No pain, no palm;
No thorns, no throne;
No gall, no glory;
No cross, no crown.
(William Penn).
***
One of Coruscant's countless dive bars was much like any other: a few scattered tables, a dim corner where shady characters gathered, a bar counter, droid waiters, and a colorful Anzat—chef and bartender rolled into one. The clientele was just as typical: a few regulars from nearby districts dropping in for a bite, an old man nursing a single glass of wine, a hopeless drunk surrounded by cheap bottles, a couple of merchants deep in heated discussion, and an inconspicuous figure buried in a datapad. A perfectly ordinary setting for a place like this.
Soft music drifted through the air, and the screen behind the bar displayed the latest combat report—images from some distant world flashing by.
"There is a schism in the Galaxy: after the battle on Geonosis, Count Dooku's droid armies are rapidly seizing key hyperspace routes, cutting the Republic off from most of the Outer Rim. The clone army, under the command of Jedi generals, is struggling to hold the line—they lack the numbers and ships to secure the frontier. More and more planets are siding with the Separatists. Those whose governments remain loyal to the Republic are under attack. The Jedi are consumed by the war, and there is no one left to keep the peace. Chaos reigns, and crime is on the rise…"
The announcer's voice was both monotone and strangely emotional at once.
"And now—the latest news. Republic forces continue their siege of the planet Foerost, in whose orbit the Separatists are building a huge fleet of warships. The battle has raged since the start of the war, with no end in sight. On Laatik, Republic troops have finally gained the upper hand over the Confederacy's combat droid garrison. The loyal sons of the Republic have freed yet another world from the oppression and tyranny of the Separatists…"
"Hey, boss!" barked the sullen Zabrak, putting down his datapad. "Switch to SST! And turn it up!"
"What's on there?" asked the bartender, lazily wiping a glass with a towel.
"Hutt knows—something's up on their site..."
The bartender pressed a couple of buttons. The battlefield scene vanished, replaced by the SST channel's splash screen announcing the start of a news segment. A young, animated Twi'lekpresenter appeared, speaking with practiced enthusiasm:
"And now we're replaying some exclusive footage obtained by one of our correspondents! As a reminder, the video concerns a group of senators' trip to the planet Randon—a daring attack and an even more daring escape! But that's not the main thing! Let's take a look!"
The Twi'lek winked at the camera, and her image was replaced by footage from some kind of camera.
For the next five minutes, the diner fell silent, broken only by the hiss of the stove and the faint noise from the street outside.
"Well, I'll be… hutt! That's wild!"
"That's not even the word for it. Whoever dug up this material made a fortune."
"It's gotta be some kind of droid, not a Jedi!"
"Why's that?"
"Try sticking a plasma cutter in your... and you'll see. They cut this thing to pieces and it was still moving! No living being could survive that. No, I'm telling you, it's definitely a new droid model!"
"Yeah, right, and he's—"
The tavern erupted into a heated argument.
***
Grace sat on the bunk in her cabin, legs tucked beneath her, arms wrapped tightly around them. Beside her, on the nightstand, lay an empty flask that still carried the sharp scent of alcohol. Across from her, perched on a folding chair, sat Christen, holding a mug filled with the same drink.
Both young officers looked worn down. Chris was managing to keep himself composed, but the Zeltron had clearly "drifted off" after seeing the wounded general. The sight hadn't been for the faint of heart—and even the lack of blood hadn't made it any easier.
Yes, this is not how I imagined my service. No, it all started so well—a flight with a diplomatic mission, a bunch of high-ranking passengers… and then it all went straight to hell.
An attack by palace guards, turret fire from the hangar ceiling threatening to tear the corvette apart, clones with rocket launchers taking them down, hundreds of droids destroying everything in their path—and then breaking into orbit, jumping to the fleet base. Three more hours of flight, and now they had a critically wounded Jedi on board they might not even deliver alive. To arrive safe and sound but lose their commander—that would be a disgrace.
"Grace, how are you holding up?"
"Not great. Still nauseous. It was easier when I was on the bridge—at least I had something to do. Good thing you've got antidepressants," the Zeltron giggled, rolling onto her side and pulling the blanket over herself. "How much longer do we have to fly?"
"A little over two hours."
"Wake me up when…" The Zeltron trailed off, falling asleep mid-sentence.
"No problem." Chris rose quietly and left her friend's cabin.
Hmm. I could use some rest myself. It's been one rough day… By the way, it was surprisingly easy to hack into the palace's security system. I mean, I'm good—but that easy? Unless… Hutt, someone had already broken in before us! But… who? And why?
***
Sitting in the plush chair of his media conglomerate's office in Coruscant's capital district, Baron Papanoida rubbed his hands together mentally as he savored a glass of fine wine.
"Oh yes, Exaj did a magnificent job. Ten thousand credits—hah! He sold it cheap. Such material, such material," the Pantoran muttered, eyes fixed on the rapidly climbing ratings of his channels and news sites. Indeed, this was one of the highest points of his career—one he had been waiting decades to reach.
In his youth, Notluwiski Papanoida had been a modest playwright on his homeworld. The resounding success of several of his plays brought him both fame and fortune, allowing him to amass a tidy sum, found his own media empire, and eventually become one of the trade barons of Pantora's guild.
Yet the entertainment business soon felt too shallow for the ambitious creator. Over time, Papanoida built an extensive intelligence network under the guise of his corporation—one that could rival even the Bothans in efficiency. Trading information became his true calling. And sometimes, his informants provided intel too valuable to stay hidden—information begging to be broadcast.
With the Clone Wars raging, espionage had become a particularly lucrative trade. Corporations, politicians, and even other media holdings sought his services. Not long ago, he had even provided valuable data to the Republic Intelligence Service itself.
Baron Papanoida smiled contentedly. Business was good.
***
The young Togruta sat beside the operating table where Mikore Vikt lay. After conferring, the medical droids had decided it was impractical to move the patient to a bunk—the table could serve as a repulsor stretcher for transport.
All his wounds had been treated: burned tissue removed, the injuries coated in bacta and bandaged. There wasn't enough universalsynthetic skin on board—the entire crew consisted of clones—but fortunately, the flight promised to be short.
The lights in the medbay were dim, but the Togruta's keen eyes picked out every detail. Her sense of smell detected the sharp tang of antiseptics. Her sensitive hearing caught every rustle, every electronic beep, and the steady, slow rhythm of human breathing. Listening closely, she could even make out the faint beat of his heart.
Ahsoka looked at her Master's face. The Jedi wore a respirator mask, and numerous sensors were attached to his body.
She tormented herself for not rushing to his aid sooner—but at the same time, she had been afraid to disobey his orders. She was afraid for her Master. Afraid of letting him down.
It's all so complicated... Why—why didn't he take me with him? He knew… he always knows everything. So why, why???