Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Master Adi Gallia’s scepticism was justified, if rather ironic.

“You are certain this is the Delta Source?”

After all, how could a mere staff technician be the mole supplying the Sith Lord with the closest secrets of the Jedi Order? And yet, was that very thought not arrogance? The oh-so very Jedi-like belief that their Order was uncompromisable, much less by a mere dropout apprentice?

“If not the Delta Source,” Barriss crossed her arms, “Then at least one branch of it.”

“We don’t even know what the Delta Source is, might I point out,” Bode Akuna said sharply, “If it’s a person, an organisation or persons, droids, or some sort of surveillance system. We simply don’t know.”

Master Gallia looked at Barriss pointedly, “Remind me, how did you figure out that this man is a spy?”

“He knew about the Anakin Skywalker acting in the Battle of Llon Nebula,” Barriss shrugged, “I figured anybody who knew about that knew about the Delta Source–and is either feeding it or being fed by it. Or he could have simply eavesdropped on the High Council; I don’t know how widespread that information is in the Temple.”

“No…” the Jedi Master murmured, “You’re right that only the High Council should know about that–in the Temple at least. But it’s not solid evidence. Do you have any other proof?”

The Mirialan shrugged again, “I had a feeling.”

“You know, for a Jedi that’s par for the course,” Bode snapped his fingers, “Back to the Delta Source; Master, how much closer are we to figuring out what that thing is?”

“Not by much,” Master Gallia sighed forcefully, “We’re making sweeps. The maintenance corridors, the droids, the electrical systems–but it’s slow work. We can’t be too obvious as we go about it; for one it might alert the Sith Lord, and because it wouldn’t do to cause alarm in the Temple, especially at such a crucial time.”

As Adi Gallia and Bode Akuna continued their discussion into sourcing the Delta Source, which Barriss found herself truly out of her depth in, the Mirialan Knight turned to the fourth and final member of their little party. Iskat Akaris, silent as stone and tracking the rise and fall of Heezo’s chest as his unconscious form laid on the funeral altar.

Because it wouldn’t look good for Barriss if she was caught dragging around a two-metre tall Selonian through the populated halls of the Jedi Temple, and this funeral chamber was the only place she could reliably trek to through the narrow and maze-like maintenance shafts.

“This can’t be right…” there was a glaze of disbelief and anger in Iskat’s eyes, though at whom that anger was directed at Barriss did not know. Iskat’s volatile emotions were wild and unfocused, and Barriss had a feeling Iskat herself did not know either.

“It might not be,” Barriss told her friend lowly, though it was poor consolation, “I was acting on suspicion.”

Iskat’s eyes flashed, and in that split second her anger was focused. At Barriss.

“Were you using me to get close to him?” the red-skinned alien hissed, “Did you become my ‘friend’ to chase after your suspicions?”

“I did not know Heezo existed until you brought me to him,” Barriss told her honestly, and when Iskat’s expression fell she knew the girl had sensed that she was telling the truth.

The original suspicion was you, Barriss wanted to say, and it might still be.

Master Adi Gallia abruptly ended the exchange, stepping forward with the swiftness of a predator and pressing her palm to Heezo’s forehead. In an instant, the Selonian’s eyes flickered open, dazed and disoriented, the fog of unconsciousness slowly lifting as he blinked at his surroundings.

“What–” he began, his voice hoarse as he tried to sit up. But the sharp clank of stuncuffs jerking him back down, the weight of his body slamming into the cold, unyielding stone of the altar with a harsh thud. His confusion turned to alarm as he strained against the manacles, only to find them immovable.

Swivelling his neck around, Heezo took the sight of them in–and the moment he saw Barriss, a dark light of understanding gleamed in his slitted eyes.

“You are staff technician Heezo,” Master Gallia told him, “Is that correct?”

“I am,” Heezo confirmed, “Forgive me, Master, but I am rather confused as to why–”

“Alright then, Heezo,” Master Gallia brusquely cut him off, “May I know who you report to?”

Frustration creased his forehead, “Jopar Tandil in Tech Management. Master, I don’t–”

“Anybody else?”

“Nobody else! You can ask him yourself if you–” Heezo swivelled his neck around, catching Iskat in the corner of his eye, “Iskat! Tell them! I’m just a staff technician!”

Iskat remained silent, cautiously observing the exchange.

“I did ask Jopar Tandil,” Master Gallia said, “And he seems to back up your claim.”

“Master– Master Gallia, I don’t see why I must be–” Heezo’s hackles were raised now, his fur standing on end.

“From where did you hear about Anakin Skywalker pursuing Asajj Ventress in the Battle of Yag’Dhul?” the Tholothian Master snapped.

Heezo’s jaw shut with a click, eyes wild and wide.

“Answer the question, Heezo,” Barriss requested softly.

“You… You tricked me,” the Selonian muttered, looking around frantically again.

“The only way you’re leaving is by answering the Master’s questions, Heezo,” Iskat told him, not unkindly, “Just answer them, and we can put this behind us. I’m not any happier about this than you are.”

“...I’m just a– I’ve been around the Temple a lot,” the staff technician admitted, “I overhear a lot of things. I’m a Selonian; I can’t help it.”

His feline ears twitched and swivelled, as if to make a point.

“I need names, Heezo,” the Jedi Master softened, “Did you hear from a Jedi Master, or someone else? A fellow techie? Tell me their names, and we can investigate further.”

Heezo hesitated, and he hesitated just a moment too long.

“It was Master Klefan–”

“A lie,” Barriss immediately shot it down, switching tracks, “Who is your master?”

Heezo’s jaw shut again, sealing tight.

“We can force you to speak, man,” Bode Akuna said, exasperated, “Make this easy for all of us, and we won’t have to kick your doors open.”

The Selonian cast one last pleading look at Iskat, but once he realised he would find no purchase with her, he reluctantly righted his head, eyes fixing on a spot on the dark stone ceiling. It was clear any more answers will have to be forced out of him. Master Gallia’s shoulders fell, and she wasted no time outstretching her hand. The Force rippled the air, warping the empty space between them like a heat wave.

“Tell me the name of your master,” the Jedi Master commanded, prying at his mental doors.

Heezo’s jaw clenched, but said nothing.

“The Sith Lord wouldn’t choose agents who would break so easily,” Bode cracked his knuckles idly,

“Barriss,” Master Gallia immediately employed the aid of their empath, “Help me out.”

The Mirialan in question obeyed silently, closing her eyes and reaching out an arm towards their victim. Barriss extended her arm, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached out with the Force, feeling for Master Gallia’s presence there. Together, they plunged into the murky depths of Heezo’s mind. It was like stepping into a darkened corridor, walls slick and slippery with secrets, the air thick with resistance. Every thought felt like it was wrapped in shadow, locked behind doors that groaned under their mental pressure. Barriss could feel Heezo’s muted panic, a flurry of emotions rising up like a storm, but they were distant, faint–he was well-trained, either by himself or by the Sith Lord, walls of mental discipline erected around his memories.

“Tell us the name of your master,” they commanded together.

Heezo released a sound–a mix between a whimper and a groan–and Barriss could sense Iskat nervously fidget beside her.

“Heezo,” Barriss whispered, “Any more of this and your mind will crack open like an egg, spilling out what’s inside. And we won’t be able to put it back in. None of us wants that.”

The air hung in stasis as Barriss and Master Gallia prepared to prod even further, Iskat tensing as she watched her friend writhe under the mental torture. Barriss could feel the tremor in her fingertips as she dug deeper, each push closer to his core like pulling apart the sinew of his thoughts, exposing the raw nerve underneath. The atmosphere in the chamber became oppressive–so dense it was almost suffocating. A pulse of desperation surged through the Selonian, a final attempt to shield his secrets, but it only emboldened the Jedi Master. Gallia’s voice echoed through the Force like a distant rumble of thunder.

“Tell us the name of your master!”

“Lord Sidious!” Heezo gasped violently,

“Sidious,” Bode latched on, “That’s the one. Ask him what’s the Delta Source!”

“I don’t know!” Heezo struggled, full blown panic setting in, “I don’t know what’s a Delta Source! I swear! I only know what Lord Sidious tells me!”

“He’s telling the truth,” Barriss quickly informed duly.

Bode gnashed his teeth in frustration, “Then how do you contact Sidious!? It can’t be from within the Temple; all outward communications are monitored!”

All communications are!? Barriss hardly had time to even comprehend the massive breach in privacy.

The Selonian clenched his jaw tighter, beads of sweat now forming on his furrowed brow, every muscle straining in resistance. Barriss felt the feedback from his panic flooding into her mind—hot, sharp, and wild. His memories swirled chaotically like a storm of jagged glass, and she could hear his heartbeat hammering in her ears; a frantic, erratic rhythm that reverberated through the Force.

“Give it up, Heezo!” Adi Gallia ordered, “You don’t want to die this way! How do you contact Lord Sidious!?”

Heezo’s eyes were squeezed shut, his sharp teeth grinding against each other.

“Heezo,” Iskat breathed, “Please.”

Master Gallia shot Barriss a look, and Barriss breathed in. One last push. The pressure became unbearable. Barriss felt as though she was pushing her fingers into a blister, the skin stretched tight, ready to burst.

And then came the give. Like slamming against a bolted door just as the hinges snapped.

Heezo screamed.

“The Works!” he shouted, his spine arching in agony, pinned down to the altar, “I meet him in the Works!”

Master Gallia abruptly spun around on her heel, clasping Bode on the shoulder before stalking away.

“Bring him to the Temple Detention Centre and get me the specifics,” she ordered, “I’m summoning the High Council to authorise and form a Jedi strike team as soon as possible.”

⁂

Raxus Secundus, Raxus System

Caluula Sector

It was raining on Raxus Secundus, harder than usual. Not enough to deserve the name of a storm, but not light either. The winds had come up, rolling clouds gathering over the prairie beyond the city outskirts. Like an encroaching thunderhead, Sev’rance Tann mused, a foretaste of the carnage to come. Ugly weather.

Sev’rance Tann watched the raindrops hurl themselves against her suite’s windows, like the Loyalist troops who every day flung themselves against her fleets and armies and combat installations across the length and breadth of the galaxy. Each little splotch leaving the imprint of its death on the glass, then dissolving into a featureless wet spill and trickle.

Little on their own, but relentless nonetheless, and against the walls she built and deceptions she played, ultimately meaningless. The Supreme Commander of the Confederate Armed Forces held the countless admiralties and captaincies of her command in full trust, and it was not the wars she waged abroad that gave her cause for concern, but rather the battles fought at home that she struggled amidst. It was a fragile time for the Confederacy, though she made every effort to isolate the fronts from affecting each other.

It was no responsibility of the CAF’s generals to distract themselves with the petty accusations of the bureaucratic courts, not when they already balanced the fate of the nation upon their backs. No, let this matter be handled by the Office of the General. The officer corps need not concern–or even learn–of the situation on Raxus, nor should the bureaucrats and politicians force their fingers into martial matters they had no business with. Sev’rance Tann was the only bridge between the two fronts, and she was adamant about maintaining that status quo.

Already, the Confederate Parliament actively tries to govern the CAF, under the guise of ‘regulation’ and ‘accountability.’ It was as if they were not at war, and as if interfering with the only body capable of fighting for their very existence was a far more critical matter than letting that body win the war of existence first. Sev’rance would not allow it. Not after all the work she did to dredge the Separatist armies from the deplorable state she found it in, to the ascendant state it found itself in now.

A crack of thunder brought Sev’rance Tann’s attention back to the window. In her imagination, she saw the dagger-shaped silhouette of Star Station Independence high above the atmosphere, though she knew it impossible. The mobile headquarters of the CAF was far too large to bring into the atmosphere; the massive vessel would collapse under its own weight, effectively imploding in the skies over Raxus Secundus.

But the illusory sight of it alone was cause for imbued confidence. It was a corporeal symbol of the Confederacy’s defiance and fight against the Loyalist Republic, known to all across the Galactic Rim. It was her castle, her fortress, her personal kingdom, reforged in her image, where not even Dooku’s talons–or any who might undo her–could reach. She yearned to return to it, to redon the mantle of dictator of the largest war the galaxy has ever seen; alas, more pressing issues entangled her planetside yet.

Such as, for example, the public resurfacing of the Confederacy’s one and only Head of State on Raxus Secundus. Count Dooku’s prolonged absences on the capital world should be considered perhaps outlandish for a Head of State–as the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic’s absence on Coruscant would surely kick up a storm of panic for example–but it was not unknown for the Confederacy. Maybe it was the decentralised nature of the star nation, or maybe it was Dooku’s well-known history as a former Jedi, but Dooku has become rather well-known for leading the Confederacy’s political efforts from the front.

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When he was not residing on his homeworld of Serenno, or briefly sojourning on Raxus Secundus, Count Dooku had spent his premiership touring his vast domain; it was a necessary effort to keep the thousands of worlds in the Confederacy satisfied. For a state as young and burgeoning as the Confederacy’s, every local government desired to feel important and necessary. When discontentment rises, the perfect salve was an executive visit.

Wasn’t it fortunate that Count Dooku had capable stewards governing the country in his absence, then? Just as Sev’rance Tann fought his war, Bec Lawise managed his house.

Outside, the wind picked up another notch, shrieking and groaning among the gothic spires of the Parliamentary Palace, as if to announce the arrival of a terrible guest. Sev’rance stilled–she did not need to be precognizant to know who was standing outside the door outside that very moment.

She had a brief fantasy of letting go with a single blast of Force energy, as the Jedi do, shattering the door off its hinges and sending the man behind them tumbling through the air, dashing his brains out against the hard brick walls. But she was not able to, for the Force came to her fingers as easily as a sewing needle would to a newborn’s, much to Dooku’s chagrin. And besides, Dooku would be expecting it, somehow; it would never be so easy.

With the light touch underneath her desk, the doors opened.

“Count,” she stood up, gesturing to a couch whilst she manoeuvred around the desk.

Count Dooku genially accepted her offer, with a single stride taking in the whole chamber and lording it over it as if it was his own. With a sweeping flourish of his silk cape, the Count of Serenno reclined on the upholstery, resting an elbow on the armrest and crossing one knee over the other. Sev’rance Tann regarded the aged man carefully, for his age affected not his sense nor skill, and slowly eased herself into the cushions of an opposing wing chair.

“I take it your audience with the Parliament bore fruit of pleasant taste?” she started.

Dooku had his lightsaber, for he made no motion to hide the distinctive silver crescent of its hilt gleaming on his belt. Hopefully, it would remain there for the remainder of their little discussion. If not, Sev’rance kept her own lightsaber close at hand, the hilt painfully austere compared to her combat teacher’s elegant form.

“Bittersweet,” her former master decided, “You have been of great trouble to me, Sev’rance.”

He took the tone of a father to a disobedient child, or a disappointed instructor to a failing cadet. Sev’rance may not know the emotions brought on by the former–for few skywalkers-by-trade had fathers–but she had ample memory of the latter. And the memory made her blood seethe.

“I spared no effort,” Sev’rance showed none of it through her opaque red eyes, gesturing at the barren table, “Forgive me for the lack of refreshments, Count.”

Dooku eyed the empty spot where a flower vase might’ve been, if Sev’rance were a more decor-conscious person, “Make no mind of it. I am in no mood for them either.”

Oh, but you must be, Sev’rance thought silently, after preaching for hours to your captive Parliament.

“Then I presume you are not here to go through the motions either,” Sev’rance folded her hands on her lap, “What are you here for, Count?”

For a moment, each and every one of Dooku’s eighty-two years of age showed on his face. It was an expression of utter fatigue and ennui he would never be caught dead with elsewhere. He looked at her lightsaber, then at the rank plaque of the Supreme Commander, then at the dark clouds beyond the casement window.

“Diplomacy,” he said at last.

“Diplomacy?”

“War is a failure of communication,” Dooku rubbed his fingers, “And we must war without first attempting diplomacy. I did not come from across the spiral arms to gloat and prattle.”

“Indeed? But that is what you do best?”

Dooku laughed, and it was by far the tiredest, bitterest, most unpleasant sound Sev’rance had ever heard him make. The old Count looked down at the floor, as if tracing out the patterns in the woodwork with his eyes.

He clasped his hands together, head now raised to stare at her, “What do you want, Sev’rance?”

The Supreme Commander looked at the Count of Serenno, baffled.

“Is it not obvious, Count?”

“Yes?”

She met his gaze intently, “Victory. A lasting victory. A victory that would etch my name into the fabric of this galaxy. And you are in my way.”

“I need not to,” Count Dooku replied evenly, “We need not be enemies, which speaks to my purpose here. The Parliament and Senate are ignoble and feckless, surely this fact is no stranger to you. In this age of war, it is blasters and warships that hold power and sway. I command the blasters and warships of the north, as you the south. Should we work together, the Confederacy need not break.”

Sev’rance’s eyes were half-closed in mistrust, red gleaming under heavy lids, “Pleading does not suit you, Count. You appear to me like a soaken old cat in the rain. Has your Master finally abandoned you?”

“My Master…?” Dooku echoed–then chuckled, “Ah, yes, my Master. You know of that too, as you know of his Grand Plan? I should not be surprised, but I am.”

“For a Sith Lord, you are utterly convinced your apprentices would not betray you,” Sev’rance told him, admittedly gloatingly, “Is it because you pitted them against each other, so that their knives would be occupied in each others’ bodies instead of yours? Or is it because you did not consider them true Sith like you are, and thought them incapable of ambition?”

“Or,” Dooku opened his palms, “It is simply arrogance.”

“Arrogance,” Sev’rance reclined, agreeing with a nod, “Your Master must not consider you a true Sith either, if he thought you would not betray him. Otherwise, you would be dead.”

“It is entirely possible,” Dooku admitted, “Loathe I am to admit. But here I am, and he does not know it, convinced in his own superiority. As you have wielded mine against me, I wield his against him.”

Sev’rance Tann mulled over his words, then mulled over Rain Bonteri’s, those spoken to her and that Jedi girl the day after Columex. The words that changed everything.

“Very well,” her eyes opened, boring into the Count, “We can work together. I will retract my accusations, and clear your name. And you will submit your armies and fleets to me, and return the New Territories to the authority of Raxus Secundus.”

The response was silence, as master and apprentice engaged in a battle of wills. A crack of thunder, and Rain Bonteri’s words burned in her mind.

“Or,” she murmured softly, “Would your pride disallow it?”

Sev’rance Tann cared not for the Sith and Jedi, for the dark and light sides of the Force. She cared for the resources she needed to achieve the final victory she so desperately lusts for. No matter how much Rain Bonteri would advise against it, she was perfectly willing to shake hands with Count Dooku and present a reunified front to the galaxy; but that front must be united under a single banner, as was the only way to fight a war.

And it would be the banner of the Confederate Armed Forces. Her banner.

Count Dooku may be the Head of State, but Sev’rance Tann was the Supreme Martial Commander of the CAF. His words must not hold sway in her domain, except through her.

“That is,” Dooku sat up, “No equal exchange.”

“I do not seek an equal exchange,” Sev’rance replied coldly, “I seek victory, and victory requires the submission of all military forces in the Confederacy to my banners.”

Dooku quirked an eyebrow, swallowing a mocking laugh, “Compromise is a path to victory. Are you so willing to open a second front? The choice is yours. Either work with me as equals, and we will put our quarrels aside until the Republic is in its grave. Or war against me, as you war against the Republic, tossing the prospect of victory just that much further.”

Once again, the response was silence.

“Or,” Dooku murmured softly, “Would your pride disallow it?”

“For a man so articulate, it is pleasant to have you so lost at words that you must you mine own against me,” Sev’rance Tann scathed lightly.

“Just as your lack of articulation proves itself to me,” Dooku smiled, “Target the argument, not the opponent, Sev’rance. An inability to do so is the mark of a poor argument–or rather, a poor debater. Or are you incapable of that without Calli Trilm at your side? Speaking of which, where is she?”

Count Dooku leaned forward ever so slightly, as if trying to get closer to her, and whispered, “Because your foolhardy Operation Starlance has left you bereft of your best captains and crews, Supreme Commander. And for what gain? You have made no progress, only reverse your losses at the hand of the Republic\'s Trident. Your admiralties are occupied. The incompetent Kirst fumbles backwards in the north, and begs my generals for aid. Trench has his many hands full rooting out the remnants of Loyalist occupation in the Near-Perlemian. The superficial Farstar struggles against the onslaught on Corellian Run. Lastly, the bull-headed Ambigene grows ever duller, slamming his skull on Anakin Skywalker’s defences in the south.”

“You preach to me of my pride, but I see it is your pride inhibiting our dialogue,” Dooku admonished her, “Your four fleets are occupied, and you sent your fifth fleet on a suicide mission in the Core. Without your precious Perlemian Coalition, you are in no condition to fight a civil war. And the Coalition… the Perlemian Coalition holds a major bloc in the Senate–and you have just sent their spacers and constituencies to their deaths. Would they even still fight for you?”

“And they would fight for you?” Sev’rance asked dryly.

Despite that, Sev’rance hated how much sense Dooku spoke. Indeed, she had every reason to take upon his offer of truce. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and it was not Dooku who posed an existential crisis to the Confederacy at the moment, but the Republic. Dooku himself clearly intends on eliminating Sev’rance–but only after the Republic is dealt with. The same could be said for Sev’rance, however. Their disagreement, Dooku proposed, could wait until the Confederacy’s existence was secure.

Sev’rance didn’t care about the Confederacy’s existence, however. Sev’rance cared about her Confederacy’s existence. She would not allow Dooku to erode the authority she wielded over the CAF and Raxus Government by extension. Sev’rance weighed the choice in her head, careful not to slip into one of her future-seeing trances lest Dooku run a laser blade through her in her mental absence.

Her former teacher saw through her easily, as if he was with her in her mind.

“It is your pride at stake, I understand,” he cooed, “It is your legacy you weigh, and whether you’re willing to see me in it. But understand this too; your legacy will be so much more with me helping you.”

“And how would that be?” she mused.

“Think about it,” Dooku insisted, “You cannot rule the Confederacy alone. This, you know. It is as much my political manoeuvres that have kept the system in line as much as your armies. With no disrespect; you have no mind nor patience for these matters. Who else can unify the Independent Systems for you? Bec Lawise is no ally of yours, and everyday he chafes against the power the CAF accumulates. He has viewed the Perlemian Coalition as a cabal of warlords ever since Centares; even with the two most prominent ones gone. What does he think of your precious CAF?””

“I do not intend on ruling–”

Dooku’s cackle interrupted her, “Oh, but you do! You convince yourself otherwise, so desperate clutching to your tenets of what you think a military should be. The dark side fuels you. It is so strong in this place, even with my absence until now. You can touch it, like a serpent’s belly sliding under your hand. You can taste it, like blood in the air. That is not me. That is you!”

“When this war is over, and you are triumphant over all… Bec Lawise and his Parliament will wrest your CAF away from you. It will not be me, but the Raxus Government that erodes your power, so eager to limit the military’s power and return authority back to the bureaucrats and politicians,” he continued, “What will you do then? Will you allow it? Will you… follow the rules?”

No! Her inner voice seemed to echo hungrily off the walls. It was a snake, black and oily, slithering around her. There was no light coming through the window now, and outside might as well be nocturnal. The rain roared with shouts of thunder. My army, the serpent hissed in her ear, my fleets, my Confederacy! I will not let them have it! They owe me their pathetic existences–this entire country does!

“Oh…” Dooku’s eyes glinted darkly, “You’ve let it in. You’re swimming in it. Hear that? Those are your true feelings. The dark side only tells you what you want to hear, what you already believe.”

Red eyes bore into the smiling Count, molten gold creeping around the edges, “What is your… proposal?”

“A simple arrangement,” the Sith Lord spread his hands in satisfaction, “I will rule the apparatus of the state, and you will rule the fleets and armies of the state. The Confederacy is an artificial, unnatural creation, borne out of a common enemy. Without the Republic, all the squabbling worlds and systems would see no reason to bind arms, and fall apart. It will need strong rulers to keep it together.”

“Us?”

“One to create order, and another to enforce it. Me and you. Not as master and apprentice, no, as that time has passed. We will be equals. Then… I will die.”

If there was anything that could shock Sev’rance, she did not expect it to be that one frank admission of mortality. She felt herself flinch, her balance gone and the world seemingly turned inside out.

“...What?”

“I am human,” Dooku clarified, as if that needed clarifying, “And I am old. I have now seen eighty-two years, and I am uncertain how many more I will see. Darth Sidious promised me immortality, but he can promise me that no longer. The Force sustains me, and my good health persists, but that will not be forever. I am old, and I see the twilight. But you? You are young, and you have a century ahead of you yet. Together, we can navigate the Separatist State through the vulnerable times after the war… but I will die. And you will have decades to mould the Confederacy in your image afterwards.”

Sev’rance saw it then, in the eye of the serpent, her mind’s eye. Everything she desired, simply at arm’s length.

“You see the vision, don’t you?” Dooku urged, hand outstretched towards her, “You will have your legacy. A legacy without me in it. All you require is a little… patience.”

“Patience…” Sev’rance tore her gaze away from the snake, and back to him, “And when you are dead and gone? What then? Who will control the state then?”

Dooku shrugged, “You will, of course.”

“But you said it yourself; I have no patience for these matters.”

“Then I will teach you all that I know of the dark side,” Dooku pressed, impatience leaking into his voice, “Not as your master, no, but because you ask it of me. The dark side grants power. Power over all. When you understand your own evils and the evils of others, it makes them pitifully easy to manipulate. The dark side will show you the stiff places in a being. His dreads and needs. The dark side gives you the keys to him.”

Sev’rance Tann reached out with her own hand, as if making for Dooku’s own, as he so clearly expected it. But then she slowly brought her fingers together, like she was grasping a goblet.

“You mistake me. I am no stranger to power. I have power,” to his confused look, she told him, “You live in a palace, but I live in an even bigger one, capable of razing entire planets to ash and salt at but a word. You have armies, but I have armies larger and more powerful than yours. You command legions of droids, but I have men and women willing to fight and die for my cause. Trillions of beings heed my words, at my beck and call. The dark side did not give those to me, effort and patience did.”

“Did it give you the politicians and the courts? No!” Dooku snapped, “But the dark side can, and I will show you how! Do you want their friendship? The dark side can compel them for you. Do you want only their servitude? The dark side can bend their will to yours. You needn’t concern yourself with their disobedience any longer.”

“...No, Count, I do not need the dark side,” she sighed, “If I want their friendship, I will speak and endear myself to them. If I want their servitude, I will order my armies to make them my servants. Just because I am untalented, does not mean I cannot learn. All I need is to apply some effort.”

“Why trouble yourself!?” Dooku snarled in frustration, “How long will that take!? The dark side can–”

“I have time; you said it yourself,” it was Sev’rance’s turn to smile, molten gold receding from her irises, “I am young, and I have a century ahead of me. All I require is a little… patience.”

Patience I will require with or without you, was left unsaid.

“Sev’rance!” Dooku warned, rising to his feet, “Do not let this opportunity slip so easily! Do not let your pride blind you. With our abilities combined, we could forge a new galactic order! An Empire to supersede the Republic!”

Sev’rance Tann rose, her fist closing around the neck of the snake, and as she rose, she squeezed suddenly, hard, and the snake wretched, body squirming, fluttering uselessly in the air.

“You voice ambitions of an empire,” Sev’rance told Dooku, “As if you are not standing amidst mine.”

With a final, violent clench of her fist, she felt the snake’s bones crack, and its body went utterly limp. Sev’rance’s arm fell to her side, leaving Count Dooku grasping at thin air.

“You…” Dooku started, then trailed off with a sigh, “It is a shame, but perhaps expected. You are more Sith than either of us realised.”

With a sharp click, the Sith Lord’s crescent-hilted lightsaber was unholstered from his belt. Sev’rance eyed it cautiously–she could never hope to beat Dooku in a duel. She possessed neither his command over the dark side or his command over his own body. She could summon help–the button was but at an arm’s reach away–but if he wanted her dead, then she would be in a blink of an eye.

But Dooku did not move, flicking the unignited lightsaber at her, as if telling her to draw her own saber. Sev’rance’s blood boiled at that, the serpent she left dead on the floor stirring back to life, feeding on her emotions. Am I so weak that you don’t even need to take me by surprise? Sev’rance raged at the thought, at Dooku’s dispassionate expression and elegantly held combat form, as if he could cut her down without breaking a sweat. Maybe he could; he trained her, after all, and would certainly know how to kill her.

But would she allow it to be done so easily? Not so. Her pride would not allow it.

“Do you intend to kill me?” Sev’rance hissed at him, unclipping her own saber, “Know that it would not change anything. Your rule is at an end, whether you would allow it or not. I beseech you; leave the Confederacy to me, retire away to Serenno or anywhere you so desire, and live the rest of your days away peacefully. Your power is at an end, but your life need not be. But kill me, and your life is forfeit, and you will be hunted down to the ends of the galaxy.”

The suite burned red as Dooku ignited his lightsaber, “I will try. And you will defend yourself, because I will be trying to kill you. It seems the plans Sidious set into motion have become unavoidable, thanks to you.”

There was a smirk on his face, as if this outcome was something he was satisfied with. From the moment he stepped into her office, he was going to leave with what he wanted, one way or another. But what did Dooku want from this outcome? Sev’rance could not fathom it, and perhaps that was why Dooku was smirking, mocking her. Not smart enough to figure it out? His eyes seemed to gleam.

“You are but an old man unable to accept that your time has passed,” she snarled, all fear and apprehension lost as the dark side ran through her blood and made her arms lighter. Gold clashed with red as she pointed her saber at him, the point but an inch from his nose, “I order that you surrender, and silently accept that your names will be etched into history as one of the vanquished.”