Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Fulcrum!” Fives shouted. The name fell unnaturally from his tongue as he kept his blaster leveled. “He went that way!”

Ahsoka ran up behind him, her feet light against the dirt road. He didn’t turn as she spoke. “Down the alley? Blast. You keep on him, I’ll cut him off at the other end!”

Before he could respond, she leapt past him and clambered onto the corrugated steel roof of the building adjacent to the alley. The ease with which she climbed did little to disguise the agility granted to her by the Force. Fives shook his head with a sigh. At least she hadn’t jumped. “Don’t get too close again!”

Blasters were made for shooting, not melee combat. It was a minor distinction Ahsoka was prone to forgetting about in the heat of the moment.

“Relax, Lever,” she said as she stood. She rolled her eyes as she lifted one of her DC-17s in a facsimile of a salute. “I’ve got this.”

She disappeared over the roof, and Fives cursed as he plunged into the narrow alley after their quarry. His heart pounded beneath the leather cuirass he wore. His veins flooded with adrenaline. As a veteran of Rishi Moon, Lola Sayu, Umbara, and Ringo Vinda, he was a hardened soldier who had seen some of the worst battles the war had to offer. After uncovering a conspiracy and nearly getting killed for it, he’d thought there was little that could shake him at this point.

He’d been wrong.

As it turned out, bounty hunting was something else entirely.

He didn’t know how much of that was due to the fact he no longer had his gear or his brothers or his orders, and how much of it was due to the fact Commander Tano—without the tempering of General Skywalker or the responsibility to her men—was the most reckless son of a gun he had ever met. They needed money to pay for the bioslicer, and they needed it fast. To Ahsoka, that meant taking the highest-paying bounty jobs with the lowest moral ambiguity.

“I have eyes on the target,” Ahsoka said. The cheap comlink crackled in his ear. “Turn right at the intersection.”

Which was how Fives found himself chasing a serial murderer down a back alley on the sleepy planet of Ferrix. He ran through the alleyway, deftly avoiding boxes and barrels and the occasional piles of scrap metal which lined the narrow path. He stubbed his toe on the cobblestone—there were too many kriffing steps—but caught himself and kept running.

Their target was a man who was wanted for a string of murders on Hosnian Prime. He thought he was smart, coming all the way out there, but the Bounty Hunter’s Guild was smarter. It hadn’t taken long for Fives and Ahsoka to locate him.

If only it weren’t for all these blasted alleys.

A flash of movement up ahead caught his attention. “Lever,” Ahsoka said.

“I saw him.”

It was Ahsoka’s idea to use code names for their bounty hunting work, but Fives had been quick to agree. They were on the run from the Republic, after all. If word got back to the Chancellor about an ex-Jedi and a rogue clone trooper, they would be done for. He didn’t know how Ahsoka had chosen Fulcrum for herself, but he thought the code names were fitting.

A lever and a fulcrum acted together to get work done.

Fives lifted his blaster and dashed around the corner. With the target in his sights, he fired a pair of stunner shots—both of which went wide. Stang. The man glanced over his shoulder and swung his arm back to fire a wild volley of live rounds as he kept running. Fives ducked; a single plasma bolt grazed his shoulder.

His quarry cursed as a flurry of stunner shots rained down from above.

Ahsoka.

The end of the narrow alley loomed ahead of them. The wide street beyond was bright and empty, the man ahead of him silhouetted against the russet brick of the façade on the other side. He put on an extra burst of speed, but Ahsoka was faster.

A shadow against the sun, she arced gracefully as she leapt down from the roof. Very little remained of the image she had presented as a commander in the GAR—a tented hood covered her montrals and a veil hid the distinctive markings on the lower half of her face. When she landed, the fabric fluttered as it fell back into place.

The man skidded to a halt. Ahsoka leveled one of her blasters with his head. “Nice try, laserbrain.”

He didn’t have time to lift his own weapon before she put him down with a single stunner bolt to the forehead. Jerking wildly, he collapsed into the dirt.

Fives peered down at him. He would have a killer headache when he woke, that was for sure. “You coulda let me have this one,” he said, nudging him with the toe of his boot.

“You got the last one.” Ahsoka twirled one of her pistols before shoving them both in the holsters at her hips. “Besides, he would’ve escaped if I hadn’t come down from the roof. We’re even now, so help me pick him up.”

Fives grunted as he pulled the man up and threw him over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t do this yourself. Wouldn’t this be easier if you could just—” He wiggled his fingers in an approximation of the Force.

“What?” Ahsoka said, her hidden grin clear in her tone. “When I can watch you struggle?”

Fives shook his head and adjusted his grip, stifling a smile of his own. Ahsoka was different out here—a little more open, a little less Jedi. In the past three weeks, he’d found himself with newfound respect for Rex and General Skywalker. Reigning in the commander’s recklessness was hard. At least she’d stopped trying block blaster bolts with her pistols; they were starting to run out of bacta patches.

He missed his brothers, missed being part of a unit, but it had been fun getting to know Ahsoka on a more personal level that the GAR would never allow. As the days passed, she felt less like his military superior and more like his little sister.

He hoped it was a dynamic they would be able to keep once they eventually re-joined the GAR.

If they re-joined the GAR.

“Come on,” he said, pushing the thoughts aside. Those were for another time when he wasn’t holding a criminal over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Let’s get him back to the Daybreak before he wakes up.”

“And before the townspeople come for us,” Ahsoka said. She glanced over her shoulder toward the growing murmur of an approaching crowd. “Lead the way.”

A single chime rang in the distance.

The first sign of something amiss was that the Senate rotunda was already whipped up into a frenzy. The dull roar grew in strength and softened as Padmé passed the arches that opened to the other pods on her level, and a frisson of worry shot through her. The session hadn’t started yet, had it? She’d taken some extra time that morning to spend with Anakin and the twins, but she was very careful to make sure she still left in time.

Or, so she had thought.

“Captain Typho,” she said. Her head of security walked two paces behind her to her left. “What time is it?”

“The time is now ten minutes to eight, my lady.”

So, she wasn’t late. It was curious, then, what had the Senate so agitated before the session had even begun. Picking up her pace, she covered the remaining distance to her pod in record time. There, she found Sabe already sitting on one of the benches, waiting for them. She rose to greet them.

“What in the great lakes is going on?” Padmé asked as she enveloped Sabe in a hug, forgoing the traditional pleasantries. Standing in the chamber proper, the dull roar was even louder, echoing around the rotunda until no individual words could be deciphered. She hadn’t felt the chamber this electrified since the conclusion of Palpatine’s trial just over a month ago.

“I don’t receive the briefings,” Sabe said, stepping back. “I was hoping you would know.”

“Right. Of course.” Padmé usually sent the senate briefings to her aides—she liked for them to be as informed as she was at all times—but she hadn’t read them yet herself. It figured that the one morning she prioritized her family would be the one morning she shouldn’t have. She just couldn’t win.

Pushing through her frustration, she pulled up the briefing on the pod’s holoterminal. It didn’t take long for her to find the suspected source of the morning’s discontent.

“That’s odd.”

“Why? What is it?” Sabe asked. Captain Typho looked on as well, barely disguising his curiosity.

“There’s been a change in leadership in the Trade Federation,” Padmé read. “Vin Alddon is taking over the position of Viceroy from Nute Gunray.” Her brow furrowed in consternation. Gunray had ruled the Trade Federation with an iron grip for the last fifteen years. “It seems unlike Gunray to step aside, and so suddenly, too.”

“Maybe he finally kicked it,” Sabe said.

A smile cracked Padmé’s face as she glanced at her longtime friend. More than ever, she was grateful Sabe had returned to her service following the birth of the twins; there was no love lost between either of them and Nute Gunray. “If only we could be so lucky,” she said dryly. “He’s probably moved up to bigger and better, more nefarious things.”

A knot of unease formed in her stomach. Good things for Nute Gunray almost always came at the cost of bad things for her and hers. What fresh hell would she have to prepare herself for this time?

The center podium rose, and Interim Chancellor Terr Taneel called the room to order. It took several minutes for the room to fall silent; Chancellor Taneel was unable to command the room in the same manner as Chancellor Palpatine or Mas Amedda once could.

“Good morning, all,” Chancellor Taneel said, clearing her throat. “Now, our first order of business today is—”

“Why has Nute Gunray been replaced as Viceroy of the Trade Federation?”

Padmé looked up as the Alderaanian senate pod ejected from the wall and came to hover near the center of the rotunda. A murmur of agreement swept through the pods lining the walls.

“Senator Organa, you speak out of turn,” Chancellor Taneel chided. “We have other business to attend to.”

“Augh, let him speak!” someone cried out. The single voice was soon joined by several others in agreement.

“Very well,” Chancellor Taneel said. “The floor recognizes Senator Organa from Alderaan.”

“Thank you,” Bail said. “Forgive me, Chancellor, but as the Republic relies on the Trade Federation’s services, any destabilization is therefore a great concern of ours. The senate body deserves some transparency from this historically opaque and … loyally gray association.”

The murmur of agreement from before burst into cheers that echoed in the chamber, drowning out the opposing dissenters. Padmé sagged against the holoterminal—she hadn’t noticed she’d been clutching the railing with white knuckles. Coming from Bail, the declaration held none of the implied personal vendetta the Senate would hear if she had spoken the same.

“I object to the senator’s statements!” Senator Lott Dod’s voice echoed as the Trade Federation senatorial pod joined Alderaan’s in the center of the rotunda. “We have always been loyal to the Republic! The Trade Federation is a neutral entity.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sabe muttered under her breath.

“With known Separatist ties, Senator,” Bail said patiently.

Padmé considered the holograms that had sprung up to magnify the action at the center of the room for those at its edges. There was a second Neimoidian in the pod with Lott Dod—one she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t unusual for the Viceroy to attend Senate sessions alongside its representative—at least, it hadn’t been before the image of neutrality shattered—so this must be Vin Alddon, his supposed successor. He looked just as slimy as his predecessor, Padmé thought uncharitably, although …

“He looks nervous,” she said. “Unprepared.”

“One would think he’d look happier about it, if they’ve been planning this succession for some time,” Captain Typho commented. Padmé hummed in agreement.

“Nute Gunray’s allegiances were his own,” Senator Dod said, “but they do not matter. The Viceroy was found dead in his chambers last night. We have a suspect in custody—”

The Senate chamber erupted into uncontrollable chatter that drowned out the rest of his sentence, but Padmé barely heard it over the ringing in her ears. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she let go of the holoterminal to fall back onto one of the benches. Sabe said something. Her mouth moved, but Padmé didn’t hear her, either.

Nute Gunray … Dead? No, not only dead, but they had a suspect in custody. So, murdered? She let out a long, disbelieving sigh. Although she’d built her career as a pacifist, she couldn’t say she was upset about this turn in events. In fact, her only regret was that she didn’t get to wring his skinny little neck between her own two hands.

She wasn’t one to take joy in others’ suffering, but … good. He could die a dozen horrible deaths, and he’d deserve each and every one of them for all he’d put her through, both politically and personally.

Glancing up again, she met Sabe’s eyes across the pod. Stars, her slack-jawed expression seemed to say. The corners of her lips tipped up into a grin. Finally.

Padmé couldn’t disagree. In a single instant, she felt safer. Her babies felt safer. For the first time in thirteen years, she felt like she could finally breathe again.

When the ringing in her ears faded, she tuned back in to a Senate floor that had been mostly wrangled. Lott Dod’s distinctly Neimoidian dialect rang out through the rotunda, which was no surprise. The Trade Federation liked to make a fuss whenever they had the opportunity to do so.

“We are not accusing anyone of foul play at this time,” he said indignantly, “though a thorough investigation will be forthcoming. Vin Alddon is a highly qualified individual who is more than prepared to step into the Viceroy’s position.”

Vin Alddon’s voice was thin and reedy when he said, “I look forward to serving the galaxy as my predecessor once did.”

“Excuse me,” Padmé said, her voice still a little shaky. “I think I’m going to take a walk.”

“Of course, milady,” Captain Typho said, standing.

“Sabe—”

“I’ll let you know what happened when you get back,” Sabe assured her.

Padmé nodded, then strode out into the hall. Captain Typho fell into step a few paces behind her. She didn’t stop until she stepped out onto the landing bay, the morning sun beaming down from above. Then, and only then, was she able to relax.

Gunray’s death was, objectively, terrible. Not just for Gunray and the Trade Federation, but for the galaxy as a whole. As Bail had said, the Republic relied on the Trade Federation’s services, and so too would the Confederacy. The next few years would be tumultuous as the galaxy adjusted to the new order; any destabilization threatened to send them into a tailspin.

Still, there was nothing to be done about it. This wasn’t a problem she couldn’t fix, and they would deal with the repercussions when they arose. With that thought in mind, she stepped up to the edge of the platform. Looking out over the city, she retrieved her comlink and called her husband.

Anakin Skywalker was in a hurry.

Amidst the euphoria he felt at spending time with his family that morning, he had lost track of time. With Luke and Leia now safe in Crèchemaster Riparé’s hands—he had not flown his speeder recklessly with them in it, thank you—he was hustling down the corridors of the Jedi Temple with an urgency which he rarely felt since leaving the front lines.

Hey, it wasn’t his fault he forgot he had a class to teach this morning! Well, okay. It kind of was, but he hadn’t been assigned to teach a class since he was a Padawan, and the task had slipped his mind.

It was customary for all Jedi knights and masters to help teach the younglings at the Temple. The only exceptions were for those whose work out in the field was considered too important to return to Coruscant. Since Anakin had been knighted after the onset of the war, and because he was such a prominent face in the GAR, his stints on Coruscant had been few and far between. He had helped with the occasional class here and there while he was on leave, but he had managed to largely avoid the soft requirement for the last three years.

He had his hands full as it was, teaching the Padawan the Order assigned to him. He never thought he’d miss it the way he did. Not that he’d ever tell anyone.

But now, the war was drawing to a close. There had yet to be an armistice agreement, but the worst of the fighting seemed to be over. Without Darth Sidious pulling the strings on both sides, the entire conflict had lost steam. Padmé had told him about rumors amongst the senators that the Confederacy was running out of money to continue funding their droid army. Anakin thought it made an unfortunate amount of sense; the Confederacy was never meant to last, after all, and Darth Sidious wouldn’t have wanted anyone to have the resources or the ability to oppose him.

In any case, Anakin was on Coruscant—perhaps permanently. He could no longer avoid the tasks that came alongside his new role as a Jedi Master, especially now that his apprentice was away, her own future with the Order clouded and hazy.

He welcomed the tasks. After all, he wanted this position. He knew the responsibilities that would come with it. They kept him busy. So, he completed his duties without—well, with minimal complaint. Usually to Obi-Wan.

Force, he missed Obi-Wan.

The rest of the High Council had been surprisingly cooperative with him in negotiating his roles. He still had to teach a handful of subjects he found boring, such as history and Galactic Basic, but they allowed him to spend most of his time teaching to his strengths. Sometimes that meant engineering and repair. Other times, it meant flying lessons. Today, it meant combat.

He was, after all, one of the best and most renowned generals in the war.

He grinned and chuckled at the thought as he rushed down the hall. Obi-Wan surely would have scolded him for voicing such a sentiment aloud.

Distracted as he was, he almost missed the beeping of his comlink. It was only once he was almost to the training grounds atop the Temple that he noticed the steady glow at his wrist. His heart leapt when he realized it was a comm from Padmé, but his brow furrowed as he stared at it, his hurried pace slowing to a halt as he stepped into the shadow of one of the Temple spires.

Why had she commed him? It was unusual for her to contact him while at work, especially so early in the day. It wasn’t a direct communication either, but a recorded message. He checked his chrono. The senate session would have just started.

Worry crept through him as he played the message. When his wife appeared before him in miniature, even the electric blue of the holo couldn’t hide her shaken expression. Anakin’s heart dropped. The weak smile she gave before she spoke did little to comfort him.

“Hi, Ani,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m okay. Everything’s fine. I can’t talk long; the Senate is still in session. I just stepped out to get some air. I know you’re busy, too, but …” She took a deep breath. “Nute Gunray is dead. Murdered, by the sound of it. I don’t have any details yet, but I wanted you to know. Stars, I wish I could come home to you and the children right now, but I’ll see you when the day is done. I love you, Ani. Don’t comm me back—I’ll talk to you soon.”

Padmé’s projection fizzled out the moment the message ended. Stunned, Anakin stared at the empty space where his wife had stood.

Gunray was … dead? Really dead?

The sleemo who had tormented Padmé for over a decade was gone? Just like that? They couldn’t possibly be so lucky. Could they?

Kriff it. He was already late to training. What was another couple minutes? He tapped his comlink to replay the message.

Gunray was dead.

And, as Anakin played through the message again, this time he could recognize what his wife had left unspoken: the sheer relief in her voice. When the projection faded again, he realized that—at some point—he’d started smiling.

He couldn’t stop. He felt ecstatic. He had dreamed about this day more times over the years than he cared to count; though, in his dreams, he’d always had the honor of cutting through Nute Gunray’s greasy little heart himself.

If he was being practical, this was better than such un-Jedi-like fantasies. His mind raced. How had he been killed? And by whom? He was morbidly curious, but it didn’t matter. Gunray had finally gotten what he deserved, and Anakin rejoiced.

Padmé’s visible relief made it clear for the first time just how much the threat of Nute Gunray had weighed upon her. The Viceroy had been left unchecked for far too long—yet another failing of justice within the Republic. Perhaps Anakin should have killed him long before now.

But, it wasn’t the Jedi way.

The Jedi—

Sithspit! He was late for his saber combat class! He didn’t know who was teaching with him this morning, but he hoped whoever it was would be forgiving of his tardiness.

It was Master Secura who shot him a dirty look as he jogged up to the class of ten initiates, though she said nothing as she walked the younglings through their warmup katas. Anakin bowed slightly, mouthing apologies. He was on better terms with Master Secura than some of the other members of the Council, and was pleased to find they’d be teaching the morning’s class together.

He would have known sooner if he had checked the schedule, but he hadn’t—another casualty of his rush out the door. He waved at her sheepishly before greeting their students with a smile and receiving a smattering of ‘good morning’s in response.

As Master Secura led the class into sequences, Anakin weaved through the small crowd of ten-year-olds and made corrections where he saw fit. It had been a long time since he had trained in Form I, or Shii-Cho; he preferred to use Form V, the more aggressive Djem So. Ahsoka also had a preference for Form V but had gravitated toward its variation Shien, which specialized in blaster fire deflection.

Would that have been different, if not for the war? He supposed he’d never know.

Fortunately, it didn’t take him long to settle back into the rhythm of Shii-Cho. It was the first lightsaber form taught to younglings—himself included—and was easy to fall back on. When he wasn’t interacting with students directly, his mind wandered. He couldn’t help it! Nute Gunray was dead! Padmé was more relaxed than he’d seen her in the last three years! How could he have missed that she was so stressed? Yes, there was a war, but she was his wife.

Unless … had Anakin ever known a Padmé who was free of Gunray’s torment? They had met, after all, while Padmé was fleeing from his invasion of her planet. Even when she came back into his life, ten years later, it was because of the assassination attempts that Gunray ordered. Then, of course, the war followed.

A spark of irritation flickered in Anakin’s chest. The more he thought about everything Gunray put her through, the more pissed he got. Who gave him the right? Padmé didn’t deserve any of the suffering she endured. But Gunray? He deserved a fate worse than death, Anakin thought darkly. His mind drifted back to Padmé’s message. But death would do nicely. He suppressed a satisfied smirk.

What would Obi-Wan say when he found out about Gunray? He’d been much older than Anakin was during the blockade of Naboo, and much more involved. Did he know already? Did he get the holonews out there on Nar Shaddaa? Anakin wanted to be the one to tell him. He needed to be the one to tell him, if just to experience his reaction. Obi-Wan would have questions, though. He needed to get more information. Perhaps he’d visit the Archives once he was finished here.

He tried his best to keep his distraction hidden, but he was sure Master Secura saw right through him. If she hadn’t, she certainly did after he slipped up and accidentally corrected a student into a Form V stance like he would Ahsoka.

Sure enough, when the lesson finished, Master Secura intercepted him before he could make a break for it.

“Master Skywalker,” she said gently. “Walk with me.” It wasn’t framed as a request.

Anakin, feeling trapped, nodded his acquiescence. “Of course, Master.”

“Forgive me for being so bold,” she said as they made their way back inside, “but you seem troubled. Is everything all right?”

Anakin flushed with shame at having been so obvious, but a small part of him appreciated Master Secura’s concern. “Yes, everything’s fine,” he said, fixing his eyes on the floor before his feet. “I received some … news, this morning, but everything’s fine.”

He winced as he realized he’d repeated himself.

Master Secura hummed, but didn’t push. Instead, she asked, “Have you heard from Ahsoka lately?”

Anakin stifled a sigh of relief as a smile stretched his lips. “She commed yesterday,” he said. “They’re making great progress toward liberating Felucia. I believe they only have a few known bases left to eliminate.” He couldn’t hide the pride that shone through his voice, nor did he want to. That was his Padawan out there leading their troops to victory.

A stab of envy shot through him at the thought. Those were his men she was leading. It should have been him out there. But, if he was out there, he couldn’t be here with his family.

“Yes,” Master Secura said. “I have received the same reports from Commander Bly. Your Padawan has done well for herself. A credit to your training, for sure.”

Anakin squirmed beneath the praise. He shrugged. “Much of it was Obi-Wan’s influence,” he deflected.

Master Secura laughed. “Of that, I have no doubt. I noticed during our briefing over Felucia that she has picked up his habit of stroking her chin while looking over the holotable.”

“Has she really?” Anakin said with a laugh of his own. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Perhaps because you are so used to seeing it from Master Kenobi,” she said.

Anakin glanced sideways at the Rutian Twi’lek woman to find a small smirk upon her face. He shook his head, though his own smile never faded from his lips. “Perhaps so.”

He had never spent much time with Master Secura before the war. As a young Padawan, the seven years’ age difference between them felt insurmountable, despite the fact their masters were best friends. Now that they were older, he was surprised to find he felt quite comfortable around her.

“Is she planning on rejoining the Order?”

The question felt like a bucket of ice water poured down his spine, washing away the mirth of the previous few minutes. “No,” he said sourly. “‘Not yet,’ she told me. Not while she still feels more like a soldier than a Jedi.”

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that she hadn’t rejoined the Order. He didn’t like thinking about it.

“That is understandable,” Master Secura said, facing forward. “It’s early yet; give her some time. Sometimes, we have to let the things we love go. If we’re meant to have them, then they will return.”

“Jedi aren’t supposed to love,” Anakin said instinctively.

Master Secura fixed him with a look. “That is not true. Where would we be if we did not love? If we were so completely dispassionate about each other and the world around us? No. We love and we let go, as sure as the sun rises and sets, knowing it will rise again.”

The confidence with which she spoke startled him. “You’ve thought about this a lot?” he asked, unable to string together any other adequate response.

Master Secura’s gaze turned gentle and knowing before she looked away. “You haven’t? You are not the only one who has someone precious to you.”

Anakin stopped dead in the middle of the hall. Master Secura walked a handful of paces ahead before turning back to him. With lighthearted exasperation, she said, “Master Skywalker.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Anakin stuttered, jogging forward to meet her. Someone precious. It could mean anybody—a family member, a friend, a student—but the context in which she framed the statement led him to believe otherwise. “I didn’t know.”

“Very few do,” Master Secura said, “and I plan to keep it that way. After the war is over … Perhaps then, I will be able to be more open about it. Or, perhaps, it will not matter.”

Would not matter? How could she say it so calmly? “Then, why tell me?” Anakin asked, exercising a modicum of tact. Then, he winced again. “I mean … I guess I know why.”

“You should know you are not alone,” Master Secura said. “And, if you ever need to talk to someone …”

“Thank you, Master Secura,” Anakin said awkwardly. “I appreciate it.”

“I think you can call me by my name,” Master Secura said. “Don’t you?”

“I—Yes,” Anakin said, slightly bewildered by the turn in conversation. “Likewise.” He thought for a moment and then, before he could think twice, he blurted, “The news I received—Nute Gunray died. Was killed. He’s been such a thorn in Sen— in Padmé’s side for the last thirteen years, that I’m… relieved. Thrilled about it, even. I’m actually going to the Archives so I can find out what happened before I tell Obi-Wan.”

“Nute Gunray is dead?” Master Secura asked. “I wonder what this means for the war.”

“It can only be good, right?”

“One would hope so,” she said. She hummed thoughtfully. “Though … Anakin, can I give you some advice?”

Something in Anakin recoiled. No, he thought to himself. Out loud, he said, “Uh, sure.”

“While I don’t believe attachments are harmful, they do have a tendency to narrow our focus. As a husband, and even as a living being, you are right to care about Senator Amidala and to share her victories with her. But as a Jedi, you would do well to remember that she is far from the only person Gunray has victimized. People died during the invasion of Naboo; even more have died in this war.” She touched his arm gently. “Remember to celebrate this victory for them, too.”

Anakin blinked. He had expected to be chastised in some way, not … that. “I—I understand,” he said slowly, still turning the words over in his mind. “And I will.”

“Go on, then. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Thank you,” Anakin said, then added, “Aayla.”

“Anakin,” she returned with a slight bow. When she peeled off toward a nearby lift, Anakin was left to continue his trek to the Archives alone.

Suddenly, he had a lot more to think about than simply Nute Gunray’s death.

The shrill, incessant beeping of his comlink woke Obi-Wan from his slumber.

His head throbbed in time with the rhythm as he blinked groggily and turned over in his bunk. His back ached. Anakin may have spent hours upgrading the ship the Council had procured, but upgrading the bunks must not have occurred to him. Obi-Wan’s old berth aboard the Negotiator had been more comfortable than the one on which he slept now.

Still, the accommodations aboard the Wayfinder were far better than anything he’d been able to find on Nar Shaddaa. Cheaper, too.

Obi-Wan let his comm beep at him as he stared up at the ceiling of the ship. Though the bounty hunter records informed him which cantina Ventress had been working out of at the time of her disappearance, it had taken him days to pry any useful information out of its patrons. Obi-Wan had never turned down a drink in his life, but after a week of simmering in booze—he couldn’t sit in a cantina for hours sober without drawing suspicion or getting kicked out—he finally thought he’d just about had enough.

At least Anakin hadn’t come with him on this mission, he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. He never would have heard the end of it.

He’d finally had a breakthrough just yesterday. The orange Nautolan bartender—Mauvic, his name was—had been on duty the last time Ventress had come through. It took a great deal of convincing, several purchased drinks, and a hefty sum of credits on top, but the information he shared had been worth it.

A hooded, older man, pinned to the bar by a green lightsaber.

A hushed conversation.

Two lightsabers: one green, the other yellow.

It wasn’t much to go on, but Obi-Wan had no doubt: Count Dooku had sought out Ventress after he’d been released from the Jedi Temple. He’d returned her old lightsaber to her as … a peace offering? A bribe? But for what? That was the part he couldn’t figure out.

Perhaps he’d have more luck now he was sober. Sitting upright, he turned on the overhead lights, then squinted as his head screamed in pain. Sober … and hungover. Force, he was never drinking again—mission or no.

At last, he couldn’t stand to listen to the beeping any longer. He snatched his comlink from the bedside table where he’d discarded it earlier that evening and opened the audio channel. He didn’t bother to check who it was from.

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin exclaimed. “You picked up! I was starting to think you were asleep.”

“I was,” Obi-Wan said humorlessly, wincing at Anakin’s chipper tone as he ran a hand back through his hair. His stomach roiled uneasily. “This had better be good.”

“Sorry, Master,” Anakin said, almost contrite. “Does that fact I called to tell you Nute Gunray is dead make up for it?”

Obi-Wan blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes, the rush of adrenaline waking him fully. “Sorry,” he said, “could you repeat that? I must have misheard. I could have sworn you just told me Nute Gunray died.”

“You heard me right!” Anakin said. “And get this, Master, he was murdered! They announced it to the Senate this morning. Padmé told me, and I knew I had to tell you right away.”

Obi-Wan sat on his bunk, staring out into space. “Huh,” he said. “Well, that is a development.”

He could almost hear Anakin pouting on the other end of the line. “I thought you’d be more excited, Master. Padmé didn’t say it, but I could tell she was relieved.”

“She has every right to be, but I tend not to find excitement in death,” Obi-Wan said. It was true, but he was also too hungover to feel much of anything beyond feeling like he’d been trampled by a herd of banthas. “Perhaps that will come in time,” he said, standing. “What happened?”

Oh, standing. Not a great idea. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely sober just yet. He braced himself against the wall with his free hand.

“They haven’t released all the details yet, but I knew you’d ask,” Anakin said. “They have a suspect in custody—someone from the Trade Federation. Aruteous Gunnay? He was an aide. He allegedly murdered both Gunray and Rune Haako, but they haven’t published a motive.”

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed. “Nute Gunray and Rune Haako are both dead?”

“That’s what this press release says,” Anakin said. “I’m in the Archives.”

Anakin? In the Archives of his own volition? “Good job,” Obi-Wan said. Something was beginning to take shape in his booze-soaked mind. Stumbling down the corridor of the Wayfinder, he found the medbay and slammed a stim shot into his upper arm.

Immediately, his stomach settled and some of the clouds began to clear.

“Nute Gunray and Rune Haako were both on the Separatist Council,” he said, tossing the stim canister into a nearby waste receptacle. Still talking, he worked his way up to the cockpit. “As was Passel Argente, and Poggle the Lesser.”

“You think someone’s going after the Separatist Council members?” Anakin asked. “But, the Trade Federation murders were an inside job. They have a suspect. And Poggle the Lesser died in a bar fight, didn’t he?”

“Or so someone wants you to think,” Obi-Wan said, settling in the pilot’s chair. Waking up the main console, he pulled up a map of the galaxy on the holoprojector. He wished he had a full holotable, but this would do.

“The Separatists haven’t accused the Republic of anything,” Anakin said. “You’d think they’d take offense to their leadership being assassinated.”

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan said mildly, “they know it’s not the Republic. When did Pobble the Lesser die?”

It took Anakin a moment to look up the date. “Last month. The twenty-eighth.”

Obi-Wan leaned back in his seat and stroked his beard before crossing his arms. Asajj Ventress had last been seen only two weeks before then, and with Count Dooku. Dooku wouldn’t seek her out without a reason—not after she tried to kill him.

But Ventress was a bounty hunter these days.

On the map before him, Obi-Wan highlighted the known planets of the last four deaths. First Tatooine, then Kooriva, then Cato Neimoida. From Tatooine, he traced a line back to Nar Shaddaa. Before his eyes, the idea that had begun to trickle in began to take tangible form.

“Anakin,” he said, “who else is on the Separatist Council? What are their home planets?”

“Stars, Master, uh … Wat Tambor? From the Techno Union? He’s on Skako Minor.” In the background of the call, Obi-Wan heard the unmistakable clacking of a keyboard as Anakin looked up the other Separatist Council members. He stifled a sigh. He’d hoped Anakin would remember the leadership of the enemy they’d been fighting for the last three years.

“Po Nudo,” Anakin continued, “from the Hyper-Communications Cartel. He’s on Ando. San Hill, from the Banking Clan. They’re headquartered on either Muunilinst or Scipio. Shu Mai, from the Commerce guild, is based on Raxus. Then there’s Tikkes, who … doesn’t really seem to have a specific position? He’s on Mon Cala. That’s it, really. The former senator from Holwuff, Rogwa Wodrata, used to be on the Council, but he died a couple years ago.”

One by one, Obi-Wan highlighted the planets Anakin mentioned, though he didn’t bother to highlight Holwuff. A pinprick of excitement formed within him as a clear pattern established itself.

AlwaysGhostly & KarmaHope (27 Dec 2023)

“Thank you, Anakin,” he said. You’ve been a great help, he wanted to say, but he felt he should avoid voicing his growing suspicion about Ventress being behind the deaths—the assassinations—of the Separatist Council. Ordered by the leader of the Separatists himself, Count Dooku.

Interesting.

“I don’t really know what I did,” Anakin said, “but you’re welcome. Is everything going okay out there? Are you any closer to finding Ventress?”

“As a matter of fact, yes I am,” Obi-Wan said. Unable to stop himself, he yawned. “If you don’t mind, though, Anakin, I would like to go back to bed. It’s about four in the morning in my day-night cycle right now.”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Anakin said, though he sounded a little put-out. “I apologize, Master.”

“No need to apologize. Thank you for telling me about Gunray. I’ll comm again in a few hours and we can take a moment to chat for real, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that,” Anakin said. Obi-Wan smiled at the change in his tone. “Have a good night.”

The line went dark. Obi-Wan stroked his beard again as he considered the map before him. He knew he was working from a hunch, but if he were Ventress and he’d been assigned to take out the Separatist Council …

He stabbed a finger into the map and blew it up to focus on a single planet.

Skako Minor. That was where he’d go next.

Keying in the coordinates, he set the computer to calculate a hyperspace route. It was a long shot—he could get there early, or late, and the area around the Techno Union’s stronghold was a lot of ground to cover—but it was the best one he had.

He pushed the lever to send the Wayfinder into hyperspace and went back to bed.