Chapter Text
Chester obediently followed Padmé and her entourage through the halls of the Senate, again. Looking around at the other beings, she was reluctantly forced to admit that Padmé’s warnings had been very accurate indeed. Everyone here was dressed to a frankly astounding degree of opulence, which contrasted unpleasantly with what Skywalker had told her about economic inequality in the galaxy. And they had no qualms about staring at Chester as she and Padmé strode past.
Chester resisted the urge to stare back. As ridiculous as her current getup was, she had to admit that the weight of the cape on her shoulders and the glint of gold braid on her chest helped. If she’d arrived here with her crew, it would have been a different equation; they could have represented the simplicity of their outfits as a cultural custom to beings around them. But alone and vulnerable, the complex, fashionable outfit was like armor.
“I’ll be introducing you to other members of my caucus first,” said Padmé. “They are allies, and sympathetic to many of the causes both of us hold dear. They’ve been quite curious about you.”
Padmé’s caucus was, Chester knew, otherwise known as the interestingly-named Loyalist Committee, a pro-reform group concerned with the state of democracy in the Galactic Republic. This aligned with many of Chester’s own concerns. Her worry was potentially getting along too well with them and potentially endangering her neutrality.
They turned into yet another hallway, high-roofed and lit with ornate chandeliers. A man stood waiting by an open set of boardroom doors: broad-shouldered, dark of hair and eyes, draped in a dark green off-the-shoulder cloak. He smiled warmly at Padmé as they approached, then turned that smile on Chester without a moment’s hesitation.
Padmé returned the smile, and reached out to rest a hand on the man’s arm as they drew close. “Commander Chester, this is my colleague and good friend Bail Organa, Senator for Alderaan. Bail, this is Commander Diane Chester.”
Senator Organa offered Chester his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in the flesh at last, Commander. We’ve heard a great deal about you over the last week.”
“Likewise,” said Chester, shaking it and returning the warm smile.
“Come in,” said the Senator, ushering them in through the open door behind him.
The room beyond was a well-lit boardroom, chairs arranged evenly around a set of long discussion tables, and on the tables were platters full of many-colored snacks. At first glance, Chester noticed the cupcakes, slices, little sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off. Then she spotted what looked like large bright red boba on toothpicks, and something greenish and oysterlike laid on top of toasted baguette slices. She turned away, a little grossed out by the color (resembling as it did a really gnarly respiratory infection) and glimpsed violet frog legs on the way.
It almost made her feel at home. Just, Starfleet functions tended to label metabolic compatibility a bit more clearly.
“We’re a little ahead of schedule,” said Senator Organa, “so I see no reason not to sample the snacks.” He lifted one of the clear lids over the platters, selected one of the big red boba toothpicks. “These are all technically human-edible, Commander, though I have yet to meet a human willing to eat the Dac oysters.”
“Those,” said Padmé, gesturing toward the snot-on-toast.
“Ah,” said Chester, and decided she didn’t have anything to prove by eating them. “Thank you, I was going to ask; you only need to make that mistake once at a function…”
Both Senators laughed. “It’s a universal experience, then?” said Bail. “It’s the spice level I have to watch out for; Alderaani cuisine tends to be very conservative with chili.”
“I tried the hlai at the first reception the Romulan delegation hosted,” said Chester. “It didn't work out well. We concluded that the Romulans had taken the saying ‘diplomacy is the continuation of war by other means’ a little too seriously.”
“An interesting philosophy,” said Padmé, diplomatically. “Mine was rum in a particular dessert. I was fourteen at the time, and entirely inexperienced with liquor stronger than wine.”
“Oh dear,” said Chester. “Yes. I know several people who’ve had similar experiences with Klingon bloodwine—which, admittedly, is pretty much exactly what you’d expect from a drink called bloodwine.”
Senator Organa made a bit of a face. “Not the worst thing I’ve heard of or sampled, but it’s certainly up there.”
“Their coffee is better, though,” said Chester. “Caf equivalent, that is. Quite a bit stronger, but it’s caught on in Starfleet.”
“I could do with some of that ,” said Padmé, and then the first of the other Senators started to filter in and it was time for introductions. Chester found that occupying enough, matching names to faces and positions and all of the hurried studying she’d done over the last few days. As always, there was a disconnect between her readings and reality; several people were much shorter or taller than she’d expected. But it was a welcome return to prewar expectations, and she found herself reveling in it.
Even if all of it meant that she’d eaten very little of the varied spread by the time the group adjourned and it was time for the real challenge: the formal reception and dinner at which a broad range of the Senate would be present… not just the ones sympathetic to the Jedi.
Before stepping out of the relative haven of her offices, Padmé took a moment to look over her charge. Chester stood tall in her gown, and for all that she’d been so leery over it five minutes ago there was no trace of that discomfort now.
The gown itself was a floor-length silk organza affair, close-fitting at the waist with a deep v-neck above and a multi-layered draping skirt beneath. The underlayer was solid pale cream; the sheer outer layers had a subtle gold-and-peach iridescence in the right light. The sleeves were loose and draping, constructed to resemble a shawl tucked around Chester’s broad shoulders. Under that false shawl, red satin embroidered and layered in the shape of feathers formed a high collar around her neck, and reached around under her bust in a stiff, ornate bodice. Longer feathers hugged her hips, draping down behind her in a spray of vivid color.
“Like a peacock,” Chester had murmured. She hadn’t been convinced, then, but Padmé had noticed the way her eyes lingered on the red.
Surprisingly, the depth of the v-neck hadn’t been an issue. Chester filled out the bust of the dress in all the right ways, and the white-gold-and-topaz eight-pointed star that hung right over the top of her cleavage had only drawn a wry smile from her, and later a, “Yes, I think I can do something with this.”
The thing that might be done was not elaborated on, but Padmé did not need it to be; it was very much the same sort of thing she did with her own wardrobe. Someone staring at your cleavage would not be watching your eyes or your hands.
Speaking of. Padmé shifted her gaze toward their entourage, waiting at the door. There was Anakin, dressed in the embroidered formal robes the Jedi wore for state events; he raised a knowing eyebrow at her.
“Gentlebeings,” she said, looking him dead in the eye, “shall we proceed?”
“Let’s do this,” Chester said. For all her earlier protestations, she now seemed calm and comfortable in the formal garb, her hair whorled elaborately at the back of her head. Padmé’s staff had been thrilled at all the natural hair to work with, even if Chester had gently but firmly declined any offers of extensions. She had accepted the heavier makeup this time—foundation to match the natural pale tone of her skin, subtle blush and contouring on her cheeks, and deep red lipstick to match the red of her dress. Her eyes were lined in black, a hint of smoky shadow on the upper lids, just a little pencil to define the arch of her eyebrows.
Padmé had wanted to put her in high heels. Chester had objected, on the grounds that she was liable to trip. They had compromised with a small heel, since Chester was already a rather tall woman, and with that little extra bit of height she looked regal and intimidating; an ideal on a plinth, rather than a living breathing person.
Which had been Padmé’s goal all along. The Senate had enough trouble accepting that Padmé herself had foiled the Count on multiple occasions, and she was one of them. Chester most assuredly was not. In presenting her here, Padmé knew that a great deal of success hinged on making Chester look like someone who could have defeated Dooku… and by that, quash the ugly rumor about her having succeeded in her escape by dint of cooperation, instead.
Someone had been spreading that around. Padmé suspected Tarkin. It seemed like his style. Chester had shown him up, and Wilhuff had never been good at dealing with that kind of thing.
“Very good,” she said at last, nodding. “You’ll amaze them, Commander, and that is exactly what we need.”
Chester drew a breath, straightening her shoulders, and the corner of her mouth curved up in a slow smile—exactly the sort of smile that Padmé would have coached, amused and a little superior. Something about her settled into place, like an actor stepping onto stage.
“I certainly intend to,” Chester said, her deep voice steady—and perhaps, a little mischievous.
They went to do battle.
Every bit of the Senate building was like an overdone birthday cake; ornate, delicately gilded and hiding something unhealthy.
Chester didn’t let any of it reach her face. Instead she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, which was more than enough to keep her occupied in these heels.
Her official introduction went smoothly. She waited at a set of giant double doors, flanked by Padmé and the Jedi; the doors opened, and an official of some sort loudly proclaimed the entrance of the Senator of Naboo and “and our esteemed guest from extragalactic space, Commander Diane Chester of Starfleet.”
A lot of staring ensued. Chester gave them a cool smile and slight inclination of the head, making sure she looked pleased but not too pleased, and followed Padmé in.
Time to test how well she remembered Padmé’s lessons.
The room beyond was cavernous, high-ceilinged. Politicians of all shapes and species mingled, gathering in little groups around the lacquered wooden floor and at a table full of expensive-looking refreshments. An enormous chandelier hung from the roof; hundreds of lights flickered in crystal housings, electric candles judging by the lack of smoke. Large-leafed glossy plants stood in artistically–sculpted pots; wooden structural beams stood out from the walls. The decor, aside from that enormous chandelier, was almost rustic—but something about it rang false. Chester looked past the show of greenery and art, at the walls, and found the same featureless white paneling as everywhere else in the building.
They’re putting on a show for me, she thought. I wonder how often they do this—do they only bring this out on special occasions, or when they need someone new overawed, or is this here for the regular Sunday schmooze?
It wasn’t very effective in the overawing department. Granted, this was the sort of thing that usually would be replicated in a holodeck, which was sort of cheating, but Starfleet Headquarters and the Office of the President quite often produced the real thing. And those were only the Earth venues.
And we manage it without grinding billions of beings into poverty, too. Fancy that.
She cut off that line of thinking. Smug superiority played well on exactly no one, and she wasn’t going to risk it showing through.
“I see they pulled out all the stops,” she said to Padmé, looking around and focusing on being impressed.
Padmé did not seem impressed. “It is an unusual choice of theme,” she said, thoughtful, and then her dark eyes slid sideways to Chester. “Then again, you are an unusual guest of honor.”
“Ah, so you don’t celebrate in such style every week,” Chester said quietly. “I’ll try to live up to expectations.”
“I have a feeling you will set new ones,” said Padmé. She gave Chester a warm, encouraging smile. “Let’s go say hello to Bail and Mon before the swarming starts.”
Swarming? thought Chester, imagining what that might look like—but she followed Padmé over to the bar, where Senators Organa and Mothma stood deliberating over a selection of wines. Mon Mothma, Senator for the Chandrila System, quizzed Chester on her taste in alcohols for a minute and then offered her a smooth white wine in a delicate crystal flute. “Mos Khaat—light and fairly sweet, low potency.”
Chester took a cautious sip. “It’s lovely,” she said, and meant it.
Senator Mothma smiled. “It is a Chandrilan specialty.”
The space around the bar filled up quickly with various attendees. Chester pretended not to notice the eyes on her, nor the way that groups formed coincidentally near her. Swarming, apparently, was an apt description.
Padmé gently touched her arm. “Ready?” she murmured.
Chester nodded. “Certainly.”
What followed was a dizzying number of introductions in quick succession. Chester fixed as many as she could in her mind, then after a while mostly gave up. She needed her brain for other things, namely responding to the thousand questions and endless rounds of small talk. At some point, she lost sight of Padmé and her fellow Loyalists, buffeted along in the currents of a thousand species and worlds all very curious about an extragalactic visitor—though some left rather disappointed by the experience. “Why in the stars must it be another human,” she heard one individual go away muttering, which she found funnier than it should have been.
And as in any gathering of sentients, there were some absolute slugs.
Like the human senator who’d just cornered her, all overconfidence and condescension.
“It’s certainly a rare and unusual treat to have such an exotic guest grace our halls,” said—she searched her memory of those introductions—Senator Narglach, Representative of the Eebideb System, with a gleaming and very insincere smile. Chester eyed him dubiously. Someone evidently thought he was hot shit.
“May it become less so,” she said, raising her glass, which had the advantage of making him pause, clearly wondering if he had been insulted. “I would be very glad of a continuing friendship between our people,” she added. His expression settled back into that gleaming insincerity; with luck he’d filed that away as the inadvertent foot-in-mouth disease of the politically inexperienced, which suited her just fine. “And, hopefully, many future opportunities to enjoy one another’s company.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling again. “Legends tell of ancient hyperspace lanes between galaxies, through which our ancestors traveled to fill the universe. I never gave it much credence, but it is a pleasure to welcome one of our distant cousins home again.”
Yeah, of course he'd think all life had sprung from his galaxy. They had some pretty hefty proof in hand of the actual seeders of the Milky Way back home, but Chester inclined her head anyway. “It is good to be so welcomed. Your kindness is appreciated.”
“Tell me, have you developed a centralized galactic government yet, or are you and all your neighbors still arguing over territorial scraps?”
“Very few arguments, actually,” said Chester, mentally adding aside from the obvious , “as we’ve had great success in turning former enemies to friends. It’s amazing, the efficacy of a measured approach. Membership in the Federation is voluntary, and takes effort to maintain, though of course we welcome new peoples.”
“I see. Still a relatively small government then—you’ll find ideals a little harder to hold on once you’re a larger entity of more significance.” He gave her a condescending smile. “Though that may be far in your future.”
“May it remain very far in our future,” she said. “When we reach a point when our ideals are abandoned in favor of political realities, then we are lost.”
That got up his nose. “Are you projecting on the present situation?”
“Sir, I am in no way familiar with the principles upon which this republic was founded, so I would not venture to project. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”
“Democracy and equal representation, for example,” cut in a voice at her elbow. Mon Mothma, offering Narglach a cool curve of a smile. “A number of other qualities that are not well-displayed in war.”
“I believe the Chancellor wishes my attention,” said Narglach, abruptly. “Good evening, Commander. Senator.”
“Senator Narglach places a high value on saving face,” murmured Mon Mothma. They watched him vanish into the swarm in a few short steps.
“And does himself few favors in the process,” said Chester, smiling into her glass.
Mon gave her a politely surveying look. “Pardon the interruption, but Padmé did ask me to intervene if it seemed you were enjoying yourself too much. I was at first unsure what she meant, since that is not often a concept I associate with Narglach, but I believe I now understand.”
The chuckle that escaped Chester was genuine this time. “Probably wise of her. I was wondering how much more superior buffoonery could be contained in one man.”
“You have a politician’s gift for provocation,” said Mon, raising a delicate eyebrow.
“Funny, my grandmother says that when I’ve annoyed her.”
“I am sure that she does.” Mon’s expression stayed neutral, but a glimmer of interest appeared in her eyes. “I understand you disagree rather strenuously with the current war.”
“It’s a political food fight that’s been allowed to grow to disastrous proportions because you’re using people the law doesn’t see as people to fight it,” Chester said, happy to confirm. “On both sides. Dooku’s massive ego is doing no one any good, either.”
Mon looked down at the wine glass in her hands. “A… succinct summation.”
“Starfleet regulations forbid me from becoming involved in internal foreign conflicts,” said Chester. “They are, however, quite mum on the subject of complaining about them.”
“So it would seem. Do be warned that the pro-war faction also knows about your opinions and are highly likely to press you on them.”
“I consider myself warned.”
Mon dispensed with the political mask and frowned at her. “You are enjoying yourself.”
“The scale is a little beyond what I’m used to. But yes.” Chester was getting the feeling that Mon Mothma felt she was a bit much, and tried to gentle her attitude to something a bit more reserved. “Senator, my people learned the hard way just how much complacency can cost. We almost killed ourselves with it, and the scars it left were deep. We have deep convictions, and it’s better if I find out how those convictions are received before we’re sending delegations to one another, or exchanging technologies.”
“Forgive me if this seems blunt, Commander, but I was under the impression that your Federation was much smaller than the Republic.”
That was a warning. Chester gave her a thoughtful look and said, as gently as she could, “Size isn’t everything, Senator.”
Mon Mothma went very gently pink. “I am sure you did not mean that the way it sounded, Commander.” She sounded like someone holding in a guilty urge to laugh.
“Of course not,” said Chester, but she allowed herself the flash of a conspiratorial grin. “What I mean, of course, is that we don’t have much interest in approaching the Republic as a petitioner. We are perfectly good at quiet coexistence with other entities that do not share our values, but it will sadly limit the extent of our diplomatic relations.” She sobered. “And finding that out now, ahead of time, when my reactions can simply be dismissed due to inexperience or quirks of personality, is an advantage we do not usually enjoy.”
A flicker of sympathy appeared in the Senator’s careful expression. “Are you not concerned about your own safety?”
“Someone with Dooku’s hefty bounty on their head should be making as many friends as possible?” Chester lifted her eyebrows. “You most certainly aren’t wrong. Let us simply say I am willing to risk it.”
Mon raised an eyebrow. “I had heard rumors about your confidence after meeting Dooku.”
Chester sighed, very tired of having this conversation. “I’ve said it before, and will probably have cause to say it again. The man simply isn’t very scary.”
Predictably, this made Mon Mothma’s expression shift far more disapproving.
“Senator, please understand,” Chester paused, considering how to approach this from a societal, not a military or Jedi approach, “I come from a post-scarcity society. The people in the Federation have all their basic needs met—food, shelter, clothing, the opportunity to learn and grow without being concerned about working to earn these essentials—or even luxuries and comforts. So when everyone is safe and secure, a volunteer deep space exploration service with significant dangers and a notable mortality rate does tend to attract people whose sense of risk is… perhaps, abnormal might best describe it?”
It took a moment for that to process but when it did, Chester had the satisfaction of seeing someone finally get it. In a oh, you’re one of those idiots kind of way, but still.
“Ah. I see why Senator Amidala likes you.” Senator Mothma took a long sip of her wine. “Shall I leave you to your fun, then?”
Chester followed her gaze to the little knot of senators making their way toward her. Their body language spelled trouble. “Would those be some members of the pro-war faction?”
Mon Mothma inclined her head.
“Wonderful,” said Chester, with a smile she sort of meant. “Please don’t let me keep you from the buffet, Senator. I promise not to start another war.”
“I must take your word for it,” said Mon Mothma very dryly, and glided off. Chester turned to face her new opponent, the others having split off, doubtless for the purpose of efficient ambush; a Kaminoan, who had to be Halle Burtoni. She offered an inclination of her head. “Senator, a pleasure.”
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you,” said Senator Burtoni, eyeing her critically.
“All bad things, I trust,” said Chester, and lifted her glass with an impish grin.
“Oh, don’t bother trying to charm me, my dear.” Burtoni returned Chester’s smile with an unpleasant one of her own. “I know perfectly well what your opinions on the clones are.”
“Hm, and who would you have had that from?” asked Chester, her eyebrows raised. “I have opinions on the legal status of the clones, but rather less so on their existence.” Despite Federation laws against genetic modification.
Halle Burtoni snorted. “Their legal status. If you’re to blend in here, you must learn to sound less like a clerk. Even if it is your accustomed attire.”
“I had no idea my standard issue uniform was so out of vogue. It’s quite practical otherwise.” And incorporated technologies she’d yet to see in any of the clothes here, or at least any of the clothes people had provided to her.
“It says a great deal about the impoverished backwater you crawled out of.”
“Tell me, what is the Kaminoan interest in the clones, Senator?” Chester kept her own smile pleasant and firmly affixed. “Surely, as their creators, you must feel some concern.”
“The clones are product, Commander. We provide them, and the Republic uses them in the laudable cause of keeping Count Dooku from overrunning this galaxy.”
“A most laudable cause indeed. He is a deeply unpleasant man.” Chester sipped her drink, watching Burtoni’s reaction to the unsubtle reminder that she’d actually faced him.
“And yet you let him live,” said Burtoni. “How peculiar.”
“I don’t kill people just because I find them unpleasant, Senator,” said Chester.
She was only a little surprised that this startled the horrible old woman into a cackle. “I’m sure it would keep you very busy.”
“You have no idea.”
A new voice sounded by her elbow; she turned and looked down at a three-eyed, antennaed individual that she recognized as Ask Aak, the Senator for Malastare. “Some would find your sparing of the Count’s life suspicious, Commander.”
“As a representative of the United Federation of Planets, I may not enter into any conflict on behalf of one side or another—not in the absence of a treaty. And since this is a civil war, I suspect that my government would view this as an internal affair of yours, which raises further barriers to my involvement. Killing the head of state of one party to the conflict would have qualified as a comprehensive violation of that neutrality.”
“And your release of the droids?”
“I negotiated a peaceful resolution to a conflict, with minimal loss of sentient life,” she said. “That is one of the primary functions of my service.”
“You’re right,” said Aak to Burtoni. “She does sound like a clerk.”
“A galaxy full of clerks,” said Burtoni. Her head swayed on her long neck, jewelry clinking. “This I have to see.”
“Well, we did succeed in eliminating poverty and food insecurity,” Chester said. “Clerks have some uses, I suppose.”
That earned her an unpleasant laugh from yet another newcomer; a gaunt whitehaired humanoid that she recognized as the Senator from Umbara, Mee Deechi. “You eliminated money , Commander. It’s not the same. That is, if the rumors are true.”
“Well, you only have my word on it,” she said, cheerful.
“Senator Amidala has certainly left her mark on you,” he added, in scathing tones. A spirit of mischief prompted Chester to lift an arm, admiring the sleeve with a showy deliberation.
“Hasn’t she, though,” she said. “I so rarely get the chance to dress the part.” Then she aimed an insinuating look at Deechi, and a wide grin. Don’t you just wish Senator Amidala would leave a mark on you, it said.
“What about your neutrality?” asked Burtoni, an ugly note in her voice.
“Am I in danger of influencing policy, gentlebeings?” she asked. “Well, then, being feted a little shouldn’t be too much of an issue; after all, Dooku set a rather high standard.” She paused to retrieve a glass of sparkling wine from a passing waiter, more or less certain she’d picked one actually compatible with her physiology. “I was his honored guest before the Senate took notice, and I am obligated to show equal consideration to all parties.”
Senator Aak snorted, sounding very goatlike. “As I recall, your visit ended on a sour note.”
“It did indeed, but as long as none of you expect any murders at the dinner table, we should do just fine.” She took a sip, raised her eyebrows at them, and added, “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlebeings, I do believe I have somewhere to be.”
She saluted them with the glass, and glided off as if she were actually headed somewhere—even if that somewhere was just the canapes. She was mostly worried about what she might say if she got too focused on the banter, rather than the image she was trying to project.
She had something of a suspicion the image she wished to project and the image Padmé wished her to project were in conflict. The dress made it clear Padmé thought she should be going the mysterious and powerful route, sprinkling fascination and mystique in her wake. Chester wasn’t sure about that. The last thing she wanted was these vultures deciding the Federation would make a charming addition to their tottering empire. They knew it was small and young, so playing up ferocity—aside from going dead against her already demonstrated values—would be seen as implausible. A poor, honest country cousin with more courage than wealth or sense seemed a better idea.
Besides, it was a much more entertaining role to play.
The pre-dinner mingling ran about an hour over time; not unusual when it came to Senate dinners, where there were always last-minute disasters (contrived and genuine) to deal with. Plo did his best to keep an eye on Chester, but other than keeping track of her Force signature this proved quite impossible.
Eventually, the doors into the dining hall were opened. The crowd drifted subtly in that direction—everyone was getting a little hungry by this point.
Plo found himself, regrettably, sharing a table with Admiral Tarkin. This was not unexpected: as the senior member of this Jedi delegation, of course he would be placed with the highest-ranked attendees. To his left, there was Vice-Chancellor Mas Amedda, and Chancellor Palpatine beyond; to his right, his own Admiral Coburn and a selection of senior Naval officers. Very regrettably, some panicking aide had seated Tarkin between Plo and Mas Amedda. Tarkin seemed to be enjoying this about as much as Plo was; his usual sour expression only barely tempered by the formality of the occasion.
As guest of honor, Chester was at the table as well—only on the other side of the naval officers, as far away from Tarkin as she could conceivably be without the table arrangement offering horrible insult to either party. She was deeply involved in conversation with one of the Senators and a young naval officer there for a conspicuous act of daring heroism, paying very little attention to either Palpatine or Tarkin.
From the snatches of conversation Plo could catch, it was about gardening. He envied her.
“A most interesting guest the Jedi have brought us,” remarked Mas Amedda. There was an unpleasant glitter in his eyes as he looked sidelong at Chester, currently embroiled in an intense debate about planting seasons and large herbivores with a taste for blossoms.
Tarkin let out a very soft sound of derision. “With all respect, Vice Chancellor, we have enough overeager young officers of our own without extragalactic imports. As impressive as her rhetoric and sleight of hand must be to our resident peacekeepers.” His eyes flicked toward Plo, and he offered a small superior smile.
Plo declined to comment, in favor of trying one of the tiny ungulathe medallions on his plate. He unlatched his mask, held his breath, and slipped the morsel into his mouth.
This very clearly was what Mas Amedda had hoped to hear. He looked very faintly pleased. “Surely the confrontation with Count Dooku puts her outside the usual run of overeager young officers, Admiral?”
“An under-witnessed confrontation. There is a discredited rumor that the escape was enabled by cooperation with the Count. I don’t believe it myself, of course—our Jedi generals have been most dedicated in their assertion that it is entirely false, and I do of course trust their assessment of these things.”
Mas Amedda’s attention turned to Plo, all polite curiosity. “Is it very common for an untrained Force-sensitive to be so successful in an encounter with a Sith, Master Plo?”
“It is uncommon for anyone at all to be so successful in surviving a Sith, regardless of their abilities.” Plo resisted the urge to sigh. “Perhaps that played a role in itself. Commander Chester, in my experience thus far, makes a habit of defying expectations in dramatic fashion.”
“I see,” said Mas Amedda. “As always, the Jedi gift of clarification is most helpful.”
“Never a simple answer when a complex one will do,” said Tarkin, and they traded a look like two teenagers convinced their mockery was clever.
“And then the droids.”
“It was most remarkable. We are still all at a loss to explain it.”
“I had also heard she claims that her people don’t have money.” Mas Amedda’s expression remained just as coolly professional as ever, but there was a thread of tension under his words.
“She does,” said Tarkin. “Quite often, in fact. Dooku’s very considerable bounty on her prompted her to ask if eighteen million credits was ‘a lot’.”
“Hm. How fortunate for her to have the support of the Jedi. Otherwise, one might be forgiven for mistaking her for a very brazen con artist.” They both looked sidelong at Plo again. “But of course, your confidence precludes that.”
“There are several non-monetary economies among the Republic’s member systems,” Plo pointed out, feeling very tired indeed, “my own homeworld being one of them. Commander Chester’s unfamiliarity with the Republic financial system is both plausible and genuine.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mas Amedda, radiating insincerity into the Force from every pore. “I could never wrap my head around the idea of a non-monetary economy myself. It seems very… complicated.”
“The Commander once said much the same regarding our own economy,” said Plo. Technically, this was true; he kept to himself the fact that she had been playing it up for an audience at the time. “It stands to reason that the environments we are raised within become unthinkingly familiar to us, and that those outside this familiarity are comparatively more difficult to comprehend. For example,” he added, “I once put one of my cousins to sleep explaining to him how Trade Federation dues worked.”
Palpatine laughed; Tarkin and Amedda both remained stone-faced.
After a moment, Tarkin turned and raised his eyebrows at Mas Amedda, his voice very dry and the conversation change forced. “Very reliable, the Jedi. That unfortunate incident with Krell aside.”
“And of course, the entire current unfortunate affair,” the naval officer on Plo’s other side put in, his eyes fixed on Tarkin. Currying favor, Plo thought sourly.
“Yes, the current unfortunate affair,” said Tarkin, clearly pleased. “But other than that, listening to the Jedi has seldom led the Republic astray.”
His eyes rested briefly on Chester, who was now, in between displaying perfect etiquette with her fork and dinner, using several of the condiment pots to illustrate the maneuvers in the last battle to the fascinated naval officers. Padme, next to her, was alternating between satisfaction and mild horror.
“She does have some promise as a tactician,” he allowed. “But not, I fear, enough training. A gifted novice.”
“Surely more than that,” said Palpatine, dropping gracefully into the conversation. “Her achievements thus far have been most remarkable.”
“Yes, we were just discussing them,” said Tarkin.
“I would be impressed if they were achieved by a graduate of one of our top academies,” Palpatine said, almost cajoling. “To see such results from a young officer from an admittedly small, remote power is very impressive indeed.”
“Very, very impressive,” Tarkin echoed. “Chancellor, I hesitate to mar the occasion with unhappy news, but Republic Intelligence’s search for the actual Song Tulin has yet to yield results. It’s as if she vanished into thin air.”
Palpatine’s eyes flicked to Chester and back to Tarkin, and he sighed. “That is disappointing, but I have it on good authority that the Unknown Regions pose a formidable challenge to search. It is hardly surprising that Song Tulin has not been found again.”
“Jedi authority, of course,” said Tarkin, mild.
“Of course,” said Palpatine. “They are the experts in the region. I fear at this point Song Tulin could be anywhere, and our efforts would be best directed back to the war.”
“Yes,” said Tarkin, his eyes going back to Chester. “I completely agree, Chancellor.”