Chapter Text
Chester woke up so fast it was like running into a wall. She lay there a moment, wondering what had alerted her, and then the distant cough of a blaster pulled her the rest of the way awake and to her feet. She jammed already stockinged feet into her boots, twisted her hair into a tight braid, and pulled the chestplate they’d insisted she wear on over her tunics, attaching her commbadge securely just inside her collar. She felt a pang for a phaser, some kind of weapon–but no. She was a noncombatant, and she was going to keep it that way.
The medical kit she’d been assigned sat next to her bed. She slung it over her shoulder and headed into the night.
The sound of blasterfire was louder and closer now, and she could see the flashes from the other side of camp–blue-white and the occasional orange of an explosion. She made for it, and a few paces later almost collided with Jelly who gave her a quick glaring once-over and said, “Separatist attack. I’ll need you on the left flank–get them stable and move them back. Think you can do that?”
“Yes,” she said, and followed him. He didn’t seem happy about having to trust her now they’d come to an actual combat situation; the last thing she wanted was for him to be any more nervous than he had to be. And she had absolutely no doubt that any one of Plo’s men would put a blaster charge in her back if they thought she was a danger to their brothers or their General. “Jelly. I know I haven’t given you a lot of reasons to trust me, but when it comes to the lives of sentients, I’m not going to fuck around.”
“With all respect, I’d find that a lot easier to believe if you hadn’t tried to tell me you didn’t know what money was.” The look he shot her was half judgemental, half-humorous, but it was a rare burst of camaraderie and hugely heartening. She flashed him a grin in return, before splitting off to take the left flank.
It was the last grin she got to have for a long time.
It was an ugly battle, even by the standards of an officer on active duty in a vicious war. Perhaps it was the sheer number of combatants, or the enthusiastic use of artillery, or the droids–she hadn’t realized how incredibly unnerving they could be, in numbers like this. She noted this in a distant, distracted way as the rest of her mind occupied itself with responding to the emergency around her.
She saw the Jedi a handful of times. She did pull a clone all but out from under Plo’s feet, and he deflected a blaster bolt that would have rendered her significantly shorter, but they were both too occupied with their work to even exchange a glance.
Battles she’d been involved in were usually in waves, with lulls and peaks–not this constant hammering. And slowly, the thought came percolating through her mind that this wasn’t normal, not even with an army of robots, and when she went back to the medical tent she took a moment to look around and behind herself, and realized that this was a fairly normal battle, with ebb and flow of combatants–but it had been following her doggedly, attacks massing at the points in the line where she was present.
Someone knew she was here.
Someone was hunting her.
Curiosity overcame alarm. Did the enemy want her dead or a prisoner? She suspected dead was unlikely; she’d not demonstrated herself to be enough of a threat to justify attempted murder. On the other hand, if the Separatists had any idea of where she’d come from, she’d be very valuable alive.
Or, because they too thought she was Song Tulin, and therefore on their side–and perhaps in need of rescue.
All she knew of the Separatists came from their enemies.
Didn’t mean she was about to throw herself into their arms, but she wondered what her look-alike had been thinking–if she’d been bribed into defection, entirely innocent, or had had solid, ideological reasons. The side mass-manufacturing sentients to send into the meatgrinder didn’t seem to have the moral high ground in any case, but the other side could always be worse.
She was at the edge of their line now, slapping a bandage on an ugly burn before moving back toward the camp, when she heard the screaming start. It was well ahead of her, in the darkness, the high pitch of absolute agony and a voice worn thready and pleading.
“Shit,” she said, because droids didn’t scream, tucked her medkit away and went after it. Behind her, Wolffe said, “Commander, it’s a trap– General!”
Maybe it was a trap, but Chester wasn’t leaving someone out there. She went for it anyway, shoving her way through the shrubbery. If any of these were toxic on contact, she was probably going to end up bathed in bacta after all, ugh–but she could all too easily imagine one of the carnivorous plants eating someone wounded, who couldn’t get away. Piecemeal.
It was too easy to hear those screams, remember another. But Commander Faisal hadn’t had time for more than the beginning of one; the sudden silence had been worse. The way the ground squished under her feet was a visceral reminder of that Betazoid garden; the strange scent of the vegetation layered itself in her memory with that of the bushes that had prickled her head and shoulders and arms; when they’d gotten back to the ship, when they’d had time to get to Sickbay, all three of them had been stippled all over with thousands of little thorn wounds. They hadn’t noticed until then.
They were Starfleet. Faisal had been Starfleet. They’d all known the life and chosen it–but these men? They’d never had a goddamn choice. And like hell was she leaving any of them behind. Her rank might be courtesy, but when it came to this, it mattered.
She’d told Jelly she wasn’t going to fuck around and she’d meant it.
The screaming had been fading, but now she could hear whimpering, very close. She pushed her way through a last stand of brush–
–and found herself face to face with a group of droids. One of them, an eerily humanoid design she hadn’t seen before, had its head tilted up. The whimpers and occasional thready scream were coming from it.
They leveled their blasters at her. “Surrender, Commander Chester,” said the one in the lead. “Count Dooku wants to see you immediately.”
It had, in fact, been a trap. For her, specifically.
Chester sighed, feeling foolish, and raised her hands. It seemed like she was going to hear the Separatist side of it after all.
Plo had sparred with Chester several times. Armed droids were not exactly the same prospect as an equal match in the salles, but he knew her to be more than capable of putting up at least a struggle. The fine disregard she’d shown for her own skin in the past–especially in dealing with Krell–only reinforced this impression.
So when the blurry little figure in Wolffe’s helmet-cam video raised her hands, he felt with an awful sinking clarity that this was absolutely her own choice.
It was clear now, in the stillness after the battle, that the attack had targeted her. There was little other sense to the droids’ movements otherwise. They had barely targeted the base. Shielding had stood up to an early strafing run by vulture droids, and the odd stray artillery; nothing beyond that. Battle lines had drawn back once or twice, but nothing to suggest a deliberate trap. The one consistency, now that there was time to think, was that time and time again the fiercest fighting had concentrated on the areas where Chester had showed up to drag an injured trooper out of the fire.
Plo wasn’t sure he could call it defection. Not with Chester knowing so little about the Separatists, and not with the growing suspicion that she had been their target to begin with. Capture, certainly; ambush, no doubt about that. Surrender, clearly. But with her history, others would not hesitate to call it defection. Notably, Republic intelligence.
And he didn’t think that someone like Commander Chester would live very long at all in Separatist hands.
It was clear from her captors’ chatter that they had indeed targeted her specifically, and that they were under strict orders to guard her wellbeing.
Which, of course, only made her suspicious. She’d had a bad enough two weeks, and the very personal fear that the Republic forces had shown about the droids had to have some basis. But so far, “Count Dooku wants to see her immediately,” seemed to be a sort of passport, guaranteed to make even the most cantankerous robot quit trying to flex its mechanical muscles and stand to attention.
She’d been inclined to assume the side that was fighting using droids instead of functionally enslaved lifeforms would have a moral high ground, but it only took a few minutes to realize that the droids around her were perfectly sentient, if perhaps not stunningly intelligent, and their superiors considered them disposable in a way that the Republic did not seem to regard the clones.
She got a six-droid escort from the field to the shuttle, the spindly ubiquitous battle droids with their scratchy voices which seemed to be the least ferocious of the Separatist forces.
“Isn’t she supposed to be some sort of Jedi?” one said to another, once they were settled on the shuttle, leaning over and pitching its voice to a tone Chester suspected it thought was discreet. “Where is her lightsaber?”
“Don’t look at me,” said the other. “I don’t know how Jedi think. But the orders are, Count Dooku wants to see his guest at once, unharmed.”
They all turned to look at her.
“But why?”
“I’m sure we’ll find out,” she said, and again the unmoving little faces turned to her. She was impressed by how well the gesture conveyed blank surprise.
It’d been pretty clear to her that this was a universe where universal translator technology had never arisen. She’d declined to mention her own translator, and so far no one had questioned her ability with language. But apparently, people didn’t bother to talk to these droids like Skywalker did to his, let alone in whatever programming language her translator had probably rendered her words in this time.
There was nothing for it but to double down. She tried a smile. “How’s your day going?”
“Uhhhhhh,” the droids said, in unison.
“Well, I’m not getting shot at!” said one.
“Shut up,” said one that had a lot more paint on it. She wasn’t sure if that was expressing itself, or simple rank. It reminded her with a pang of the clone troopers and their efforts to express some kind of individuality. Two sides, treating their sentient soldiers like toys. At least the clones had never seemed shocked when she’d spoken to them.
“I’m not going anywhere but with you,” she said soothingly. “It’s all right, you can talk to me.”
The droids kept looking at her.
“Is she allowed to do that, corporal?” one asked. It was one of the unmarked ones, leaning over to the one with all the paint. “Maybe we should tell her to stop it.”
“She’s one of Count Dooku’s guests,” said the corporal. “I think we’re supposed to be polite.”
“What’s that mean? Does it mean not talking? We can do that .”
“Well,” said Chester, “it generally means finding common ground. For example, we all dislike getting shot at, don’t we?” In terms of diplomatic compromise, it was scraping the bottom of the barrel. But they nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
“I like guarding the hyperdrive,” said another. “No one comes to check on you for hours and hours, and you can talk. Or simulate firing patterns in your battle computer. That’s fun too.”
“Shut up ,” said the corporal. “What if that’s actionable intelligence?”
“Trust me, it’s not,” said Chester, who was pretty sure it was. “Simulating firing patterns sounds like fun. When we’re on a long haul warp, I have a friend who likes to draw. Making pleasing patterns.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s challenging and enjoyable.”
The corporal closed its fist, a certain vindictive slant to its long spindly neck. “Like shooting Jedi!”
Well, there went the common ground, dropping out from under them like driving off a cliff. Chester shrugged, made a face. “Well, I’d classify that more as a work-related activity. It’s not the same. But if you wanted to say, make a firing pattern in your battle computer that sort of looked like one of those flowers we just saw, that would be more like drawing.”
“Ohhhhhhhh,” said the one that liked guarding the hyperdrive. “One of the ones that eats you.” And then it fell silent, staring at the wall.
A few moments later, the corporal said, “What are you doing?”
“Drawing is hard,” it said.
“That’s just because of your underclocked processor,” said the corporal. “Here, I’ll show you.” And it started staring blankly at the wall, too.
Chester sighed, and leaned back against the bulkhead. In retrospect, if she’d wanted conversation, she should have asked them what their names were.
She tried it with the next set of droids. These were more humanoid, a lot bigger, and had bright optical lamps. They were also intensely uncanny in the way they moved.
“So,” she said. “What are your names?”
They all looked at her, then each other. The confusion was palpable.
“Is she allowed to ask that? Prisoners don’t get to ask questions.”
“She’s a guest. Guests can ask questions.”
“But our designations?” They all swiveled to look at her again.
“If it’s rude, I apologize,” Chester said, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “But in my culture, that’s how we make friends.”
“Friends?”
“Isn’t that something life-forms have?”
“Yes, and we value them,” she said. Please god let me not be the one to fuck up droid culture by teaching them the meaning of friendship. “Friends are individuals you enjoy spending time with and form close connections with.”
There was a sort of blank silence after this that lasted all the way up to the bridge. Just before the doors opened, one of the ones at the back said softly to another, “I think this means we’re friends.”
“Organic concepts make me feel dirty,” said the other, unhappily.
The ethical dilemma of introducing unfamiliar and apparently unpopular concepts to droids was rapidly overshadowed by the next revelation, which was that the commander of this ship was a truly enormous spider.
You got over most of your reservations about what other lifeforms might look like very quickly in Starfleet, especially if you were a First Contact specialist, as Chester had trained to become before the war had stripped most specialization away. She’d cheerfully shaken hands with a wide variety of beings, and as the daughter of an entomologist, had never had too many problems with arthropods. But people who were shaped like massive tarantulas were rather thin on the ground in the Alpha Quadrant, and most first contacts took place under… distinctly friendlier circumstances, so any arachnoformes tended to be a little politer than to give you a long evaluating look that reminded you that even certain Earth tarantulas would sometimes eat birds. And that you weren’t much bigger than this individual than an Earth bird to an Earth tarantula.
“Admiral Trench, sir, we have obtained the guest Count Dooku requested.”
“Ah yes. Commander Chester.” A second tasty-small-mammal look. “Yes, the mysterious visitor to our humble galaxy who has caused all of this–” he chittered, displaying massive fangs under well-furred pedipalps, “–consternation.”
Chester inclined her head. “I fear you have the advantage of me, sir.”
“Something every strategist likes to hear,” he said, leaning in close; good to know, he was both aware of the effects his appearance had on people, and happy to be a dick about it. “I am Admiral Trench, of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and you are my…” significant pause, “guest. I will be escorting you to Serenno. Count Dooku has…” significant pause, chitter, “questions for you.”
There seemed to be some commotion in the corridor outside the bridge, then a crunch that sounded important and possibly fatal. The doors flew open. “ I will deliver the defector to Count Dooku, not you,” declared the new arrival. Chester turned, and looked up, and then up some more.
At first, she guessed it was some sort of enormous special droid. But then she saw the organic tissue around the eyes, glimpses under the armor. It didn’t look healthy. Also, she was fairly sure that even in this galaxy, no one was going to build a droid that coughed .
Was she looking at some bizarre life-support system? Chester made a mental note not to get injured. The assistive technology here looked like garbage.
“Ah, General Grievous. How nice of you to join us,” said Trench, and then to Chester, “You’ll have to forgive him; he’s never had any sense of propriety even before he became more droid than man.” He was doing a remarkable job of sneering, even with palps and no mouth.
“ My droids captured her,” Grievous said, stomping forward. “You will not steal my credit.”
“And this is my ship,” said Trench, unbothered by seven feet of cyborg leaning over him. “I know you’re trying to make up for the last time Kenobi made you look like an idiot, Grievous, but this is my victory.”
Well, that was less than impressive. They were going to be here all day. Chester stepped forward, inserting herself into the argument.
“Gentlemen,” she said, spreading her hands in a placating gesture, “gentlemen, you stole me directly from under the noses of four Jedi masters, and by every indication the good Count values my presence greatly. There’s more than enough glory to go around. We’ll tell Count Dooku this was a joint venture, and I’ll make sure to mention the prominent role you both played in my… rescue.”
They didn’t look down at her or break eye contact. “Fine,” said Grievous, and “You’re lucky the human is so reasonable,” said Trench, and then they both said, “Take her to her quarters,” at the same time to the droids and almost came to blows.
“Well,” said Chester to the droids, as the bridge doors closed behind her again, “your leadership seems a little excitable.”
“Lady,” said the droid next to her, “you have no idea.”
“She defected,” said Anakin. His expression flickered, visibly restraining his anger. “Are any of you surprised by this? Fit with the kinds of things she was saying.”
He looked around the table.
“I’m not,” said Krell. His expression was unpleasantly smug. “So what if she wasn’t Tulin? Looks exactly like her. Apparently loves the Separatists as much. We would have handed her over to the military authorities where she belonged if someone hadn’t decided he wanted a pet.” He smirked at Plo. “How’s all that mercy and understanding working out for you, Plo?”
“That is interesting phrasing indeed from the person who had her quite literally collared,” said Plo. Krell went an interesting color beneath his usual grey pigmentation, and visibly thought better of whatever else he’d been intending to say.
Plo took a deep, slow breath through his mask, and let it out. “What else would any one of us do if we were captured by a hitherto-unknown enemy based on a misidentification, tortured in-transit–that is what electroshock collars and deliberate sleep deprivation is, Master Krell–and then continually threatened with more torture by some of our captors despite providing genetic proof that we were not who they believed us to be? Once upon a time we were not so bound to parochial loyalties as to ignore the evidence that looks us straight in the eyes. Commander Chester has not been party to any strategic planning or otherwise privileged information–and Dooku has met Song Tulin before, so if he is not already aware of the mixup, he will be soon.”
“Master Plo makes a good point,” said Obi-Wan, frowning at the holotable. “However, whatever the reasons Commander Chester had for cooperation, we cannot spare the men for a rescue operation.” He looked up at Plo. “I am sorry, my friend.”
Plo nodded, resigned. “The war must take priority. We have repelled this attack and cost our enemy a great deal in the process, yielding only a captive they will soon find out has very little tactical value. That isn’t a small thing.”
It galled, to be forced to leave someone who he had begun to consider a charge in the hands of the enemy. Chester had made her decision–in the absence of personal experience, she had chosen what must have felt like the lesser of two evils. He could not risk the lives of his men to save someone who had already shown no liking for being contained.
All he could do was hope that Dooku showed her more hospitality than captured GAR personnel usually rated. Perhaps that would give her the chance to survive.
Chester ended up teaching the droids to play checkers.
They put her in the brig, and the droids were bored, and the one she’d taught to “draw” had evidently talked to its fellows, and before she knew it she had other droids curious about things like friendship and how to pass the time on duty. She went for checkers, thinking it would be fairly easy to simulate, and hoping to work them up to chess, but checkers stuck; they were too excited. No one had ever bothered to teach them new games. Their creators had stripped their computational powers down as far as possible, so they wouldn’t think too hard about their situation or what they were doing, and empathy hadn’t even been a distant dream, but anything upright, talking, and able to shoot with a modicum of accuracy, let alone make complex decisions, was smart enough to get bored.
And nothing that got bored could be anything but sentient.
Or anxious. The droids were very, very anxious as a default state of being. She was going to have words with this Count Dooku over it.