Chapter Text
The next unfortunates handed Lost Starfleet Officer Babysitting Duty was the very young Jedi named Anakin Skywalker, and his padawan, Ahsoka Tano. Ahsoka was, as far as Chester could tell, a kid. In a combat zone. Being referred to as “Commander”.
She was going to pretend to herself that it was just ceremonial. That would be nice, this Republic not having child soldiers. She carefully did not ask Ahsoka how old she was, because the kid seemed confident enough it might be taken as condescending; she did ask Anakin how old he was, and pretty much instantly regretted it. He was practically a kid too—the same age as the ensign she’d hauled out of that carnivorous plant, in fact, good god, and he was mentoring someone.
And then she managed to get him to let slip how old Master Kenobi was, which wasn’t substantially older than she was, and about this point she started wondering what the life expectancy in this disaster of a galaxy was. If she hadn’t been so busy being appalled, she would be working on an inferiority complex. It was probably because everyone was being hurled onto the battlefield as fucking teenagers , good fucking god.
“You come from the Unknown Regions, right?” said Ahsoka, looking up at her with an expression exactly like one of Chester’s younger cousins. It made Chester wince inwardly.
“Not exactly.” She hid her unease by clasping her hands behind her back, and peering dubiously at one of the local (non-carnivorous) trees. She wasn’t actually sure if they were trees, in fact; there was a single trunk, covered in soft spongy grey bark, that flared out into… leaves? Like if someone had taken a mushroom, cut it into pie-slice sections and glued it back to the trunk. It was very pink. “The closest we’ve been able to guess, there’s a subspace anomaly there–possibly even a stable wormhole—that connects to my galaxy. But the location of that anomaly is a good question. To all indications, the only people who know are the bounty hunters who brought me in.”
“The Unknown Regions are pretty big,” said Ahsoka, sounding dubious. “And bounty hunters aren’t the most cooperative people.”
“And there’s the problem. Or problems,” said Chester, and gave the kid a wry smile. “I wasn’t in much of a position to see where we came from or where we were going, in the brig with shock restraints and a concussion.”
“Ugh,” said Ahsoka. “Those are the worst.”
Chester found herself glancing sharply up at Skywalker. He was supposed to be Ahsoka’s teacher, was he not? When the hell had this kid fallen into the hands of people who’d use shock restraints ?
“Taking down slavers,” said Skywalker, as if that made it better. “Mission went to hell, as usual. Slavers don’t play nice as a rule.”
“Are they a common problem?” Chester asked, her opinion of this galaxy sinking a little further.
He smirked at her, the expression completely mirthless. “You might say that. Illegal in the Republic, of course, but as you can see by all of this–” he turned a slow circle, arms spread wide to take in the ramshackle sprawl of a very hurriedly-put-together military base– “the Republic has limits to its power. And then when you get into Hutt Space, slavery is just the way their economy works. Pretty karked up, huh?”
This actually struck her silent for several long moments. “Slavery,” she said after a time. “In a republic this large and this old?”
“That’s part of the problem if you ask me. Enforcement’s the issue. There used to be the Republic Judiciary, but you try holding a whole galaxy to account with only a few million soldiers.”
She tilted her head, thinking about it, and not liking the conclusions she was coming to. Massive civil war. Eroding civil rights. Difficulty enforcing protections for its own citizens.
This Republic was in deep, deep shit and sinking fast.
“Has this been a long-term problem?” she asked. “Or one that has arisen in the events leading up to the war?”
Given his reactions so far, maybe they were on the same page about more than she’d thought.
Skywalker shrugged. “A bit of both, I think. Ask Obi-Wan if you really want to get into the gravel, but I think the Republic just expanded too fast and the Senate decided it was cheaper to outsource law enforcement to the likes of the Trade Federation than retain an actual standing army.”
He ducked into a narrow alleyway between rows of identical army-issue green tents, which some enterprising soldiers had attempted to camouflage appropriate to Felucia’s native foliage by attacking them with various shades of pink and grey paint. “This way to home sweet home, Commander.”
Two clones in deep sky-blue colors waited at the end of the alley. One had been standing, the other lounged over a stack of supply crates, as relaxed as a man in full armor could be. They both scrambled to attention as Skywalker turned the corner, saluted, then immediately went back to mid-shift boredom.
“Jesse, Fives, this is Commander Diane Chester.” Skywalker made formal introductions feel like a house party in the Academy. He gestured first to the clone who’d remained standing, and then to the man who’d gone back to the stack of crates. “Commander, this is Sergeant Jesse and ARC Trooper Fives. Two of the 501st’s finest.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Chester with a grin and offered hand. “You probably know me better as your new personal headache.”
The lieutenant, Jesse, took her hand and shook it firmly. “Pleased to meet you too, Commander.”
The tent wasn’t bad at all. She was used to the greater comfort of a starship, but compared to the usual accommodations when starship personnel got stranded on a planet, this was palatial.
Half the time you got stranded somewhere, you ended up in the wilderness or in prison. She’d checked one of those boxes this trip, and was hoping to avoid the other.
Skywalker gestured to the bedroll, where a packed sleeping bag and a neatly-folded blanket lay, and a lightweight plastic-looking footlocker off to the side. “Feel free to unpack, I guess. Master Plo and Obi-Wan’ll be a while.”
“Watch out for the edges on the lockers,” Ahsoka put in. “I shut mine on my hand last month and it practically bit me. Look, I still have the scar.” She held out the palm of her hand; a sliver of practically white skin stood out from the ashy terracotta color at the base of her thumb.
“Ouch,” said Chester, commiserating. “I’ll take that on notice, thanks.”
“Interesting ride-along you’ve got there, vod.”
Wolffe gave Cody a sharp look. “Sure, that’s one way of describing her.”
Cody had not gotten to the rank of Marshal Commander by leaping to conclusions. He returned Wolffe’s look with an even-eyed stare, sabacc-face on full deployment. “The Jedi seem confident that she is who she says she is, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t also be trouble. What’s your impression?”
Wolffe didn’t bother to hold back the snort. “Trouble, for sure. You know we ran into a handful of Seppies on the way in? She had a strop at me for not taking prisoners.”
Cody’s sabacc-face got a workout. “This is the vultures?”
“Wing or two of tri-fighters got left behind when the mothership skedaddled. We cleaned up, just in case.” Wolffe savored the moment; it wasn’t often anything took Cody by surprise. “Apparently she didn’t realize they were droids.”
“Interesting,” said Cody, at length. “You think she genuinely didn’t know?”
Wolffe considered it for a long moment, then nodded. “Seemed like it came as a relief, at least until she asked me if we were using droids too.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” said Cody, resigned. “Strikes me as odd, though, unless she is exactly what she claims to be. Any other common knowledge she’s missing?”
“Credits, for one. Certain amount of basic first aid. Acts like she’s never seen a needle in her life.”
The sabacc face melted into perfectly blank incomprehension. They looked similar, but Wolffe knew he’d won. “Credits. And needles.”
“And she asked if our torpedoes were sublight weapons.” Wolffe waited for that to sink in.
“What did she expect, torpedoes with hyperspace drives?” Cody’s brows came together, lines appearing in his forehead. “Not particularly practical, I’d have thought.”
“About what I said.” Wolffe had given the matter some thought. He was still fairly certain that hyperspace capacity was better given to the deploying vehicle than the weapon itself, but perhaps there was potential for the very slowest grade of hyperdrive, on the very largest of weapons.
“Perhaps she’ll be less judgmental of our war here if we explain we don’t habitually blow up each other’s solar systems here,” said Cody dryly. “That’s about the only use I can see for that kind of firepower.”
“Makes me wonder what sort of warheads they’re tossing around.” Wolffe let himself chuckle at the thought, then aws interrupted when Cody’s comm squawked urgently. “Sir, we’ve got enemy contact at the southeast perimeter and more incoming.”
“Well,” said Cody, “I suppose we’ll be finding out Commander Chester’s loyalties sooner than expected. She’s with Ahsoka right now; you should go get her.”
Before she gets into trouble or puts the actual Commander in danger, Wolffe thought. “Yessir.”
Felucia’s native flora was fascinating. And bloodthirsty.
“That one tried to eat a clanker a couple of weeks ago,” said Ahsoka, pointing out a squat dark trunk in the shade of one of the umbrella trees just past the edge of the camp. “See those roots all piled up around the base? Not actually roots.”
“Right,” said Chester, taking notes. This was the third distinct species of large carnivorous plant Ahsoka had shown her in the last ten minutes. She wondered what the hell they were all feeding on. “I take it the native fauna are all very good at dodging. And…large?”
Any response Ahsoka might have made was interrupted by Wolffe, hurrying over with a deeply annoyed and anxious expression. Probably concerned that Chester was being a bad influence. “Commander Tano,” he said to Ahsoka, “they want you and,” slight pause, like he didn’t want to call her by the same title, presumably because he felt she hadn’t earned it, “Commander Chester back in the camp. One of the perimeter sensors tripped a few minutes ago.”
“Get our guest back to safety, got it,” said Ahsoka, and gave Chester a big grin. “Don’t worry, Commander, we do this all the time.”
“I leave it in your capable hands,” said Chester, smiling down at her. She deeply hoped this was misplaced. Ahsoka looked like a kid. The idea of her with experience in a war zone… wasn’t good.
They had barely gone three paces when Ahsoka alerted. “Something’s coming,” she said. She unholstered the hilts on her belt–Chester recalled having seen some of the Jedi sparring with them at the Temple–and activated them with a hiss. It made Chester raise her eyebrows; she wasn’t exactly sure what use the lightsabers would be against a ranged weapon.
“Get down , Commander!”
The breath went out of her in a whoosh; Wolffe might have been a lot shorter than her, but he was shockingly dense. She wasn’t sure if she could have gotten up even if she’d been stupid enough to try. She was unarmed and had no business interfering in any case, but one thing gave her pause–he’d flattened her , not the kid.
Wolffe was getting to his feet. Chester stayed down, because she could take a hint. But she rolled over so she could see what was happening.
Ahsoka had sprung to the top of the ubiquitous piles of crates and had two lightsabers out. As Chester watched, several bolts streaked directly toward her–she tried to lurch upright to pull the kid down out of danger, but Ahsoka moved fluidly, lightsabers blurring, and deflected the bolts back into the shrubbery.
Chester sank back. “Huh,” she said out loud, sounding a little faint to her own ears.
“Let’s get the Commander back into camp!” Wolffe yelled, and Ahsoka nodded. “On it!”
Chester got her feet under her. The Commander could get her own damn self back into camp.
It was a harried retreating scramble, covered by Wolffe and Ahsoka, and Chester abruptly had a lot more sympathy for the last civilian specialist she’d had to escort out of harm’s way. At the time, she’d been well aware that the woman was trying her best to follow instruction and be sensible, but it had still been an exhausting trip back, and easy to resent her presence for making a hard job harder. Now, she was quite sure Wolffe felt the same way. Ahsoka—Ahsoka seemed to be having fun, actually, but if you had reflexes like that…
Wolffe, next to her, abruptly grunted and sagged. There was a sharp smell of burned flesh, a blackened mark between two plates of armor. She couldn’t tell how bad it was, but given that he didn’t start instantly bleeding out, it probably had missed the arteries. She caught him under the armpit on the injured side, catching his weight. “I’ve got you,” she said. “Don’t put more weight on that, it’ll make it worse. Don’t want to tear anything further.”
Even through the helmet, she could feel him making a face. “Know a lot about that, do you?”
“From the inside,” she assured him. It wasn’t far to go, and the kid was doing a fantastic job of keeping the incoming fire off them. Hardly the worst retreat she’d done, and Wolffe was nothing compared to dragging a Klingon captain back across the lines. For one thing, he wasn’t frantically fighting her to get back to killing Jem’Hadar. “It’s minor,” he was protesting, and Chester snorted.
“Yeah, sure, it won’t kill you,” she said, “but that leg’s not taking any weight until you get it fixed. Here we go, home sweet home.”
“Not the medics,” he snapped. “They’ve got enough on their plate.”
He was right, and even Chester with a command officer’s rudimentary grasp of triage knew his injuries would be given lowest priority. “Fine, let’s find somewhere to set you down and get your weight off of that.”
Wolffe gestured toward a reinforced bunker set back from the edge of the camp. “There, until the excitement goes away.” He glanced past her, leaned a little harder on her shoulder, and she heard the report of his gun.
Somewhere close by, artillery boomed. The ground shook as they reached the bunker. Chester got herself and Wolffe situated, and Ahsoka darted in behind them, moments before a closer blast threw chunks of dirt and carnivorous plant against the crete.
The air cleared slowly, and all was quiet once again.
Ahsoka very carefully peeked out around the bunker. “I’m not seeing anything,” she reported. “Do you think that got them?”
“It better,” said Wolffe. He went quiet for a moment, no less attentive. Chester guessed there were radio functions inside his helmet, and was immediately proven correct when he reported, “Fifty-odd casualties so far. The General’s on his way.”
“Dammit,” said Chester. “Expensive little skirmish. Any idea what they’re aiming for?”
“Not the slightest. We have them retreating, but unclear why.”
Ahsoka sat back on her heels and sighed. “So we sit here until we get the all-clear, right?”
“I can’t say being the protected noncombatant sits well with me,” grumbled Chester. “Far too much waiting. Not enough being useful.”
She turned to Wolffe. “May I see the injury? I’ve got a medical kit. No reason you should be more uncomfortable than necessary while we wait.”
She could feel him eyeballing her from behind his helmet. “Any reason I should trust you with that medkit?”
She pulled it out. “Jelly telling tales out of court, huh? Have a little faith in his training if nothing else. Besides, it’s that bacta stuff. How hard can I screw up bacta?”
“I don’t care to find out.”
“Hold still,” she said, efficiently disemboweling the kit and finding the necessary scissors to get cloth out of the way. She could feel him watching her. There was a fair degree of suspicion there, which was fair enough. She wouldn’t have cared to have a suspected spy wielding a sharp object that close to her groin, either.
On closer inspection, the injury was not so minor as it had appeared.
“Well,” said Chester, looking down at the gore. “Good news, it missed the femoral artery because you’re not dead. Bad news, stay sitting the hell down, I don’t know by how much it missed the artery. What I wouldn’t give for a dermal regenerator.”
“Little gods,” said Wolffe, probably wondering why his general couldn’t pick up helpful stranded travelers from another galaxy. “The kark’s a dermal regenerator?”
“Incredibly useful,” said Chester, inwardly cursing herself.
He eyeballed her, a lot of white showing all the way around his irises. “If you know how to use it, it’s got to be.”
“Ha ha,” she said. “Ahsoka, I think we’re going to need a proper medic for this. Can you run and get us a stretcher? I don’t want him putting more stress on it, not with how close it is to the vessel.”
Ahsoka looked at Wolffe for confirmation. Wolffe glanced again at Chester, deeply suspicious, then nodded. “Humor her, Commander, I’ll be fine.”
The look he gave Chester wasn’t nearly as kindly. “I mean it. Don’t think of trying anything cute.”
“Or I’ll wish Tarkin had indeed gotten custody of me, I know,” she said. “Commander, give me credit for having the survival instincts of a head louse if nothing else. Your Jedi basically have superpowers and if something happened to you under my care, they’d definitely start asking questions. I won’t say I’m always the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I can see that would go badly for me.”
The look of disapproval he gave her was long and profound indeed. Fortunately, they were interrupted by Ahsoka’s return–not with a stretcher or medics, but with Plo.
Chester raised her eyebrows at both of them. Was Plo also medically trained? On top of the piloting and spaceship maintenance?
Wolffe made a disapproving noise. “A stretcher would have been fine, General.”
Plo knelt beside him, his attention fixed on the sluggishly-bleeding gash in Wolffe’s thigh. “We are saving those for the more extensively-wounded,” he said, dryly, and laid his hands on either side of that wound.
“Extensively?” said Chester, dubious. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s within a few millimeters of his femoral artery; it’s a minor miracle it didn’t tear getting him here, and humans tend to bleed out fast from that one.” She didn’t ask what the hell he was doing; now was not the time to jog his elbow, literally or metaphorically.
Wolffe closed his eyes, let his head fall gently back against the bunker wall. “Not my objection, Commander.”
“Well it is mine ,” Chester started to say, and then was interrupted by Ahsoka leaning in over her shoulder. “Oh, I can feel that,” she said, fascinated. Chester followed her gaze down to Wolffe’s wound–
–which was, all of a sudden, much shallower.
“That’ll be fine, ” said Wolffe, the hiss of pain leaving his voice. “Save your energy for the injured, General.”
“Which you are, technically, still included among.” Plo did not move; the wound kept healing, charred flesh flaking away and meat and skin knitting together like magic. It left a scar behind, but an old one, pale and faded.
“Fascinating,” Chester said. She couldn’t help it. Wolffe had asked what a dermal regenerator did–it was basically that, without the scar. Perhaps this was why dermal regeneration technology had never arisen in this galaxy. “Wolffe, how are you feeling?”
It seemed like an asinine question even as she asked it, but just jumping to marveling over Plo seemed a bit in bad taste. Wolffe just gave her a dirty look though, so she turned to Plo. “Can all Jedi do that?”
“Not all of us,” said Ahsoka, wistful. “I mean, I can handle scratches and bruises, but that’s about it.”
“It is a matter of practice,” said Plo, more to Ahsoka; he turned to Chester and nodded. “Healing is a very common application of the Force, but it can be a long time in the learning.”
“Master Skywalker’s really good at it,” Ahsoka added, as Plo helped Wolffe to his feet. “Master Plo, is he in the med tent?”
“Yes–and yes, you can go and watch him.” Plo stayed close as Wolffe tested his weight on the formerly-injured leg; it held. “How is it, Commander?”
Wolffe nodded sharply. “Good as new, sir.”
“Glad of it,” said Chester, hearing the slightly astonished note in her voice. “So, the enemy’s been seen off, and Wolffe here is all patched up–what next?”
“Now we clean up,” sighed Wolffe.
Chester had clearly been impressed by Force-healing, and willing to show it. Plo hoped this meant they were establishing something more of a mutual respect, even if trust was still a long way off.
Not that certain other people were helping with that; upon their return to the mess tent, now doing duty as a temporary command area while the primary command center was being repaired–lucky shot from a Separatist tank–both Anakin and Krell frowned deeply at her. Anakin was more concerned; Krell, however, roiled with something heavy and ugly, that even his shields didn’t fully contain. After a moment, he stalked toward the exit, bending to mutter at Chester, “Disappointed your friends didn’t manage to rescue you, Tulin? You matter a lot less to Dooku than you think you do.”
Chester’s expression didn’t change one bit, but she did tilt a very thoughtful look at his retreating back, one Plo had seen her cast at the Temple windows before her first escape attempt. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Master Pong Krell is under investigation,” he said softly, “and under no circumstances will we leave you in his charge again.”
She huffed quietly with a sort of grim amusement. “I don’t fear him for my own sake,” she said. “But that man shouldn’t have anyone in his charge, and you know it.”
She wasn’t lying about her own lack of fear; her presence hadn’t even flickered with it. Nevertheless, there was an undercurrent to the way she spoke that Plo liked not at all.
“Indulge me and do not do anything foolish about Krell, Commander,” he said.
She nodded, but the second thoughtful look she cast at the tent exit unsettled him still more.
He didn’t have time to respond–Ahsoka bounced past. “Ration bars tonight,” she said in the cheerful tones of someone delighting in delivering bad news. “Had ration bars before, Commander? You’re in for a treat! I’m helping with cleanup.”
“To get away from the ration bars, presumably,” said Chester, very dry. “Also, I’m not sure they can be worse than Starfleet emergency rations but I am open to being impressed.”
Ahsoka laughed and vanished out into the gathering dusk.
“So,” said Chester as soon as Ahsoka was out of earshot, in a tone Plo had learned to dread, “how old is that kid?”
It was the fourth month of the year–Ahsoka’s birthday was coming up fast. “Nearly sixteen,” Plo said. “Too young, by the standards of the Order, but not by those of the Senate.”
This earned him a surprised glance from Anakin, whose own standards had never quite drifted away from those of Tatooine and to a lesser extent Naboo, and whose padawanhood had been deeply unusual from the start.
“She’s not of age,” said Chester flatly, “and she’s in combat. How common is this?”
Plo resigned himself to another difficult conversation.
“At the beginning of this war, the Jedi Order was essentially drafted into the Grand Army of the Republic. We… ultimately agreed to cooperate, for a number of reasons, but at the time the draft was limited to Knights–meaning those of us who have completed our apprenticeships, and therefore grown adults of our species, exclusively.
“Last year, the Jedi Draft was extended to include Padawans–apprentices–over the age of fourteen, which is the minimum age of responsibility set by the Republic.” The Council had fought the legislation, but, of course, they had lost. “The Order itself has traditionally avoided exposing children that young to combat situations, but it is an unfortunate reality of being Force-sensitive that sometimes danger finds us before we are ready. We train our children in the same self-defense capacity we train ourselves in, and I am afraid that this was used against us.”
“That’s horrific,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. Very few Federation member species have reached maturity by fourteen–I imagine the situation is not dissimilar for you.” She turned and looked hard at Plo. “Had the Order made enemies in the Senate? An edict like that smacks of cruelty for cruelty’s sake, not strategy or tactics.”
Plo wondered–not for the first time–what sort of government held sway in her Federation. Her faith in the ethical judgements she made at length seemed almost heartbreakingly naive.
“The Order has had enemies in the Senate for almost as long as we have worked with the Republic, because not all of its constituents prize democratic integrity as we do. Currently, not quite half the sovereign member systems are ruled by inherited monarchies–Count Dooku, the current figurehead of the Separatist movement, is one of those. A further proportion of member systems are outright run as business enterprises. Not quite twenty percent of the Senate Chamber is appointed by sovereign privilege, rather than elected to serve. Of those that were elected… not all elections are equal. Not all power bases are entirely above board. The Order makes a habit of investigating, where we find abuses and exploitation. Sometimes these investigations happen to implicate very powerful people in wrongdoing.”
Anakin took up the explanation, his eyes flinty and cold. “One of my… friends is a Senator. She was appointed, not elected, but she does her best for the Republic anyway. A few years ago, her homeworld was blockaded and invaded by the Trade Federation for–nothing, actually; they just wanted to make a point and Naboo was too small to fight back. The only ones outside the Naboo who did any Sithdamned thing about it were the Jedi, and one of them died for it. And the Senate did shit all to punish the Trade Federation for it–they still had their voting seat, up until the war started, and we all know they still vote through puppet seats.”
Anakin’s resentment coloured his brilliant supernova of a Force presence muddy grey. Plo laid a hand on his shoulder, sympathetic, but the gesture did little to help. He’d lost a lifelong friend that day on Naboo. Anakin had lost a savior.
Chester looked from one to the other, before her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “My condolences for your loss.” But her expression remained deeply troubled as she looked after the direction Ahsoka had gone, her voice distracted as she added, “The Federation is very different. It perhaps does not hurt that we abandoned capitalism as an economic policy long ago, and with it, currency.”
“Hang on,” said Anakin, “what do you mean, no currency? You don’t have money?”
He sounded genuinely shocked.
“No?” Chester sounded just as surprised at his surprise. “Federation credits are just a way of tracking requisitions, and we keep some currency to deal with peoples who still use it outside our space, but that’s it. It’s not like anyone is in Starfleet to get paid, for example.” She eyed him with dawning concern. “You don’t have a post-scarcity economy here, do you.”
“A what?”
It dawned rapidly on Plo that Anakin’s Temple education had leaned heavily on the practical side–getting dragged around the galaxy after Obi-Wan Kenobi had required prioritization. Anakin could negotiate with the most cutthroat Republic politicians, but the Republic was still so very mired in capitalist ideals. There was a great deal of theory he might have missed out on.
He stepped in to save a little of Anakin’s face. “No, we do not. There are perhaps twenty member systems of the Republic with global non-monetary economies.”
“Oh,” she said. “I suppose that explains–a lot, actually. It’s incredibly unusual, though, at least in our experience. Developing faster than light travel is often predicated on a post-scarcity economy, since it’s so resource intensive. Unless a colonizing entity introduces it to a pre-spaceflight culture.”
“The latter would be the case for much of this galaxy, unfortunately.” It’d been a long time since Plo had sat through any sort of ancient history class, but the basics had all been much of a muchness–a succession of colonizing Empires seeding systems across the lightyears with the same useful species, terraforming, dying out, and leaving the cultures that superseded them with a great deal of advanced technology to build upon.
And that brought Chester to a halt again. “Tell me,” she said, sounding very much as if she doubted it, “does the Republic have restrictions on interfering with other societies and their normal development? Especially ones that don’t have faster than light travel yet?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Plo. “Nominally, there are laws protecting the sovereignty of such planets, but communication is permitted for the sake of exploration. And given that such first contact now near-solely occurs on the far fringes of the known galaxy, I am doubtful that the spirit of these laws are obeyed, let alone the letter.”
She went very quiet at that, making no attempt to hide her expression of blank dismay. “I see,” she said. “I…we are familiar with other cultures without such restrictions, but you must understand that the Prime Directive, our law that prohibits interference with prespaceflight cultures–and interference with other societies–is central to our values. Every culture deserves the right to self-determination without the meddling of people who just happen to have bigger guns.”
“That’s nice,” said Anakin. “What happens when other people with big guns come across those undeveloped planets after you and your ethics have left?”
She smiled mirthlessly. “They run into us. We keep tabs on these things.”
Anakin snorted. “If only the Republic had the resources to do the same. And, you know, the political will.”
That provoked a wry chuckle. “Historically difficult, yes. Our political will came from letting greed and dysfunction nearly drive us extinct. We came out of the Eugenics Wars realizing we couldn’t keep on with business as usual, not if we wanted to survive. So we rethought how we’d approached one another, reached for the stars–and found we weren’t alone.” She smiled a little, wistful. “Fifty years from our near-extinction, and we founded the Federation.”
“Lucky you and your happy ending,” said Anakin, and turned away as Ahsoka bounced back in, Captain Rex in tow, so he missed the expression that passed over Chester’s face.
Plo did not. He suspected that things were not quite so rosy in the good Commander’s galaxy as a post-scarcity economy might imply.