Four

 "Mon Mothma? Senator!"

Mon Mothma felt herself being shaken, violently; she awoke with a start. For a moment all she could remember was the strange dream she'd been having: about herself, and Bail and Tarkin, and even the Emperor…and above all the distinct image of a galaxy enflamed in red. Then her eyes focused, and in the darkness she saw staring down at her two glowing, nightmarish, saucer-like discs. It took her brain a second to realize what she was looking at: the faceplate and photoreceptors of Deesix, peering over as he leaned beside her bedside. "What is it, Deesix?" she asked.

"Forgive the intrusion, Madam," Deesix begged, in maybe the most concerned tone Mon Mothma had ever heard him use, "but there is an urgent matter that demands your immediate attention."

"It most certainly should be urgent," she warned through a yawn. A glance over at the chrono— "You're aware it is three in the morning?"

"Yes, Madam," Deesix said. In the darkness she saw a sudden blob of white: he was holding up one of her cream-colored robes. "I assure you I would not have awoken you for anything less. Mr. Aach is waiting in the living area."

"Aach!" Mon Mothma blurted, coming fully awake. Aach never made direct contact, not ever: especially not at Mon Mothma's personal apartment. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid only Mr. Aach can answer that question." Deesix raised the robe pointedly. "If you will get dressed, Madam?"

It took Mon Mothma only a minute to get the robe on before she was scurrying through the bedroom door into the main living area. Aach was there all right, clad in his typical dark cloak and standing awkwardly by the large bay that overlooked the Senate Building. Usually the rotunda was swarming with activity, even after evening; but tonight it seemed strangely muted, almost quiet, with the occasional spot-light upon its exterior the only point of interest. Aach turned round at the sound of the bedroom door opening. "Senator Mothma," he greeted, halving the distance between them before the door had barely closed.

"Aach," Mon Mothma greeted in turn. She took a look toward the open window; but surely the ISB didn't have any probe droids lurking about. Did they? "What in the worlds brings you here? This must be important—your visit is highly unorthodox!"

"I'm sorry, Senator," Aach said quickly, taking her hands, "Senator Organa would have done it any other way if he could. I'll get to the point at once: you're in danger."

"Danger?" Mon Mothma repeated. She glanced back at Deesix. "What kind of danger?"

"The imminent kind, else the Senator wouldn't have sent me. I've already explained it to your droid. We need to get you out of here. Now!" He started pulling her toward the main foyer.

"I don't understand," Mon Mothma resisted, "what kind of danger? Aach, slow down!"

"I thought the droid had told you," Aach frowned. "That little speech you gave today…it didn't go over well with the Emperor. He's released the order for your arrest."

Arrest. The word washed over Mon Mothma, skirted right past her: as if it were intended to apply to someone else. "I still don't understand," she heard herself say, dimly.

"You're to be taken into Imperial custody," Aach elaborated. "No doubt for imprisonment and interrogation. The ISB is already on its way." He took a deep breath. "They know, Senator. About you, and Captain Dreis, all of it; or at least suspect enough that it doesn't matter. They must, otherwise the Emperor wouldn't be sending the Bureau themselves." He risked a peek out the window. "My best guess is, we’ve got only moments until Imperial stormtroopers arrive to take you in. And anyone else found with you."

Mon Mothma looked about the room. She realized suddenly they weren't alone: Lynia stood huddling in the corner not far from her own room, clad in one of the thin night shifts she usually wore. "Lynia?" Mon Mothma asked softly.

"He's telling the truth, Senator," Lynia whispered back, crouched and scared and clearly uneasy. "At least, he thinks he is," she amended, her blue eyes flickering in the darkness. "We need to go—before they arrive."

"She's right," Aach told Mon Mothma, reaching into his tunic and pulling out a holo-disc. "Take a look."

He turned on the projector, and a collection of images started flashing. "ISB stormtroopers," Aach identified the figures for her. She counted at least twenty in that shot. "Heading this way. They must already be in the building, if I'm picking them up this close. We need to get you out of here."

Mon Mothma watched them for a moment, marching in lock-step in a two-man line… "Then let us go," she decided, after a deep breath. Bail warned me, she reminded herself, had warned her and she hadn't listened—and now they were all about to pay the price. "If they're on their way," she went on, looking through the holo-image at Aach directly, "we need to go now."

He stared back at her, a grim but determined expression forming on his face. "Then let's go," he agreed, scanning the room. "Is there anything you need to bring with you?"

Mon Mothma took his meaning. "Everything related to Cantham House and the Rebellion is in Deesix," she told him. "The ISB won't find anything here."

"We'd better take the droid too, then," Aach concluded. And ensure the ISB don’t get their hands on him, she almost heard him add, but he had the decency not to say it aloud. "Follow me."

He had them wait huddled in the foyer while he checked the front door. But it was late, or rather early—three in the morning, she had told Deesix, far too early for anyone other than service droids to be muddling about—and the main halls were quite empty. Satisfied, Aach waved them on, as one-by-one they filed out into the corridor. "Where are we going?" Lynia hissed behind Mon Mothma.

"Main lift," he whispered back, glancing down a cross-path. "Another of the Senator's agents is reaching out to your man, Drayson. He'll collect your ship and then meet us on the Tower roof."

Mon Mothma barely heard them. "I still can't believe this," she was muttering. "Arrested? I knew that my speech would not go over well, but this…It's too bold, even for the Emperor."

"You saw the holo-image," Aach pointed out. "And forgive me for saying so, but…Senator Organa did warn you. The ISB have had their eye on us for some months. That speech was just the final push—all the excuse needed." Out of the corner of her eye Mon Mothma caught Lynia's sudden glare at the back of his head.

"No," Mon Mothma said, before Lynia could respond. "You are right about the ISB, Aach, and perhaps I should have been more careful. But I have made such public comments before. Perhaps not so direct, and never to the Emperor's face—how could I, when he rarely appears at Senate sessions anymore?—but this is about more than just speeches." She felt her jaw clench. "Tarkin. Did you see him, at the Emperor's side? The man was practically foaming. Yes, it must have been Tarkin who pushed for this…"

"It's well-known the Admiral doesn't appreciate being made to look foolish," Aach agreed. "You may be right."

"The Senate won't sit still for this!" Lynia spoke up finally. "When they hear the Emperor's attempted to detain an Imperial Senator—"

"They'll what?" Aach challenged. "If all goes to plan the Senate won't even find out. I saw the arrest order: 'to be taken quietly,' those were the Emperor's instructions. That's why they're doing it now, at night: hoping no one will notice." He grinned darkly. "Although now that I'm here that may prove difficult…Ah, Sithspit!"

He stumbled to a sudden halt. "What is it?" Mon Mothma wondered, trying to peer over his shoulder.

"This," he showed her, turning around with his holo-disc. "They've reached the main lift and put it into lock-down. There's probably already a squad on its way up." He gritted his teeth thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you know another way out of here?"

"There is a second bank back the way we came, sir," Deesix offered, "for service droids and other deliveries."

"Does it go all the way to the roof?" Mon Mothma asked.

"Doesn't matter," Aach said. "If those troops are on their way up, it's our best bet getting out of here." He waved the droid onward. "Lead the way, Deesix."

They all shuffled back the way they had come, following Deesix now as he led them down a second cross-corridor toward the back-service bank. Mon Mothma puffed in line after Lynia, keenly aware of Aach's breathing as he brought up the rear behind her. He still had his holo-disc out, and she spied him periodically checking the thing for updates. "How much farther, Deesix?"

"We are almost there, Madam," Deesix said, coming up on another hallway. "It is just around this corner—"

"Wait!" Aach urged, leaping forward and grabbing the droid by the elbow. "Do you hear that?"

They all stood silently for a moment, listening. "I don't hear anything," Lynia tried.

"I do," Aach slipped past her. "Stay here."

He sidled up to the edge of the wall and peeked around the corner. "Just what I thought," he whispered. "More ISB. Two of them, guarding this bank as well."

Mon Mothma could hear them now, too: the faint but unmistakable static of stormtrooper chatter, coming around the bend. "What do we do now?" she wondered, trying to get a peek of her own. They were there, all right: she could just make out the pair, standing idly but with blaster rifles held at the ready. "Should we go back the way we came?"

"They already got a squad up by the main lift," Aach shook his head. "It looks like we're trapped." There was the soft, scrapping sound of metal against cloth; and Mon Mothma watched as he pulled a small hold-out blaster from his cloak. "What are you doing with that?" she demanded.

"What does it look like?" Aach growled, checking the power levels. He let a critical eye sweep across the three of them. "I don't suppose any of you thought to bring a blaster, too?"

Mon Mothma pulled herself up. "Chandrila is a peaceful planet," she reminded him sternly. "Our people do not subscribe…"

"Sure, sure," Aach said, "Alderaanians, too. You're welcome to go out there and try to reason with them." He raised an eyebrow pointedly.

Mon Mothma shuffled uneasily.

"Well, then," he finished, as if that settled the matter.

"There may be another way," Lynia interrupted suddenly, placing a restraining hand on his blaster-arm. "A third exit the ISB wouldn't know about."

"Third exit?" Aach repeated, sharing a look with Mon Mothma. "What's she talking about?"

"It's not far from the Senator's apartment," Lynia elaborated, helping Aach gently lower his blaster. "Come with me."

They hurried again back the way they had come, this time with Lynia taking the lead. Mon Mothma studied Aach jogging beside her as they went; he still had his blaster out, she noted, but at least he'd switched the safety back on. Deesix straggled after as fast as he could. "This way," Lynia announced, coming to another corridor. "It's down here."

It wasn't a corridor Mon Mothma recognized, although that wasn't saying much: most of her time in Wroshyr Tower was spent working from her apartment, not wandering the hallways outside it. To her eyes it seemed no different than any of the other corridors that criss-crossed through the Tower—the usual collection of paneling and ornate friezes, artful depictions of Wookiee cities and Kashyyykian wildlife. But then, Lynia sometimes saw things differently. "This is it," the woman confirmed, running up to one of the panels. "It's here."

Aach frowned. "This is a dead-end," he told her. "What are you on about?"

"It's one of these," Lynia pressed, running her hands along the frieze. "I just need a second."

"Lynia—" Mon Mothma started. She could hear a new sound now, echoing back behind: not the modulated chatter of a couple stormtroopers, but something much worse—the unmistakable crunch of marching boot-steps, a full squad filing in formation. That group of ISB agents Aach had been talking about, the one that had ridden up the main lift…it must be following after them now.

"Just give me a second," Lynia huffed. Her probing fingers suddenly found the appropriate indentation, and with a soft click the panel in front of her popped open. "See?" she said. "I told you."

They all stood gaping beside her. The panel had slid aside, revealing a dark opening within: a secret passageway! "Maintenance tunnels," Lynia identified them, with a smug little smile plastered on her face. "Left over from when the Tower was first being built. They don't get used much anymore, except by the MSE droids that do cleaning."

"Maintenance tunnels," Mon Mothma repeated, taking a step up and looking inside. The passage was a little narrow, but it was well-maintained and reasonably well-lit…and most importantly, it led away from here. "I'm impressed. How did you find out about these?"

"I pulled up the architect's schematics when we first moved in," Lynia explained. "Thought it might be useful to find out if there were any potential escape routes, and these caught my eye. The original schematics," she amended, looking at Aach. "The final copies—the ones submitted to the Senate Library—don't show them. It's doubtful the ISB knows anything about it."

"Who cares how she learned about them?" Aach interjected, urging them all inside with his blaster. "Let's just get in before we get any more company!"

They scurried through single-file. Now Mon Mothma took the lead, hurrying up the stairs. "Just keep going," Lynia hissed. "These should take us all the way to an access hatch on the roof."

"Only a couple more flights," Aach puffed behind her. The holo-disc in his hand had been replaced with a comlink, and he was speaking urgently into the mic now. "Captain Drayson, this is Aach. Captain Drayson, do you copy?"

There was a hiss of static, and a muffled voice mumbling from the other end. "I've secured Senator Mothma and her team," Aach explained. "We're on our way to the landing pads now—we'll meet you and the Hope there."

A quick confirmation, and then the comlink went dark. "Landing pad?" Lynia frowned. "I thought you said we were meeting Drayson on the roof?"

"That was just for the benefit of any nosy ISB agents who might be listening in," Aach told her, prancing up the last steps, "…and there will be nosy ISB agents listening in. Don't worry, Drayson knows where to meet us. Ah, looks like we're here."

They had reached the top of the stairwell and the end of the line. A small, single door blocked their way; Mon Mothma pressed at the panel switch to the left, and the door slid aside. A sudden gust of Coruscant night air came blowing through the doorway, brushing across her hair and face. "Everyone out," Aach instructed from behind her. "Quickly now!"

They all stumbled out onto the roof. It was another misty night, and the skies above dark and foreboding: the city searchlights barely able to penetrate as they shot up from the streets below, scanning the cloud-lines. "I don't see Drayson," Lynia said, practically bumping into Mon Mothma. She took a pointed look around. "I don't see anyone!"

"Neither do I," Aach admitted; and beneath his cloak Mon Mothma could see him fiddling again with that blaster. Worried, perhaps, that the ISB had seen through his little subterfuge after all?

"He should be here by now," Lynia went on, desperately. "I thought you said Drayson knew where to meet us!"

"He does," Aach fired back, craning his neck towards the sky. "If you'll just wait a min—ah, there he is!"

He jabbed a finger upward. Out of the dark clouds at last emerged the Chandrila Hope, its chrome exterior and muted running lights making it look like a phantom in the night. Carefully it came gliding over the roof of Wroshyr Tower, before settling into a position just above them. The entry ramp extended out expectantly.

"You see?" Aach smiled, releasing his hold on the blaster. "Everyone aboard. Lynia—give Deesix a hand with that ramp, will you?"

For a moment it looked like she might argue with him; then, almost reluctantly, she guided Deesix over and started helping him up. "You too, Senator," Aach instructed. "Trust me: you don't want to wait around for the next shuttle. My guess is the city air patrols will be here any minute."

"What about you?" Mon Mothma asked. But one look at his face told her all she needed to know. "You're not coming with us, are you?"

"I'm afraid this is indeed where we part ways," Aach said, with another smile. "I've other assignments for Senator Organa to complete: I can't spend all my time looking after you. I'll find my own way out, it shouldn't be hard once your ship clears the Tower…but don't worry, your man Drayson knows what to do. There's an abandoned Jedi medical facility in the asteroid belt near Polis Massa—he should already have the coordinates. Senator Organa's set up a safe-house for you there. He'll try and meet you once things have cooled down."

"Thank you, Aach," Mon Mothma said, reaching out for the man's hand. "For everything."

"Don't thank me," Aach urged; even in the dark, Mon Mothma saw him blushing. "Thank Senator Organa. It was his work, mostly."

"Then tell Bail thank you for me," Mon Mothma said, "but thank you, too."

Aach was saved from further comment by a sudden flash of the Hope's running lights. "Signal from Captain Drayson," he identified it, "air patrols are almost here. Get going, Senator."

She gave Aach one last look; then turned and hurried after Lynia and Deesix up the entry ramp. She found them already waiting for her in the ship's cockpit, strapped into the comm and navigation stations in the back. Drayson, not surprisingly, was there too, fidgeting impatiently at the pilot controls. "Finally," she heard him mutter, as she slipped through the door. "Air patrols will be in range any second. Where's Aach?"

"Aach is not coming," Mon Mothma told them, dropping into the co-pilot station. "It's just us."

"Then let's go," Drayson declared, pulling on the flight controls and sending them rising back into the clouds. Mon Mothma glanced out the viewport. She could still spy Aach, though barely: only a tiny spec of a cloaked figure as the Hope rose swiftly up into the night sky. By the time Drayson had them angled and rocketing off toward the upper atmosphere, the Tower roof was empty.

----------

Tarkin was trying to relax in his main cabin when he received the call. It was just reaching early morning on the planet below—too early for most civilized beings to be up and about, even on Coruscant—but Tarkin was still on Ghorman time and was having trouble sleeping. So he'd returned here, to the quarters he kept on his Star Destroyer, idly reviewing some of the reports that awaited his attention. A handful fell within the ambit of his old responsibility as admiral, but most pertained to his new promotion to Moff: dossiers on political machinations, economic unrest, and all the other headaches governors had to deal with.

So Governor Tarkin was here—flipping through his data pad, and working hard not to dwell on the embarrassment Mon Mothma had put him through yesterday on the Senate floor—when the intercom on his desk suddenly pinged. "Yes?" he asked lazily, switching it on.

"Apologies for disturbing you, sir," came the voice of a young lieutenant (the one currently on bridge duty, if Tarkin remembered correctly). "We are receiving an emergency message from Coruscant Traffic Control."

"And what is it?" Tarkin pressed, with only half-a-mind. Surely the bridge crew could handle it, whatever it was. He glanced briefly at the chrono by his desk: just past 3 am local time. If he remembered correctly, Emperor Palpatine's troops should be infiltrating Mon Mothma's apartment building right about now.

The lieutenant cleared his throat. "There is a ship attempting to flee the city," he explained carefully. "Sir—it's the Chandrila Hope!"

Tarkin sprang up in his chair, the data pad tumbling to the floor. "What did you say?" he demanded, leaning in toward the intercom. No. It wasn't possible.

"The Chandrila Hope," the lieutenant repeated. "Senator Mothma's personal yacht…"

"I know what the Chandrila Hope is," Tarkin snapped. "Where is it now?"

"They've just cleared the troposphere," the lieutenant said, sounding appropriately timid. "The city's air patrols are unable to pursue. They'll be outside the planetary gravity well in ten minutes."

At which point they'd be able to safely make the jump to hyperspace. "Move the ship into intercept position along their projected escape vector," Tarkin commanded, already getting up from his desk. "I'm on my way."

With a snarl he switched off the intercom. Incompetent imbeciles, he thought angrily—but he didn't mean the bridge lieutenant. Tarkin had no idea how the ISB had managed to bungle this one—a single senator, and a pacifist one at that, slipping out of their net—but he intended to make sure the Emperor ordered a full investigation, just as soon as he was back on Coruscant.

But that was for the future. Right now, he had a senator to catch. Straightening his tunic, Tarkin hurried toward the bridge.

----------

The ship appeared on their scope almost at once. They had barely cleared the troposphere, leaving the airspeeders that safeguarded the skies above Imperial City far behind, when there came a sudden ping from the sensor screen. "What is that?" Lynia pointed at it.

"We've got another ship moving into intercept position," Drayson gritted, his grip on the flight controls looking decidedly white-knuckled.

"TIE fighters?" Mon Mothma suggested. She recalled the patrols they'd seen flitting about the Coruscant space-lanes during their inbound trip.

"Worse," Drayson said, tapping the screen. "Look."

The dot slowly materialized into a distinct image: the triangular shape of an Imperial Star Destroyer. "Terrific," Mon Mothma swallowed, remembering too late that other sight that had been floating above the planet. "How soon will they be on us, Captain?"

"They've trying to block our main escape route. My guess is they'll be within tractor range in seven minutes."

And the navicomputer projected they'd still need another ten before the Hope cleared the planet's gravity well. "Pardon me, Captain, but…what should we do now?" It was Deesix.

"Pray?" Drayson suggested dryly. "I've already got the ship's engines at full power. Unless someone else has any bright ideas?"

Mon Mothma glanced over her shoulder, where she noticed Lynia staring out through the cockpit canopy. "Lynia?" she poked the other woman. "What is it? What do you see?"

With an effort Lynia turned toward her. "That Star Destroyer," she said, regarding Mon Mothma beneath a pair of furrowed brows, "it's the Devastator."

"The Devastator?" Drayson repeated, an abruptly dark tone to his voice. "You mean Governor Tarkin's flagship?"

"The same," Lynia confirmed. She shared a meaningful frown with Mon Mothma. "The very one he used at Ghorman."

Mon Mothma took a peek of her own out the canopy, watching the approaching Star Destroyer with renewed dread. "You saw the way he looked at you," Lynia was whispering in her ear. "During your speech. If Tarkin's in command of that ship…"

"I know," Mon Mothma said quickly. She had most certainly seen how Tarkin had looked: furious, foaming, a man out for blood… "There might be a way," she started, letting her gaze sweep across the rest of the cockpit—across Lynia, and Drayson, and Deesix. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the responsibility she had to the three of them. "If I were to board one of the Hope's escape pods and jettison it back toward the planet, it is possible Tarkin might follow me and let the rest of you go…"

"Senator!" Lynia and Deesix both exclaimed at once.

"Let me finish," she pressed on hastily. "If we were to aim the pod away from the Hope's current trajectory—and if I sent out a broadcast as soon as it launched—"

"Forget it, Senator." This was Drayson, grim at the ship's controls. "We're not abandoning you." Lynia nodded in agreement.

"Captain—"

"Besides," he interrupted, "if you think Tarkin will just break off his pursuit because of one escape pod, you're crazy. With respect, ma'am," he added, in what was no doubt intended to be a differential tone. "Any tractor crew worth its salt can get a lock on two moving targets at the same time."

Even with his superior military experience she wanted to argue. But Mon Mothma knew Drayson was probably right. "All right," she growled back. "What's your suggestion, then?"

"Like I said. We pray."

----------

"Governor," the on-duty lieutenant saluted, as Tarkin cleared the bridge catwalk and entered the Devastator's main command center. "We have a visual lock on the Chandrila Hope. She's coming up on our short-range sensors now."

"Good," Tarkin said, stepping up to one of the many trapezoidal viewports. It was hard to make out anything down there at the moment—mostly a mish-mash of civilian traffic, lost against the dark backdrop of Coruscant below it—but Tarkin could just spy the bright, almost organic shape of the Chandrila Hope, shooting out towards deep space. "How long until we're within tractor range?"

"Three minutes," the lieutenant assured him,  "and it will be an additional three before their ship clears the planet far enough for the jump to lightspeed. Governor, we have them."

"Let's not count our ducks before they hatch, hmm?" Tarkin advised, watching the small, shiny dot as it streaked across the planetary shadow. Trying hard not to remember that embarrassing display Mon Mothma had put him through… "What?" he asked.

The lieutenant was still talking. "I said, should I have the ship's tractor beams standing by?"

Tarkin stared at the young man, considering. At those round, dull green eyes: not so unlike the eyes of Mon Mothma herself, as she glared daggers at him from across the Senate floor— "I've another idea," he decided, turning back toward the viewport. "Ready the ship's turbolaser batteries."

A soft cough sounded from somewhere in the back of the lieutenant's throat. "The…turbolasers, sir?"

"And instruct the TIE pilots to report to their fighters," Tarkin continued, "just to be safe." He shifted his head fractionally. "Is there a problem, lieutenant?"

Whatever that had been in the back of the man's throat, he cleared it. "No problem, Governor. Only…you're certain? You wouldn't rather capture them alive?"

"Quite certain," Tarkin confirmed. The Devastator could take the Hope easily, of course; like the man had said, it would be within tractor range well before Mon Mothma made the lightspeed jump, and no civilian ship could escape once an Imperial Star Destroyer had her lock on it. But taking her alive, like this, with all the planet watching: that would mean a public trial, possibly even in the Senate itself—which would mean more speeches (most certainly by Mon Mothma, and likely by the rest of those pathetic pacifist Senators), further tirades decrying the Emperor and his New Order. When it was all said and done, a conviction was just as likely to make Mon Mothma a martyr for this new spark of rebellion that seemed to be spreading across the galaxy. If public outcry left the Emperor room enough to secure a conviction at all.

But killed while trying to escape—yes, that was much cleaner. Something this lieutenant would have to learn to pick up on, if he wanted a future on Tarkin's bridge. "You have your orders, lieutenant."

"Yes, sir," the man nodded quickly. Whatever his faults, at least he was good at following instruction. "Alpha Group, report to your fighters. Starboard batteries, prepare to fire."

And as the starboard gunners began reporting in, and the pilots of Alpha Group confirmed their launch, Tarkin allowed himself a rare smile. Yes, this way was much cleaner indeed.

----------

Back on the Hope, Mon Mothma watched helplessly as, on the sensor scope, the ship finally came within range of the Devastator. But not, apparently, of just its tractor beams. "Hang on!" Drayson barked, throwing them into a wild twist as the Star Destroyer suddenly opened fire. Spears of bright energy lit up the Coruscant skies.

"Oh my!" Deesix exclaimed from behind him, throwing up his arms. "What are they doing?"

"They're firing on us!" Lynia said, aghast.

"Yes," Mon Mothma sighed, staring out at the arrowhead shape that was slowly filling up the viewport. Another flash, and another salvo; and Drayson sent them into a second dive designed to evade the barrage. "It seems once again that Governor Tarkin has elected violence over non-violence."

"But why?" Lynia asked, grabbing at her chair as Drayson finally leveled them out. "I thought Aach said the Emperor wanted us alive."

"He did; when we could be taken quietly." This last was Drayson again, even more white-knuckled at the Hope's helm. "But now that we're out here in the open, with all the planet to see—"

"He wants to avoid a public trial," Lynia finished for him, "another chance for the Senator to make a declaration against the Empire."

"Exactly." On Drayon's scope a new signal started flashing. "We've got another problem," he said, dividing his attention from the controls to risk a look. "TIE fighters, heading our way."

"It looks like a full squadron," Mon Mothma confirmed. "The Governor must want me worse than I thought." She half-glanced over her shoulder at Lynia. "Are you certain you wouldn't like to try my plan now?"

Lynia opened her mouth— "Here they come," Drayson cut her off, just as the ship started shuddering with the impact of multiple laser blasts against the dorsal shields. He banked hard to the right, trying to throw their pursuers off; but TIE fighters were far more nimble than a simple civilian space yacht, and their pilots stayed hot on the Hope's trail. "Any ideas?"

"Perhaps we should try praying?" Mon Mothma suggested, bringing up a damage summary on her screen. It didn't look good. "You told me once the Hope had the best shields on the market."

"She does!" Drayson protested, sounding a little defensive. "But no shield can hold up forever against a pounding from an Imperial Star Destroyer. We're going to need to come up with an exit plan, before we get pulverized out here." ("Pulverized!" Deesix moaned pitifully.)

"The navicomputer still needs two minutes until we're clear of the gravity well," Lynia reported; and for maybe the first time in her life, Mon Mothma wished she'd taken Aach's advice and had Drayson install some weapons on this ship. Then she was rocked in her seat, again, as the Hope shuddered from another hit; on her screen, several highlighted lines switched from yellow into red. "I'm not sure the ship can take much more of this, Captain!"

A new light on Drayson's own screen started flashing. "What's that?" he demanded, unwilling this time to spare a look away from the controls.

"The sensor is picking up another group of fighters," Mon Mothma said, leaning over, "coming in around the Devastator."

"Not more Imperial fighters!" Deesix wailed.

"I don't think so," she studied the screen more closely, "they are coming in past the Devastator, out of hyperspace. TIE fighters don't have hyperspace capability, do they?"

"They're not TIEs," Lynia blurted, "they're X-wings. Look!"

She pointed. Out beyond the dark silhouette of the Star Destroyer there was a flicker of pseudomotion; and in perfect formation emerged a full squadron of Incom T-65B starfighters, wingtip lasers primed and extended and ready for trouble. Mon Mothma watched in fascination as the twelve little ships—they were X-wings, all right; she recognized their agile, angular form from Captain Dreis's holo-schematics—slipped around the Devasator and made a bee-line direct toward the Hope…and, more importantly, the small cluster of TIE fighters currently swarming behind it. All at once those wingtip lasers opened fire. Three of the TIEs were caught flat-footed, exploding into balls of dissipating energy before their pilots even knew what hit them; the rest scattered. "Attention, Chandrila Hope," the comm suddenly crackled, "this is X-wing Red Leader. Do you copy?"

"Captain Dreis!" Mon Mothma gasped with relief. "We are certainly glad to see you! What are you doing here?"

"Our…mutual friend thought you might need some assistance," Dreis told her carefully. No need to mention Bail by name: even on a supposedly secure comm channel, you never knew who might be listening in. "It looks like he wasn't far off the mark. My R2 unit's picking up some damage to your ship. Can you still make the jump to lightspeed?"

Beside her, Drayson nodded. "Captain Drayson thinks so," Mon Mothma said into the comm. "The hyperdrive casing is cracked, but we should be able to make it to the safe-house." As if on cue, there came a beep from the station beside Lynia. "And the navicomputer says we are free of the gravity well. Can your friends clear a path out of here?"

"No problem, Senator," Dreis told her, swinging his X-wing back around. "Red boys, form up. Attack pattern delta."

Around the Hope, the twelve starfighters arranged themselves into escort position. "What's the route, Red Leader?" Drayson asked.

"We're going straight through that Star Destroyer, Hope," Dreis said. "That outta catch them off guard."

"Eager to see if those snubfighters of yours really can take on a capital ship?" Drayson asked, a little nervously.

Over the comm, Dreis laughed. "Not today, Hope. Maybe another time. Keep up if you can."

His ship suddenly burst forward, lasers firing at the dark bulk of the Devastator in front of them. Drayson brought the Hope in behind, trailing Dreis's slipstream and following as best he could as the X-wings skimmed low along the Star Destroyer's surface. There were great flashes from the turbolaser batteries scattered along the ship's lines, lancing out at the Hope and its escort; more bursts of laser fire behind them as the remaining TIEs tried coming in above; but the X-wings wove easily through it all, evading the incoming blasts like a fine dance. For one, brief moment there was a bright flash, as one of the turbolasers finally connected with the front fighter's shields: but the X-wing sailed through, apparently undamaged. "That was a close one," Drayson muttered, before flipping on the comm. "Red Leader, are you all right?"

"Never better, Hope," Dreis's voice came back—it was hard to tell over the crackling comm signal, but to Mon Mothma's ears he almost sounded…excited? "A little cooked, but these things can really take a beating. Red Five, Red Six: take the lead."

On either side of the Hope two of Dreis's X-wings jumped forward, laser cannons blasting away at the offending turbolaser battery. Then they were suddenly rising up, up towards the command superstructure that stuck out from the ship's aft like a great monolith. They flew so close, Mon Mothma was certain she saw, if for a brief moment, the tall, sallow-skinned figure of Governor Tarkin himself, standing at the bridge viewport—could even have sworn she spied a look of furious, impotent rage plastered on his face, as he watched the Hope flit helplessly past—and then they were clear of the Devastator, and it was only the black of deep space before them.

With a relieved sigh Drayson reached over and yanked on the hyperdrive levers. The stars stretched into star-lines, and the Chandrila Hope leaped into hyperspace, leaving Coruscant far behind. It would be years before Mon Mothma would return again.

Three

"Do you still have that copy of the Abregado report," Mon Mothma asked Lynia, "the one with the numbers Deesix ran?" It was several days later: the two of them were back in Mon Mothma's apartment in Wroshyr Tower, crowded around the large table in the dining room as they reviewed what would become Chandrila's official response to the proposed tariffs on the Rimma Route. There had been no word so far on either the Ghorman protests or Admiral Tarkin's progress there, not even if he had yet arrived. They had been waiting eagerly for any news…but the HoloNet was silent.

"Lynia—the Abregado report?" Mon Mothma repeated, and Lynia looked up from the data pad she'd been reading—an update from the Gamorrean delegation, if Mon Mothma remembered correctly. "Sorry," the other woman said, shuffling through the various data cards scattered across the table. "Here," she said finally, selecting one and handing it over to Mon Mothma, "it should be on this one. Although I'm still not convinced Deesix's numbers are accurate."

"They're accurate," Mon Mothma promised, taking the card and sliding it into her own data pad. This was it, all right: an analysis of the larger economic effect of the tariffs on the region. "Deesix may have his faults, but I have learned it's never a good strategy to question him when it comes to charts and figures." She nodded at Lynia's screen. "Any luck on your end?"

"Not really," Lynia said, setting down the data pad with a sigh. "The Gamorreans still intend to support the Emperor, even if they don't agree with his policy." She rubbed at her eyes, tiredly: her aura abilities sometimes worked as well on abstract reports as they did on people, but they seemed to be failing her now. "I still think that we're going about this the wrong way," she mumbled, stroking the bridge of her nose. "An economic argument isn't going to convince the Emperor any more than our other ones."

"I disagree," Mon Mothma said, thumbing through the Abregado report. "If we can present the Emperor with sufficient proof that these tariffs will suppress economic activity along the entire Route, it may be enough to persuade him to abandon the policy."

"But it's not the real reason you're against the tariffs," Lynia protested.

"Perhaps not," Mon Mothma allowed. "But we discussed this, Lynia. The Emperor isn't receptive to any argument that proposes a decrease in military spending; and the ultimate purpose of an argument is, fundamentally, to convince those on the opposing side. We have to find something he will respond to." She reached the end of the report and set it aside. "Nothing new here. What if we tried to spread the pain around, extend the tariffs into other systems?"

Lynia snorted. "Then we'd just have protests on Corellia and Malastare instead of Ghorman and Mantooine. Maybe even along with."

"You're probably right," Mon Mothma admitted, ejecting the Abregado data card and sliding in another. "How about Senator Antilles's speech last year—"

She broke off as the door to the apartment suddenly slid open. "Ah, there he is," Mon Mothma smiled as Deesix waddled in. "Deesix. We were just reviewing your numbers on Abregado. Although Lynia has expressed doubts as to how accurate they may be."

"The calculations are correct, Madam," Deesix assured her, while Mon Mothma studiously ignored the tongue Lynia stuck out in her direction, "I ran them several times to be sure. But I'm afraid you must put aside the Ghorman response for the time being."

"Are you sure? Lynia was rather insistent—"

"Madam, please," Deesix interrupted, and Mon Mothma stopped: the droid never cut her off. "I bring a message from Captain Drayson. He wished for me to show you this at once."

"Show us what, Deesix?" Lynia asked, straightening up in her chair. Apparently she had noticed how serious he'd gotten, too. "Let's see it."

Slowly Deesix wandered over to the wall where Mon Mothma kept her holo-projector. Wordlessly he turned it on, and the screen above started flashing with images being broadcast across the galaxy. Deesix kept turning the dial, until he found the desired channel— "Ah," he declared finally, switching up the volume, "here we are."

It was a HoloNet report, live and in simulcast. Mon Mothma took a step closer for a better look. "Deesix?" she asked softly, staring at the holo-screen.

"They only started reporting it ten minutes ago," Deesix explained, in his usual calm and conversational tone. "Captain Drayson asked that I inform you as soon as he saw it—he assumed you would wish to know at once." He studied her. "The captain's judgment was correct, if I am reading your faces accurately."

The report was from Ghorman. Mon Mothma listened to the newscaster's voice with only half-an-ear, her attention instead on the small ticker that scrolled along the screen's bottom. Massacre on Ghorman, the words read, before moving aside for further detail, Hundreds of Protesters Dead, More Injured. Mon Mothma read the words over and over, barely aware of the hollow feeling that was taking over her chest; a distant pressure, that felt almost like it was happening to someone else.

"'Hundreds dead?'" Lynia read the line off the ticker. "I don't understand. What happened?"

"It was Tarkin," Mon Mothma said. It was a statement, not a question. "It had to be Tarkin."

Deesix tilted his head. "You are correct, Madam. The reporting is still incomplete, but it appears that upon the Admiral's arrival in-system a large group of protestors took over the landing field and refused to disperse. This," he pointed a jointed arm in the direction of the holo-cast, "was the unfortunate result."

"The bastard!" Mon Mon gritted through suddenly clenched teeth. Lynia let out a little gasp—Mon Mothma almost never swore. "I can't believe he attacked them. He promised he would find a non-violent solution—He promised!"

"Pardon, Madam," Deesix interjected, offering the droid equivalent of a cough, "but Admiral Tarkin never made any attack on the protesters. They were instructed to clear the field, in order to allow his ship sufficient room for landing. When they did not comply, he simply landed anyway."

Lynia sputtered. "Are you saying," she demanded, "that he landed on the protesters?"

Deesix turned his head toward her. "That is what the HoloNet is reporting. So you see," he continued, looking back at Mon Mothma, "the Admiral did keep his word. Technically speaking."

Mon Mothma fought back a sudden surge of anger. Deesix was only a droid, after all. "Technically?" she repeated; she made it sound like a dirty word. "Do you consider this a non-violent solution?" She jabbed a finger at the holo-screen.

Deesix considered. "Perhaps you are correct," he allowed, and she could tell behind those saucer eyes of his he was re-evaluating his grasp of human behavior. "I am merely a droid, and no doubt do not understand the nuances of your language."

"Forget Deesix, Senator," Lynia said, coming up behind Mon Mothma and taking her arm. "What are we going to do about Tarkin?"

Mon Mothma sighed. It was just as she had predicted: the Emperor had permitted things to escalate too far, and now the situation was completely out-of-hand. Sending a fleet admiral to deal with a political protest… "We will need to convene an emergency session of the Senate," she told Lynia, stepping towards the table and searching among the scattered data cards for her data pad. "We'll need Bail, Senator Taa, the entire Delegation of 2000…Ghorman is in Sern Sector, isn't it? Have they elected a replacement for Senator Zar yet?"

"Forgive me," Deesix interjected again—he was starting to make a habit of it, "but that won't be necessary. An emergency session has already been called. By the Emperor himself."

Mon Mothma stopped what she was doing, turning away from the table slowly. "The Emperor?" she said, sharing a look with Lynia.

Deesix nodded. "He has recalled Admiral Tarkin and demanded his presence before the Senate. The entire Assembly is commanded to attend."

"Maybe that's good news?" Lynia offered, in the kind of tone that implied she didn't believe it herself. "Why else would the Emperor call him back, except to give him a dressing-down?"

"One of his favorite admirals?" Mon Mothma challenged. "In front of the entire Senate? No," she shook her head, "I have a bad feeling about this."

Neither Lynia nor Deesix had a response to that. "So what do you want to do?" Lynia asked finally, breaking the silence.

Mon Mothma stared at the holo-screen. "Get in touch with Bail," she started. "Unofficially: use backchannels if you have to, even if it means Aach. I want to know how he intends to respond to this."

Lynia started writing down on her data pad. "And then, Madam?" Deesix asked.

"And then, Deesix," Mon Mothma said, feeling her hands clench, "and then we start preparing a response of our own. I am tired of letting these incidents go without comment. It's time we let the Emperor know the Senate won't stand for it any longer."

----------

Mon Mothma had not yet been back to the Senate Building since her return from this, her most recent trip to Chandrila. It hadn't changed much, in the weeks she'd been gone—no surprise there, she had seen that readily enough from the view at her apartment window in Wroshyr Tower. The same domed rooftop glittering in the Coruscant sunlight, the same rows of angled statues that were laid out like a twin hedge along the path to its front entrance...the Senate Building looked much as it had always had, even back to Mon Mothma's first term during the glory days of the Old Republic.

But there was one difference from those older times, a subtle but important change, that was hard to let pass without comment. Where in prior days the halls of the Senate had been defended by the blue-robed, high-helmeted figures of the Senate Guard, they were now patrolled instead by the white-armored ranks of the Emperor's newly-formed stormtroopers. The same stormtroopers, Mon Mothma remembered, who had assaulted the Jedi Temple and been key to the Emperor's rise to power. A subtle reminder, if anyone needed it, of who was in command now.

Drayson set their aircar down on the back platform by which the Senators usually entered and exited. More of those white-clad stormtroopers watched as they landed, studying them wordlessly through emotionless faceplates. "Here you go," Drayson said, finding a spot close to the entrance. "I'll find a place to park the car. Signal me when you're ready to leave."

Mon Mothma was already halfway out the door before she paused. "You are not coming in?" she asked.

Drayson hesitated. "I'd rather not," he confessed softly. He waved a hand at the building. "I don't want to see all…this. If you don't mind, Senator."

Mon Mothma frowned, not quite sure what the this was to which Drayson was referring. Did he really admire Tarkin's campaign that much, she wondered, or is it something else? But all she said was, "Of course, Captain."

Once the three of them had exited the aircar and Drayson risen back up into the sky, they started making their way through the main doors and into the building. The stromtroopers let them pass unmolested, though one did turn his head pointedly as they pattered by. The Senate Building interior was only a slight improvement over the façade outside: a conservative mix of that classic style worthy of Cantham House with the austere shapes of the Coruscant skyline. A soft mat of nondescript carpeting (taupe or beige or some other muted color) covered the floors, while the walls remained bare except for the occasional spatter of a simplistic geometric pattern. Some Senators, Mon Mothma knew, liked to decorate their own particular chambers with more flair: bright colorings from floor-to-ceiling and high-backed, elaborate furniture—the Emperor's own chambers were a good example. But the main halls of the Senate were kept to a minimum, the better to avoid offending the tastes of as many species as possible.

With Lynia and Deesix in tow Mon Mothma hurried down the halls towards the level that held the circular platform assigned for the Chandrilan delegation. Here the corridors were jammed with beings from across the Empire, designated representatives of an entire galaxy: everything from wide-mouthed Quarren to long-necked Quarians, a cluster of Bith chattering huddled in one conversation pit to a group of lanky Kaminoans wandering lazily past. And, of course, plenty of humans. "The whole Senate must be here," Lynia breathed as they squeezed their way between a pair of lumbering Wookiees. "including the junior representatives."

"It certainly seems that way," Mon Mothma agreed, casting a look about. Yes, Lynia was right: the Senate Building was about as crowded as she'd ever seen it—more so even than that fateful session when the Chancellor had revealed the Jedi’s betrayal, during the Clone Wars’ final days. Yet among that great mass she could still spy at consistent intervals the white spot of an occasional stormtrooper, watching over the proceedings. "Look," she said then, pointing towards a tall shape coming towards them. "There's Bail. I wonder what…"

"Senator Mothma," he greeted stiffly, acting up the distant dislike they typically displayed for each other in public. His familiar retinue was assembled behind him; Mon Mothma didn't see Aach (that was to be expected, Aach usually acted covertly) but the cluster did include a handful of protocol droids, and Mon Mothma wondered mildly if the chrome-plated serving-droid from the other night was among them. "It's no surprise seeing you here."

"If you mean it's no surprise that Chandrila wishes to register its frustration with these most recent events," Mon Mothma countered, "then you are correct. An action I would encourage the Alderaanian contingent to consider as well."

"And we will," Bail confirmed, "though perhaps with a little more polish than you are accustomed to." He cast a look about before taking her by the arm. "I wonder if I might have a private word, Senator?" He nodded pointedly at the two staffs gathered around them.

Mon Mothma instructed Lynia to meet her at their seats, then allowed herself to be guided over towards an out-of-the-way spot behind a nearby column. "What is it, Bail?" she asked, casting a covert look around the floor. But no one seemed to be paying them any mind—not even the stormtroopers. "They're going to start soon."

"We still have a minute," Bail told her. He too was staring at the stormtroopers, and trying hard not to look obvious about it. "Don't worry," he smiled, noticing her frown, "none of the ISB's recording devices can catch us here. I had Aach do a scan for their blind spots."

"Fantastic," Mon Mothma said dryly, shifting her feet impatiently. "Now what is this all about?"

Bail finally brought his full attention on her. "That speech you plan to give," he said, darkly and deadly serious, "you can't do it. Yes, I know all about your grand scheme," he added at her surprised look, "Lynia may have shown a little too much of her hand when she met with Aach. You're planning on berating the Emperor publicly. But you can't."

"What are you going on about?" Mon Mothma demanded, "of course I can. And I will! This nonsense has gone on long enough, Bail."

"It's too forceful," Bail continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "and too soon. Do you really want to draw the Emperor's attention to us, just as we're starting to build up a real resistance?"

"Draw his attention to me, you mean," she growled back. "This is my decision—and my risk—to make. And I've made it."

They were interrupted by the sound of chimes: the call for the Senators to take their seats, the warning that the session was about to begin. "They're starting," Mon Mothma said, trying to push past him.

"Wait!" Bail hissed, reaching for her arm. "We need to think about the longer strategy here. You could jeopardize everything we—yes, we—have been working towards. Don't do this."

The chimes rang a second time. "I weary of the long strategy, Bail," she told him bluntly. "We have allowed ourselves to become too tentative for too long; meanwhile, people across the galaxy are dying. It is time for action. Now, if you'll excuse me?" she finished, finally slipping past him.

Mo Mothma found Lynia and Deesix waiting for her in the Chandrilan box, looking out on the long line of concentric rings that circled down the Senate Rotunda. In the center of the room, rising up from the floor like a long spear, was the wide podium where once-Chancellor, now-Emperor Palpatine ran the Senate meetings. It was no surprise to see him already in position, clad in his usual dark robes with the cowl drawn up, the better to hide the great disfigurement he had supposedly endured at the hands of the Jedi years ago. True, it had become increasingly rare for the Emperor to make a personal appearance in the Senate these days—he usually left such matters to his Vice-Chairman of many years, Mas Amedda, since becoming Emperor. But Palpatine was the one who had called this special session, and so he would lead it.

To his right as always stood Mas Amedda himself, tall and stoic with his blue mane and long horns and staff of office clutched in one hand. But on the Emperor's left-hand side… "There he is," Lynia told Mon Mothma, pointing.

Mon Mothma tried to follow where she indicated. "Who?"

"Who else?" Lynia countered darkly. "Admiral Tarkin."

Yes, there he was all right, in a position of honor on the main podium beside the Emperor. "Hmmm," Mon Mothma muttered thoughtfully. "Doesn't seem particularly nervous, does he? It seems unlikely the Emperor put him there for a dressing-down."

"Probably not," Lynia conceded, her eyes twinkling. "Look—he's staring right at us."

Mon Mothma saw she was right. Tarkin had been squinting among the rows of gathering senators until he had located the right level, and now he was staring up at Mon Mothma and Lynia directly with those piercing eyes and gaunt expression. Mon Mothma stared back at him, pointedly; she wasn't sure if he noticed, not at this distance, but she spied what felt like a mocking smile as he turned away.

"Order!" someone shouted out suddenly over the din; it was Mas Amedda, banging upon the podium with his staff. "Order! This emergency session of the Senate is set to begin!"

Mon Mothma and Lynia took their seats. The chamber quickly quieted down as the remaining senators likewise found their places, settling into respective boxes along the wide circumference of the Senate rotunda. When all had finally fallen silent the Emperor rose slowly from his own seat and started his address:

"Members of the Galactic Senate!" he began, his steady and sonorous voice echoing across the chamber (benefitted, in part, by the comm speakers hidden in strategic locations throughout the room). Mon Mothma knew this speech was also being broadcasted live via the HoloNet, and she could only imagine the millions of beings across the galaxy who were crowded around their holo-projectors watching. "Distinguished representatives! The Empire has reached a critical point, one from which it cannot falter. Although the Separatists have been defeated and the Clone Wars ended, there are still forces in the galaxy—rebellious, discordant forces—that seek to plunge our society once more into anarchy!"

He paused then, allowing his words to sink in. Mon Mothma glanced about the Senate, desperate to see what effect, if any, the Emperor was having. Most of the faces she saw were blank, unreadable: whether due to reservation or some other reason, she couldn't say. But there were some gathered there—particularly among her human colleagues—who were staring at the Emperor with rapt attention.

"You have heard," the Emperor went on, "of these traitorous demonstrations—on Mantooine, on Sullust, on Triton and Ghorman—protesting the protection and security ensured by the Empire. Do not be deceived! Though there may be some among you who believe these demonstrations to be nothing more than harmless acts of self-expression, they are instead a concerted effort to weaken our resolve and plunge us into a second civil war."

"'Concerted?'" someone repeated then, no doubt at some assigned cue. "Are you saying these protests are being coordinated? By whom?"

"By whom, indeed, Senator? My agents tell me they have uncovered evidence of a growing resistance movement across the galaxy, funded by former Separatists—and including members here of our own esteemed Senate! Seditious traitors who wish to exchange the security of the Empire for the allure of their own rise to power. I ask you: what else but such a coordinated strategy could explain the sudden rise of demonstrations we are seeing across the Empire?"

There was a growing murmur amongst the Senators. At the words coordinated and particularly former Separatists many of the people gathered there had started mumbling amongst themselves. Mon Mothma leaned in closer to listen.

"Yes!" the Emperor continued, his booming voice rising above the murmur. "Take this most recent tragedy on Ghorman. I dispatched one of my most senior officers, a great hero of the Clone Wars," here he indicated at Tarkin, who nodded politely, "to put a peaceful end to the Ghormians' demonstrations. He did not seek violence—though what else would one call a refusal to pay taxes, than an act of violence against the Empire itself? How are we to keep the space-lanes safe, ensure the protection of our citizens, if we are unable to fund the ships to do so?

"But when Admiral Tarkin arrived, he found only more rebellion and discordance. Rather than meet with the Emperor's delegate for an exchange of views, these rebels instead chose to rile up innocent civilians and attempted to prevent the Admiral's landing. When Admiral Tarkin requested that the crowd disperse, the instigators would not permit the other protesters to leave. This tragedy…well, you all know what was the result."

"Here it comes," Lynia whispered in Mon Mothma's ear.

"It was with my authority that Admiral Tarkin acted as he did, to end the Ghormian riots as quickly—and bloodlessly—as possible. I know there are those among you who wish he had acted otherwise…those who were not there, who have never risked their lives for the Empire as Admiral Tarkin has. Though the loss of life is regrettable, I commend the Admiral for his ingenuity and quick thinking, to end this crisis before it could spiral anymore out of control."

"Ingenuity?" Lynia hissed. "Quick thinking?" Mon Mothma hushed her quiet.

The Emperor paused again, gazing around the chamber. "Such a strong hand on the helm is exactly what we need if we are to move past these latest incidents. Men like Admiral Tarkin should be celebrated, not denigrated. As such, I am promoting him to the rank of Moff, and name him Imperial governor of the Sern and Seswenna Sectors. There his talents will no doubt serve the Empire well…"

Mon Mothma felt her jaw drop. Promoted? Palpatine was promoting Tarkin after this debacle? Surely not! She hadn't been so naïve as to think the Emperor might punish Tarkin for his abuse—not really, not without a push from the Senate—but a promotion? And to governor? Suddenly everything Mon Mothma had planned to say at today's session fled from her mind.

Her opinion was apparently a divided one in the Senate. Half the Senators had taken to their feet at the Emperor's announcement, cheering and applauding both Tarkin and the Emperor himself with great enthusiasm. But there were others among them, those who remained seated with stone faces and hands in their lap. No doubt their names were being noted by the Imperial Security Bureau, for further follow-up and investigation. She was both relieved and annoyed to spy Bail among the former, though even at this distance his applause appeared muted.

And Tarkin himself? Mon Mothma turned towards him now, and his honored position to the Emperor's left. The Admiral—correction, Moff—looked as smug and satisfied as ever, that self-assured smile hovering over his lips again. "Order!" Mas Amedda commanded from the Emperor's other side, banging his staff upon the podium, "the Senators will come to order!"

Mon Mothma realized suddenly that not all the commotion was positive. Underlying the din she could hear a handful of jeers and other comments, impugning the Emperor as much as his newly-minted Moff. Most of it, if she was judging the voices and languages correctly, was coming from the non-human representatives. "Order!" Mas Amedda tried again, and as ineffectually as before, "the Senate will come to order!"

"Justice for Ghorman!" someone shouted; while elsewhere down the line another voice chortled, "Down with Tarkin the Tyrant!"

Mon Mothma watched Tarkin's expression turn sour, the smile on his lips twisting downward into a sneer. The lines around his eyes hardened. But the Emperor continued to wave among the Senators, either unbothered or simply uncaring—she wasn't sure which. "Order!" poor Amedda was practically screaming now, still banging uselessly.

"Justice for Ghorman!" the voice kept shouting, growing almost shrill. "Justice now!"

"The esteemed Senator from Malastare will keep his voice down, until his appointed time for speaking has arrived!" Amedda demanded.

But even if the esteemed Senator from Malastare did fall reluctantly quiet, his cry was quickly taken by others throughout the rotunda. "Justice for Ghorman!" they started chanting. "Justice for Mantooine! Justice for Sullust!"

"Silence!" Amedda went on, desperately. "We will have silence until the Emperor is finished!"

"I for one should like to hear from someone other than the Emperor," a new voice interjected then. Mon Mothma blinked in surprise: why, it was Senator Taa, as round and portly as ever. Usually he was reserved, even docile, in these sessions, a bigger proponent of closed-door dealings than bombastic Senate speeches. But now he put that baritone voice of his to good use, lecturing from the perch of his box. "This is the Imperial Senate, is it not? Surely it is a place for Senators to discuss these issues, not the Emperor. Senator Mothma," he paused then, turning towards her, "perhaps you would like to speak?"

The entire Senate as one turned their faces up toward her. She was acutely aware of it, just as she was acutely aware of the sudden fidgeting of Lynia and Deesix behind her, and she felt a cold sweat clamming up on her skin. Looking about, Mon Mothma realized at once why Taa had selected her: of all the Senators who had not applauded, she was the only human.

"Senator Taa, I…" Her voice drifted off for a moment as she gazed around the chamber. Over by the Alderaanian delegation she could see Bail, staring up at her with such intensity that she wondered whether he was hoping it could will her into silence. Further down was Tarkin, his previous smiles and frowns replaced by something new—a thoughtful, almost wary expression as he watched Mon Mothma closely. And then there was the Emperor himself: quietly observing from the penetrating pits of those famously-yellow eyes, all that could be seen of him beneath the shadow of his hood.

Mon Mothma took a breath. "Senator Taa, I thank you for the opportunity to speak. I had initially intended to offer you all an impassioned speech against the deeds of Admiral Tarkin—I do not, will not call him Moff—and his actions at Ghorman. My staff spent hours, days helping me prepare it, citing precedents from the entire history of the Old Republic." She looked over at Bail. "But I cannot give it now.

"I can say only this: that we have just heard our distinguished Emperor as he explained the many reasons Admiral Tarkin is worthy of our appreciation, protecting us from a so-called 'coordinated effort' designed to propel the galaxy once more into civil war. He has offered us fine words—words of protection, and security, and safety. But I tell you, his words are false."

There was a gasp then, a collective one that seemed to fill the entire chamber. Down at the podium Mon Mothma saw the Emperor's haunting eyes suddenly narrow, focusing in on her like a tractor beam from one of his fearsome Star Destroyers, but she plodded on before he could interrupt. "Yes! I say he has offered us only fictions and deceit. There is no concerted effort, no second Separatist revolution to move against the Empire. There are only a million voices, crying out at once. And why are they crying out, you might wonder? The Emperor does not care. His only care is to silence them, bring them to heel before they can grow louder."

She could hear growing mumblings as her own voice crescendoed with momentum. "The Emperor says all he wants is to keep the galaxy safe," she went on, half-remembered words from her speech coming back to her, "and yet here he promotes men to protect us who only know violence. I asked Admiral Tarkin—yes, I met with him personally, prior to his assignment to Ghorman—to try and find a peaceful response to the protests. The Admiral in turn gave me his word he would try. Yet we have all seen what Admiral Tarkin considers to be peaceful: hundreds dead, more wounded. What is the toll to be, should one day he be commanded to resort to true violence?"

"Tarkin the Tyrant!" one of the delegates (Mon Mothma couldn't tell who) started up again.

"You all know me, Senators," Mon Mothma continued, "and more importantly, you all knew my father. When my father served you as arbiter-general for the Republic, he believed that only a sustained faith in the power of peace would keep the fabric of our society whole. Unity, not force, is what binds us together. My father taught me that destruction and violence were meant to be his last resort, not the first. This is a lesson that was lost the day the Republic died and the Empire was born.

"Yes, I had a speech I had intended to make: to convince—to beg—the Emperor that the only answer to Admiral Tarkin's actions must be some punishment, to send a clear message that such unilateral, irrevocable acts will not be excused. It was to be a good speech. But there is little point now. The Emperor hears no words but his own, and follows no counsel but that which already agrees with him. He does not hear the million voices crying out, nor does he wonder why they do so. If so many cry out, he thinks, it must be a conspiracy; for him there is no other explanation!" She stared down the rows of platforms beneath her, brought her stare directly into the yellow gaze of the Emperor. "Emperor Palpatine, I say to you: there is no movement, no new Separatists acting against you. There are only Imperial citizens, wanting to be heard. But if you continue these iron-fisted policies against them…there may be."

The Emperor stared back at her, his eyes hardly flinching; Mon Mothma was glad she could only barely see them properly at this distance, so sure was she of the hate and venom that must be broiling behind. The rest of the Senate had fallen eerily, uncharacteristically silent…no interruptions, no calls of "Tarkin the Tyrant!" or "Justice for Ghorman!" anymore. There was only the echo of Mon Mothma's voice as she prepared her final words.

"Mr. Chairman," she said then, directing her gaze beside the Emperor to Mas Amedda, "the planet of Chandrila logs its formal protest against this promotion. We will not stand for such willful acts of violence to go rewarded." A long pause. On the Emperor's other side, she watched as Tarkin quivered with rage. "Mr. Chairman," she repeated, when Amedda did not at once respond, "do you note our protest?"

"It is noted, Senator," he said finally.

"Thank you," Mon Mothma said stiffly; and without another word stormed out of the Senate.

Two

Cantham House—the Organas' elegant estate, one of several residences they kept on Coruscant—was an altogether different affair from the sleek, almost austere façades that defined Wroshyr Tower and the Republica and the other accommodations used by Coruscant's political elite. Decorated in the High Style of old Alderaan, it was defined by classic, ornate stonework and wide gardens about the grounds: more reminiscent of, say, the Lake Country of Naboo than the high spires of the Imperial capital. It was here Bail spent most of his time whenever the Senate was in session, surrounded by his staff and droids and other attendants from the Alderaanian retinue. But he spent it largely alone: his wife, the Queen Breha, rarely left Alderaan, now that they had a new baby daughter who needed looking after.

Drayson set their borrowed aircar down gently on the wide street that ran outside the front of Cantham House, casting a wary glance up the stone steps that led to its large entry doors—and the chrome-plated servant droid waiting at their top. "You're sure this is necessary, Senator?" he asked. He didn't, Mon Mothma noted, immediately turn off the repulsors.

"Of course I'm sure," she chided, from where she sat beside him in the front. "There is a reason Bail extended us the invite, Captain—an important one. These dinners are one of the few ways we have to exchange information without the Emperor's spies getting suspicious. Isn't that right, Lynia?" She glanced over her shoulder, where Lynia was sitting in the back with her hair done up in elaborate braids.

"That wasn't quite what I meant," Drayson clarified before Lynia could answer, pulling awkwardly at the collar of his dress uniform. Mon Mothma felt a sudden smile, then did her best to hide it: she'd forgotten how much Drayson hated getting dressed up, even for a Fleet man.

"You're wondering if you needed to attend?" she suggested with a raised eyebrow, and Drayson blushed. "Believe it or not, Captain, you are an important part of my team. While I may be against the use of violence, I still recognize its necessity at times, and I value your military perspective. Whatever Bail intends to show us tonight, I'll want your take on it too. And yours, Lynia," she added again.

"Thank you, Senator," Lynia said before Drayson could interrupt this time.

"Yes, well," Drayson coughed, finally switching down the engines, "we might as well get this over with. Come on, Deesix."

Together the four of them scurried out of the aircar and scrambled up the front steps. "Welcome to Cantham House, Mon Mothma," the chrome-plated droid greeted, from where it stood waiting patiently at the top. "Senator Organa has been expecting you."

It pushed open the main doors—elegantly decorated with brass handles, just as ornate as the rest of the exterior—and the warm, welcoming light of the main foyer suddenly bathed out onto the stoop. "The Senator is currently in the library, enjoying pre-dinner drinks with the rest of his party," the droid explained as it ushered them inside. "You three are the last to arrive. If you will follow me, please?"

It led them through the door, across the marble foyer and down one of the many branching corridors to a stylish room on the first floor. This undoubtedly was the library, judging by the walls stacked floor-to-ceiling with shelf-fulls of multicard data sets; and, more importantly, by the fact that Bail and the other guests could be seen already mingling within. "Thank you," Mon Mothma said, as the droid ambled up to the threshold and showed them in. She looked over her shoulder. "Deesix, why don't you go check on the kitchens? We'll join you in the dining hall when dinner is called."

"Of course, Madam," Deesix responded, shuffling off with the chrome-plated droid.

Mon Mothma stepped into the library, followed closely by Drayson and Lynia. Most of the figures in the room were of course immediately familiar to her. In one corner stood the easily-recognizable frame of Bail Organa himself, tall and dark and dressed in his usual robes of blue and gray, a drink of some amber liquid held in his hand. Mon Mothma couldn't see exactly the two individuals to whom he was speaking (their attention was on Bail, and their backs to her) but judging from their silhouettes she assumed one was Orn Free Taa, the…heavy-set representative from Ryloth, accompanied by one of those pretty Twi'lek girls he usually had hanging off his arm. Another chrome-plated droid stood not far away from them, attending with a tray of more drinks. And over by the fireplace, in the crisp gray of an Imperial fleet uniform—

Mon Mothma let out a little gasp. "That's Captain Tarkin!" Lynia sputtered into her ear.

"Admiral Tarkin now," Drayson corrected softly. "He was promoted by the Emperor, after that last campaign in the Clone Wars. Quite an impressive offensive he put on, actually."

Mon Mothma tried hard to ignore the admiration she could hear in Drayson's voice. Captain—now Admiral—Tarkin's career was quite familiar to her, as it happened: particularly his penchant for selecting force over diplomacy at the earliest opportunity. "Impressive or not, I'm surprised Bail would have invited him," she said, looking at Lynia. "When you said 'one or two other dignitaries' would be attending, I didn't think…"

"I didn't know Tarkin was one of them," Lynia asserted quickly. She paused. "What do you think he's doing here?"

They would get their answer soon enough. By now Bail's eyes had spotted them across the room, standing awkwardly by the doorway. Excusing himself from Free Taa, he wandered over their way. "Mon Mothma," he greeted stiffly as he offered his hand, "thank you for coming."

"My pleasure, Senator," Mon Mothma returned…and for once she didn't need any of their usual play-acting to make her voice cool and distant. "You remember Captain Drayson, no doubt; and my associate, Lynia?"

"Of course," Bail nodded to each of them. "Please, get yourselves a drink. The droids will have dinner ready shortly."

Drayson and Lynia excused themselves, drifting off toward the droid with the serving tray. "Mon Mothma—"

"What is he doing here, Bail?" she practically hissed, gesturing over at the fireplace.

"I didn't have a choice," Bail told her, smiling through his teeth. "He was testifying before an armed services committee meeting and overheard me talking with Senator Taa. I couldn't well say no then, could I? Besides," he went on, "the Emperor can hardly accuse us of conspiracy when we are inviting his favorite admirals to our little gatherings. It's the perfect cover."

"I suppose," Mon Mothma conceded, letting her eyes wander back over to the fireplace. There was another fleet officer with Tarkin—a younger man whose round face she didn't recognize, clad in the darker uniform of a commander—and the two of them seemed caught up in some animated discussion with Drayson, if the flurry of hands was any indication.

"Come on," Bail urged, following her eyes, "you should say hello. It's only polite."

She permitted herself to be dragged over to the fireplace, where she could just catch the last snippet of Tarkin and Drayson's conversation. "Admiral Tarkin," Bail interjected, tapping the other's shoulder, "pardon me, Admiral. May I present Senator Mon Mothma?"

"Of course," Tarkin nodded in his precise Imperial diction, "I am quite familiar with the Senator. I must admit I am surprised to see you here, Senator Mothma; I had heard you were still visiting your family on Chandrila. And how is your father these days?"

"He is well, Admiral, thank you," Mon Mothma said, taking the other's proffered hand. "Retirement suits him—a reward well-earned, after so many years in Republic service. As perhaps your own retirement will someday suit you?" She tried to make it playful.

"Perhaps," Tarkin allowed, his pale eyes conceding nothing. "I have just become acquainted with your man Drayson here," he went on, before indicating the round-faced commander standing beside him, "but allow me to introduce my own attaché, Commander Motti. He advises me on various military matters."

"Senator," Motti bowed stiffly.

"The Admiral was just telling me about his maneuver at the Battle of Murkhana," Drayson explained. "Very ingenious."

"Oh yes," Mon Mothma agreed quickly, "quite interesting, I'm sure."

"You know of it, then?" Motti asked, taking a sip from his cup. "Do you also take an interest in military strategy, Senator?"

She was saved from further comment by the sudden ring of chiming bells. "Ah, the call for dinner," Bail explained, setting his drink down and gesturing them toward the door. "If you'll follow me, gentlemen?"

Mon Mothma let Tarkin and the others slip around her, giving the admiral something between a glare and a smile as he went past. She moved to follow— "Stay here a minute," Lynia whispered, grabbing her by the arm.

"What is it?" Mon Mothma asked, fighting back a sudden irritation. No need to take out on Lynia what she was feeling about Tarkin. When had the woman snuck up on her, anyway? "They're calling dinner…Lynia?"

She could see suddenly that Lynia's eyes had changed color: alternated from their usual lavender into a striking aquamarine. "What is it?" Mon Mothma asked again. "Have you seen something?"

Lynia nodded wordlessly. Here was one of those unusual abilities of hers, being put to good use: Lynia sometimes got…auras might be the best word, whenever she looked at certain people. Mon Mothma wasn't sure how else to describe it, and Lynia had never done any better. It was some vestige inherited from her non-human mother, apparently—nothing to do with the Force, as far as either Mon Mothma or Lynia could determine. Clearly she'd just had a vision now.

"Lynia!" Mon Mothma demanded.

Lynia swallowed. "It was that Commander Motti," she explained, breathing hard. "When he asked if you knew anything about military strategy. I saw something then."

"Around Motti?" Mon Mothma pressed.

But Lynia shook her head. "Around you."

Around her? That hardly seemed possible. Lynia usually saw something anytime she looked at Mon Mothma—she'd admitted as much, the first time she'd been questioned about it—but Lynia also claimed the aura never changed. Until now. "What did you see?" Mon Mothma asked her softly.

"I don't know," Lynia confessed. She rarely did—rarely understood what she saw, or at least how to explain it. "Just…something. Like everything suddenly went red."

There were tears at the edge of her eyes; she was practically crying. Her visions sometimes did that, left her a little shaken. "I doubt it is anything important," Mon Mothma lied, glancing at the doorway through which Motti had just exited. "Probably more to do with the commander than me."

"Are you sure about that?" Lynia challenged.

The bells chimed a second time. "We are going to miss dinner," Mon Mothma said, heading off further comment. "Bail and the others will ask questions if we don't hurry up and join them."

"I honestly don't know how to describe it," Lynia muttered again.

Mon Mothma put an arm around her. "Come on," she said, guiding her towards the door, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. We can discuss it later."

----------

The dining hall in Cantham House was even more impressive than the library, worthy of all the trappings that were associated with the High Style. A long and lavish table was set out in the middle of the room—cut and fashioned from some dark, polished wood native to the forests of Alderaan—and surrounded on either side by three high-backed chairs, with one more each at both ends. The serving-droids were already waiting for them, Deesix among their number: they stood in a line along the far wall, watching as the guests slowly filed in and took their places.

To Mon Mothma's surprise she found herself seated beside Tarkin on one of the table's longer sides, practically brushing elbows with the admiral. "Ah, braised bruallki," Tarkin observed as one-by-one the droids brought out the first dish. "One of my favorites. Have you ever had bruallki, Senator?"

"I can't say that I have," Mon Mothma answered simply.

"No? You have been denying yourself a great pleasure! When you have spent entire weeks on nothing but military rations, you come to yearn for the simple taste of a well-cooked bruallki."

"And what is it that brings you back to Coruscant, Admiral?" Drayson asked, as Deesix placed a plate in front of him. "Other than the bruallki, of course."

"Yes, what?" Mon Mothma pressed. "Last I had heard, you were inspecting the garrisons in the Outer Rim. Did something go wrong?" She leaned back smugly. There. Something to show she had sources on him, too.

Tarkin smiled dryly. "You are very well informed," he told her, "for a Senator. One might wonder where you get such precise information." He looked over at Drayson. "To the question, Captain: nothing went wrong, I have simply been recalled…by the Emperor himself. He has a special assignment he wishes me to oversee."

"Ohhh, a special assignment!" squeaked Free Taa's pretty companion, stroking one of her head-tails—lekku, if Mon Mothma remembered the Twi'lek term correctly. "And what is it?"

"Top secret, I'm afraid, madam," Tarkin said, giving her a conspiratorial look. She giggled behind her fork.

"And what about you, Senator?" Motti asked, leaning over from Tarkin's other side. "It was my understanding that most Senators returned to their districts whenever the Senate was in recess. You are from…Chandrila, was it? What brought you back to Coruscant?"

"There is no such thing as a recess for a Senator, Commander, not really. The same, I am sure, for a fleet man," she added, and Motti nodded appreciatively. "But if you must know, it was these recent reports of political unrest that forced Captain Drayson and myself to return prematurely."

"You mean on Sullust," Motti sighed sadly. "Yes, the Admiral and I received an update earlier this week. Most unfortunate."

Everyone around the table nodded in agreement. But Lynia stared at Motti oddly. "What exactly do you mean by unfortunate, Commander?" she asked.

Motti shrugged. "Only that the poor creatures have resorted to such counterproductive measures. A factory strike only prevents Sorosuub from completing their contracts on time, which in turn limits the wages they can pay their workers. These protests harm the Sullustans as much as they do anyone else."

"'Counterproductive measures?'" Mon Mothma frowned. "Is that what you call a people exercising their right to self-expression?"

Tarkin chuckled. "Ah, so that is what they are doing? Are the creatures even capable of such a thing, do we know? I have worked with Sullustans before, Senator. A babbling race, hardly representative of intelligent thought."

At one end of the table Free Taa coughed awkwardly. "I have worked with the Sullustans myself, Admiral—in the Senate for many years," he puffed. "I am not so sure I would agree with your characterization of their people."

Tarkin opened his mouth to respond— "And what about Mantooine?" Mon Mothma challenged. "Are the humans there equally incapable of self-expression, in your estimation?"

"Even humans can sometimes be misguided," he told her, pointedly. "I ask you: what have such actions accomplished…other than to weaken the Empire, make her more vulnerable to her enemies?"

"What enemies?" Mon Mothma demanded; and Free Taa added softly, "The Clone Wars have been over for years, Admiral."

"All the more reason to keep the Empire strong: to ensure such a catastrophe can never happen again. Need I remind you that the Separatist movement was born from demonstrations like these? Nor, I have heard," he continued darkly, "are the Separatists our only enemy." He did not elaborate.

From the head of the table, Bail cleared his throat. "A lively discussion, to be sure," he tried smiling. "You will have to forgive my colleague, Admiral, if perhaps she is a little over-zealous. You can see why we disagree so much on the Senate floor." Mon Mothma glared at him.

Tarkin turned toward her, honed in with those pale, intensive eyes. "I am a simple man, Senators; a military man. I am not a politician, nor do I subscribe to any particular political belief. I have only one belief: in the superiority of order over chaos, of action over inaction. Everything I do is in service of that ideal."

"But this is exactly why the Sullustans are protesting," Lynia piped up from Bail's right. "The Emperor's claim to power is that it's the only way he can keep us safe. How do we know that's true, unless we're allowed to have an open dialogue about it?"

"The Emperor was duly confirmed by act of the Senate," Motti reminded her, "and after rigorous debate, I might add. There's nothing undemocratic about that."

"During wartime," Lynia countered. "Now that the war's over, does he still need that much consolidated power?"

"If the alternative is risk of another war?" Motti pushed back.

Mon Mothma waved Lynia quiet. "You say you believe in order, Admiral," she said. "Are you suggesting representative government and free expression are impediments to that goal?"

Tarkin practically snorted. "Representative government is a luxury the galaxy can no longer afford. It is too slow, too unreliable; the Clone Wars proved that. Consider the Trade Federation incident on the Emperor's own home world. The Senate sat and deliberated, convened endless committees to investigate the validity of the Naboo's claims…when what was needed was immediate, decisive action. Queen Amidala knew that. I believe she was a personal friend of yours, yes?"

Mon Mothma nodded. "But Padme also understood that before we do act, we must first determine how we should act. Which is why we Chandrilans believe that violence must always be the last resort, not the first…as do the Alderaanians," she gestured at Bail. "And the Naboo."

Tarkin paused. "Your father," he asked suddenly, "he was an arbiter-general for the Republic, if I recall correctly."

Mon Mothma frowned, glanced at Drayson. "Yes, that's right."

"Then you are aware that the primary purpose of his role was to ensure order across the galaxy? To the point of direct force where necessary?"

Mon Mothma shook her head. "He was a general, true; but he was an arbiter first. My father always believed in deliberating with his enemies before taking action against them."

"And yet all his arbitrations would have been useless if he had lacked the power to enforce them. Words will get you only so far."

"Take this new situation on Ghorman, then," Drayson interceded, "the tax protests. If you were the Ghormian governor, how would you handle the matter—hypothetically? Not with force, surely."

But Tarkin shook his head. "There is nothing hypothetical about that scenario, Captain."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I will have to decide in fact what is to be done about the situation there," Tarkin told him. "That special assignment I mentioned? The Emperor is dispatching me to Ghorman to personally resolve the demonstrations."

"You!" Mon Mothma blurted.

Tarkin gave her another one of his cold smiles. "Don't sound so surprised, Senator. The Emperor has been most displeased with the governor's inability to control the situation, and has no desire for further escalation. He has asked for someone with a, shall we say, stronger hand to step in."

"But the protests on Ghorman are political," Free Taa asserted. "They are not military."

"Incorrect, Senator. The protests are administrative: and is not the primary purpose of the military to assist the Emperor in executing his administration?"

Mon Mothma hid a grimace. So Tarkin was it—the response Lynia had heard about from her source in the Admiralty office. "And what do you intend to do?" she asked quietly.

"To be frank, I had not yet reached a decision," Tarkin admitted. "Commander Motti and I have been discussing several alternatives. But I suppose you have a suggestion?"

"You know my suggestion," she said, looking directly at him. "Open a dialogue with the protesters, hear them out. All they want is to be listened to."

"Is that all they want?" Tarkin smirked. "And here I thought they didn't want to pay their taxes."

Mon Mothma ground her teeth. "Regardless of your opinion on the merits of their demands," she tried, "they are not any kind of military threat. They are just engaging in their right to free speech."

"Ah, and how many other systems are to be indulged in their free speech, mm? Taxes must be levied, Senator; the Empire cannot function without them. No, it must be quashed, and quashed swiftly!"

This last he declared with a fist upon the polished table, that rattled his plate. "Forgive me," he said then, clearing his throat. "I too can sometimes become over-zealous." He started poking at his food to hide a sudden embarrassment.

Mon Mothma glanced across the table, shared a look with Lynia. "You consider yourself a strong man; don't you, Admiral?" she asked.

Tarkin looked up at her. "I believe strength is the only position worth operating from," he said bluntly. "It is the only way to ensure the security of Imperial rule."

"Ah! But isn't the position of greatest strength one that doesn't need using?" She touched his arm. "The most powerful weapon one you need never fire?"

"I have always supposed that to be true," Tarkin conceded.

"Well then, wouldn't the best testament to the Empire's power in this case be a similar restraint? You have the guns, and the Ghormians must surely know it: prove to them you won't be impressed by their little tantrum. Yes, that seems to me a far more interesting task, for a man so accomplished as yourself…to put an end to these demonstrations without the resort of easy violence."

"Is that a challenge, Senator?" Motti asked. He sounded amused.

Mon Mothma shrugged. "If you choose to see it as one. I am told that Admiral Tarkin never shirks a test."

Tarkin stared at her for another long moment. A second smile split his lips then—not a smirk this time, but a genuine one. "It is true I appreciate a good challenge," he admitted, bowing his head. "This seems very important to you, Senator."

"It is," she said.

"Hmmm… Very well! I accept the challenge."

"You'll hear them out?" Lynia asked. "Find a non-violent solution?"

"I make no promises! But I will do my best, see what I can do to find alternatives to these protests."

He held up his drink in salute, before finishing it off. "Wonderful!" Free Taa exclaimed, clapping his hands. "It is so enjoyable to see our colleagues in the Fleet and Senate coming together!"

"Yes," Bail agreed, "it is wonderful." But he glanced oddly in their direction—whether at Tarkin or Mon Mothma herself, she couldn't say.

----------

The rest of the dinner passed pleasantly enough—or at least, without event. Conversation drifted back and forth: everything from a spirited debate on the best vacation spots on Coruscant to Motti's review of the most recent performance at the Galactic Opera House. The appetizers were removed and the main course brought in, followed by dessert and a post-dinner brandy, until at last the evening was played out and the time for departing arrived.

So it was that at the end of the night Mon Mothma found herself once again beside Admiral Tarkin, standing out on Cantham House's front stoop while he bid her a final goodbye. "I must thank you, Senator," he was saying, offering a differential nod, "for a most engaging evening. The conversation was…interesting."

"And I you, Admiral," Mon Mothma said. At the foot of the stairs Commander Motti stood patiently, waiting and watching. Further back she could see a couple of Bail's droids helping Free Taa get his sizable bulk into his airspeeder, supervised by his lovely female companion. "I hope you will honor your word, and take our little chat to heart."

Tarkin laughed politely. "A man does not usually rise to the height of my station without already being somewhat set in his ways, Senator," he admitted. His head bowed slightly. "But I will keep my word."

"Then you really will try and find a diplomatic solution to the Ghorman protests?" Mon Mothma asked hopefully.

"As I said before, such a definitive promise is beyond my ability to guarantee. Unfortunately the pleasant ideals discussed over a dinner party must sometimes give way, when faced with the realities of the field. But I shall do my best."

They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up behind them. "Senator Mothma?" a voice called out. It was Bail. "A word, please, Senator, before you depart."

Mon Mothma offered Tarkin a thin smile. "I expect I am due for a lecture on the proper etiquette of a Senator at dinner parties."

Tarkin smiled back. "Undoubtedly. My advice, if you'll consider it, would be: don't let him to be too hard on you. Conviction is useless if it is not strongly-held—I should know. Good evening, Senator."

Without a word more he turned and descended quickly down the stairs, joined by Commander Motti before the two of them headed towards their own airspeeder up the street. "Mon Mothma?" Bail repeated.

Mon Mothma turned around, to find Bail's tall frame looming over her from the doorway. "Don't tell me, let me guess," she said, before he could get started. "You are worried I was too combative with him."

"You might say that," Bail observed dryly. "I understand that you didn't want the admiral here, but that didn't mean you had to intentionally antagonize him!"

"I was only telling the truth," Mon Mothma shot back. "Clearly the Fleet already has their eye on me, and Tarkin must have some exposure to my speeches in the Senate. There was no reason to restrain myself just because we were sitting across one another over drinks and bruallki." She paused. "Besides, the more outspoken I am, the more attention it puts on me; and the more it insulates you from suspicion."

"Hmmm," Bail allowed. "It's still risky."

Mon Mothma sighed. "Would you rather I had sweettalked him instead?" she argued. "That would have looked more preposterous than anything else."

"I'm not disagreeing," he told her, taking her arm suddenly and grabbing it tightly. "But we must be careful. Tarkin isn't just another fleet admiral. You heard him; the man's got the ear of the Emperor himself, and rumor is he's being brought into Palpatine's inner circle. Word of this is bound to get back."

"Very well," Mon Mothma conceded with a sigh, "I shall be more cautious in future. Now; may we finally discuss whatever new scheme of yours precipitated the need for this farce of a dinner party, in the first place?"

Bail grinned. "All right," he said, releasing her arm and waving her on. "Come with me. The others are already waiting."

She followed him back through the halls into the library, where the others were indeed already waiting: Drayson and Lynia sitting together on one of the plush sofas, while in the corner Deesix and Bail's chrome-plated droid chattered excitedly together in a language Mon Mothma didn't recognize—Bocce, maybe? "This is all of us?" she asked as she followed Bail in. She selected a seat in one of the sofas across from Drayson and Lynia. "Just the four of us?"

"For tonight," Bail said, grabbing the comlink from his belt. "All right, Aach, you can come in."

Behind a panel one of the side doors popped open—access, Mon Mothma presumed, allocated for the droids and other servants—and two men stepped through. The first she recognized at once: Aach (a codename, Mon Mothma had always presumed; she didn't know his full name, or even if he had a real one) was one of Bail's most trusted clandestine agents, and had been working behind the scenes for the Organas for months now. Mon Mothma had met with him often, though rarely outside the confines of Cantham House—it was critical for his cover (and hers) that they not be seen making direct contact.

But the man who walked in behind Aach she didn't recognize. "Ah, there you are," Bail said, claiming one of the empty chairs around the sitting area for himself. "Aach, I believe you already know Mon Mothma's staff: Captain Drayson and her assistant, Lynia. And, of course, the Senator herself."

"Of course," Aach said, taking each of them in. "Senator," he added as he came to the end, with a respectful nod.

"It is good to see you, Aach," Mon Mothma smiled. She glanced behind him. "And who is this gentleman?"

"An associate of mine," Aach told her, slipping aside so the man could step forward. "May I introduce Captain Garven Dreis?"

"Captain?" Drayson repeated. "Captain of what?"

"I served in my planet's Air Defense Fleet during the Clone Wars," Dreis explained, in a slow regional drawl Mon Mothma couldn't quite place. "On Virujansi."

That was it. "I am familiar with the campaign on Virujansi," she said. "Welcome, Captain. We are glad for your company." She turned back to Bail. "And why has the unfortunate captain been roped into our little conspiracy?"

"For the record, Senator, he approached us," Aach intervened, urging Dreis on. "Captain?"

Dreis cleared his throat. "For the past couple months I've been working as a test pilot at the Incom Corporation's new fighter division. Ever since the end of the Clone Wars they've been looking to develop something that could rival the success of their previous work on the ARC-170."

"And with the rise of Sienar's TIE series, Incom's concerned they're lagging behind for fresh Imperial contracts," Lynia suggested.

Dreis nodded. "Exactly. Hence the project I've been assigned to. Take a look."

He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small holo-disc, laying it on the table. "The T-65B," he identified the small, nimble starfighter that suddenly appeared. "Incom's newest space superiority fighter. Equally suited for intercept and hit-and-fade missions as it is for escort or bomber duty. These here," he pointed at the pairs of cylindrical pods situated on either side of the cockpit, "these are 4L4 fusial thrust engines, allowing for speeds up to 70 MGLT. They're fast," he added at Mon Mothma's blank stare. "You've probably already noticed the four laser cannons, one for each wing; it also sports two Krupx torpedo launchers that can hold a payload up to three each, and a Koensayr R300 hyperdrive motivator for deep-space operation." Dreis leaned back and smiled. "There's no official name yet, but the boys have taken to calling her the 'X-wing.'"

The X-wing. Yes, Mon Mothma could see that, judging from the way the two wings on either side split out when in attack position. "Very interesting, Captain," she said, trying to sound respectful. She looked between Aach and Bail. "And why is Captain Dreis showing us this so-called 'X-wing?'"

Aach smiled grimly. "Because we're going to steal it."

There was a sudden silence in the room, the kind of hard, deep silence no one wants to break first. "Excuse me?" Drayson braved at last.

"Captain Dreis and his team are going to steal it. This," Bail pointed at the holo-disc, "this is to be the first weapon in our true campaign against the Emperor. You heard the captain: it's versatile, it's powerful…and most importantly, it's small. Well-suited to our goals for armed rebellion."

Mon Mothma shared a glance with Lynia. This had certainly gotten interesting. "And are we readying to make armed rebellion, then?" she asked pointedly.

"You've read the reports," Bail said. "Systems across the galaxy are grown tired with the Emperor's iron rule. It's going to come to a head soon: you know it as well as I. The old Republic can't be salvaged anymore, I see that now…so we have to clear the way for the new one. I'd prefer we be prepared when that time comes." He jabbed a finger at the holo. "And that means fighters."

Mon Mothma frowned, reminded for a moment of what she had told Tarkin tonight: that Chandrilans considered violence a last resort. But haven't we exhausted all the others? she asked herself pointedly. "What do you think, Captain?" she asked, turning to Drayson now.

Drayson studied the holo-schematics carefully. "We don't have many starfighters in the Chandrilan Defense Fleet," he admitted, "so I'm relatively unfamiliar with such craft. But I agree with Senator Organa: a snubfighter would make an ideal tool for the kind of guerilla warfare we'd need in a campaign against the Empire. Assuming it's as powerful as Captain Dreis says," he added dryly.

"Oh, it is," Dreis assured him. "Trust me, I know starfighters. This little beauty could even take down one of those fancy Star Destroyers, given the right opportunity."

Drayson snorted. "A starfighter take out a capital ship?" he said incredulously. "I don't know about that—"

He died off at a gesture from Mon Mothma. "When would you do it?" she asked Dreis.

The man glanced at Aach, shrugged. "In a couple of days, probably," Aach told her. "We'll need that much time to make sure the rest of Captain Dreis's team is in position."

"We're all with you, ma'am," Dreis added, offering her a salute.

Mon Mothma hid a smile. "Does that mean you approve?" Bail asked, looking at her.

She stared back at him. "I approve," she said at last. It felt strange to say it out loud. She'd spent so long planning for this moment, it felt almost surreal that it had finally arrived— "It's risky, but I agree it is the best alternative available to us right now."

"Then you may move forward with your plan, Captain," Bail told Dreis. "Aach or myself will be touch in a few days."

"Yes, sir," Dreis nodded; and then, straightening, offered Mon Mothma a deferential bow. "Senator Mothma. I just wanted to say I'm looking forward to working with you. It was your speeches in the Senate last month that helped convince us to join with Aach here."

"Thank you, Captain," she said, trying to ignore the sudden frown she caught on Drayson's face. "We look forward to working with you as well. All of us."

Dreis offered another bow. Then, escorted by Aach, the two removed themselves from the room via the side-door through which they'd come in. "What was that last bit all about?" Drayson demanded.

"Don't you know? The Senator's oratory has made her something of a cause célèbre lately," Bail smiled, "particularly among the lower classes. She's become quite the recruiting tool…even if she does still need to learn when to cool it down."

"Yes, well," Mon Mothma smoothed her robe. "Can I assume that concludes our 'secret business' for the night?"

"Yes," Bail confirmed, "and it's probably best if you three were soon gone, too. I didn't spot anything out front, but that doesn't mean the ISB couldn’t have left a probe droid behind. If they don't catch you leaving soon, they might get suspicious. Come on," he said, getting up from his chair and gesturing towards the library door, "I'll walk you out."

----------

It wasn't until they were halfway on the ride back to Wroshyr Tower—and an exhausted Mon Mothma had settled tiredly in the aircar’s front seat—that she suddenly remembered: about Lynia's vision, and an aura gone inexplicably red. "I am sure it is nothing to worry about," she told herself quietly, for the third time; and then leaned her head back, and closed her eyes asleep.