much harder to grasp in his hand than a lightsaber.
''Ani, have you gone to Charra to grow that caf yourself?''
Anakin looked up, jerked out of his thoughts as he stood with the container still in one hand and the caf pot still empty. Padmé glided into the kitchen in one of her elegant gowns, fierce electric blue sateen that cast a turquoise reflection on the glossy white cabinets.
''Just thinking.'' He said.
Padmé gave a theatrical sigh. ''You just can't get good help these days.''
She took the caf container from him and started making a pot herself. See, there's an ordinary moment. A Senator, a queen, a woman who can change the galaxy, making caf like any Coruscant housewife. Why not? Isn't that what life really is? Anakin wasn't sure how long he could keep this up. He wondered why Obi-Wan didn't sense what was going on. How could he miss the turmoil and passion in the Force, right under his nose?
"Have you seen the latest on Senator Herbin?" Padmé held the caf container to her nose and inhaled deeply. It wasn't a distracted moment. Anakin knew when she was making an effort to look unconcerned. "It's all over HNE. Dating that awful holovid actress from Republic Medcenter. The one who protests about the war."
''I don't know Herbin.'' Anakin said. ''I don't care about gossip. I can't, not when there's a war on.''
''I meant that politicians are vulnerable to prying.''
''So what's the scandal?'' Anakin reached for the cups, translucent porceplast from Naboo that still had a royal crest on it despite Padme no longer being their queen. ''That he's a married man, that he dates a protester, or that he's obviously got lousy taste in holovids?''
''You know what I mean. We have to be more careful. We have to be more aware that people notice things. The way you look at me in public, the way we talk. All the little signs.''
That didn't sound like Padmé. She hadn't been this nervous to begin with. "Has someone said something to you?"
''No, not at all. I'm just on edge. I look at Herbin being hounded, and I think what it would do to you if the Jedi Council found out.''
Anakin hadn't really thought about what discovery would do to Padmé's reputation. He hadn't considered it in those terms; she didn't so much have a career as a never-ending duty, so he couldn't imagine her worrying about being forced to resign. If it was just the Jedi Council's outrage, that was another thing entirely. He'd handle that when the time came.
This isn't going to go on forever.
''But we're not like Herbin and what's-her-name." He said resolutely. ''We're married. We're not cheating on our spouses. There's no disgrace in this.''
''Okay, let me put it this way.'' The caf was boiling now, sending steam into the air and clouding the windows. Padmé turned off the heat and poured from the pot. ''What would you do if Master Yoda found out we were married and told you—well, what would he tell you to do? Divorce me?''
''He would make me choose between you and the Jedi Order.'' Would he? Anakin didn't actually know. Now that he stopped to think it through, he had gone no farther in his imagination than the immediate arguments and dire warnings of what attachment would lead to. He hadn't done what any general should have, what he would have done if this had been a real battle rather than a war of Jedi ideologies: he hadn't asked what the worst outcome might be.
''And I'll never give you up. Never.''
It wasn't an answer. Anakin knew that. He wanted to say that he would tell Yoda that he refused to obey, but he wasn't sure where that would leave him as a Jedi. Could he remain one? Of course he could. It wasn't like the Senate, and party allegiances, where politicians got kicked out of their parties if they didn't vote the right way. He didn't have a Jedi party membership card. His Force-using nature was in his blood, in his very cells.
Padmé took the cups and steered him toward the living room. ''I'll never give you up, either, Ani. But let's not risk a confrontation with the Jedi Council. Not yet.''
Anakin felt the resentment, doubt, and bewilderment start to bubble up again. He stretched out on the sofa, his head resting on Padmé's lap, and thought of one member of the Jedi Council.
Ki-Adi-Mundi's got wives. Not just one. Five. And lots of daughters. Usual for a Cerean. But a Jedi?
The Cerean didn't look as if he'd been corrupted by attachment. Nobody mentioned it; Jedi did marry, then, and the galaxy didn't implode. This fact was the bantha in the dining room, the huge, silent, looming thing that everyone could see but nobody talked about, as if it wasn't there at all, and had to be ignored at all costs.
Just because Cereans had a low birthrate, and too few males, they had to take wives. So Ki-Adi-Mundi could remain a Jedi, serve on the Council, and have a family. Suddenly none of this made sense to Anakin. The needs of Cerea had no bearing on it. Either attachment was a bad idea for Jedi, or it wasn't.
Fine. Have it your way, Master Yoda. I feel no guilt about bending the rules to fit my heart if you bend the rules on the basis of species. Or expedience. Or whatever.
"They say love turns a Jedi to the dark side." He said at long last. ''I can't see how love can do that. But being forced to skulk around and lie—that's a recipe for trouble. Now, look at Ki-Adi—''
''You're not going to have this out with Master Yoda, are you, Ani?" Padmé stroked his hair. "Please?''
''No. I promise.''
''Good. Let's make the most of these few days.''
''Are you sure nobody has said anything to you? You're really edgy.''
Padmé reached for her caf, and he found himself staring up at the bottom of the exquisite antique cup, so fine and delicate that the light filtered through it.
''I'm just rattled by this business with Herbin." She admitted. "Please just try to humor me.''
Anakin would do whatever she asked. He was besotted, and always would be, he knew. He didn't feel any less of a Jedi for loving her so much.
''I will.'' He Promised.
--------------------------------
(POV Shift: Captain Gilad Pellaeon)
--------------------------------
Pellaeon slid down the last couple of meters down the ladder to the lower engineering deck, boots braking against the polished rails, and scattered some junior ratings as he landed. They saluted as the smell of singed paint filled his nostrils and caught the back of his throat. There were good new smells in a refitted ship, and worrying ones; these were the latter kind.
''Lammin, what the stang is going on with those dampers?'' He never broke into a run, not unless the vessel was at action stations, but he could stride at record speed along the passages. He swung through the hatch to the main drive section. ''Lammin? She's lurching like a drunk every time we hyperjump.''
''I think we've still got a low pressure problem, sir.'' Lammin, the chief engineer, was wedged in the small space between two bulkheads, trying to shift a stubborn bolt. He cursed eloquently and held out his hand to the engineer waiting patiently with his tool kit, like a surgeon gesturing to a nurse for a scalpel. ''Ollo, hand me the Weequay servodriver, will you? Some precision work's required.''
Ollo selected the biggest hammer in the box, handed it to Lammin, and put his fingers in his ears. Lammin leaned back as far as he could and took a mighty swipe at something Pellaeon couldn't see. The resulting clang of metal was so loud that it hurt.
Lammin whacked the defiant bolt—or whatever it was—a few more times for good measure. It was like standing inside an Andoan monastery bell when the monks struck it. Pellaeon felt his teeth vibrate clean through to his sinuses.
''Ah, that shifted it…'' Lammin said happily.
''I'm relieved you're not a surgeon, Chief.''
''Well, if I was, my patients wouldn't be in pain for very long, sir.'' Lammin eased himself out of the tiny gap and peered at the gauges on the bulkhead. ''I freed up something. Better check exactly what. I hate mysteries.''
''Carry on.'' Pellaeon ordered. He opened his comlink and called his first lieutenant. Every single fault was being collated and transmitted back to Fleet to be passed to the procurement overseers, and no doubt to the accountants to enable them to argue about the costs. ''Number One, make another note for the yard, will you? The damper pressure relief valves—''
''Sir, sorry to interrupt, but long-range sensors just picked up some activity in the adjacent sector, off Tangar. A Sep flotilla dropped out of hyperspace, then jumped again.''
Pellaeon conjured up a mental three-dimensional chart of the region, calculating transit time. If anything kicked off, he needed to know if Leveler could respond, and how fast.
''Keep an eye on it, Rumahn." He said. ''Any friendlies in range?''
''Only us, sir. Dark and lonely work out here.''
Working-up had to be done in remote places or very well-defended ones these days because nothing invited an attack quite like a ship that wasn't at full fighting efficiency. And there was nothing to be gained in charging after every Sep hull that presented itself. Some commanders might have felt obligated out of some bizarrely misplaced machismo, but Pellaeon preferred prudence over showy enthusiasm. He'd bide his time.
''Let's hope they don't present us with an inevitable target, then.'' He said. ''I want the ship to be ready to fight. We've still got some problems.''
He left the engineering crew to their task and continued his tour of the lower decks, checking through the tick-list on his datapad as he visited each section to see how well Leveler was holding up. He could have called the section heads to a meeting and just listened to their reports. But that wasn't Gil Pellaeon's way. He needed to see. He needed to feel. He needed to listen to the sounds of the ship. And he needed to see the men and women who worked to keep her space worthy and ready to fight.
There was no substitute for firsthand examination of the many small systems that made this vast, complex island of durasteel into a fighting machine.
And it was home, too. It was a community. No civilian could possibly understand the emotional significance of a ship to those who served in her. It didn't matter if they were clone or nonclone; this was one united ship's company, and he refused to allow it to be any other way.
I just wish I could tell them apart more easily …
He had his techniques, though.
A group of clones passed him, all helmeted. "Sir." One of them said, nodding polite acknowledgment.
Pellaeon had taken off his cap, so there were no formal salutes. He checked the electronic reader that scanned clone armor tallies to identify them, and a list of names flashed up on the tiny screen.
''Petty Officer Bren.'' he said. ''Mess deck accommodation to everyone's satisfaction?''
''Small problem with the water pressure in A-seven-two 'freshers, sir, but that's been resolved.''
''Splendid.'' Pellaeon made another quick note, tapping on his datapad. ''Carry on.''
So he needed a prompt. Any commander of a ship this size does. What matters is that every crew member knows he or she matters, too.
He strode on, distracted for a moment by the thought of where Hallena might be now, and what she would think of Leveler. Yes, he'd bring her on board and show her. Gossip didn't bother him. He had nothing to lose now except battles.
Overall, the yard had done a typical rush job—Pellaeon-grade inadequate, anyone else's reasonable. There was always some nagging problem that irritated him, often small but potentially lethal oversights like fresh paint blocking valves, hidden wiring faults, or unseated gaskets pinched between blocks, ready to leak at any time. Those were the things he sought out. Any idiot could see major defects from ten klicks; he could, anyway.
So far, all he'd found to trouble him were the dampers and some of the command systems. Software, the technicians said, could be fixed.
Show me, then.
Climbing the ladder to one of the concussion missile bays, he found himself looking up at Rex as the clone commander leaned over from the gantry above. Rex, even without his distinctive blue-and-white 501st armor, was easy to spot among the ship's company. He had his helmet clipped to his belt, and he was sporting another new hairstyle. Instead of being shaven to a fine polish, as when Pellaeon had last seen him, his scalp was now covered with short fuzz of blue-dyed hair cut into stripes.
"Very … different, Rex." Pellaeon said.
Ahsoka leaned over the rail beside Rex, although she had to stand on tiptoe to do it. She twitched her striped head-tails. General Ordo leaned against the railing with his eyes closed and arms crossed, Pellaeon suspected he was meditating. ''Nothing wrong with stripes, sir.''
''Bolo-ball final.'' Rex said. ''I'm somewhat partisan. Bylluran Athletic.''
Pellaeon had no idea how Rex—bred on Kamino without any of the usual sense of geographic or species tribalism—decided which team to support. Bylluran was a Sullustan team. But most teams had fans who'd never been within ten parsecs of their home ground, and some couldn't even breathe the same atmosphere, so maybe that was … normal.
Stang, he's like any other being. A normal human male. It's hardwired into all beings, this need to ally and belong.
"So, Rex, what do you think of the upgrades?''
Rex replaced his helmet. ''I can't judge the new concussion missiles until I see them take out a city or a capital ship, but I'm not convinced that the improved laser recharge time was worth the expenditure.''
''That's the Treasury's problem.''
''Maybe so, but—''
''There's a disturbance in the Force.'
Rex stopped. Pellaeon heard the comm alert at the very same moment General Ordo spoke up, and at the same time as the clone commander did, a nasal tone from the small transmitter in the comlink attached to his belt .
''Ops to Pellaeon, we have enemy vessels exiting hyperspace in the Fath system. Stand by.''
''That's a couple of hours away.'' Ahsoka said. ''What are they doing there?''
Pellaeon climbed the ladder and headed for the nearest ops room to see what was on their sensors. Fath was close to a hyperspace lane; apart from that, it was the scruffy backside of the Outer Rim, nothing remarkable. Were the Seps just emerging
from hyperspace, dropping out to receive essential comms before jumping elsewhere again, or did they have a more local target?
''How many vessels?'' Rex asked. ''I can't patch my HUD through to the ops display. One more glitch for the list.''
''Six.'' Pellaeon decided there was no harm keeping an eye on the flotilla. ''Comms, can you intercept any signals?''
''Just out of maximum range, sir.'' Rumahn cut in. ''Another problem we've found.''
''Very well, assuming that we still have propulsion, Number One, can we move within range?''
''I'd rather not jump until the dampers are sorted, sir.''
''Let's stroll in their direction on sublight, then.''
Pellaeon trusted his gut as much as any sensor, and his internal alarm bells were starting to ring. The crew knew that. The more relaxed his tone, the more worried they knew he was. Rex stood and watched the scan with him—or at least he appeared to be facing it. Once Rex had his helmet on, there was no way of telling whether he was watching what was in front of him or occupied with something happening on his HUD. Ahsoka edged up beside them.
''I feel it too now.'' She said hesitantly.
''What, my dear?'' Pellaeon asked.
''A disturbance in the Force.'' She reached out and held her hand close to the repeater screen without touching it. ''A lot of … misery boiling over into anger.''
Pellaeon never turned down useful intelligence. He just preferred definitive bearings, coordinates, and distances, and Jedi unnerved him; the young ones troubled him most of all, like this little Togruta, a gauche kid arguing about her short skirt one moment and then changing before his eyes into an ancient and primal creature connected to something he could never see. It seemed a vast gift for the universe to grant such a child. ''You can tell that from touching the screen, can you?''
''No, Captain, it just helps me concentrate if I focus on an image.''
''So is that a threat assessment?''
''Last time she said that.'' Rex muttered, "the next word was incoming.''
Pellaeon was reassured that his gut worked almost as well as a Jedi's senses. ''I'll take that as a solid early warning, then.''
''I'll round up my men.'' said Rex.
There was always the chance it would end in nothing; there was a great deal of seething anger everywhere in the galaxy these days, and predicting trouble was a safe bet. But Pallaeon knew he wasn't that lucky.
He opened his comlink. ''Lammin…" He began. ''Let me know the moment you get those dampers fixed.''
''Wait. I suppose it's high time I reveal why I'm here. Gather everyone of rank.'' General Ordo Said.
--------------------------------
(POV Shift: Jedi Master Kellian Ordo)
--------------------------------
Kellian leaned against the wall, as he had a room full of officers and clones and of course Ahsoka present. ''Where to begin?'' He asked simply.
''The beginning.'' Pellaeon said.
''There's a troubling situation on JanFathal. My Special Ops Brigade grew concerned so we asked Republic Intel to send an Intelligence agent in to root out the sympathizers. I came here as much to give you that Data packet Pellaeon as to be close enough to intercept if necessary. JanFathal is a corrupt and unjust place, in truth I would love nothing more than to see the planet's ruler executed. But the problem is that the people are brewing a Civil War with suspected Separatist help. If that Flotilla lands on Janfathal we'll have a serious tactical disadvantage.'' Says Kellian.
''Why would we have a disadvantage?'' Ahsoka asked.
''Janfathal has vast mineral and ore deposits. It's relatively untapped because of how pisspoor the industry is. Poorly trained and paid even less, the Regent's expenses are focused exclusively on internal security primarily. The only other thing that gets a modicum of funding is Janfathal's commerce. However there is a new problem, with long-range comms out, I have no way to contact headquarters in order to call for reinforcements.'' Says Kellian.
''Is the government really so bad though? If they're sympathetic to the Republic and no friends of the Separatists, how bad can they be?'' Ahsoka asked.
''Not every Separatist is evil Ahsoka. Nothing in this war is so cleanly cut. Most of the Senators who joined the Separatists are legitimately good and kind people. But Senators are simply conduits through which their rulers can voice their decisions to make them seem more palatable to the common people.'' Kellian responds, thinking of more than a couple friends who'd joined the Confederacy.
''He's right, you know, my own mother joined the Confederacy because her people chose to. It didn't matter that her husband - my father - was the chief of security for Senator Iblis for nearly twenty years. Her homeworld sided with the Confederacy, so she left to join them.'' Pellaeon notes distantly.
''In any case, we…hmm… curious.'' Kellian begins before pausing and closing his eyes to focus.
''What is it, General?'' Rex asked him.
''It would seem Ahsoka and I are not the only Force-sensitives in this oversector.'' Says Kellian.
--------------------------------
(POV Shift: Hallena Devis)
--------------------------------
Hallena was sure she'd never be able to lift her arms again.
It had been twelve hours. Twelve kriffing hours of sweeping and scrubbing that repugnant cesspit of a factory. There was only so much sweeping she could do before she was conspicuously idle, so she'd ended up cleaning all the refreshers, and the smell of disinfectant clung to her like an overly possessive child.
She braced her elbows on the tapcaf table and stared at her hands miserably, fingertips still wrinkled from being constantly wet.
''You timed this very well.'' Said Merish. Shil placed two mugs of ale in front of them on the table and pulled up a chair. ''Who sprung you?''
Hallena was now in the limbo of winging her way through a conversation that could end in a small victory or death. At least she was legitimately exhausted enough that she didn't need to act too much to be convincingly surly. ''You don't need to know.''
''True enough.'' The woman kept glancing at the doors. She seemed more triumphant than nervous. ''You might find some familiar faces joining us tonight, then.''
She hoped not. There weren't any.
''So what do you want from me?'' Hallena asked.
Simple, curtly asked open questions, with a dose of noticeable suspicion laced into her voice as she asked. It was all she could do. Local intelligence hadn't filled her in on all the blanks let alone half of them, evidently. No wonder they needed backup from Republic Intel; they were only good for spying on citizens for minor garbage like being dissatisfied and vocal about it.
''When things change, we need people who we can trust.'' Said Merish. ''People we know aren't tainted by association with the old regime.''
''And I qualify.'' Posing as a newly released political prisoner excused all hesitation and cluelessness on Hallena's part. ''Well, thanks.''
''You're union. You know how to organize people. We're going to need that very soon.''
'"Forget it.'' Hallena said even though in her mind she was actually saying something else entirely.
No, don't. Keep it coming.
''I've had enough of that. I can't face the prospect of year after year of banging my head against a wall and seeing nothing change.''
''Oh, change is coming all right, Sister. Sooner than you think.''
''Yeah, sure it is. Whatever.''
Merish looked beatific. That was the only way Hallena could describe her. As more people crowded into the tapcaf for an ale to end the day, and the noise level rose, she kept an eye on the doors. The place smelled of sweat and musty spices. Exotic tunes — discordant half notes, not unpleasant, just unfamiliar — crackled from an old audio unit set high on the wall to her right. The conversations around her, while part of a general high level of noise, were somehow hard to eavesdrop upon, as if everyone in that tapcaf had grown used to speaking in a way that wouldn't attract the attention of the authorities.
She'd seen almost no droids here at all since she'd arrived on the planet, the office droid at the factory being a notable exception to that observation. When she craned her neck to look through the open doors to the tapcaf kitchen, there were no droids there, the one place she was certain they'd have mechanical help.
She couldn't ask why. She was supposed to be a native.
''No kriffing droids.'' She said flatly. It could have meant anything. What she meant was that she needed someone to throw her a line there.
''No, at least that hasn't happened yet.'' Merish said. ''Flesh and blood is still cheaper. And most people are still more docile when they're kept busy all day.''
Thank you, Merish.
There were all kinds of things the intel briefings never really told an agent. But these were the things she liked to know: she liked to know about attitude. She liked to know why. Because that could be a lifeline if she needed it.
But all that she had been told was that the dissidents in Athar had regular contact with Sep agents. Her sole task was to map that network, identify as many individuals in it as she could, and turn that information over to someone else to …
To what?
Observe? Break? Arrest? Maybe even to flood the network with disinformation and double agents?
Shil was so quiet that Hallena wondered if he was allowed to talk when Merish was around. She watched him from the corner of her eye, and tried not to look too curious about why he kept tugging his right sleeve down past his wrist. At first she thought it was a nervous tic, and then she wondered if he was simply concealing a weapon. It was only when he reached for his ale and knocked a sodden table mat onto the floor that she understood what he was covering up. As he bent down and stretched out his hand to retrieve the mat, his sleeve slid back, and she saw the scars.
They were not random.
Nor where they new, they were old cuts; not the irregular marks of an accident, or the clean incisions of surgery, but a carefully inscribed network of cut after cut after cut, as if someone had tried to decorate him like a piece of Emori leatherwork. Her eyes froze on the raised scars for a long second. She knew without asking that they weren't some form of body art or anything voluntary. A couple of the lines had odd branches, as if he'd moved during the process and someone had to do it again.
It was odd how something glimpsed so briefly could sear an indelible image into her mind. She wouldn't forget those scars. As Shil straightened up, he caught her eye for a moment, then pulled his sleeve back into place.
''To set an example to the rest of us.'' Shil said softly. ''Fear needs its advertising like any other commodity, or else who's going to buy into it?''
And that was why he was covering it up. Not shame; not embarrassment. He didn't even need to flaunt that he'd been tortured but was still walking free, still defiant. He was simply denying who
ever had hurt him the outcome they'd wanted. He was not going to let anyone else see what his punishment had been, and be cowed by it.
''I understand.'' Hallena said softly.
Yes, she does. And she mustn't.
Merish, distracted for a moment, reached to smooth Shil's hair, then went back to watching the door as she sipped her ale. Her free hand rested on his leg in the shadow of the table.
Hallena had been trained to do a dirty job. One of her earliest lessons had been that there was no clear-cut line between enemy and ally, and that if she looked for one she would only forget what she was there to do. She would, her spymaster had once said, meet enemies she liked, and allies she hated. It wasn't her job to decide who was more worthy of their support. Her sole task was to serve the Republic because she could have no idea of the bigger picture in which she blindly painted small sections.
It's going to be hard sometimes, Hallena.
She could hear his voice now, even through the hubbub of the tapcaf.
You're not immune to good and evil. You're not on the wrong side. You're just ignoring smaller complications that get in the way of the bigger task.
Gil Pellaeon called it collateral damage. Sometimes she wanted to talk to him about how he handled causing death and pain to people who got in the way when his ship was seeking bigger targets. But she'd never found the right moment to explain why, and reveal all the things she'd done.
Does that make her a bad person? Why couldn't she answer that question? It was so kriffing simple!
''So what did they do to you?'' Merish asked at long last. It was a question she was both waiting for and dreading.
Hallena didn't look at her. ''What would drive me crazy the quickest. Keeping me in solitary.''
She couldn't claim it was violence or anything like it. She was sitting beside people with real scars, and if anything went wrong, the story was easily disproved by examining her. But crazy - crazy was invisible. She could do a crazy routine. She had no idea yet how long she might have to keep it up, but she was sure she could manage a long, long time.
''You're not going to trust us until we show you, are you?'' Merish says, strangely Merish seemed to be accepting of that.
It was cruelly easy. First there was guilt, and then, when an agent found pleasure in being clever, there was callous smugness. Then, as age and bitter experience eroded that ugly and forgotten layer of guilt and disgust crept back in.
''No.'' Hallena said, playing the game of stating the truth to create a lie. ''Look, I don't know anything about you, and you don't know anything about me. Why should either of us trust the other?''
''Oh, we know plenty about you. The office droid's very cooperative about sharing identichip data, if you know how to ask nicely.'' Shil said.
The preloaded persona on the bogus chip had looked pretty bland to Hallena—a long-forgotten person from a town swept clean off the map—but it seemed to have more import to Merish and Shil.
''So prove to me you're not just them jerking me around before hauling me back inside again.''
''Why would they want to do that?'' Shil asked
''Because they're scum.'' Hallena spat. ''And that's what small people with too much power do.'"
Merish stared into her face for a few moments as if looking for cracks in her story. ''At any rate, in a day or so it won't matter anyway.''
Ah.
That 's the timetable. But specifically for what, she could only theorize?
The tapcaf doors sighed apart again, admitting more threadbare factory workers and a gust of humid night air scented with the smoky exhaust of obsolete ground speeders. The old woman had been spot-on with her forecast of rain. Hallena didn't ask why a day would make a difference. She waited to be told.
''Varti.'' Merish said suddenly, craning her neck. ''Look, it's Varti.''
A small, bald man who looked close to retirement wove his way through the drinkers and headed for the table. Hallena thought his scalp was simply shiny, but as he moved under the overhead lights, she could see that his dark skin was tattooed with white designs from ear to what had been his hairline. If there was one lasting impression that she would take from this place, beyond its grime and casual brutality, it was the sense of inversion, of a negative holoimage, the expected areas of light and dark reversed.
Well, that's remarkably apt … because she really can't see any clear black and white in this situation.
Varti smiled at her, looking a little puzzled. He cocked his head slightly to one side. In the street outside, klaxons screamed as more than one police speeder ripped past. Several men at the bar paused to look out the windows.
'' don't remember you, Orla.'' He said, holding out a thin, veined hand to Hallena. ''But then Nuth is only memories itself now, and memories are fragile things.''
Oh stang … steady, now. Don't blow it.
''I would have thought I'd have remembered you, too.'' She replied, indicating his intricate white tattoos.
''I had hair back then.'' He shrugged innocently.
The increasingly pronounced sound of traffic outside was becoming deafening, and Hallena found it hard to hear him speaking through all that racket. Merish just took another pull at her ale. Shil turned his head slowly to look at her and smiled, as if there were some wonderful joke they were about to share that excluded everyone else in the place, and Hallena took it as something romantic, nothing more.
''I'm used to bein surrounded by nothing but quiet.'' Hallena was now into her stride as well as a surly, disturbed Orla Taman, making statements to get answers. ''Where's all that traffic going?''
Shil turned his gaze from Merish.
''Toward change.'' He said ominously. ''They're heading for the power station, I expect, if things are going according to the agreed upon schedule.'' He cocked his head. ''Isn't it such a lovely sound?"
And then all the lights went out. The bar was plunged into darkness.
Hallena's hand was on her hold-out blaster even before she thought about it, a naturally trained instinct. A loud cheer went up from the tapcaf crowd: in the second or two it took her eyes to adjust to the scant light from a couple of oil burners smoking gently to kill bugs, she saw glistening, metallic movement and heard the shunk-shunk of safety catches being drawn. A constellation of blaster charge lights winked into life, red, blue, green, amber.
Ambush.
Shil chuckled. More vehicle klaxons screamed outside the doors, their sound falling in pitch as they sped past. Hallena could feel the vibration as the downdrafts shook the walls.
Ambush…
The tapcaf flooded with light again, this time the ghostly green of a generator-powered emergency system.
Every drinker in the bar had a blaster rifle drawn, and some had a sidearm in hand, too. They didn't look scared. They looked elated. The entire tapcaf was silent, like an army awaiting orders.
Ambush …
''Revolution…" Said Shil slowly. He had a blaster rifle in his hand now, and so did Merish. ''Now it begins. Now it begins, brothers and sisters. Now we take back what's ours.''
The cheer was deafening. It drowned out the convoy of emergency speeders streaking through the city. Hallena drew her blaster automatically, and had no choice but to follow the flow.
The revolutionaries of Athar had mobilized. She'd landed in the middle of a coup instead of a brewing Civil War as expected.
As she joined the crowd streaming through the doors into the night, she felt exhilarated, but she wasn't sure that it was for the right reasons...
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