Chapter Text
Dinner was surprisingly not horrible. She’d somehow managed to end up seated with a decently interesting Senator, and an eager officer who was actually interested in conversation rather than showing off.
Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end. Dinner concluded, and after dinner drinks commenced… and with them, the next wave of the obnoxious contingent descended on Chester. Namely, the older, privileged individuals who thought they knew everything, and that by necessity cast Chester into the role of a poor lost waif. No room for equal status with this lot.
The older human man who’d just cornered Chester was an almost cartoonish example of the sort. Senator Saubry Crace, she thought his name was. Good-looking, in a silver-fox sort of a way, tall and lean with grey shot through his short dark hair and neatly-trimmed beard. Tanned skin, blue eyes, crow’s-feet starting at the corners. He wore something like a three-piece suit, except the jacket flared out at the waist into a long skirt and there was a pleated cape draped over one shoulder. Shame about the smug superiority oozing from every pore, she thought.
He leaned in, all condescension, and favored her with what she was sure he thought was a charming smile. “How very dazzling this must all be for you.”
“Extremely,” said Chester, with her own disarming smile. She thought she was pretty good at keeping the sarcasm out of her voice, too.
Maybe she could have a little fun. “We don’t go in for this kind of event back home,” she said, lying through her teeth. It was exactly what he wanted to hear; he leaned in attentively. “I’m really not used to wealth of this sort.” That was to say, of the deeply unequal sort, drawn from exploitative labor practices and war profiteering. But he very clearly saw someone from a small impoverished backwater and, by the glint in his eyes, loved it.
“You wear it very well, Commander,” he said, with an approving nod and a conspiratorial smile.
“Thank you, Senator,” she said with a small smile. “I have so very few opportunities to wear something other than my dress uniform to things like this at home. I did not, however, have the foresight to bring it with me when I was… detained, and so here we are.”
“Well, that misfortune is our gain,” said Crace. “I’ve heard much about your exploits.”
She smiled, raised her brows and opened her eyes wide in what she hoped was innocent curiosity. “All good things, I trust?”
“Oh, but of course!” The Senator stepped in just slightly closer—testing the boundaries of her personal space. “For a woman who’s faced down multiple Sith Lords, you are surprisingly approachable.”
Chester quirked an eyebrow. Apparently her deeds had been magnified in the telling. “It was only the one Sith Lord, but I’ll happily take my compliments. Is it only the shine of my exploits you find interesting, Senator, or are you too curious about this exotic ,” she couldn’t quite keep the derision out of the word, “visitor to your galaxy?”
“It certainly factored in my interest, yes,” he admitted freely, and had the gall to wink at her. “But it pales in comparison to the pleasure of spending an evening with a pretty and intelligent woman.”
She raised her eyebrows at him, unimpressed and letting it show. “And yet you haven’t said much to earn my interest in return, Senator…?”
Yup, he was the type who thought discouragement was just her playing hard to get. He bowed, lower than he had the first time. “Saubry Crace, Commander. Representative for the Videnda Sector, Outer Rim. And as for earning your interest—well, I am rich and powerful.”
Memory stirred. Padmé wasn’t the sort to actually call someone a real little worm, but she’d come close about this guy. Filthy rich, yes. Up to his eyeballs in a lot of things that were supposed to be illegal and were just this bare side of not? Also yes. Padmé had wanted to bust him on labor violations and probable trading with the enemy for the last three years, but he was in good with Tarkin and the pro-war faction, and all but untouchable.
Either the man was completely following his reproductive organs, or he was up to something.
“The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure,” Chester said, in tones that implied the exact opposite. He only looked more interested. She filed him away as one of those bastards who enjoyed feeling like he was getting away with pushing boundaries.
She’d encountered one such individual back when she and T’Volis had been together. T’Volis had watched the man’s increasing pushiness with an arched eyebrow, and then said, “On ancient Vulcan, individuals who took such delight in provoking discomfort in others and trespassing upon their politeness were eviscerated and fed to the sehlats, so they might prove of at least nutritional value. I cannot condone the violence of my ancestors, but you make a compelling case for the integrity of their logic.”
Chester was in a mood to agree. “Rich and powerful aren’t particularly interesting to me, Senator Crace,” she said. “I’ve got no use for money, so that’s no temptation. And I have no desire to remain in this galaxy, so I’ve no interest in power. Should a delegation from the Federation arrive, they’ll be headed by someone much more professionally charming than myself, so I expect any fond feelings on your part will have only minimal impact on any treaty negotiations. Try again.”
“My boyish charm?” he ventured, pouting.
“I’ve seen better.”
“Ouch.” He withdrew in mock hurt. “Is this how women from your galaxy treat all possible suitors, Commander?”
“The tedious ones, yes.” She turned to fully face him. “So far you’ve boasted about your wealth and power, which gives me very little reason for interest. These things are also so easily lied about.” A plan was forming in her mind, perhaps a little on the questionable side of the noninterference regulations, but if this man was up to half the things Padme thought he was, it would serve him right–and besides, it wasn’t interfering if he was so eager to run his head into the noose for her. “Surely you had more of a plan for conversation than that. Questions about my galaxy, perhaps. Or maybe your interest runs deeper than mere curiosity?”
“Can’t a man flirt anymore?” he asked, but there was a glitter now at the back of his eyes. Ah. Certainly not mere curiosity.
“I’m sure some manage it,” she said, raising her eyebrows at him.
He let out an impressed breath. “You are a difficult one, aren’t you, Commander. Though must I call you that? It erases so much of your charm with a title. Miss Chester would suit you so much better.”
The sheer audacity of the statement caught Chester completely flatfooted. She blinked at him, and he smiled back, clearly pleased with himself. “Not as prickly as you like to make everyone think, are you?”
Yeah, I’m even more ‘prickly’ than you can imagine, buddy. She shifted her expression to cool amusement; of course he was thrilled to see this. “Oh, is that a smile? It looks good on you.”
“Senator, with all respect, get to the point.” She gestured with her glass, taking a small step back. “I can find far more charming and less self-aggrandizing company practically anywhere in this room, and given that it’s full of politicians, that’s saying something.”
He sighed. “Very well, Miss Chester. I confess to curiosity. A great deal of it. There are a few people casting doubt on your accomplishments, and I suppose I wanted to hear it directly from the source.”
“There, that wasn’t so hard.” She gave him an icy curve of a smile. “Which bits are you most curious about? I’m sure I can clear some things up for you, but you can’t expect me to simply volunteer that information. You’re going to have to tell me a few things about yourself in return.”
His eyes lit up. There was nothing a rich, conceited bastard liked better than boasting about himself. “Like what?”
“How exactly you became so rich and powerful.” Now she deigned to flick her eyes up at him, still smiling. “There’s a small chance I might be here longer than I’d like. I’ve seen what passes for your space service, and I can’t say it catches my interest. Maneuvers and military discipline? Please. I need somewhere where I can get… creative.”
“How fortunate we met one another, then. I certainly can help you with that, Miss Chester. But I’ll go first. How did you escape from Dooku?”
“Exactly the way they’ve told you I did,” she said. “Everyone’s got a weak point. He’s so used to everyone around him being terrified of him that he simply couldn’t imagine I’d have the gall to turn on him. I got close to him,” she took a small step forward, looming a little–she had a little more than an inch on him, and she made that apparent, “distracted him, and put him down hard. Tarkin might not believe that, but that’s his problem, not mine.”
Crace seemed to be grasping the concept that she was physically bigger than he was. He did not seem to be terribly unhappy about this. “Quite a problem,” he said.
“My turn,” she said. “What kind of business has made you so rich and powerful, Mr. Crace?”
“Mining. Ore extraction and refining, more specifically, and the trading of product.”
“Hm.” She paused a moment—let him think she was thinking about it—and gave him a shallow smirk of her own. “That sounds dangerous and dirty, Senator. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”
“Dangerous and dirty it may be, but an entity the size of the Republic is always in need of more resources.” Crace’s blue eyes glittered in the light, avaricious. “There is a great deal to be gained, if you can negotiate yourself a good deal.”
“I see,” said Chester. “My, I am a long way from home.”
“You don’t have mining operations in your galaxy?” His voice had faded teasing, but there was a dangerous, doubting note there, too. Chester huffed a soft laugh and shook her head.
“Oh, we certainly do, but profitable… We’re far beyond a capitalistic economy, Mr. Crace. And major resources are far too important to trust to the vagaries of market forces.”
“Then how do you persuade people to take on such dangerous and dirty work? Your words, not mine, Miss Chester.”
“Automation makes it a great deal less of either, Mr. Crace, and as for people willing to babysit that automated equipment… Well, we all have some oddballs among us who like the idea of sitting quietly somewhere remote, doing basic but important things and being bothered the bare minimum by the outside world. It’s amazing what robust safety standards and high quality of living will do.”
He got a very sly look at this, an expression Chester liked not at all. “I see. I see indeed. It must cut down on labor costs.”
It took her a moment to catch on. Oh. Oh hell. He thinks I’m lying and we run it on slaves, or something that’s basically slavery but packaged in nice legal language.
…he jumped to that conclusion awfully fast. I wonder about how he’s getting around the labor issue? Padmé’s description of him hadn’t outright accused him of that, but now Chester was suspicious, and even more so because of the growing interest on the man’s face. It was the expression of someone who’d found a sympathizer with an unsympathetic topic.
“But your galaxy is still mired in capitalism,” she said aloud. “If we have a slight manpower squeeze, you must be absolutely drowning in labor costs.”
She’d caught a glimpse of red and white armor out of the corner of her eye; the guards were here in force, and Commander Fox among them. She took a sip as cover as she glanced around the room. Good. They were moving toward him. She took a few steps that direction, as if she were headed toward the buffet table.
Even better, the small, stuffy figure of the Senate’s assigned police inspector was moving among the clones, frowning at the assembled throng. Chester had met him briefly earlier that evening and been treated to a lecture on what a waste of time the whole mess was, and that he had far more important things to be doing than simply providing a civilian police presence, and that she should simply keep her disruptive presence far away from his work, and do not get underfoot, thank you, ‘Commander’. Which was about what she’d expect of any planetary police enforcer, if she were being honest. Even back home, a lot of them saw Starfleet officers as troublemakers, out of touch passersby sticking their noses where they weren’t welcome.
She wondered what he’d make of overhearing some of Crace’s boasting. Get close to the buffet table, and to the clones, and he would almost certainly circle back.
“Labor costs.” Crace sighed heavily. “It’s always labor costs, Commander. Fortunately for us businesspeople, all this disruption has done wonders for the labor market. People are so very glad to have a job and a stable place to live that there’s not much fuss these days.”
“Funny, I’d imagine the demand would encourage workers to ask for commensurate wages.”
“I have business partners to take care of that sort of thing,” he said. “In business, my dear, it does help to know the right people. As I’m sure you already do.”
“I arrived here only a little over a month ago, Mr. Crace.”
“And yet, made such an impression.” He lowered his voice a little. “Not only here.”
“Murder attempts close friends do not make,” said Chester, equally quietly.
“Close friends wouldn’t be necessary. But business partners…”
“I rather think I burned that bridge,” said Chester dryly.
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss your abilities, Miss Chester. The very fact you survived your encounter speaks volumes.” He gave her a sly look, again as if he thought he was clever. “We all know that there’s one story we need to tell the Republic. It’s not always the true one.”
Chester gave him a totally blank look, swearing internally. Krell’s nasty little rumor really had grown legs. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t quite catch that?”
He leaned in, but he also raised his voice. “I said, we both know the accepted story isn’t the full one. You don’t need to hide it in my company. The good Count is a very persuasive man.”
“That sounds like it’s from experience.”
“There was a time when he was a welcome figure in these halls,” said Crace. “But enough of that, I think it’s clear enough our interests are aligned.”
They really weren’t. And Chester was getting increasingly annoyed at the idea they might be. She looked around for Fox, and decided that if she could hand this guy over to him on a silver plate, she would. A boastful little shit like him wouldn’t need much work. “Look, Mr. Crace…”
When the GAR had assigned Fox to the command of the Coruscant Guard, they hadn’t mentioned that he’d be spending half his time supervising Senate parties. This one was a little more entertaining than the usual, given the guest of honor, and Fox had half been hoping the interloper from another galaxy would set something on fire. Like Tarkin. That would really spice up the evening.
He patrolled carefully through the crowd of tipsy politicians, taking care to stay out of arm’s reach. Generally the assorted pains in the ass knew better than to mess with the Guard Commanders, but Fox was coming to the end of a double shift and his patience for banthashit was at an all-time low. It might be cathartic to arrest a Senator or two, but then he’d have to explain himself, and that wouldn’t be worth it. Unfortunately.
He spotted trouble. Commander Chester had picked up a parasite—everyone’s least favorite mining magnate, Crace. From the look she was giving him, like a turd on the bottom of her sensible shoe, it seemed like she’d gotten the measure of him already.
Fox positioned himself so he could eavesdrop on the fireworks. He’d heard enough of her exploits. He hoped she’d live up to them, because damn it would be nice watching this twit eat his words.
Alas, Crace was one of those assholes who thought every ‘no’ was a come on, and genuinely believed that women who turned him down only wanted him to try harder. Fox privately thought this was the unfortunate lovechild of an ego the size of a small moon, and the total conviction he could have anything he wanted—but he wasn’t ruling out the possibility of there being a humiliation kink in there somewhere. The thinly veiled contempt with which the Commander was responding to his advances was in danger of rendering the Senator a panting mess. And by the revolted but calculating look she flicked at him, she knew it too.
Crace was at the very top of the list of Senators Fox wanted to arrest. Half-a-dozen investigations had circled around him, then fizzled for lack of evidence. Some of them had been so close that all that would have been needed was an unfortunate comment or two. Crace had the wrong kind of friends, and exactly the right luck to be standing out of the splash zone when it all went to hell, but he was far too rich to be honest.
Chester glanced sidelong at him and angled herself so he could see more of Crace, then propped her hip against the table and said, “I’m so very sorry, Mr. Crace, but I simply don’t understand what you mean by ‘offshoring labor’. Please remember I only learned about money a few months ago.”
This was the most blatant fishing expedition Fox had ever seen since Rex and Wolffe had tied ration bars on the end of some pilfered line and tried to catch the monsters in the Kaminoan waters to see if they could, when they were all cadets. That had ended in tears, when something very very large had come up out of the depths and gone for the fish Rex was hauling in, and pulled the line out of his hand so fast it left a rope burn almost all the way down to the sinews.
It seemed the critters on Kamino, dumb as they were, had still had more brains than Crace. He went for a flirtatious pose and a clueless stare exactly like the single fish they’d managed to haul up… and he went for the ration bar. He opened his mouth and started talking and oh. Oh.
Fox’s Life Day had come early.
Possibly, all of them had come at once.
Because Crace wasn’t naming names, but he was giving enough specifics that someone well-informed—say, someone who’d been tracking his bad behavior over the last two years very, very carefully—could put it together. It was the exact kind of incautious comments Fox had been fruitlessly searching for.
Maybe Chester could testify, enough to get a judge to take the man in on a warrant.
From the casual look she cast over her shoulder, the briefest flicker of eye contact before her attention moved elsewhere, Fox got the feeling she would .
“What about unions?” she asked. “In my planet’s history, labor had quite a habit of unionizing under the conditions you describe.”
Crace shrugged, dismissive. “Well, the workers are smarter than that. They know it’s not in their best interest. After all, an Umbaran ringneck doesn’t need to be told how to live off the fat in its tail.”
Even better. Even better! That was a direct quote from Hicken Ausage, notorious business ‘consultant’ and in reality a broker for several of the major slave traders, good at finding cheap labor for clients who didn’t ask questions, and a specialist in the incredibly illegal repression of labor organizing efforts. He’d gone over to the Separatists, very unsurprisingly, as he had a plethora of warrants for his arrest in the Republic—and that quote was a fairly fresh one, first time it had come up was at a conference two months ago. A conference, Separatist-sponsored as it was, that would have been hilariously illegal for a sitting senator to attend.
There was the faintest possibility Crace had picked it up elsewhere, but that he’d said it at all was pretty fucking damning.
“I’m sure they don’t,” said Chester blandly, tilted her head and looked him over. Crace clearly thought it was the complimentary kind of evaluating. As someone who could read basic body language, Fox knew otherwise. “Lovely cufflinks, by the way. They remind me of some of the ornamentation in Dooku’s palace, that same remarkable blue.”
“Some ornamentation?” Crace said, clearly eager. He lifted his hands, turning the cufflinks this way and that so that they caught the light. “Do you mean, Serennian twilight crystals?”
Fox switched on the recording function in his HUD, and zoomed in on the cufflinks. There were indeed three small crystals set into the white gold, iridescing blue and soft violet with the movement.
Chester waved a lazy hand. “A vase, or something. I was rather busy at the time.”
Serennian twilight crystals were also hilariously illegal, because Dooku controlled their production personally and gave them out to members of his inner circle. Fox resisted the urge to lean forward over the table.
After a moment, he realized that Inspector Divo, seldom a welcome sight, had also wandered into earshot. His usual suspiciously sour expression had morphed into something sharper, eager… probably about the same as the one on Fox’s own face. Fox hated the man—he was a fussy condescending little twit—but right now, he was the exact kind of witness Fox needed.
“Well, these aren’t the genuine article,” said Crace, with a self-conscious tug, and leaned in, probably thinking he was being sneaky. “Those I keep in my office.”
Fox leaned down to Divo. “Sir, does that constitute probable cause?”
“It certainly does,” Divo hissed, still listening intently. Fox nodded his acknowledgment and stepped aside to discreetly order the search. “Make sure you look through everything ,” he gruffly ordered the lieutenant on the other end. “We want to be really certain we did this for the right reasons.”
The gleeful agreement left him with no doubt at all that the search would in fact be thorough.
Chester laughed, returning the Senator’s conspiratorial smile. “Of course,” she said. “They’re beautiful. I wouldn’t have known they weren’t the genuine article if you hadn’t said.”
Neither would Fox. He sighed to himself, in the privacy of his bucket. It was strangely, genuinely relieving to know that Crace wasn’t that stupid. If he were, then Fox would have started to suspect that perhaps he himself was also stupid for having taken so long to catch him.
“Lab-grown ylamaite, a specialty of my sector. The process can be unreliable, admittedly, but it makes a suitable substitute for anything from opal to sunstone. I have a little side project going in the business.” Crace admired his cufflinks a little longer, then turned his attention back to Chester. “Having examined the twilight crystals, I can say they are nothing more than an unusual variety of feldspar. Business is booming in the ores sector. It’s a good time to branch out, as it were—there’s plenty of capital floating around, just waiting to be taken advantage of.”
Chester raised her eyebrows. “Would you not invest in expanding your ores operations first? As you said, the wartime economy must surely be eager to buy your product.”
He winked, and went for the dangling ration bar once again. “With a little smart accounting, it’s perfectly possible to do both. After all, the war surely won’t last forever. With a Republic victory, the market will be flooded with cheap ores and refined product which are no longer needed in such quantities. Of course, nobody knows when that might be, so… best to prepare for the inevitable, yes?”
“I suppose so,” said Chester, sipping at her drink. She glanced around, up at the crystals glinting in the chandelier and the gold inlays on the buffet table. “I assume the market for precious stones and metals is more stable than wartime manufacturing?”
“You assume correctly,” said Crace. “As long as there are people with money to spend, there will be a market for luxury goods–and there is a great deal of money in this galaxy.”
Then Chester threw them a curveball. “And if the Republic doesn’t win? Having experienced the front lines for myself, I’m not certain I would bet on the war going either way.”
Crace gave her a long, measuring look; it segued into ogling near the end. “Well,” he said, at last, “money speaks above all else. Even in wartime.”
Fox’s comm crackled to life with dramatic timing. “Sir,” said the lieutenant, gleeful, “we have the alleged Serennian twilight crystals, plus an encrypted, unregistered comm unit.”
“Very good,” said Fox. “Take it to the evidence lockers, keep it under guard. We don’t want it walking off.” He kept his eyes on the conversation, because Chester definitely wasn’t done.
Chester propped a hand on her hip, swirled the wine left in her glass, regarding it with hooded eyes. She looked glorious, thought Fox, though potentially the imminent prospect of victory was addling him a little.
And then she went for the kill. “You know, say what you like about Dooku, but,” she sighed heavily, rolled her eyes as she looked around the banquet hall, “the man does have exquisite taste. The understatement of real wealth.”
This had exactly what Fox presumed was the intended effect. Crace’s eyes went big and excited and he stepped in close. “It is so rare to find someone of like mind, who properly appreciates what the Count has to offer,” he murmured.
She gave him a look of courteous disdain. “Perhaps you would care to clarify that.”
He grabbed her arm, hard, and tugged her in close. “Stop playing games with me, Miss Chester. You know perfectly well what I mean. We serve the same master, and you’re only a very pretty pawn. You might be his newest project–but I’m the one providing important supplies. If it’s a choice between us, we both know who’ll win. So maybe, you should reconsider your attitude.”
“You forget yourself, Crace,” said Chester, very cold, and dumped the contents of her wineglass on his head. Not totally all at once; she paused after he jerked back sputtering and then tossed the remainder neatly down the front of his shirt, with the air of an artist finishing a painting. Fox stifled a cheer.
Crace stared at her–in honesty, it was probably the same thing one of Dooku’s actual minions would have done in response to that approach–and started dripping.
“And that was a confession,” said Divo, sounding a little stunned. “Arrest that man, Commander Fox.”
Chester put the wineglass down on the table with a click and looked at the wet rat of a man who presumably, wouldn’t be a Senator much longer. “Nothing to say, Crace?” she asked sharply, stifling the vicious grin that kept trying to creep out around the corners. “When someone tells you they’re not interested, maybe you’ll take it seriously in future. Let me make myself even clearer: I am not interested in you. I have made no deal with Dooku. I have made no deal with the Republic, either. Federation law demands my strict neutrality in an internal conflict of another sovereign entity.”
Crace’s mouth dropped open. “You–you–”
“And your fascination with wealth astounds me almost as much as your disregard for the wellbeing of other sentients revolts me,” she added. “ Goodbye , Mr. Crace. I trust I won’t be seeing you again.”
With impeccable timing–almost as if he’d been waiting to let her get the last word–Fox and two of his men glided up. They flanked Crace, whose face filled with an alarming purple color under the glistening trickles of wine. “Senator Saubry Crace, you are under arrest.”
Crace sputtered. “Arrest? Arrest for what?!”
“Treason against the Republic, for a start,” said Fox. His voice was richly amused under the crackle of the helmet modulator. “I’m pretty sure there were some financial crimes and labor violations in there too, but it’s the treason we’ve got the evidence for. Thanks, Commander. We’ll take it from here.”
Chester returned his amusement with a grin of her own. “My pleasure, Commander.”
Crace made a lot of noise about that, but her attention had gone elsewhere–namely, to the head of the room, and Chancellor Palpatine. She made flat eye contact with the little man, willing him to understand. It was entirely possible for him to clean house; she’d just made a start of it. A little thought, a little dedication, and a lot of the misery he’d seemed to have accepted as the price of democracy could be eliminated, just by holding the rich bastards to the same law as the poor.
Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to get the point. He just looked shocked, and turned away to go back to whispering with his friends. Chester sighed heavily, and looked back at Padmé who was hurrying over.
“You just got Crace to confess to treason in a crowded room?” she said, half a question, as if she doubted her own sanity.
“Yup,” said Chester, regretting dumping her wine on the man. She could really use a drink right now.
“Well,” said Padmé, and her expression pivoted right into resignation. “No wonder you’ve been getting along so well with the Jedi.”
Tyranus had never, not even once, seen Sidious look shellshocked. Mildly disappointed, yes. Annoyed by an inopportune sequence of events, certainly. Surprised? Rare, but it happened. Seeing the future didn’t mean things (like certain Commanders) couldn’t sneak up on you.
Today, Sidious was a little more than surprised.
Dooku found this exceedingly satisfying.
He knew better, however, than to let Sidious see him gloating. He inclined his head, perfectly respectful, and said, still trying to sound perfectly respectful, “Your assessment of the Commander, my master?”
Iron wrapped around Tyrannus’s throat, the cold fingers of the dark side clamping down. Evidently, he thought, as he thrashed in Sidious’s vengeful grip, he had not been respectful enough.
“I want her gone ,” snarled Sidious. “I want her out of this galaxy. And if you slow her down, I swear by all the lords of our tradition your name will become a byword for suffering!”
Sidious probably wouldn’t kill him. Probably. He was supporting half of this damned war. But Tyranus was questioning that by the time the iron grip loosened and he sagged to the ground, massaging his throat. He missed much of Sidious’s ensuing rant, but once he paused to collect himself, he risked a comment of his own. “Surely the woman’s behavior has earned worse than simple ejection from our galaxy. If we let her live, we will look weak.”
Sidious’s jaw worked a moment. “You may try to kill her, Tyranus, but your success in that has been notably lacking in the past. If you keep her in this galaxy one moment longer than necessary…”
“You make the consequences abundantly clear, my lord,” said Tyranus. “Rest assured, her impudence will not remain unanswered. There is much to gain from her death.”
“There is much to gain from her absence,” snapped Sidious. “And you of all people should be able to understand that we are in a delicate phase of our plan; this is the last time we can afford to have an unfortunately resilient impediment.”
The woman was far, far more than an impediment, thought Tyranus after the call ended and he was alone to lick his wounds. A mere impediment was simply an annoyance. He liked to imagine that was fear, not mere annoyance, he’d heard in his master’s voice, and someone who could provoke fear in Darth Sidious was someone who might be useful in killing him. A withered touch of grief flickered to atrophied life in Tyranus’s chest, the echo of the unforgivable thing Sidious had demanded of him for his loyalty, the source of so much of the lightsaber he’d given his future apprentice to carry. It seemed a fit kind of vengeance to take.
Breaking her to his will would take time and creativity, and she might well die of it. But that was a risk he was more than willing to take.
“Vod,” said the voice on the other end of the comm, and Wolffe blinked. He’d never heard Fox sound gleeful before. “Vod, I have an urgent question. Is Commander Chester single. ”
“What,” said Wolffe, too stunned to form any other words.
“Is she single?” Fox repeated. Gleeful and wistful. Wolffe reminded himself that Fox had to hang around Senators all day and therefore had some deeply karked-up priorities.
“I dunno,” he said. “How willing are you to fight Ventress?”
Fox paused, but not for long enough, in Wolffe’s opinion. “Extremely.”
“What the kark did she do?”
“You know that Senator I’ve been complaining about, the asshole who keeps slipping out of charges? Told one of my shinies he’d have them decommissioned for disrespect?” Fox let slip a mean snicker. The Senators didn’t have that sort of power, or the GAR would have revolted en masse, but that didn’t stop the less-savory individuals among them from making the threat. “Number two on my wishlist of people I want to arrest?”
Wolffe did, faintly. “Crace or something?”
“I just arrested him,” said Fox, the glee bubbling over. “I just arrested him for treason . This one’s going to stick. He was trying to… entrap her, or maybe just recruit her, and she just… encouraged him a little. Got him to confess–boast is more like it–about all sorts of illegal things. I thought Tarkin was going to choke . Their entire faction is having a fit. It’s wonderful. It’s the best day ever.”
“She got a Senator to boast about treason and get arrested,” said Wolffe, and pulled out the first aid kit, lining up some painkillers compatible with Kel Dor physiology. Poor Plo.
“I want to marry her,” said Fox, a little dreamily. Wolffe froze in the middle of what he was doing; Fox and dreamy were two concepts that did not belong together in the slightest. “That woman should be running a planet somewhere. Forget that. She should be running a galaxy. I could help her run a galaxy.”
Wolffe scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “Are you drunk?” He’d meant to sound accusing but mostly it came out exhausted.
Knowing Fox, that was the cherry on top of the night’s entertainment. The grin that was audible in his voice escalated from merely savage to downright rabid. “Only on sweet victory, but on that? Absolutely maggoted .”
Wolffe reflected that anything that made dour, cynical Fox anything but depressed, let alone delighted, was technically something he should be grateful for. It didn’t happen nearly enough these days.
Somehow, he could not quite muster the requisite feeling. He paused. He took a deep breath in. He tried not to let the resignation sound in his voice. “You’d better start at the beginning, vod.”