Chapter 23: Diplomatic Disasters
New
Mad King Kevin
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2021
- Messages
- 51
- Likes received
- 1,411
Chapter 23: Diplomatic Disasters
Sundari had always felt like a city built to make a point.
Smooth white domes rose from the ground like declarations of intent, uninterrupted by ornament or excess. The walkways curved gently, guiding movement rather than obstructing it. Even the air felt regulated—clean, cool, carefully managed. Order without aggression. Control without force.
Pacifism, rendered in architecture.
Obi-Wan Kenobi had admired it once. Now, standing in the council chamber with his hands folded into his sleeves and his posture locked firmly into Neutral Jedi Diplomat, he mostly felt tired.
Satine Kryze stood at the center of the chamber, luminous as ever in pale blue and silver, her voice calm and steady as she addressed both her own council and her Republic guests. She had always commanded attention without raising her voice. It was a talent Obi-Wan suspected came from long practice dealing with men who mistook volume for authority.
"The proposal is straightforward," Satine said. "Mandalore offers full citizenship to the clone troopers currently in Republic service. That includes asylum, land rights, and the legal protections afforded to any Mandalorian citizen."
Obi-Wan kept his expression carefully neutral.
Straightforward, she said, as if she weren't calmly proposing to adopt several million genetically identical soldiers whose template was a Mandalorian bounty hunter with a personal history of violently opposing Jedi involvement in Mandalorian affairs.
A bounty hunter who had been present on Galidraan.
A bounty hunter who, by all accounts, had not enjoyed the experience.
Obi-Wan allowed himself exactly half a second of internal wincing before returning his attention to the discussion.
Satine continued, undeterred. "These individuals were created without consent. They were trained for a purpose they did not choose. Mandalore believes that offering them a life beyond perpetual military service is not only ethical—it is necessary."
Padmé Amidala stood to Satine's right, hands clasped before her, listening intently. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, expression thoughtful rather than dismissive.
"That's a compassionate position," Padmé said. "And one I personally agree with. The clones didn't ask to be created, and they certainly didn't ask to be used as leverage in political uncertainty."
Obi-Wan resisted the urge to glance at her in gratitude. Padmé had a way of validating an argument before dismantling it, which made her both an excellent senator and a terrifying one.
"The difficulty," she continued carefully, "is how the Senate will interpret this."
Satine turned slightly toward her. "I anticipated that."
Padmé exhaled, already bracing herself. "The Republic cannot publicly endorse a privately trained army gaining sovereign backing outside Republic oversight. Especially not one whose genetic template is associated with a warrior culture that—no offense—has historically had a complicated relationship with the Jedi."
Obi-Wan felt that one land squarely on him.
No offense, Padmé had said, which was Senate dialect for all the offense, but politely.
He shifted his weight subtly, gaze fixed on a point just past Satine's shoulder, and tried very hard not to look like a man negotiating with his former lover about the future of millions of near-perfect genetic copies of one of the most dangerous Mandalorians in the galaxy.
A Mandalorian who had fought Jedi.
A Mandalorian who had lost people to Jedi.
A Mandalorian who had, despite all evidence suggesting better judgment, agreed to become the template for a Jedi-commissioned army.
Yes, Obi-Wan thought dryly. Nothing suspicious about that at all.
Satine's expression didn't change, but Obi-Wan knew her well enough to recognize the steel beneath the calm.
"They aren't weapons," she said. "They're people."
The chamber murmured at that. Several Mandalorian councilors nodded. Others exchanged skeptical glances.
Padmé met Satine's gaze evenly. "The Senate doesn't really understand the distinction. Cloning is… a gray area, for most of them."
That was putting it mildly.
Obi-Wan had sat through enough Senate sessions to know that "gray area" translated loosely to whatever scares us the most this week. And a population of highly trained soldiers with no formal allegiance to the Republic, being welcomed by an independent Mandalore, would absolutely qualify.
One of the councilors—an older man with a scar bisecting his shaved scalp—leaned forward. "The Republic has no right to dictate who we offer sanctuary to."
Another councilor snorted. "They'll dictate it anyway."
A third waved a dismissive hand. "We could simply not inform them."
Padmé inhaled sharply.
Obi-Wan felt it ripple through the Force before she spoke—the effort it took for her not to scream.
"The Republic already knows," Padmé said, her voice strained but controlled. "That is why I am here. This discussion did not materialize out of idle curiosity."
She glanced briefly—briefly—between Satine and Obi-Wan, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"And I certainly wasn't sent to observe… whatever this is."
Satine smiled, slow and utterly unrepentant.
Obi-Wan stiffened. "This is a formal diplomatic engagement."
"Of course it is," Satine agreed sweetly. "Entirely professional."
Padmé's lips pressed into a thin line.
Obi-Wan was vaguely aware of the council watching them with something approaching fascination. He resisted the urge to sigh.
We are not flirting, he told himself firmly. We are engaging in respectful discourse.
If there had been any flirtation—and he was not conceding that there had been—it would have been executed with the utmost subtlety and decorum.
Satine, apparently, agreed.
Her gaze lingering on him just long enough to be noticed by absolutely everyone, was surely a random and unrelated coincidence.
Padmé rolled her eyes.
"Regardless," the senator continued, "even if the ethical argument is sound, the optics are disastrous. An independent Mandalore extending citizenship to an entire army trained under Republic authority creates the appearance of—"
"—militarization," Satine finished calmly. "Which is precisely what we are not doing."
A councilor scoffed. "That's what it looks like."
Satine turned to him. "Pacifism does not mean helplessness."
The chamber quieted at that.
Obi-Wan felt a familiar twist in his chest. Satine had always understood that distinction better than anyone. She had built an entire society around it.
Padmé nodded slowly. "No one is accusing Mandalore of aggression. But perception matters. Especially now." She hesitated, then added, "If Mandalore were to rejoin the Republic… the bill might pass."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Obi-Wan's heart sank even before Satine spoke.
"No," Satine said immediately.
There was no heat in her voice. No hesitation. Just certainty.
"Our independence is not negotiable."
Padmé studied her, searching for any crack, any opening. Finding none, she inclined her head in acknowledgment.
"I had to ask."
"I know," Satine said softly.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes for half a heartbeat.
This was the impasse. Compassion caught in the machinery of politics. Good intentions strangled by precedent and fear.
Millions of lives, balanced on language.
He opened his eyes again, straightened his shoulders, and prepared himself for the rest of the negotiation.
Because neutral, he knew, had never meant invisible.
And it certainly had never meant safe.
Asajj Ventress felt Mandalore before she saw it.
The planet had a peculiar stillness in the Force—controlled, regulated, disciplined in a way that was not Jedi and not Sith. There was no chaos, no wild emotional static. Just… containment. Layers of restraint stacked on top of old violence, pressed down until it became culture instead of instinct.
She disliked it immediately.
The shuttle pierced Sundari's atmosphere on a precise vector, its descent clean and unapologetic. No request for clearance. No advance notice. The Confederacy did not ask independent systems for permission. It reminded them they had options.
Ventress stood behind her Master in the shuttle's hold, hands folded into her sleeves, posture loose but coiled. She wore black and crimson—unmarked, unadorned. No insignia. No rank. Just intent.
Count Dooku stood at the forward viewport, silver hair immaculate, cape draped as though gravity itself deferred to him. He radiated satisfaction.
Not triumph—anticipation.
This was not a battlefield. It was a sales pitch.
The landing platform came into view, sleek and open, framed by the white curves of Sundari's architecture. Security forces were already mobilizing—Mandalorian guards in muted armor, weapons present but lowered. Not hostile.
Cautious.
Good.
The shuttle touched down with ceremonial grace. The ramp lowered in a smooth hiss.
Dooku moved first.
He stepped onto the platform as though he had already been invited, boots clicking softly against polished durasteel. His presence rolled outward in the Force—controlled, charismatic, the practiced gravity of a man who had spent decades being listened to.
Ventress followed a pace behind.
She did not announce herself. She did not need to.
Her gaze lifted immediately, sharp and predatory, scanning the assembled delegation.
Satine Kryze stood near the front, composed and luminous, flanked by Mandalorian councilors. Senator Padmé Amidala stood beside her, posture tight, expression already wary.
And there—
Ventress's eyes narrowed.
Obi-Wan Kenobi.
So. That was him.
He looked… disappointingly calm. Beige robes, neutral stance, hands folded like a man attending a mildly inconvenient ceremony rather than a geopolitical ambush. His presence in the Force was controlled, disciplined, irritatingly bright at the edges.
Her Master had spoken of him with a curious optimism.
The apprentice of my former apprentice, Dooku had said, as though that meant something inherently impressive. There is potential there.
Ventress had restrained herself from rolling her eyes.
Nepotism, she had decided, lived on quite comfortably within the Jedi Order.
Still… Kenobi had killed Darth Maul.
Not that it said much. Male Dathomirians were notoriously inferior. All horns and bravado, no subtlety. The fact that Maul had needed horns at all was frankly embarrassing.
Pathetic.
Ventress filed Kenobi away for later murder.
Then—
Something waddled.
The air changed.
Not in the Force. In morale.
Nute Gunray emerged from the shuttle behind them, robes rustling, jowls wobbling, eyes darting with the nervous self-importance of a man who believed himself far cleverer than reality consistently proved him to be.
Ventress felt it, distinctly.
The moment deflated.
She glanced sideways at him, lips thinning.
Of course, she thought. They just had to bring him.
Gunray stepped onto the platform, nearly tripping on the ramp, and beamed at the assembled Mandalorians as though expecting applause.
None came.
Padmé's shoulders stiffened.
Satine blinked, once.
Obi-Wan's expression flickered—so briefly Ventress might have imagined it—but the faintest hint of resignation passed through him.
Excellent.
Count Dooku did not acknowledge Gunray at all.
"Duchess Kryze," Dooku said smoothly, spreading his hands in a gesture of openness. "Senator Amidala. Knight Kenobi."
He inclined his head to each in turn, respectful without submission.
"I apologize for the lack of notice," he continued. "But events move quickly these days, and I would have hated to arrive too late to such… pivotal discussions."
Satine's eyes hardened just a fraction. "This is an internal Mandalorian matter."
"Of course," Dooku agreed immediately. "Which is precisely why we are here."
Padmé stepped forward. "The Confederacy was not invited."
"No," Dooku said pleasantly. "But independence invites interest."
Ventress watched Padmé carefully. The senator was good—sharp, perceptive, already running probabilities in her head. This was exactly the sort of moment where systems slipped.
Not through conquest.
Through offers.
Dooku gestured vaguely at the skyline. "The Confederacy of Independent Systems recognizes Mandalorian sovereignty in full. No interference. No Senate obstruction. No… reinterpretation of your laws to suit political convenience."
Satine's expression did not change—but Ventress felt the ripple in the Force.
Temptation.
Not ideological. Strategic.
Dooku pressed gently. "Your proposal regarding clone citizenship is, of course, entirely your choice. We would not presume to dictate how Mandalore defines personhood."
Gunray bobbed his head enthusiastically. "Yes! Entirely your choice! We support freedom. Very strongly."
Ventress closed her eyes for half a heartbeat.
Force give me strength.
Padmé's voice cut in, controlled but edged. "You're asking Mandalore to align itself with the Confederacy."
"Not at all," Dooku replied. "I am offering you freedom from Republic hypocrisy."
That landed.
Padmé's jaw tightened. "The Republic has maintained galactic stability for centuries."
Dooku smiled faintly. "Has it?"
The silence stretched.
Ventress watched Obi-Wan now. He was fully attentive, eyes moving between speakers, mind clearly racing. He had clocked Dooku. He had clocked her.
And he had absolutely clocked that this timing was no coincidence.
Good. Awareness made the eventual betrayal sweeter.
"The Republic has provided security," Padmé continued, voice steady. "The Confederacy has… not."
"Security," Dooku echoed thoughtfully. "Is an interesting word. The Republic did not prevent the creation of an army without oversight. It did not protect the clones from being used as political leverage. And it has not, to date, provided a solution beyond delay."
Satine inhaled slowly.
Ventress could practically hear the gears turning.
Gunray leaned forward conspiratorially. "And if I may add—"
Ventress shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood.
He plowed on anyway. "We also offer very competitive trade incentives."
Padmé pinched the bridge of her nose.
Obi-Wan spoke then, voice calm but firm. "This is not a negotiation in good faith."
Dooku turned to him fully, eyes bright. "On the contrary, my former Order taught me the value of honesty."
Ventress suppressed a smirk.
"You're exploiting a humanitarian crisis," Obi-Wan said. "And you know it."
"And the Republic is obstructing one," Dooku replied smoothly. "Perspective, Knight Kenobi."
Ventress studied him again, more closely this time.
Yes. There was skill there. Control. Intelligence.
Still killable.
Eventually.
Satine straightened. "Mandalore will consider all options," she said evenly. "But we will not be rushed."
"Of course," Dooku said, inclining his head. "We merely wished to ensure you knew the Confederacy respects your independence."
Gunray smiled broadly. "And your people."
Ventress resisted the urge to shove him off the platform. Barely.
Padmé had survived invasion.
She had survived occupation, imprisonment, political humiliation, and the deeply personal trauma of being elected into galactic office before her frontal lobe had fully finished developing. She had debated senators who thought ethics were optional and men who believed that adding the word security to a sentence excused whatever came next.
She had even, on one memorable occasion, survived a dinner with Jar Jar Binks and several Trade Federation representatives without committing a felony.
She was, in short, resilient.
Which was why it took her a full three seconds to process the fact that Nute Gunray was trying to assassinate her again.
She became aware of it the way one became aware of a migraine—gradually, with mounting disbelief, and an overwhelming desire to lie down somewhere dark and quiet until the galaxy made better choices.
They had been ushered into a smaller antechamber adjoining the main council hall, the sort of space designed for "private discussions" that were, in practice, acoustically useless and spiritually exhausting. Smooth white walls. Minimal ornamentation. Mandalorian guards positioned just far enough away to signal courtesy without trust.
Dooku stood near the center, hands folded behind his back, posture relaxed in the infuriating way of a man who knew he was the most dangerous person in the room and did not feel the need to prove it.
Ventress lingered a few steps behind him, silent, watchful, eyes sharp as knives.
Obi-Wan had positioned himself slightly to Padmé's left, angled just enough to signal I am here without implying I am about to start something. Satine stood across from them, composed, chin lifted, expression unreadable.
And then there was Nute Gunray.
Gunray cleared his throat with great importance.
Padmé, with her long history of political experience backing her up, could practically see the spike of petty satisfaction, the old resentment resurfacing like a bad rash. It was practically telegraphed.
"Count Dooku," Gunray said, lowering his voice in a way he clearly believed was conspiratorial. "We have… a problem."
Dooku inclined his head by a fraction. "Do enlighten me."
Gunray leaned closer, casting a furtive glance in Padmé's direction that was neither furtive nor subtle. "The Senator," he continued, nodding at her. "She has been… an obstacle. For a very long time."
Padmé smiled pleasantly.
"I'm right here," she reminded him.
Gunray waved a flipper dismissively. "Yes, yes, of course. But you know what I mean."
She did, unfortunately.
"Ever since Naboo," Gunray pressed on, voice gaining momentum. "Ever since she utterly humiliated me, in my completely fair and noble occupation of her planet."
Padmé closed her eyes.
Just briefly.
Then she opened them again, smile still in place.
"You illegally invaded Naboo," she said calmly. "You blockaded our system, occupied our capital, and held my people hostage."
Gunray puffed up defensively. "In my defense, Lord Sidious assured me he would make it legal."
Padmé stared at him.
She stared at him the way one stared at a man who had just explained arson by citing zoning permits.
"I feel," she said carefully, "that you may have missed the point."
Obi-Wan's head tilted a fraction. "Who is Lord Sidious?"
Gunray froze.
Actually froze.
For a remarkable half-second, Padmé watched panic ripple through him—eyes darting, posture stiffening, brain clearly sprinting in circles looking for an exit.
"Um," Gunray said eloquently. "No one."
Ventress's mouth twitched.
"Excuse me," Gunray added hastily, already retreating two steps toward Dooku. "Count, if I might have a word. Privately."
Padmé resisted the urge to laugh outright as Gunray leaned in far too close to Dooku and began whispering with the intensity of a man confessing to murder in a public square.
She could hear every word.
So could everyone else.
"The Senator is a liability," Gunray hissed. "She always interferes. Always. She ruined Naboo. She ruined my career. She embarrassed me before the Senate."
"You invaded her planet," Dooku observed mildly.
"Yes, but she made it personal."
Padmé pressed her lips together.
Dooku exhaled slowly. "What, precisely, are you proposing?"
Gunray straightened, visibly reassured.
"Ah," he said, clasping his flippers together. "I am very glad you asked."
Padmé had a sudden, terrible premonition.
Gunray beamed.
"I have devised a plan."
Ventress's head turned.
Slowly.
Obi-Wan shifted his weight.
Satine's expression tightened by a single degree.
Padmé braced herself.
Gunray raised one flipper and began counting on his fingers.
"Step one," he announced proudly. "We hire an intermediary."
Padmé frowned. That was… vague. Not inherently terrible, but—
"Step two," Gunray continued, warming to his subject, "the intermediary hires another intermediary."
Padmé's frown deepened.
Dooku's brows knit together.
Ventress crossed her arms.
"Step three," Gunray said, undeterred, "this second intermediary purchases a droid."
"What kind of droid?" Obi-Wan asked cautiously.
Gunray waved a flipper. "Oh, that is not important."
Padmé felt something in her soul begin to wilt.
"Step four," Gunray continued, eyes bright now, "the droid deploys a specialized organism."
He paused for effect.
Padmé waited.
"And this organism," Gunray finished triumphantly, "is a bug. Or perhaps a tadpole. Something small. It infiltrates the target's quarters."
Padmé stared at him.
Ventress stared at him.
Dooku stared at him.
Gunray nodded vigorously, encouraged by the silence.
"And then," he said, lowering his voice dramatically, "the organism does… something lethal. Eventually."
Eventually.
"And then," Gunray concluded, spreading his flippers wide, "boom. The Queen is dead."
He paused.
"Well. Former Queen."
Padmé's eye twitched.
"I'm sorry," she said, very politely. "You want to assassinate me with a bug."
Gunray puffed up. "A sophisticated bug."
Dooku did not speak.
He simply stared at Gunray, expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and deep, existential regret.
Ventress turned her head another fraction, eyes narrowing as though reassessing reality itself.
Someone—Padmé was fairly certain it was one of the Mandalorian guards—cleared their throat.
Obi-Wan spoke first.
"Why not just… stab her?"
Gunray recoiled in horror.
"That would be obvious."
Padmé pinched the bridge of her nose.
"The point," Obi-Wan continued carefully, "of an assassination is generally to kill the target. Successfully."
"Yes," Gunray agreed eagerly. "Exactly! Which is why this plan is brilliant."
"It has five points of failure," Padmé said.
Gunray smiled wider. "Redundancy."
"No," she corrected. "I mean five separate moments where this could go wrong."
"And yet," Gunray said smugly, "with this many steps, it cannot fail."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ventress closed her eyes.
Dooku finally spoke.
"You wish to assassinate a sitting senator," he said slowly, "on a heavily guarded neutral world, during a diplomatic summit, using a creature you cannot identify, deployed by a droid purchased by a contractor who was hired by another contractor."
"Yes!"
"And you believe this is subtle."
Gunray nodded emphatically. "No one would suspect me."
Padmé laughed.
She couldn't help it.
It burst out of her, sharp and incredulous, the sound of a woman who had reached the absolute limit of her patience.
"Oh, I would suspect you immediately."
Gunray frowned. "That seems unfair."
"You literally announced it," she said.
Dooku lifted a hand.
"Enough," he said, massaging his temple. "Gunray, this plan is—"
"—brilliant," Gunray finished.
"—idiotic."
Gunray wilted.
Ventress opened one eye. "Can I kill him?"
"No," Dooku said without looking at her.
She sighed.
Padmé crossed her arms. "For the record, Count Dooku, you know I heard you entire conversation, right?"
Dooku blinked, brows raised in confusion. "What? Impossible. I was speaking too low for you to hear."
Ventress tilted her head. "You were not."
Dooku frowned. "My young apprentice, I do believe I know how loudly I am, or am not speaking."
"Master," Ventress said patiently, "you're hearing isn't what it used to be. You're old, for a human. These things happen. Just look at today. You've been asking me to repeat myself all morning."
"That is because you mumble."
"I do not mumble."
Padmé raised an eyebrow. "This is riveting, but I'd like to point out that I am still standing here, very much alive, and increasingly unimpressed."
Dooku turned back to Gunray with a sigh. "Fine. Proceed."
Padmé blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It will keep him occupied," Dooku said smoothly. "And quiet."
Gunray beamed.
"You see?" he said, pointing at Padmé. "Even the Count agrees."
Padmé stared at Dooku. "Don't try to assassinate me."
"Oh, have no fear, my dear," Dooku replied serenely. "I only told him that so he would shut up."
Gunray gasped. "You know I can hear you, right?"
Dooku turned to him, expression mild.
"What? Impossible. I was speaking too low for you to hear."
Ventress groaned audibly.
Padmé exhaled slowly, long-suffering and sharp-eyed, already filing away every word, every face, every mistake.
This was going to be a disaster.
And she was going to survive it.
Again.
If the Jedi Temple library was a monastery, the deep Sith tombs of Korriban were a hate crime.
I didn't even mean that metaphorically.
The architecture here was actively hostile in a way that felt personal, like the ancient Sith architects had designed everything under the assumption that whoever came after them deserved to suffer. Corridors sloped at uncomfortable angles. Doorways were either too tall or too short, never correct. Every surface was carved with jagged glyphs that looked like they wanted to bite you if you stared too long.
And that was before the traps.
"Tell me again," Maris muttered behind me, boots crunching on sand and broken stone, "why we couldn't just steal holocrons from, I don't know, a museum."
"Because normal museums don't have holocrons," I replied, stepping carefully over a pressure plate that had absolutely not been there five seconds ago. "Especially Sith Holocrons. They're incredibly dangerous."
She blinked. "Wait, then why are we looking for them?"
"So that we can be incredibly dangerous," I answered, with the patience of a public school teacher. One of the good ones, not one of the ones that yell at children. "Keep up, Maris."
How else are we going to learn how to use lightning fingers?
Maris didn't respond. Clearly flabbergasted by my deductive reasoning.
We were deep enough now that the light from the tomb entrance was a distant memory. Our lightsabers cast long, twitching shadows across walls etched with ancient Sith script—harsh, angular runes that looked like they'd been invented by someone who hated vowels.
Wrath hovered a few feet behind us, his holocron projecting the armored specter of the former Emperor's Wrath like an overbearing chaperone at a school field trip. Masked. Cloaked. Arms folded.
Disapproval incarnate.
"This section of the tomb complex," Wrath intoned, voice echoing unnaturally, "was constructed during the reign of Darth Marr."
"Ah yes," I said. "The golden age of unnecessary spikes."
Maris kicked a loose skull out of her way. It shattered against the wall.
"Why do Sith keep skulls?" she asked. "Like, as décor. Is it a threat? A vibe? Are they just bad at interior design? Don't get me wrong, I like them. I just know what a sensitive little boy you are."
I'll have you know, that the only thing I'm sensitive in, is Force Sensitive.
"They're very into themes," I said, electing not to dignify her diss with a response. Mostly, to prevent it from turning into another argument. "The theme is 'death,' and the subtheme is 'also death.'"
Wrath's head turned slowly toward me.
"Mockery will not protect you from the consequences of ignorance."
"I'm not mocking," I said quickly. "I'm coping."
We rounded a corner—and immediately stopped.
The hallway ahead of us was a nightmare.
A long, narrow stretch of stone, the ceiling low enough to force a hunch, the walls lined with recessed slots. Old. Dusty. Very suspicious.
Maris squinted. "Blades."
"Definitely blades," I agreed.
Wrath nodded. "Monomolecular. Force-activated. Designed to dismember intruders into component parts."
"Charming," Maris said. "Is there a way to turn them off?"
"Yes," Wrath replied. "Do not enter the corridor."
"That's not—"
"The Sith valued perseverance," Wrath continued. "And pain."
"Okay, but what if we valued not losing limbs," I said.
"That did not concern them." The apparition dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Cybernetics were all the rage back then. I personally knew many Sith who were more machine than man."
Huh. History does repeat.
I knelt, brushing sand away from the floor. There—faint grooves. A pattern.
"This is a Force puzzle," I said. "Weight distribution, resonance triggers. We have to move in a specific sequence."
Maris cracked her knuckles. "I hate puzzles."
"I know," I said. "That's why I'm doing it."
I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, letting the Force brush outward. The corridor hummed faintly in response, like it was aware of me. Watching. Judging.
One step. Nothing.
Second step—blades snapped out of the wall behind me, slicing through empty air where my spine had been.
Maris hissed. "Ben!"
"I'm fine," I said, heart hammering. "It's reactive. It punishes hesitation." You think I would have learned my lesson by now, but I never do.
"Of course it does," she muttered.
We moved faster then, flowing forward, trusting instinct over thought. The blades erupted around us in violent bursts, steel flashing inches from skin, slicing shadows into ribbons. Good thing I didn't try ducking.
The way that last blade flew out… well, suffice it to say, the penitent man would not pass.
The corridor spat us out the other side like it was disappointed we survived.
I leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
Maris flipped the corridor off.
Wrath remained unimpressed. "Adequate."
"High praise," I panted. "I feel so validated."
The chamber beyond was… actually impressive.
High ceiling. Massive stone shelves carved directly into the walls, each niche holding a holocron. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Some pyramidal. Some cubical. Some shapes I didn't have names for.
A library.
A terrible library, but still.
"Oh," I breathed. "Jackpot."
Maris's eyes lit up with predatory delight. "Dibs."
"You can't dibs ancient Sith artifacts," I said.
"I just did."
We approached the nearest shelf. The holocrons pulsed faintly with dark energy, each one etched with titles in ancient Sith.
Wrath floated forward, peering at them. "These are instructional archives. Lesser works. Practical knowledge."
"Perfect," I said. "That's exactly what we want."
Maris grabbed the first one she saw.
The inscription was a mess of hisses and jagged glyphs that sounded, when Wrath translated aloud, like a throat being cleared by a demon.
Maris's grin widened. "That one sounds promising."
Wrath paused.
"…On Ritual Dagger Maintenance."
Maris stared at it.
Then she threw it back onto the shelf.
"You're telling me," she said flatly, "we almost died for Sith knife care."
I picked up another. The title made my skin prickle.
"What about this one?" I asked. "Feels… intense."
Wrath translated.
"Common Meditative Errors and How to Correct Them."
I sighed. "This is the worst library in the galaxy."
Maris yanked another one free. "No way this one's boring."
Wrath tilted his head. "…Proper Cloak Storage in Humid Environments."
She screamed.
Not a scared scream. An angry one.
"I hate Sith," she declared.
"You are Sith," I reminded her.
"I hate old Sith."
We kept going.
Every single holocron sounded like it contained forbidden secrets that would unravel reality.
Every single one turned out to be… mundane.
"Efficient Fortress Accounting."
"Dealing with Apprentices Who Ask Too Many Questions."
"Lightning Is Not for Everyone: A Personal Reflection."
I paused at that one.
Wrath noticed.
"…I did not author that."
"Sure," I said. "Just saying, it feels targeted."
Maris smirked. "So you can't shoot lightning."
Wrath's mask inclined. "Power manifests differently for each individual."
"That's a yes," she said.
We finally found one that felt… heavier.
The title growled in the air, the glyphs almost vibrating.
I swallowed. "Okay. This one has to be good."
Wrath read it.
"…Advanced Footwork for Lightsaber Duels."
Maris blinked. "Footwork."
I slumped. "I risked my life for Sith cardio."
We sat on the stone floor, surrounded by shelves of disappointment.
I stared at the holocrons, frustration simmering beneath the humor.
Somewhere out there—somewhere—was the knowledge we needed. Answers. Power. A way to stay ahead of everything crashing toward us.
And instead, we were in a tomb full of Sith self-help manuals.
Maris nudged my shoulder. "Hey. Could be worse."
"How."
"We could be dead."
I laughed despite myself.
"Okay," I said, pushing myself to my feet. "One more shelf. Then we call it."
We moved deeper into the chamber, to a section half-buried by a cave-in. These holocrons were older. Dustier. Untouched.
I reached out—
—and the Force shifted.
Not hostile.
Not welcoming.
…Curious.
Wrath stiffened. "Careful."
My fingers brushed the holocron.
The title hissed and snarled, ancient and heavy.
Wrath translated slowly.
"…On the Synthesis of Light and Dark Knowledge."
Maris went still.
I swallowed.
"That," I said quietly, "sounds useful."
Wrath regarded me for a long moment.
"…Yes," he admitted. "It does."
Maris grinned, sharp and feral. "See? Worth it."
I held the holocron close, heart racing.
Maybe this library wasn't entirely terrible.
Just mostly.
And probably cursed.
Which, at this point, felt on brand.
Maris Brood had always believed that hesitation was how the universe punished you.
If you stopped to think, something went wrong. If you paused, the moment slipped. If you asked permission, the answer was no. This philosophy had served her remarkably well in fights, poorly in social situations, and spectacularly when it came to Force artifacts that whispered promises of power.
Which was why the holocron was already in her hands.
It was heavier than it looked—cold stone, sharp edges, dark energy thrumming under her fingers like a restrained animal. The inscription still crawled faintly across its surface, ancient Sith runes hissing quietly as if annoyed at being ignored for several centuries.
She smiled.
"Well," she said, lowering herself onto a broken slab of stone, "let's see what forbidden knowledge looks like today."
She reached for the activation panel.
"Wait."
Ben's hand closed over her wrist.
Maris turned her head slowly.
He was doing that thing again. The thoughtful face. The one he got when he was about to say something either deeply insightful or catastrophically stupid, with no visible way to tell which in advance.
"What," she said flatly, "are you doing."
"I just—" He hesitated, then brightened. "I had an idea."
That was worse.
Maris pulled her hand back, clutching the holocron protectively. "You stopped me from opening a Sith holocron because you had an idea."
"Yes."
"You know where we are, right?"
"Korriban," he said immediately.
"And what this is?"
"A Sith holocron."
"And what we are?"
"Sith." He paused. "Technically?"
"That's right," she congratulated him, sickly sweet. Fighting the urge to pinch his cheek, and coo patronizingly at him. "We're Sith apprentices, on a Sith world, with a Sith holocron. We're opening it."
Ben waved that off. "Okay, yes, but hear me out. Before we open it, there's one really cool thing I want to try."
Maris narrowed her eyes. "Define 'cool.'"
He took a breath, visibly bracing himself. "So. Theory."
She made a low, warning sound.
"Not just a theory," he added quickly. "A good one."
Wrath tilted his helmeted head. "This should be enlightening."
Ben ignored him. "Jedi holocrons and Sith holocrons are… different. Not just philosophically. Structurally. They're built to respond to different Force alignments."
Maris leaned back slightly, still gripping the holocron. "You're saying the Force has compatibility issues."
"Yes," Ben said, relieved. "Exactly."
Wrath did not look relieved.
"And," Ben continued, warming to it, "there's this idea—hypothetical—that if you activate one in the presence of the other, you can sort of… stabilize the response."
Maris stared at him.
"Stabilize," she repeated.
"Balance," he corrected. "Like… cross-referencing."
She waited.
He smiled, sheepish. "Basically? You'll get the answer to any question you could possibly have."
Silence stretched.
Maris considered him carefully. His earnest expression. The way he genuinely believed this was a good idea. The fact that he had absolutely not explained how he knew any of this.
"Is it dangerous," she asked.
He winced. "What? No. Probably not."
"Probably."
"I don't think it is."
Wrath's voice cut in, dry and immediate. "It is dangerous."
Ben grimaced. "Okay, but you say that about everything."
Wrath did not deny this.
Maris exhaled slowly, staring down at the holocron. She could feel it now—impatient, eager, like it had been waiting far too long for someone reckless enough to listen.
"If we die," she said calmly, "I'm haunting you."
Ben waved a hand. "Would you relax? Even if we do die, we can just become holocrons."
Wrath turned his head with painful slowness. "I do not recommend the experience."
Maris snorted despite herself. "Noted."
She shifted, setting the Sith holocron between them. "Fine. Enlighten me. How exactly are we doing this?"
Ben's smile faltered.
"Well," he said carefully. "That's the thing."
Her eyes narrowed again. "Ben."
"We still need a Jedi holocron," he admitted. "… you didn't happen to bring one, did you?"
The words hung in the air.
Maris stared at him.
Then she laughed.
Not a nice laugh. Not an amused laugh. A sharp, incredulous sound that echoed off the stone walls. "You think," she said slowly, "that I brought a Jedi holocron. To Korriban."
He shrugged. "I assumed."
She leaned forward. "In what galaxy would that have been a reasonable assumption?"
"I don't know," he said. "You're you."
"Yeah. I like to play a little fast and loose with the rules," she snapped. "But I wouldn't bring a priceless relic of the Jedi Order, to their number one enemy's home planet."
Really, in the time that they've gotten to really know each other, especially now as the only sentient beings on Korriban (ghosts notwithstanding), when has she ever given the impression she was an idiot?
Ben rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds dumb."
Maris crossed her arms. "How could you possibly phrase it to make it not sound stupid?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"…I can't," he admitted.
She sat back, satisfied. "Good. Don't get me wrong, I actually like the idea of getting to know whatever I want, whenever I want. But, put that plan on ice until we actually have all the ingredients."
Omniscient knowledge could wait.
For now? Maris would settle for a few new tricks.
She has been looking for a way to turn herself invisible, after all.
That's an actual Force power by the way. Just one we haven't seen much of outside of RPG's like Kotor or SWTOR.
Shame too, it's completely underrated. Invisibility totally gives you the opportunity to sneak on people, eavesdrop, or stab them in the back. I mean, it's a sketchy superpower to be sure, but you know what they say, "The Dark Side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be... unnatural."
Anyways. That's all folks!
If you want more, please stay tuned for next week's chapter! Or, if you want to read ahead right now, feel free to check me out on Patreon, link below:
My Patreon
Sundari had always felt like a city built to make a point.
Smooth white domes rose from the ground like declarations of intent, uninterrupted by ornament or excess. The walkways curved gently, guiding movement rather than obstructing it. Even the air felt regulated—clean, cool, carefully managed. Order without aggression. Control without force.
Pacifism, rendered in architecture.
Obi-Wan Kenobi had admired it once. Now, standing in the council chamber with his hands folded into his sleeves and his posture locked firmly into Neutral Jedi Diplomat, he mostly felt tired.
Satine Kryze stood at the center of the chamber, luminous as ever in pale blue and silver, her voice calm and steady as she addressed both her own council and her Republic guests. She had always commanded attention without raising her voice. It was a talent Obi-Wan suspected came from long practice dealing with men who mistook volume for authority.
"The proposal is straightforward," Satine said. "Mandalore offers full citizenship to the clone troopers currently in Republic service. That includes asylum, land rights, and the legal protections afforded to any Mandalorian citizen."
Obi-Wan kept his expression carefully neutral.
Straightforward, she said, as if she weren't calmly proposing to adopt several million genetically identical soldiers whose template was a Mandalorian bounty hunter with a personal history of violently opposing Jedi involvement in Mandalorian affairs.
A bounty hunter who had been present on Galidraan.
A bounty hunter who, by all accounts, had not enjoyed the experience.
Obi-Wan allowed himself exactly half a second of internal wincing before returning his attention to the discussion.
Satine continued, undeterred. "These individuals were created without consent. They were trained for a purpose they did not choose. Mandalore believes that offering them a life beyond perpetual military service is not only ethical—it is necessary."
Padmé Amidala stood to Satine's right, hands clasped before her, listening intently. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, expression thoughtful rather than dismissive.
"That's a compassionate position," Padmé said. "And one I personally agree with. The clones didn't ask to be created, and they certainly didn't ask to be used as leverage in political uncertainty."
Obi-Wan resisted the urge to glance at her in gratitude. Padmé had a way of validating an argument before dismantling it, which made her both an excellent senator and a terrifying one.
"The difficulty," she continued carefully, "is how the Senate will interpret this."
Satine turned slightly toward her. "I anticipated that."
Padmé exhaled, already bracing herself. "The Republic cannot publicly endorse a privately trained army gaining sovereign backing outside Republic oversight. Especially not one whose genetic template is associated with a warrior culture that—no offense—has historically had a complicated relationship with the Jedi."
Obi-Wan felt that one land squarely on him.
No offense, Padmé had said, which was Senate dialect for all the offense, but politely.
He shifted his weight subtly, gaze fixed on a point just past Satine's shoulder, and tried very hard not to look like a man negotiating with his former lover about the future of millions of near-perfect genetic copies of one of the most dangerous Mandalorians in the galaxy.
A Mandalorian who had fought Jedi.
A Mandalorian who had lost people to Jedi.
A Mandalorian who had, despite all evidence suggesting better judgment, agreed to become the template for a Jedi-commissioned army.
Yes, Obi-Wan thought dryly. Nothing suspicious about that at all.
Satine's expression didn't change, but Obi-Wan knew her well enough to recognize the steel beneath the calm.
"They aren't weapons," she said. "They're people."
The chamber murmured at that. Several Mandalorian councilors nodded. Others exchanged skeptical glances.
Padmé met Satine's gaze evenly. "The Senate doesn't really understand the distinction. Cloning is… a gray area, for most of them."
That was putting it mildly.
Obi-Wan had sat through enough Senate sessions to know that "gray area" translated loosely to whatever scares us the most this week. And a population of highly trained soldiers with no formal allegiance to the Republic, being welcomed by an independent Mandalore, would absolutely qualify.
One of the councilors—an older man with a scar bisecting his shaved scalp—leaned forward. "The Republic has no right to dictate who we offer sanctuary to."
Another councilor snorted. "They'll dictate it anyway."
A third waved a dismissive hand. "We could simply not inform them."
Padmé inhaled sharply.
Obi-Wan felt it ripple through the Force before she spoke—the effort it took for her not to scream.
"The Republic already knows," Padmé said, her voice strained but controlled. "That is why I am here. This discussion did not materialize out of idle curiosity."
She glanced briefly—briefly—between Satine and Obi-Wan, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"And I certainly wasn't sent to observe… whatever this is."
Satine smiled, slow and utterly unrepentant.
Obi-Wan stiffened. "This is a formal diplomatic engagement."
"Of course it is," Satine agreed sweetly. "Entirely professional."
Padmé's lips pressed into a thin line.
Obi-Wan was vaguely aware of the council watching them with something approaching fascination. He resisted the urge to sigh.
We are not flirting, he told himself firmly. We are engaging in respectful discourse.
If there had been any flirtation—and he was not conceding that there had been—it would have been executed with the utmost subtlety and decorum.
Satine, apparently, agreed.
Her gaze lingering on him just long enough to be noticed by absolutely everyone, was surely a random and unrelated coincidence.
Padmé rolled her eyes.
"Regardless," the senator continued, "even if the ethical argument is sound, the optics are disastrous. An independent Mandalore extending citizenship to an entire army trained under Republic authority creates the appearance of—"
"—militarization," Satine finished calmly. "Which is precisely what we are not doing."
A councilor scoffed. "That's what it looks like."
Satine turned to him. "Pacifism does not mean helplessness."
The chamber quieted at that.
Obi-Wan felt a familiar twist in his chest. Satine had always understood that distinction better than anyone. She had built an entire society around it.
Padmé nodded slowly. "No one is accusing Mandalore of aggression. But perception matters. Especially now." She hesitated, then added, "If Mandalore were to rejoin the Republic… the bill might pass."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Obi-Wan's heart sank even before Satine spoke.
"No," Satine said immediately.
There was no heat in her voice. No hesitation. Just certainty.
"Our independence is not negotiable."
Padmé studied her, searching for any crack, any opening. Finding none, she inclined her head in acknowledgment.
"I had to ask."
"I know," Satine said softly.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes for half a heartbeat.
This was the impasse. Compassion caught in the machinery of politics. Good intentions strangled by precedent and fear.
Millions of lives, balanced on language.
He opened his eyes again, straightened his shoulders, and prepared himself for the rest of the negotiation.
Because neutral, he knew, had never meant invisible.
And it certainly had never meant safe.
...
Asajj Ventress felt Mandalore before she saw it.
The planet had a peculiar stillness in the Force—controlled, regulated, disciplined in a way that was not Jedi and not Sith. There was no chaos, no wild emotional static. Just… containment. Layers of restraint stacked on top of old violence, pressed down until it became culture instead of instinct.
She disliked it immediately.
The shuttle pierced Sundari's atmosphere on a precise vector, its descent clean and unapologetic. No request for clearance. No advance notice. The Confederacy did not ask independent systems for permission. It reminded them they had options.
Ventress stood behind her Master in the shuttle's hold, hands folded into her sleeves, posture loose but coiled. She wore black and crimson—unmarked, unadorned. No insignia. No rank. Just intent.
Count Dooku stood at the forward viewport, silver hair immaculate, cape draped as though gravity itself deferred to him. He radiated satisfaction.
Not triumph—anticipation.
This was not a battlefield. It was a sales pitch.
The landing platform came into view, sleek and open, framed by the white curves of Sundari's architecture. Security forces were already mobilizing—Mandalorian guards in muted armor, weapons present but lowered. Not hostile.
Cautious.
Good.
The shuttle touched down with ceremonial grace. The ramp lowered in a smooth hiss.
Dooku moved first.
He stepped onto the platform as though he had already been invited, boots clicking softly against polished durasteel. His presence rolled outward in the Force—controlled, charismatic, the practiced gravity of a man who had spent decades being listened to.
Ventress followed a pace behind.
She did not announce herself. She did not need to.
Her gaze lifted immediately, sharp and predatory, scanning the assembled delegation.
Satine Kryze stood near the front, composed and luminous, flanked by Mandalorian councilors. Senator Padmé Amidala stood beside her, posture tight, expression already wary.
And there—
Ventress's eyes narrowed.
Obi-Wan Kenobi.
So. That was him.
He looked… disappointingly calm. Beige robes, neutral stance, hands folded like a man attending a mildly inconvenient ceremony rather than a geopolitical ambush. His presence in the Force was controlled, disciplined, irritatingly bright at the edges.
Her Master had spoken of him with a curious optimism.
The apprentice of my former apprentice, Dooku had said, as though that meant something inherently impressive. There is potential there.
Ventress had restrained herself from rolling her eyes.
Nepotism, she had decided, lived on quite comfortably within the Jedi Order.
Still… Kenobi had killed Darth Maul.
Not that it said much. Male Dathomirians were notoriously inferior. All horns and bravado, no subtlety. The fact that Maul had needed horns at all was frankly embarrassing.
Pathetic.
Ventress filed Kenobi away for later murder.
Then—
Something waddled.
The air changed.
Not in the Force. In morale.
Nute Gunray emerged from the shuttle behind them, robes rustling, jowls wobbling, eyes darting with the nervous self-importance of a man who believed himself far cleverer than reality consistently proved him to be.
Ventress felt it, distinctly.
The moment deflated.
She glanced sideways at him, lips thinning.
Of course, she thought. They just had to bring him.
Gunray stepped onto the platform, nearly tripping on the ramp, and beamed at the assembled Mandalorians as though expecting applause.
None came.
Padmé's shoulders stiffened.
Satine blinked, once.
Obi-Wan's expression flickered—so briefly Ventress might have imagined it—but the faintest hint of resignation passed through him.
Excellent.
Count Dooku did not acknowledge Gunray at all.
"Duchess Kryze," Dooku said smoothly, spreading his hands in a gesture of openness. "Senator Amidala. Knight Kenobi."
He inclined his head to each in turn, respectful without submission.
"I apologize for the lack of notice," he continued. "But events move quickly these days, and I would have hated to arrive too late to such… pivotal discussions."
Satine's eyes hardened just a fraction. "This is an internal Mandalorian matter."
"Of course," Dooku agreed immediately. "Which is precisely why we are here."
Padmé stepped forward. "The Confederacy was not invited."
"No," Dooku said pleasantly. "But independence invites interest."
Ventress watched Padmé carefully. The senator was good—sharp, perceptive, already running probabilities in her head. This was exactly the sort of moment where systems slipped.
Not through conquest.
Through offers.
Dooku gestured vaguely at the skyline. "The Confederacy of Independent Systems recognizes Mandalorian sovereignty in full. No interference. No Senate obstruction. No… reinterpretation of your laws to suit political convenience."
Satine's expression did not change—but Ventress felt the ripple in the Force.
Temptation.
Not ideological. Strategic.
Dooku pressed gently. "Your proposal regarding clone citizenship is, of course, entirely your choice. We would not presume to dictate how Mandalore defines personhood."
Gunray bobbed his head enthusiastically. "Yes! Entirely your choice! We support freedom. Very strongly."
Ventress closed her eyes for half a heartbeat.
Force give me strength.
Padmé's voice cut in, controlled but edged. "You're asking Mandalore to align itself with the Confederacy."
"Not at all," Dooku replied. "I am offering you freedom from Republic hypocrisy."
That landed.
Padmé's jaw tightened. "The Republic has maintained galactic stability for centuries."
Dooku smiled faintly. "Has it?"
The silence stretched.
Ventress watched Obi-Wan now. He was fully attentive, eyes moving between speakers, mind clearly racing. He had clocked Dooku. He had clocked her.
And he had absolutely clocked that this timing was no coincidence.
Good. Awareness made the eventual betrayal sweeter.
"The Republic has provided security," Padmé continued, voice steady. "The Confederacy has… not."
"Security," Dooku echoed thoughtfully. "Is an interesting word. The Republic did not prevent the creation of an army without oversight. It did not protect the clones from being used as political leverage. And it has not, to date, provided a solution beyond delay."
Satine inhaled slowly.
Ventress could practically hear the gears turning.
Gunray leaned forward conspiratorially. "And if I may add—"
Ventress shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood.
He plowed on anyway. "We also offer very competitive trade incentives."
Padmé pinched the bridge of her nose.
Obi-Wan spoke then, voice calm but firm. "This is not a negotiation in good faith."
Dooku turned to him fully, eyes bright. "On the contrary, my former Order taught me the value of honesty."
Ventress suppressed a smirk.
"You're exploiting a humanitarian crisis," Obi-Wan said. "And you know it."
"And the Republic is obstructing one," Dooku replied smoothly. "Perspective, Knight Kenobi."
Ventress studied him again, more closely this time.
Yes. There was skill there. Control. Intelligence.
Still killable.
Eventually.
Satine straightened. "Mandalore will consider all options," she said evenly. "But we will not be rushed."
"Of course," Dooku said, inclining his head. "We merely wished to ensure you knew the Confederacy respects your independence."
Gunray smiled broadly. "And your people."
Ventress resisted the urge to shove him off the platform. Barely.
...
Padmé had survived invasion.
She had survived occupation, imprisonment, political humiliation, and the deeply personal trauma of being elected into galactic office before her frontal lobe had fully finished developing. She had debated senators who thought ethics were optional and men who believed that adding the word security to a sentence excused whatever came next.
She had even, on one memorable occasion, survived a dinner with Jar Jar Binks and several Trade Federation representatives without committing a felony.
She was, in short, resilient.
Which was why it took her a full three seconds to process the fact that Nute Gunray was trying to assassinate her again.
She became aware of it the way one became aware of a migraine—gradually, with mounting disbelief, and an overwhelming desire to lie down somewhere dark and quiet until the galaxy made better choices.
They had been ushered into a smaller antechamber adjoining the main council hall, the sort of space designed for "private discussions" that were, in practice, acoustically useless and spiritually exhausting. Smooth white walls. Minimal ornamentation. Mandalorian guards positioned just far enough away to signal courtesy without trust.
Dooku stood near the center, hands folded behind his back, posture relaxed in the infuriating way of a man who knew he was the most dangerous person in the room and did not feel the need to prove it.
Ventress lingered a few steps behind him, silent, watchful, eyes sharp as knives.
Obi-Wan had positioned himself slightly to Padmé's left, angled just enough to signal I am here without implying I am about to start something. Satine stood across from them, composed, chin lifted, expression unreadable.
And then there was Nute Gunray.
Gunray cleared his throat with great importance.
Padmé, with her long history of political experience backing her up, could practically see the spike of petty satisfaction, the old resentment resurfacing like a bad rash. It was practically telegraphed.
"Count Dooku," Gunray said, lowering his voice in a way he clearly believed was conspiratorial. "We have… a problem."
Dooku inclined his head by a fraction. "Do enlighten me."
Gunray leaned closer, casting a furtive glance in Padmé's direction that was neither furtive nor subtle. "The Senator," he continued, nodding at her. "She has been… an obstacle. For a very long time."
Padmé smiled pleasantly.
"I'm right here," she reminded him.
Gunray waved a flipper dismissively. "Yes, yes, of course. But you know what I mean."
She did, unfortunately.
"Ever since Naboo," Gunray pressed on, voice gaining momentum. "Ever since she utterly humiliated me, in my completely fair and noble occupation of her planet."
Padmé closed her eyes.
Just briefly.
Then she opened them again, smile still in place.
"You illegally invaded Naboo," she said calmly. "You blockaded our system, occupied our capital, and held my people hostage."
Gunray puffed up defensively. "In my defense, Lord Sidious assured me he would make it legal."
Padmé stared at him.
She stared at him the way one stared at a man who had just explained arson by citing zoning permits.
"I feel," she said carefully, "that you may have missed the point."
Obi-Wan's head tilted a fraction. "Who is Lord Sidious?"
Gunray froze.
Actually froze.
For a remarkable half-second, Padmé watched panic ripple through him—eyes darting, posture stiffening, brain clearly sprinting in circles looking for an exit.
"Um," Gunray said eloquently. "No one."
Ventress's mouth twitched.
"Excuse me," Gunray added hastily, already retreating two steps toward Dooku. "Count, if I might have a word. Privately."
Padmé resisted the urge to laugh outright as Gunray leaned in far too close to Dooku and began whispering with the intensity of a man confessing to murder in a public square.
She could hear every word.
So could everyone else.
"The Senator is a liability," Gunray hissed. "She always interferes. Always. She ruined Naboo. She ruined my career. She embarrassed me before the Senate."
"You invaded her planet," Dooku observed mildly.
"Yes, but she made it personal."
Padmé pressed her lips together.
Dooku exhaled slowly. "What, precisely, are you proposing?"
Gunray straightened, visibly reassured.
"Ah," he said, clasping his flippers together. "I am very glad you asked."
Padmé had a sudden, terrible premonition.
Gunray beamed.
"I have devised a plan."
Ventress's head turned.
Slowly.
Obi-Wan shifted his weight.
Satine's expression tightened by a single degree.
Padmé braced herself.
Gunray raised one flipper and began counting on his fingers.
"Step one," he announced proudly. "We hire an intermediary."
Padmé frowned. That was… vague. Not inherently terrible, but—
"Step two," Gunray continued, warming to his subject, "the intermediary hires another intermediary."
Padmé's frown deepened.
Dooku's brows knit together.
Ventress crossed her arms.
"Step three," Gunray said, undeterred, "this second intermediary purchases a droid."
"What kind of droid?" Obi-Wan asked cautiously.
Gunray waved a flipper. "Oh, that is not important."
Padmé felt something in her soul begin to wilt.
"Step four," Gunray continued, eyes bright now, "the droid deploys a specialized organism."
He paused for effect.
Padmé waited.
"And this organism," Gunray finished triumphantly, "is a bug. Or perhaps a tadpole. Something small. It infiltrates the target's quarters."
Padmé stared at him.
Ventress stared at him.
Dooku stared at him.
Gunray nodded vigorously, encouraged by the silence.
"And then," he said, lowering his voice dramatically, "the organism does… something lethal. Eventually."
Eventually.
"And then," Gunray concluded, spreading his flippers wide, "boom. The Queen is dead."
He paused.
"Well. Former Queen."
Padmé's eye twitched.
"I'm sorry," she said, very politely. "You want to assassinate me with a bug."
Gunray puffed up. "A sophisticated bug."
Dooku did not speak.
He simply stared at Gunray, expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and deep, existential regret.
Ventress turned her head another fraction, eyes narrowing as though reassessing reality itself.
Someone—Padmé was fairly certain it was one of the Mandalorian guards—cleared their throat.
Obi-Wan spoke first.
"Why not just… stab her?"
Gunray recoiled in horror.
"That would be obvious."
Padmé pinched the bridge of her nose.
"The point," Obi-Wan continued carefully, "of an assassination is generally to kill the target. Successfully."
"Yes," Gunray agreed eagerly. "Exactly! Which is why this plan is brilliant."
"It has five points of failure," Padmé said.
Gunray smiled wider. "Redundancy."
"No," she corrected. "I mean five separate moments where this could go wrong."
"And yet," Gunray said smugly, "with this many steps, it cannot fail."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ventress closed her eyes.
Dooku finally spoke.
"You wish to assassinate a sitting senator," he said slowly, "on a heavily guarded neutral world, during a diplomatic summit, using a creature you cannot identify, deployed by a droid purchased by a contractor who was hired by another contractor."
"Yes!"
"And you believe this is subtle."
Gunray nodded emphatically. "No one would suspect me."
Padmé laughed.
She couldn't help it.
It burst out of her, sharp and incredulous, the sound of a woman who had reached the absolute limit of her patience.
"Oh, I would suspect you immediately."
Gunray frowned. "That seems unfair."
"You literally announced it," she said.
Dooku lifted a hand.
"Enough," he said, massaging his temple. "Gunray, this plan is—"
"—brilliant," Gunray finished.
"—idiotic."
Gunray wilted.
Ventress opened one eye. "Can I kill him?"
"No," Dooku said without looking at her.
She sighed.
Padmé crossed her arms. "For the record, Count Dooku, you know I heard you entire conversation, right?"
Dooku blinked, brows raised in confusion. "What? Impossible. I was speaking too low for you to hear."
Ventress tilted her head. "You were not."
Dooku frowned. "My young apprentice, I do believe I know how loudly I am, or am not speaking."
"Master," Ventress said patiently, "you're hearing isn't what it used to be. You're old, for a human. These things happen. Just look at today. You've been asking me to repeat myself all morning."
"That is because you mumble."
"I do not mumble."
Padmé raised an eyebrow. "This is riveting, but I'd like to point out that I am still standing here, very much alive, and increasingly unimpressed."
Dooku turned back to Gunray with a sigh. "Fine. Proceed."
Padmé blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It will keep him occupied," Dooku said smoothly. "And quiet."
Gunray beamed.
"You see?" he said, pointing at Padmé. "Even the Count agrees."
Padmé stared at Dooku. "Don't try to assassinate me."
"Oh, have no fear, my dear," Dooku replied serenely. "I only told him that so he would shut up."
Gunray gasped. "You know I can hear you, right?"
Dooku turned to him, expression mild.
"What? Impossible. I was speaking too low for you to hear."
Ventress groaned audibly.
Padmé exhaled slowly, long-suffering and sharp-eyed, already filing away every word, every face, every mistake.
This was going to be a disaster.
And she was going to survive it.
Again.
...
If the Jedi Temple library was a monastery, the deep Sith tombs of Korriban were a hate crime.
I didn't even mean that metaphorically.
The architecture here was actively hostile in a way that felt personal, like the ancient Sith architects had designed everything under the assumption that whoever came after them deserved to suffer. Corridors sloped at uncomfortable angles. Doorways were either too tall or too short, never correct. Every surface was carved with jagged glyphs that looked like they wanted to bite you if you stared too long.
And that was before the traps.
"Tell me again," Maris muttered behind me, boots crunching on sand and broken stone, "why we couldn't just steal holocrons from, I don't know, a museum."
"Because normal museums don't have holocrons," I replied, stepping carefully over a pressure plate that had absolutely not been there five seconds ago. "Especially Sith Holocrons. They're incredibly dangerous."
She blinked. "Wait, then why are we looking for them?"
"So that we can be incredibly dangerous," I answered, with the patience of a public school teacher. One of the good ones, not one of the ones that yell at children. "Keep up, Maris."
How else are we going to learn how to use lightning fingers?
Maris didn't respond. Clearly flabbergasted by my deductive reasoning.
We were deep enough now that the light from the tomb entrance was a distant memory. Our lightsabers cast long, twitching shadows across walls etched with ancient Sith script—harsh, angular runes that looked like they'd been invented by someone who hated vowels.
Wrath hovered a few feet behind us, his holocron projecting the armored specter of the former Emperor's Wrath like an overbearing chaperone at a school field trip. Masked. Cloaked. Arms folded.
Disapproval incarnate.
"This section of the tomb complex," Wrath intoned, voice echoing unnaturally, "was constructed during the reign of Darth Marr."
"Ah yes," I said. "The golden age of unnecessary spikes."
Maris kicked a loose skull out of her way. It shattered against the wall.
"Why do Sith keep skulls?" she asked. "Like, as décor. Is it a threat? A vibe? Are they just bad at interior design? Don't get me wrong, I like them. I just know what a sensitive little boy you are."
I'll have you know, that the only thing I'm sensitive in, is Force Sensitive.
"They're very into themes," I said, electing not to dignify her diss with a response. Mostly, to prevent it from turning into another argument. "The theme is 'death,' and the subtheme is 'also death.'"
Wrath's head turned slowly toward me.
"Mockery will not protect you from the consequences of ignorance."
"I'm not mocking," I said quickly. "I'm coping."
We rounded a corner—and immediately stopped.
The hallway ahead of us was a nightmare.
A long, narrow stretch of stone, the ceiling low enough to force a hunch, the walls lined with recessed slots. Old. Dusty. Very suspicious.
Maris squinted. "Blades."
"Definitely blades," I agreed.
Wrath nodded. "Monomolecular. Force-activated. Designed to dismember intruders into component parts."
"Charming," Maris said. "Is there a way to turn them off?"
"Yes," Wrath replied. "Do not enter the corridor."
"That's not—"
"The Sith valued perseverance," Wrath continued. "And pain."
"Okay, but what if we valued not losing limbs," I said.
"That did not concern them." The apparition dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Cybernetics were all the rage back then. I personally knew many Sith who were more machine than man."
Huh. History does repeat.
I knelt, brushing sand away from the floor. There—faint grooves. A pattern.
"This is a Force puzzle," I said. "Weight distribution, resonance triggers. We have to move in a specific sequence."
Maris cracked her knuckles. "I hate puzzles."
"I know," I said. "That's why I'm doing it."
I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, letting the Force brush outward. The corridor hummed faintly in response, like it was aware of me. Watching. Judging.
One step. Nothing.
Second step—blades snapped out of the wall behind me, slicing through empty air where my spine had been.
Maris hissed. "Ben!"
"I'm fine," I said, heart hammering. "It's reactive. It punishes hesitation." You think I would have learned my lesson by now, but I never do.
"Of course it does," she muttered.
We moved faster then, flowing forward, trusting instinct over thought. The blades erupted around us in violent bursts, steel flashing inches from skin, slicing shadows into ribbons. Good thing I didn't try ducking.
The way that last blade flew out… well, suffice it to say, the penitent man would not pass.
The corridor spat us out the other side like it was disappointed we survived.
I leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
Maris flipped the corridor off.
Wrath remained unimpressed. "Adequate."
"High praise," I panted. "I feel so validated."
The chamber beyond was… actually impressive.
High ceiling. Massive stone shelves carved directly into the walls, each niche holding a holocron. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Some pyramidal. Some cubical. Some shapes I didn't have names for.
A library.
A terrible library, but still.
"Oh," I breathed. "Jackpot."
Maris's eyes lit up with predatory delight. "Dibs."
"You can't dibs ancient Sith artifacts," I said.
"I just did."
We approached the nearest shelf. The holocrons pulsed faintly with dark energy, each one etched with titles in ancient Sith.
Wrath floated forward, peering at them. "These are instructional archives. Lesser works. Practical knowledge."
"Perfect," I said. "That's exactly what we want."
Maris grabbed the first one she saw.
The inscription was a mess of hisses and jagged glyphs that sounded, when Wrath translated aloud, like a throat being cleared by a demon.
Maris's grin widened. "That one sounds promising."
Wrath paused.
"…On Ritual Dagger Maintenance."
Maris stared at it.
Then she threw it back onto the shelf.
"You're telling me," she said flatly, "we almost died for Sith knife care."
I picked up another. The title made my skin prickle.
"What about this one?" I asked. "Feels… intense."
Wrath translated.
"Common Meditative Errors and How to Correct Them."
I sighed. "This is the worst library in the galaxy."
Maris yanked another one free. "No way this one's boring."
Wrath tilted his head. "…Proper Cloak Storage in Humid Environments."
She screamed.
Not a scared scream. An angry one.
"I hate Sith," she declared.
"You are Sith," I reminded her.
"I hate old Sith."
We kept going.
Every single holocron sounded like it contained forbidden secrets that would unravel reality.
Every single one turned out to be… mundane.
"Efficient Fortress Accounting."
"Dealing with Apprentices Who Ask Too Many Questions."
"Lightning Is Not for Everyone: A Personal Reflection."
I paused at that one.
Wrath noticed.
"…I did not author that."
"Sure," I said. "Just saying, it feels targeted."
Maris smirked. "So you can't shoot lightning."
Wrath's mask inclined. "Power manifests differently for each individual."
"That's a yes," she said.
We finally found one that felt… heavier.
The title growled in the air, the glyphs almost vibrating.
I swallowed. "Okay. This one has to be good."
Wrath read it.
"…Advanced Footwork for Lightsaber Duels."
Maris blinked. "Footwork."
I slumped. "I risked my life for Sith cardio."
We sat on the stone floor, surrounded by shelves of disappointment.
I stared at the holocrons, frustration simmering beneath the humor.
Somewhere out there—somewhere—was the knowledge we needed. Answers. Power. A way to stay ahead of everything crashing toward us.
And instead, we were in a tomb full of Sith self-help manuals.
Maris nudged my shoulder. "Hey. Could be worse."
"How."
"We could be dead."
I laughed despite myself.
"Okay," I said, pushing myself to my feet. "One more shelf. Then we call it."
We moved deeper into the chamber, to a section half-buried by a cave-in. These holocrons were older. Dustier. Untouched.
I reached out—
—and the Force shifted.
Not hostile.
Not welcoming.
…Curious.
Wrath stiffened. "Careful."
My fingers brushed the holocron.
The title hissed and snarled, ancient and heavy.
Wrath translated slowly.
"…On the Synthesis of Light and Dark Knowledge."
Maris went still.
I swallowed.
"That," I said quietly, "sounds useful."
Wrath regarded me for a long moment.
"…Yes," he admitted. "It does."
Maris grinned, sharp and feral. "See? Worth it."
I held the holocron close, heart racing.
Maybe this library wasn't entirely terrible.
Just mostly.
And probably cursed.
Which, at this point, felt on brand.
...
Maris Brood had always believed that hesitation was how the universe punished you.
If you stopped to think, something went wrong. If you paused, the moment slipped. If you asked permission, the answer was no. This philosophy had served her remarkably well in fights, poorly in social situations, and spectacularly when it came to Force artifacts that whispered promises of power.
Which was why the holocron was already in her hands.
It was heavier than it looked—cold stone, sharp edges, dark energy thrumming under her fingers like a restrained animal. The inscription still crawled faintly across its surface, ancient Sith runes hissing quietly as if annoyed at being ignored for several centuries.
She smiled.
"Well," she said, lowering herself onto a broken slab of stone, "let's see what forbidden knowledge looks like today."
She reached for the activation panel.
"Wait."
Ben's hand closed over her wrist.
Maris turned her head slowly.
He was doing that thing again. The thoughtful face. The one he got when he was about to say something either deeply insightful or catastrophically stupid, with no visible way to tell which in advance.
"What," she said flatly, "are you doing."
"I just—" He hesitated, then brightened. "I had an idea."
That was worse.
Maris pulled her hand back, clutching the holocron protectively. "You stopped me from opening a Sith holocron because you had an idea."
"Yes."
"You know where we are, right?"
"Korriban," he said immediately.
"And what this is?"
"A Sith holocron."
"And what we are?"
"Sith." He paused. "Technically?"
"That's right," she congratulated him, sickly sweet. Fighting the urge to pinch his cheek, and coo patronizingly at him. "We're Sith apprentices, on a Sith world, with a Sith holocron. We're opening it."
Ben waved that off. "Okay, yes, but hear me out. Before we open it, there's one really cool thing I want to try."
Maris narrowed her eyes. "Define 'cool.'"
He took a breath, visibly bracing himself. "So. Theory."
She made a low, warning sound.
"Not just a theory," he added quickly. "A good one."
Wrath tilted his helmeted head. "This should be enlightening."
Ben ignored him. "Jedi holocrons and Sith holocrons are… different. Not just philosophically. Structurally. They're built to respond to different Force alignments."
Maris leaned back slightly, still gripping the holocron. "You're saying the Force has compatibility issues."
"Yes," Ben said, relieved. "Exactly."
Wrath did not look relieved.
"And," Ben continued, warming to it, "there's this idea—hypothetical—that if you activate one in the presence of the other, you can sort of… stabilize the response."
Maris stared at him.
"Stabilize," she repeated.
"Balance," he corrected. "Like… cross-referencing."
She waited.
He smiled, sheepish. "Basically? You'll get the answer to any question you could possibly have."
Silence stretched.
Maris considered him carefully. His earnest expression. The way he genuinely believed this was a good idea. The fact that he had absolutely not explained how he knew any of this.
"Is it dangerous," she asked.
He winced. "What? No. Probably not."
"Probably."
"I don't think it is."
Wrath's voice cut in, dry and immediate. "It is dangerous."
Ben grimaced. "Okay, but you say that about everything."
Wrath did not deny this.
Maris exhaled slowly, staring down at the holocron. She could feel it now—impatient, eager, like it had been waiting far too long for someone reckless enough to listen.
"If we die," she said calmly, "I'm haunting you."
Ben waved a hand. "Would you relax? Even if we do die, we can just become holocrons."
Wrath turned his head with painful slowness. "I do not recommend the experience."
Maris snorted despite herself. "Noted."
She shifted, setting the Sith holocron between them. "Fine. Enlighten me. How exactly are we doing this?"
Ben's smile faltered.
"Well," he said carefully. "That's the thing."
Her eyes narrowed again. "Ben."
"We still need a Jedi holocron," he admitted. "… you didn't happen to bring one, did you?"
The words hung in the air.
Maris stared at him.
Then she laughed.
Not a nice laugh. Not an amused laugh. A sharp, incredulous sound that echoed off the stone walls. "You think," she said slowly, "that I brought a Jedi holocron. To Korriban."
He shrugged. "I assumed."
She leaned forward. "In what galaxy would that have been a reasonable assumption?"
"I don't know," he said. "You're you."
"Yeah. I like to play a little fast and loose with the rules," she snapped. "But I wouldn't bring a priceless relic of the Jedi Order, to their number one enemy's home planet."
Really, in the time that they've gotten to really know each other, especially now as the only sentient beings on Korriban (ghosts notwithstanding), when has she ever given the impression she was an idiot?
Ben rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds dumb."
Maris crossed her arms. "How could you possibly phrase it to make it not sound stupid?"
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"…I can't," he admitted.
She sat back, satisfied. "Good. Don't get me wrong, I actually like the idea of getting to know whatever I want, whenever I want. But, put that plan on ice until we actually have all the ingredients."
Omniscient knowledge could wait.
For now? Maris would settle for a few new tricks.
She has been looking for a way to turn herself invisible, after all.
...
That's an actual Force power by the way. Just one we haven't seen much of outside of RPG's like Kotor or SWTOR.
Shame too, it's completely underrated. Invisibility totally gives you the opportunity to sneak on people, eavesdrop, or stab them in the back. I mean, it's a sketchy superpower to be sure, but you know what they say, "The Dark Side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be... unnatural."
Anyways. That's all folks!
If you want more, please stay tuned for next week's chapter! Or, if you want to read ahead right now, feel free to check me out on Patreon, link below:
My Patreon
