by Karen Miller
Once upon a time he’d have laughed at the thought of taking such precautions. This was Coruscant, the proudly beating heart of the Republic. And this was the Jedi Temple, a galaxywide symbol of peace and safety and elegant civilization.
He wasn’t laughing now. Times had changed, and he’d changed along with them. Every night he fell asleep with the thought they’d see the good old days again… but until then? A weaponized security scanner cleared him into the Temple.
“I’m here to see Master Yoda,” he informed the first Jedi he saw crossing the airy twelfth-level concourse, with its soaring columns and pale polished marble and sweetly scented air of serenity. It was such a contrast to the galaxy’s turmoil.
She nodded. “Of course, Senator. Please, follow me.”
He still found it unnerving, so many people knowing him when he didn’t know them.
Yoda was in his private chamber, comfortable on a meditation pad, engrossed in a datareader. He looked up, gravely smiling. “Senator Organa. Good of you it is to come. Very busy you are, I know.”
“No busier than you, Master,” he said, returning the smile. “I take it there’s news from Lanteeb?”
“Yes,” said Yoda, putting the datareader aside. “Come in. Come in. Sit. Refreshment, can I offer you?”
As he stepped farther into the light-filled chamber, its door closed behind him. “Thank you, no. The Supreme Chancellor was kind enough to offer me tea during our meeting.”
“Hmm,” said Yoda, his gaze intent, his small hands resting loosely on his knees. “And how is Chancellor Palpatine today?”
Bail hesitated, then awkwardly arranged himself cross-legged on the chamber’s other meditation pad. His knees were going to punish him for this. “He’s Chancellor Palpatine. Witty, urbane, and troubled by the war.”
“Yet something troubles you about him, I think. Hmm?”
Bail frowned at his linked fingers. That privileged security pass he carried was only one reminder of how his life had altered since Zigoola. This new relationship with Yoda—it was still disconcerting. They weren’t friends, not like he and Obi-Wan had become friends, but there was a mutual trust here, an understanding born of shared secrets and shared misgivings and an absolute determination that the Republic would survive. That no matter how bleak things got, or how tempted they were to despair, light would prevail over darkness and all that they loved would not slip away.
He looked up. “Rumor has it that Senator Yufwa of Malastere is about to propose a constitutional amendment.”
“Another one?” Yoda’s expressive ears lowered. “The sixth amendment this would be, Senator, since the start of the war.”
“I know. And believe me, I don’t like it. Our Constitution was never meant to be this malleable.”
Yoda stroked his chin. “This new amendment. Grant more powers to the Supreme Chancellor’s Office, would it?”
“That’s right.”
“Know of this, does Palpatine?”
“He’s the one who told me,” he said wryly. “He wondered what I thought, since the amendment involves security issues and that’s my area of responsibility.”
“And what think you, Senator?”
“I think it’ll happen,” he said, shrugging. He was aware of a creeping resignation—and anger beneath that. “Palpatine may be reluctant to shoulder more authority, but the Senate can’t seem to push it on him fast enough.”
“Reluctant, you say.” Yoda pursed his lips. “Believe that do you, Senator?”
Sitting still and silent, Bail felt the dull thudding of his accelerated heart. This was the first time he and Yoda had ever directly discussed the Supreme Chancellor. They wouldn’t be discussing him now, except that he’d… opened the door.
Yes, I opened it—but Yoda stepped through it. And what does that mean? That my misgivings aren’t wild fancy? The result of too much work and not enough sleep? Does it mean that nasty tickle in the back of my mind is telling me the truth?
“Do you believe it, Master Yoda?”
Yoda’s eyes gleamed. “Believe I do, Senator, that a free society must guard its freedom zealously, lest wake one morning it does to find all freedom disappeared.”
Which both was and wasn’t an answer. But he knew enough of Yoda, by now, to know it was the only answer he’d get. And that was fine. It was all the answer he could deal with at the moment. This was something he’d need to think about very carefully. One wrong word to the wrong person and—well. There’d be trouble—and on a scale he wasn’t sure he could cope with.
If only I could talk it over with Padmé. But Palpatine and his powers are the one subject she and I can’t discuss. She’s known him so long. Her faith in him is absolute. I just wish mine still was…
With an effort he pushed his fresh worry aside and turned his thoughts to an old worry instead. “So. What’s the news from Lanteeb, Master Yoda?”
Yoda raised his hand, and something floated through the air from a shelf mounted onto the chamber wall. A data crystal. The Jedi Master caught it in his fingers. Held it lightly, frowning.
“Know any biochemists do you, Senator?”
Biochemists? “Yes,” he said, warily. “A couple, as it happens. Why?”
Yoda’s gaze was boring into him. “Tryn Netzl?”
Tryn? “Yes. Yes, I know Doctor Netzl. He’s one of Alderaan’s most respected scientists. Master Yoda—”
“This Tryn Netzl,” said Yoda, politely ruthless. “Trust him with your life, would you?”
“I don’t—I’ve never given it any—” He stared at the data crystal, cold rushing through his blood. “Are you telling me we were right? We’re dealing with a bioweapon?”
Nodding, Yoda held up the data crystal. “Yes. The formula I have here. Found on Lanteeb by Obi-Wan and young Skywalker. Created it was by a scientist working for General Lok Durd.”
Lok Durd. Bail felt his stomach clutch tight. The Neimoidian’s escape from Republic custody was a closely guarded secret. And now Obi-Wan and Anakin knew?
Oh no. I’ll bet they’re… peeved.
His mouth was dry. His worst nightmare was coming true. “This weapon. It’s bad?”
“Terrible,” said Yoda. “Attempting to prevent its use are Obi-Wan and Anakin. Fail, they might. A defense against it we must have.”
“Which would be where Tryn comes in,” Bail said, nodding. “We need him to synthesize some kind of antidote?”
“Correct you are, Senator.”
“What made you think of him?”
“Think of him I did not,” said Yoda. “Suggested he was by the scientist whose formula this is.”
Suggested by… Bail felt a tiny flicker of hope. “Obi-Wan’s turned him against Durd?”
“Her,” said Yoda. “Yes.”
Bail let out a shaky breath. “Then I guess it’s a good thing he and Anakin went to Lanteeb.”
“A good thing?” Yoda’s ears lowered again. “Remain to be seen that does, Senator.”
Which meant the Order’s two best Jedi weren’t close to being out of danger yet.
Great. Obi-Wan, don’t you make me chase after you. I’m a Senator, not a blasted soldier.
“Master Yoda…” Shifting on the meditation pad, ordering his disordered thoughts, he pulled one knee up to his chest, hands wrapped around his shin. “There’s no question of Doctor Netzl’s brilliance. If anyone can extrapolate an antidote from the bioweapon’s formula, he can. But even if he succeeds—do we know how much of the weapon Durd and his scientist have created? If they’ve already got a huge inventory ready at hand—”
“They have not,” said Yoda. “A little time do we have before in danger any planet will be.”
But from the look on Yoda’s face, not much. “There’s no question of Tryn refusing to help. He’s as committed to the Republic as we are. I’ll contact him immediately and see he gets whatever resources he needs. If I have to, I’ll provide him with the funds he’ll need myself.”
“Necessary tha
t will not be, Senator,” said Yoda, his eyes warm. “The Temple’s discretionary spending I control. And more easily than you can I mask certain… purchases.”
Oh. Of course. They lived so simply, it was easy to forget that over the generations the Jedi had amassed vast wealth. Which was understandable—the Temple and its widespread activities were enormously expensive to maintain, and the Order received no Republic funding.
Yoda held out the data crystal. “In person I suggest you deliver this, Senator. Out of your sight it should not be.”
“Agreed,” he said, taking it. “And of course I’ll let you know as soon as Tryn’s started work, and keep you regularly updated on his progress.”
“Senator—” Yoda seemed almost uncomfortable. “This Doctor Netzl—meet with him I would before the antidote he begins to create.”
He looked at the ancient Jedi. Meet with Tryn? Why would Yoda need to—Oh. He wants to read him. I forgot. The Jedi can do that.
“You don’t trust me to know if he can be trusted?”
“Trust you I do, Bail,” Yoda said quietly. “But deceived even the best of us can be.”
And of course he couldn’t argue with that. Bitter experience had taught him that lesson, comprehensively. “I understand, Master Yoda. I’ll bring him to see you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Senator.”
Bail clambered off the meditation pad and bowed. “No, Master. Thank you. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Sealed again inside his speeder, zipping along the priority Senate traffic lane, he requested a secure comm channel and contacted Padmé.
“It’s me. Where are you?”
“On my way home. Why?”
“Need to talk. Can I swing by?”
She laughed. “That sounds mysterious. Yes, of course. Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“Love to, but I can’t. I’m heading offworld.”
“Offworld?” she said, surprised. “Why are you—oh, don’t bother. Tell me when you see me.”
He spent the rest of the ride to Padmé’s apartment organizing his transport to Alderaan, tying up various loose ends that he couldn’t leave untied, burdening poor Minala with more work than was remotely fair, dictating two memos and leaving Tryn a bland message that he’d be home on a quick visit in the next day or so and wouldn’t it be wonderful if they could catch up?
It was funny how things worked out. When Tryn had told him, almost a year ago, that he was returning home to take up a teaching post at one of Alderaan’s more modest universities, he’d tried to talk his old friend out of it.
And if he’d listened to me, I might not be able to take this problem to him now. Looks like Obi-Wan’s right. Again. The Force has a habit of creating useful connections.
As he came into sight of Padmé’s apartment block, he commed Breha. “Leave a light burning in the window this evening, my dove. Your shamefully neglectful husband is making a lightning visit home.”
Her soft, sultry laughter lit a fire in his blood. “I’ll do that. How long exactly will the lightning last?”
“Not long enough,” he said, regretful. “As long as I can manage.”
“Ah,” she said. “So—not a pleasure trip, then?”
He grinned. “I’m pretty sure I can squeeze in a little pleasure here and there. But no. It’s business.”
“I see.” The two small words told him she understood perfectly. She knew him so well; could read every nuance of tone in his voice. “I’ll be waiting.”
Padmé’s droid answered her front door. “Oh. Senator Organa. Are you expected?”
“Stop being officious, Threepio, and let him in!” Padmé called from somewhere inside the apartment. “And get him a drink. Corellian brandy. Pour one for me, too.”
The droid stepped aside. “Senator.”
As he made his way to the living room, Padmé came out of her bedroom, careless in loose green silk tunic and pants, barefoot, fingers tugging her intricately bound hair free of restraint. She looked tired and frustrated.
“Have you heard what Yufwa’s proposing?”
He grimaced. “Certainly have. What do you think?”
Dropping into the nearest chair, she wriggled until she could drape her legs over one armrest and let her head fall against the chair’s high, comfortable back. “I think poor Palpatine’s going to need a stiff drink and a lie-down. They can’t keep doing this. He’s one man. It’s not fair.”
Bail wandered to the living room’s panoramic window and hid his unease from her by staring at the cityscape. Dusk was falling fast; all the bright lights were winking on. “He can always say no.”
“I don’t see how,” Padmé objected. “People are frightened, Bail. They trust him to take care of things. It makes them feel safe, knowing Palpatine’s in charge. And right now, we need people to feel safe.” She sighed. “But I do wish it didn’t involve more burdens for him. He’s already got more than enough to contend with.”
Oh, he could argue with her, so easily. Except he hadn’t come here to argue. Hiding every misgiving, he turned. “You’re right. But then, we all do.”
Padmé sat up, dropping her feet to the carpet. “What is it? What’s happened? Is it—” Her face paled. “Lanteeb? You’ve heard something?”
As though a switch had been thrown, she’d gone from sympathy to fear. He didn’t need to be a Jedi to feel it. But who was she afraid for? He was beginning to wonder.
“I’ve just come back from meeting with Master Yoda,” he said. “He’s heard from—”
“Here we are, Mistress Padmé,” said her fussy protocol droid as it entered the living room. Halting beside her, it offered a little bow then extended the drinks tray.
“Thank you, Threepio,” she said. She was so funny. Treated the thing like it was a living, breathing person. Taking the quarter-filled glass the droid offered, she drank most of its contents in a single gulp. The droid did a small double take, but amazingly forbore comment.
“Sir,” it said, tottering over and offering him the other glass.
He took it, still looking at Padmé. The hit of brandy had washed color into her cheeks, but she didn’t look right. Her eyes were wide, her left hand clenched tightly on her thigh.
Does she realize what she’s betraying? Or is it just that she thinks it doesn’t matter, in front of me?
He wasn’t sure, and he had no intention of asking.
“Go on,” she said, once the droid had left the room. “Yoda’s had word from Anakin? And Obi-Wan?”
He nodded. “It’s what we suspected.”
“Great,” she muttered, and swallowed the last of her brandy. “As if comm viruses and signal jammers and super ion cannons aren’t enough, now we’ve got bioweapons. What’s next? A planet killer?”
“Hey,” he said. “Look on the bright side. At least we’ve got a working anti-signal-jammer prototype.”
“But no answer to the comm computer virus,” she retorted. “Sorry, Bail. Your eyes are playing tricks on you. The glass isn’t half full, it’s empty.” She rubbed at her temple. “We’re going to need an antidote. Better yet, a vaccine.”
He loved the way her mind worked. She’d make a brilliant Supreme Chancellor one day. Not that she’d ever thought of it. But he had—and for the sake of the Republic he was going to get her thinking about it, too—and soon.
“We surely are. But that’s some more good news.” Though he was chock-full of worries, he had to smile. “I don’t know how they did it but our Jedi friends have managed to get the rogue scientist who made the bioweapon to help them. We’ve got its formula. I’m going home now to speak with a good friend of mine. A biochemist.”
An answering smile lit Padmé’s face. “You’re right. That is good news.”
Stang. And now he had to bring her down. “The bad news,” he added, reluctant, “is that Lok Durd’s behind this Lanteeb business.”
Her smile vanished. “That barve. D’you know, Bail, I did wonder.”
“Yea
h. So did I.”
“You never said.”
“Neither did you,” he pointed out.
“Wishful thinking.”
And that made two of them. Which was pretty stupid, really, given the times.
“So are they coming home?” she said, putting her emptied brandy glass on the armchair’s side table. “Anakin and Obi-Wan. Did Yoda say if they were on their way back?”
“No,” he said, cautiously. “I don’t think the mission’s quite over yet. But they contacted him from Lanteeb, so I’m assuming they’re all right.”
“I see,” she murmured.
He drank the rest of his brandy. Felt it hit his empty stomach, hot and potent. “Look. I know it’s dangerous, what they’re doing, but those two eat danger for breakfast, remember? Try not to worry, Padmé. They really are the best.”
“True,” she said slowly. “But sometimes being the best isn’t enough.”
He put his glass down on a nearby occasional table and crossed to her. Dropped to a crouch, and rested his hand on her arm. “Hey. How many times have they spat death in the eye? So many times I’m thinking right now death’s wearing an eye patch.”
“Ha ha,” she said, but she managed to smile. And then she patted the hand on her arm. “I know. I know. I’m borrowing trouble. I should have more faith. But it’s not easy, being—being friends with people who risk their lives on a daily basis. There should be a how- to manual. Or a survival guide.”
Yes, there really should. As Alderaan’s elected Senate representative—and as its Prince—he’d been writing too many letters to bereaved families lately. Sending his sincere condolences for the loss of a loved one who’d perished in the battle to save the Republic.
It’s not only the Jedi and the clones who are dying. My people are dying. And there’s no manual for that, either.
“Hey,” said Padmé. “You okay?”
He stood. “I’m fine. But I have to go. Breha’s expecting me.”
“Give her my love,” said Padmé. “Tell her I’m still trying to juggle my schedule so we can catch up at the Crystal Bird Festival.”
“I will. Don’t get up—I’ll see myself out.”
“Bail,” she said, as he reached the living room archway. “Master Yoda—did he say when they’d be back?”
