FicWad

The planet of Mustafar is located in the Mustafar system of the Outer Rim Territories, a little further in towards the core than Rutan, between the Hydian Way and the Ninth Quadrant. Once a lush green jewel of a world, home to several Jedi chapterhouses and academies, Mustafar had essentially first been deserted and then forgotten by the Galactic Republic during the terrible Sith wars. In the aftermath of that abandonment, an interlocking series of planet-wide cataclysmic eruptions tore violently through the world, utterly destroying the ruins of those Jedi Temples as well as all of the native Mustafarian settlements - save for the small city of Fralideja. It has been suggested by some that the two occurrences, exodus and cataclysm, must have been directly related, the one triggering the other; unfortunately, though, records from that era are too sketchy to either prove or disprove such an assertion. Regardless, the planet has never recovered from that apocalypse. Now a tiny and fiery volcanic world, where the lava is mined as a precious natural resource, Mustafar is a relatively unknown world (in the main either entirely forgotten or else simply dismissed as unimportant by the rest of the galaxy) as well as a still very young and volatile one, a planet whose crust is continually being torn apart by opposing gravitational forces from the gas giants Jestefad and Lefrani (the former being the closer and more damaging of the two to Mustafar's stability). From space, Mustafar appears to be little more than a ball of fire, it surface streaming with gouts of lava continually erupting from volcanoes of glittering obsidian. Despite its inherent instability, though, Mustafar is home to two variants of sentient Mustafarians: a taller, thinner northern subspecies; and a smaller, stockier, and hardier southern subspecies.

Surprisingly similar in look and build to the Kubaz (although they are not related to that insectivorous species, so far as it is known), both subspecies of Mustafarians have evolved from extremophilic arthropods whose natural habitat is the slightly cooler hollows and caves inside Mustafar's dormant volcanoes. Having long ago learned how to fashion armor from Mustafarian lava fleas to protect themselves from the hotter, surface-level lava flows separating the various Mustafarian townships (not to mention domesticating lava fleas for riding animals), for many years it was a common sight to see the natives leaping across the lava fields, astride lava fleas even more thick-skinned than they (and even without lava flea armor, Mustafarian skin is more than tough enough to resist standard blaster bolts - for which reason Mustafarians use weapons that fire bolts of kinetic force instead of the more standard energy bursts), in order to mine the planet's deadly natural resources. For approximately the past three hundred years, though - ever since the Techno Union first gained control of the planet, essentially purchasing the entire world for the personal use of the Techno Union in exchange for certain knowledge and technology that allow the Mustafarians to more safely survive even the harshest conditions on their homeworld - the Mustafarians have mainly spent their time overseeing the smelting facilities constructed by first the Techno Union and then the Separatists on Mustafar.

Nowadays, most of the harvesting of minerals and energy from the eight-hundred-degree-hot lava - comparatively cool to most other types of lava, due to the unusual mineral allotropes within Mustafarian lava, which become molten at a much lower than normal temperature, though the lava can still only safely be mined when a repulsor field has been placed so as to repress any eruptions and deflect heat away from those harvesting the lava, regardless - is carried out by durable industrial droids. Any visitors to the planet would be much more likely to catch a glimpse of the Mustafarian natives acting as mining overseers, riding harvesting platforms skimming over the active flows and directing or aiding various specialized heat-resistant droids in extracting lava with large, pole-mounted cauldrons. Of the able adult Mustafarians who do not labor in the lava fields, most work in the myriad industrial complexes harness and exploit their planet's abundant mineral resources and geothermal energy. Otherwise, Mustafarians mostly keep to themselves. It is partially due to the fact that both subspecies are, in the main, so entirely unconcerned about offworlder affairs that Mustafar has become the last redoubt of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. That, in combination with the planet's extreme obscurity (beyond the bounds of the Techno Union and its allies), its remoteness from the Core Worlds, and the natural defenses offered by a world so largely inhospitable, is what first recommended Mustafar to the Separatists as a viable retreat in the first place. That and the fact that the planet already had an underground complex that could be easily (and relatively inexpensively, despite what the leaders of the Trade Federation would claim) transformed into a state of the art combination command center and defensive bunker.

This Separatist stronghold is located in a massive industrial complex located on a fiery cliff bracketed by two huge lava flows, approximately ten klicks away from Fralideja. Collection arms mine lava from the surrounding area, while durable industrial droids work further afield. The Mustafarians normally do not venture overly close to the place, for they have been warned by their overseers within the Techno Union that the structure has been militarized and should be considered armed against intruders at all times and off-limits to those who have not been given the access codes. Since none of the natives have been granted knowledge of these codes, they give the place a wide berth - just in case. The keeping of such a precautionary distance is a wise decision, on their part. Within this facility is a CIS command center, one of the most strongly defended and secure bunkers in the galaxy. Originally no more than an automated lava mine, built by the Techno Union to further the drawing of precious metals from Mustafar's constant rivers of burning stone, the installation has been upgraded with the finest mechanized defenses that money can buy, to such an extent that the now thoroughly armored bunker has been deemed utterly impregnable (save, of course, to those who have its deactivation codes). It is precisely for this reason (the perception of the bunker's inviolable nature) that Mustafar has become the final redoubt of the remaining leaders of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.

However, it is also precisely because of the one possible vulnerability of the system - the codes that serve to deactivate the bunker's defenses and to grant open access to the facility, codes that were put in place by the being in charge of overseeing the structure's upgrade, none other than General Grievous himself, the de jure head of the Confederacy of Independent Systems' military, as the titled Supreme Commander of the Droid Armies of the Separatists, and now also the de facto political head of the entire CIS government, given Count Dooku's defeat and the destruction of his body aboard the Invisible Hand and the Sith Lord Sidious' subsequent apparent support of Grievous' decision to utterly disregard the wishes and advice of the CIS Leadership Council - that the sudden relocation of the remaining members of the Leadership Council to the Mustafar bunker has been largely regarded as the opening move in some treacherous plan, on Grievous' and Sidious' part, to once again betray (and perhaps even, this time, rid themselves entirely of) their supposed allies among the remaining Separatists leaders. It is a possibility and a fear that the scant double handful of members on the CIS Council have been debating, endlessly, ever since their ship set out for Mustafar from Utapau. And it is into the midst of this increasingly heated debate that an interruption comes, in the form of a chiming comm unit, only a scant few hours after these various lords of once vastly profitable and powerful - and now ever shrinking, in both output and input - commercial, technological, trading, and corporate powers have ensconced themselves in the dubious safety of that bunker.

Shu Mai, the president of the Commerce Guild and, practically speaking, one of the three most powerful remaining members of the CIS Leadership Council, due to the abundance of hard assets, resources, and influence still retained by the corporate, commercial titan that is the Guild, practically trips over herself, stumbling so badly that she treads on the hem of her brilliantly gem-toned Tyrian cloth gown of red and blue and purple and gold. Startled away from the immense, intricately delineated, fully three-dimensional representation of the known galaxy (large enough to fill the entire central control chamber of the bunker, so that stars glow all around, enveloping the Leadership Council and the aides of its few remaining members in a haze of soft, multihued refulgence; and programmed with information so that, by simply reaching out and touching a planetary system, one can summon fourth a detailed, encyclopedic description of that system and its individual worlds and moons and colonies, with reports on everything from species and population to minute characteristics of flora and fauna, economic statistics, and future prospects), which she has been manipulating with the skill of one who has made the same argument many times before, Shu Mai abruptly ceases her attempt to convince the other members of the Leadership Council that there yet remains a viable chance that, given the existence of several strongly held alliances and treaties and business arrangements, they will still be able to carve out the core of a strong new galactic power, entirely separate from the government of the Galactic Republic, with or without the support of their Sith Lord ally.

Short, slender, and greenish-blue of skin, the rising, upswept tailing of a high coiffure typical of females of the Gossam species lending her a sense of height not at all merited by her slight figure, the president of the Commerce Guild is normally an extremely graceful and largely unflappable woman, highly respected and even more highly skilled in her chosen field. However, the events of recent days have taken a toll even on her normally strong as durasteel nerves, and the unexpected trilling of the comm makes Shu Mai jump like a goosed voorpak. Turning rapidly away from the half-woven net of laser-bright lines (silver, gold, azure, and crimson, the color of the connection depending on the nature of the bond tying the various systems together) stitching sections of that pulsing panoply of worlds and suns together, her expression half guilty and half terrified, Shu Mai casts a quick glance at the holocomm system that Lord Sidious alone uses to contact the Leadership Council, her hand already moving to form the command gesture that will dissolve the unfinished but nonetheless elaborate network of connected systems. That particular holocomm system is quiet, though, and as the insistent loud trill of comm unit with an incoming message sounds again, her rigidly tense body relaxes, her arm falling back down to her side, the dismissive gesture going unfinished. Shooting Po Nudo - the Ualaq chairperson of the Hyper-Communications Cartel (the Separatist equivalent of the Galactic Republic's HoloNet) - a particularly venomous look, as if it is somehow his fault that the chiming of the comm signal has caused her to lose both her place in her argument and her composure, Shu Mai takes a moment to smooth her badly frayed nerves, gathering in the calmness of certainty offered by the always supportive mien of Cat Miin, her chief administrator and personal aide. She is just opening her mouth to issue a complaint when the Ualaq suddenly starts to his feet, obviously agitated.

"There is a signal coming in over all channels of the Republic's HoloNet, one that is also overriding all of our own HoloNet channels!" the Ualaq declares, clearly shocked.

They are, for the most part, caught entirely off-guard.

Wat Tambor, adjusting the gas mix inside his armor, freezes like a startled brush-mouse.

Poggle the Lesser, Archduke of Geonosis, who has been idly massaging his fleshy lip-tendrils ever since Shu Mai began manipulating the galographics (since it is, after all, a show he has seen several times before), jerks so violently that his command staff - a highly cherished memento of his victory over then-Archeduke Hadiss the Vaulted - crashes noisily to the ground.

Cat Miin, fiddling with the silver binding restraining her hair into the stylish curving horn rising into a high crest behind her head and regarding Shu Mai with a look of mingled respect and a trust that is almost adoration, gasps as if she has been dealt a sudden blow to her solar plexus.

Rune Haako, shifting his weight nervously and impatiently from side to side, wondering how far the Viceroy will let the Gossam get before he launches into a refutation of her argument, startles and lurches to his feet, mouth gaping wide but for once shocked entirely speechless.

San Hill has just enough time to scoff a disbelieving, "Impossible!" before every single holocomm in the bunker (including the private holocomm system keyed to the personal use of the Sith Lord Sidious) abruptly chimes and then flashes on, the symbol of the Galactic Republic riding high next to the deep blood red emblem of the Jedi Bendu, above a crawl of text advising viewers of an emergency all-channel broadcast, straight from Coruscant.

There is just enough time between the cycling of that not incredibly informative banner and the commencement of the actual report on the breaking story for the same wild expectation to kindle momentarily within every Separatist present in the Mustafarian bunker, their hearts all flaring with the mad hope that disaster has indeed somehow struck both Coruscant and the entire Galactic Republic, a catastrophe of some kind that will prove great enough to save them from the swiftly approaching doom that they have all felt, breathing ever more heavily down upon their necks in recent months, one that will end this war without crushing them entirely in the process -

- and then that hope is summarily dashed. And with it dies their shared dream of a truly independent galactic power, wholly separate from the Galactic Republic and so free from the interference of its corrupt officials and the meddling of its do-gooder Jedi, loosed from the restraints of democracy and the limits of conscience . . . in short, a gloriously organized and united conglomeration of business interests and acumen, an empire in every sense of the word.

For the disaster, it seems, is that of their erstwhile Sith ally - and therefore is also their's.

Palpatine of Naboo, Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, has been revealed as the Sith Lord Sidious.

Darth Sidious has been slain by Jedi Masters Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker.

The same pair of Jedi have essentially single-handedly saved the Jedi Temple and its occupants from sure destruction by the clone troopers, ordered by Sidious/Palpatine to carry out his revenge upon the Jedi by means of a secret command, Order 66, which otherwise would have eventually resulted in the deaths of every Jedi in the galaxy at the hands of their troops and allies.

The same pair of Jedi, in the company of two Force spirits - the souls of two Jedi Masters strong enough and knowledgeable enough in the Force to retain their identities and to remain in the physical realm after the destruction of their fleshly bodies - have somehow cleansed the Force entirely of the taint generated by the Sith and the warping of the Force that the practice of Force-powers known as the Dark Side entails. More, they have vowed to rebuild the Jedi Order, much as the Senate has vowed to rebuild the Galactic Republic, and have begun by allowing those two Force spirits, Qui-Gon Jinn and Dooku of Serenno, to be named the Jedi's new Grand Masters.

With the blessing of the new Grand Masters, that same pair of Jedi have also broken with hundreds of years of Jedi rules and traditions by declaring that they will take as their Padawan Bail Organa of Alderaan - who, in response, has publicly sworn that he will abdicate the throne of Alderaan and resign his seat in the Senate in order to undertake training as the shared Padawan of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker, just as soon as the current crises is resolved and the Senate has successfully voted upon a new system to replace the seat of the Supreme Chancellor.

That same pair of Jedi have since departed from Coruscant on a mission requested by the Senate, in response to information definitively naming the whereabouts of General Grievous, with orders to neutralize the threat that Grievous poses . . . by whatever means may prove necessary.

In the meantime, a special session of the Senate has been called by Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila and, though it will recess as necessary, it will not be adjourned until the many issues raised by the revelation of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine as none other than the Sith Lord Sidious - a dual identity whose machinations are essentially solely to blame for the fact that the known galaxy has been engulfed by war for over three years now - have all been dealt with satisfactorily.

Irregardless of the outcome of Kenobi and Skywalker's mission to apprehend or otherwise deal with General Grievous, the remaining members of the Galactic Senate - those who have not had writs of arrest issued or been arrested outright on charges of treason, for complicity in Sidious/Palpatine's crimes, and those who have not resigned for fear or for shame of unwitting involvement in the Sith Lord's schemes - will see to it that the government is rebuilt. In fact, the process of tearing down all of the many constitutional amendments passed during Palpatine's reign and of restructuring the branches and offices of government is already well under way.

In short, while the remaining members of the CIS Leadership Council have been spending their time ceaselessly and fruitlessly arguing over whether or not their ultimate betrayal by their mysterious Sith Lord ally is inevitable, the Confederacy of Independent Systems - in truth, the very notion of a viable, achievable Separatist movement - has not only been utterly betrayed by that selfsame Sith: it has suffered such an utter and complete epic disaster through that treachery that it, its members, and it allies are now all in effect absolutely and irrevocably doomed.

To make matters worse (as if they weren't bad enough already!), Bail Organa of Alderaan - who, despite his obvious tiredness and the fact that he had apparently been so badly injured during the attack on Coruscant that he ended up spending most of the battle and the following day in a bacta tank, surprisingly enough looks both calmer and yet somehow also much more healthy and energetic (revitalized, even!) than he has looked in any of his HoloNet appearances since the Clone Wars first began - has issued an appeal to the Leadership Council of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, acknowledging the fact that they have been duped and badly used by the Sith Lord and asking them to come to terms with that fact and to get their revenge on Sidious not by striving to carry on with his efforts to tear the Republic apart but instead by joining in the effort to rebuild what the Sith Lord managed to come so perilously close to utterly destroying.

The one lone bright spot, in the midst of this soul-numbing, heart-crushing pile of disaster upon catastrophe upon calamity, is the news that Senator Padmé Amidala Naberrie of Naboo has been replaced by the Gungan representative Jar Jar Binks, due to the fact that Padmé Amidala perished in the confusion of fighting during the Separatist attack on Coruscant, reportedly dying in the same accident that so badly injured Bail Organa. And considering how extremely popular Padmé Amidala has grown since the beginning of the Clone Wars - considering the fact that she has become widely regarded as an angel of mercy and a quiet voice of reason, diplomacy, democracy, and peace, someone whose name has been whispered in many circles as the obvious heir for the Supreme Chancellor - it is cold comfort indeed. Doubtless, the Leadership Council will also be held to blame and made to pay for the idealistic and idolized young Senator's death.

In all honesty, it would not be an exaggeration to claim that the Separatist movement was destroyed when Palpatine's secret was revealed and the CIS was dissolved with Sidious' death. The Jedi - Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker, in particular - have finally doomed them all.

Unless . . . unless, perhaps, the Leadership Council could find both the wisdom and the strength to surrender to the inevitable and beg mercy of the very beings who have brought about that doom before it could utterly overcome both the members and leaders of the CIS, that is . . .

Able to feel the beginning of a full-body tremor trying to seize him in its grip, for several long moments after the holocomms all fall silent again Nute Gunray simply concentrates fiercely on the task of holding himself rigidly still, silently commanding himself to maintain control and to observe the rules of propriety, even if his world has crashed down about his feet. Then, taking advantage of the stunned and sightlessly staring eyes of his colleagues - their gazes all similarly fixed on empty infinities, though they are not all facing in the same direction, most of them in fact turned bodily away from one other - the Trade Federation Viceroy surreptitiously slips two antistress capsules between his lips. He can feel his lung pods working within him, expanding and contracting convulsively, on the verge of a full-blown case of hyperventilation, and is certain that he can feel it as the already quite sizeable ulcer eating its way through his gut sac suddenly grows even larger. Recalling an old saying that characterizes Neimoidians as the only sentient species in the galaxy with an entire organ devoted solely to the task of worrying, he finds himself having to choke back violently on a burble of hysterical laughter that wants to well up from some dark place deep within him. Though the Viceroy's hands twitch convulsively with the need to wring themselves anxiously together, he calls upon the training of decades of self-control (the showing of unnecessary emotions having long been regarded as a sign of weakness and anathema, among the Neimoidians) and steadfastly refuses to allow them to make the worried gesture. Instead, ignoring the oily perspiration steadily oozing its way down the back of his neck, Gunray forces himself to take a deep, measured breath, and then rises slowly to his feet, grim determination and unwavering resolve - even in the face of the destruction of his world and way of life - prompting him to blunt honesty where once the petty, selfish need to save face might have held him back.

In doing so, Nute Gunray stands witness and proof to a fact that has been forgotten for so many long centuries that it would not be an exaggeration to say that not one sentient being in the whole of the galaxy still even so much as suspects the truth of the matter. For in this one act of selfless bravery, Nute Gunray proves definitely that the Duros and the Neimoidians are, indeed, so closely akin that they are, when it all comes down to it, driven by what is essentially the same kind of inherent nature. Of course, given the fact that the Neimoidians are one of a handful of entire species that are on the Separatist side in this galactic civil war while the Duros are actually one of the founding species of the Galactic Republic, the Duros would likely be extremely loathe to admit it (and in truth, the Duros have long done their best to distance themselves from their Neimoidian cousins, so much so that naming a Durosian a Neimoidian has, for centuries, been considered the very worst kind of insult), but the fact of the matter is that, once stripped of the various layers of their vastly different experiences of enculturation and socialization and the trappings of acculturation piled upon both species by the expectations of the other sentient beings of the known galaxy, the Duros and their Neimoidian cousins are far more alike than either would normally ever consider, much less acknowledge.

Once stripped of their wide-ranging reputation for superior astro-navigational skills, good-natured garrulousness in the sharing of stories of their personal travels and adventures, basically peace-loving but nonetheless fiercely independent natures (all too willing to fight to maintain that independence - as they had, tens of thousands of years ago, to win free of their enslavement to the Rataka - or to aid in the service of a truly good cause), and almost rash adventurousness, the Duros are just another sentient species of amphibious hairless humanoids with smooth blue-green skin that turns pink when nauseated, lipless mouths, long, thin, noseless faces, and enormous red goggle-like eyes with slit pupils, the vast majority of whom are either pilots and explorers or else employed, by one means or another, in the enormous consortium of starship construction corporations (vast enough and more than profitable enough, when taken all together, to rival that of their neighbors, in the Corellian sector) around which their overall government revolves, with all the important political decisions being made by stockholders of the corporations, such that any Durosian who holds stock in a company can participate in the administration of the system.

Although Neimodians, like the Duros, are largely space-faring by both preference and profession, their characters tending naturally towards migratory and exploratory behavior, this similarity is often overlooked by beings so used to the stereotypical negative reputations so often assigned to Neimoidians that it simply never occurs to any of them to look any further than that reputation, nor to attempt to discern if there might be anything else to the Neimoidians other than the highly unpleasant, undesirable, and objectionable attributes that the majority of the galaxy so blithely ascribes to the entire species. However, despite the fact that this obvious similarity between the migratory Neimoidians and the footloose Duros goes largely unperceived by the rest of the galaxy, it cannot be denied that Neimoidia's most able typically leave home at an early age, opting for lives of itinerant trading and star-and system-mapping aboard the vessels of the Trade Federation fleet. As a result, Neimoidia itself (much like the depressingly similarly situated and natured Neimodian - and therefore also Trade Federation - purse worlds of Cato Neimoidia, Deko Neimoidia, and Koru Neimoidia) is scarcely populated by the weakest and most dull-witted of the species, who tend to the planet's vast insect hives, fungus farms, and beetle hatcheries.

Viceroy Nute Gunray is certainly no different from any other Neimoidian in regards to this, sharing with his fellow self-exiles a peculiar distaste for the Neimoidian homeworld. But then, almost all Neimoidians shun the planet, as well as its cursedly similar purse worlds, once they have managed to escape it, returning home as rarely as possible, since the problem inherent in returning to Neimoidia (or its colonies among the purse worlds), for Neimoidians, is that one cannot escape recalling - on some level of cellular memory - the seven formative years Neimoidians spend as puny, pale, perpetually malnourished, wriggling grubs, in competition with every other grub for survival on a world whose basic ecology (heavy gravity, dim sun, excess and perpetual humidity, and overall swampiness) is perniciously suited for the breeding of especially virulent diseases and where basic resources, such as food and water, are hoarded by the strong, instinct driving them to survive the terrible conditions and strive for the chance to mature into red-eyed, fish-lipped, noseless, and decidedly distrustful (and prone to hoarding) adults who, like Gunray, swathe their bodies in the finest raiment credits can buy and rarely, if ever, look back, once they have succeeded in getting away from that world and that life.

Unfortunately, it is this species-wide learned tendency towards distrust of all others and the personal hoarding of any and all things that might be parlayed into power or personal gain that allows the other sentient beings of the galaxy to perceive Neimoidians as a greedy, grasping, power-hungry, selfish, cowardly, and villainous species, rather than seeing them for what they truly are: a species whose greatest love is in traveling among the stars and whose truly powerful beings are regarded by the rest of the Neimoidians as responsible for safeguarding and increasing the general level of welfare and prosperity for the entire species. It is only because of their more solitary and self-centered ways - ways taught to them by their very upbringing - that it is so relatively easy to overlook the qualities shared by Neimoidians and Duros. However, if stripped of their reputation for being ignoble, avaricious, and fearful of death, the Neimoidians are merely another sentient species of amphibious hairless humanoids with gray skin tinged ever so slightly greenish-blue (which tends to take on a mottled look if an individual is often prone to suffering from great stress or has been too self-indulgent and which also turns an unhealthy shade of pink when Neimoidians are nauseated), lipless (and seemingly perpetually down-turned) mouths, and long, thin, noseless faces with slightly lumpy foreheads and a slight oddity in the presence of olfactory glands under the eyes, which are enormous, red, and goggle-like, with pupils that are split horizontally.

Neimoidians do technically hail from a place so unfavorable that it is avoided even by the Neimoidians (a small, humid planet disdained by an aging sun, a planet that, instead of profiting from its relative proximity to self-reliant Corellia and industrialized Kuat, has actually suffered for its placement, having been passed over, time and again, by a long-standing fraternity of Core Worlds so comfortable and complacent in its own power that it is essentially entirely unwilling to share of that power with those who exist outside of itself) and that heritage of unpleasantness (not to mention the proclivity to be shunned, as an entire species, along with their imminently disagreeable homeworld) has informed Neimoidian society, at least to a certain extent. Centuries of not entirely justifiable scorn have imparted to the species a conviction that true progress for the Neimoidian people as a whole can come only when there is an abundance of leaders who have proven themselves not merely capable but powerful and predatory enough to not only reach the top of the food chain (even if it necessitates using the bodies of the weak as stepping-stones), but to also hold that lofty position, once its summit has been attained, by ruthlessly seizing whatever resources are available, thereby preventing any others from ever having recourse to them, and using the capital gained thus to parlay into greater power and position and prestige, until enough profit has been won to boost the general level of prosperity of the Neimoidian species as a whole.

Since they have been scorned by the rest of the galaxy for so long (and, to the Neimoidian way of thinking, so obviously unfairly), the damage such ruthless behavior might wreck upon on beings, other species, does not enter into the picture, for a truly dedicated Neimoidian leader, and leaders who are not truly dedicated are not long tolerated by the rest of the species. A truly dedicated Neimoidian leader is expected to focus solely on the security of that being's personal power base - and, thus, that leader's ability to personally increase the growth in Neimoidian security, finances, and power. Unfortunately, this obsessively singular outlook has resulted in tenets that are frequently considered by other sentient beings as perfectly valid explanations as to just why the Neimoidian species as a whole is held in such low regard by the rest of the galaxy. Such thinking is also often called upon by other sentient beings attempting to explain how the Neimoidians managed to rise so rapidly to the fore of the Trade Federation - an organization whose signature has long been callousness and ruthless exploitation in the name of the highest possible sustainable profit margin. Thus, though the Neimoidians are often assumed to have no real concept of loyalty, the truth of the matter is far less straightfoward. The Neimoidians have, through centuries of scorn and neglect from outsiders and even from their own kin, among the Duros, in which they were left to either sink into obscurity and die out or learn how to claw their way up and out of the swamp into which fortune conspired to throw them, learned a much harsher and more difficult path than personal faithfulness or friendliness or fair play. The Neimoidians have learned and mastered a sacrificial ethic that enforces allegiance to the species as a whole. What looks, to outsiders, like unrestrained selfishness and greed is, instead, a focused and almost fanatic devotion to the survival, growth, security, and increasing prosperity of the whole species.

Thus, despite the various misunderstandings and outright gaps in understanding that exist between the Neimoidian people and the rest of the sentient beings of the galaxy, the truth remains that the Neimoidians are not, at the most basic level, all that different from their kin, the Duros, whose greatest love is likewise the stars and who put their trust in those whose positions in areas of building and commerce allow them to become stockholders of Durosian corporations when it comes to the decisions that can help to safeguard and increase the general level of welfare and prosperity for the Durosian species. However, the indisputable truth of this strong and very basic resemblance between the supposedly naturally courageous Durosian explorers and shipwrights and the supposedly naturally cowardly Neimoidian explorers and traders is, unfortunately, not a thought that occurs to Nute Gunray, as the Neimoidian Trade Federation Viceroy gathers up the few remaining tatters of calm and resolve left to him in a desperate attempt to find sufficient strength and motivation to do and to say what he is now certain that he must. His conditioning, like that of his fellow Neimoidians, is so complete that he does not see his own courage as anything other than the necessary response of a worthy and true leader of the Neimoidian people.

Closing his eyes fully for a long moment, the Viceroy pushes past the faint few remaining wisps of what had, for a Neimoidian, once upon a time been a healthily overgrown sense of self-entitlement and self-worth and an equally highly developed self-centered and largely amoral guile whose sole purpose was to prop up and ensure the security and vigor of both Gunray's sense of excessive self-worth and his ability to successfully channel that (and all it might entail) into the ability to wrangle increasingly greater reaches of privilege and prosperity, both for himself and his people - a process that had, incidentally, also long won ever greater profits for his allies and those encompassed by the increasing vastnesses of the not quite empire of the Trade Federation conglomerate. In the darkness behind his eyes, the twin Neimoidian emblems of piety and power - the Spherical Flame and the garhai, the armored fish that symbolizes obedience and dedication to enlightened leadership - burn unforgivingly with the unavoidableness of duty. At last, his terror only marginally tamed by his inability to avoid bowing to the inevitability of necessity, Gunray opens his eyes and begins to speak, only the rapid blinking movements of his nictitating membranes betraying his seeming self-possession. He is entirely unaware of his own bravery, as he bows before what is and makes the best possible decision, not just for himself or the other remaining individuals among the Separatist Leadership Council, but for his people and all the peoples of the now utterly untenable Confederacy of Independent Systems, as a whole.

"This is the end, then. The war is over. The Jedi will defeat Grievous and then they and their Republic will turn to us, if we have not taken action to shield ourselves from their wrath. We have been used and betrayed and all but destroyed by a man who was the leader of those we thought to be our enemy. We have no choice now, if our people are to survive, other than to surrender and throw ourselves upon the mercy those who, like us, have survived the treachery of Palpatine of Naboo, the Dark Lord Sidious. High Justice is our only hope. Once we have declared our intent to surrender specifically to such judgment, the Jedi must honor that pact, and they will have no choice but to keep the Republic from seeking after the lives and livelihoods of our people and allies. It is the only way to ensure the survival of ourselves and our people, to win safety from retribution. We must begin work drafting our surrender. The treaty needs to be before the Senate before Grievous has been dealt with and the Jedi have reason to turn their eyes towards us."

Gunray's fellows among the Leadership Council are so stunned by events that for several long moments they merely sit or stand silently, gaping stupidly and sightlessly up at him, not truly hearing his words. But the quiet, he knows, is only temporary. Most of those who remain among the Council are those who have striven the hardest and the longest for independence from the Galactic Republic, and more than one of them still believe that such independence is no more than their right, after such struggle. The reaction, when it comes, will be both loud, forceful, and messy. In a way, though, Gunray finds it almost bitterly appropriate, that the whole Separatist movement will doubtlessly perish much as it was born, in acrimony and violence. The CIS is, after all, just a transitory creation of the last and most powerful and evil of the Sith Lords . . .

***

Obi-Wan Kenobi awakens only gradually, awareness returning by degrees in the sleep-fogged knowledge and acceptance of warmth, and comfort, and belonging, and the sensation of being cradled against a solidly-muscled and familiar body with a love approaching reverence, an arm around his torso so that a hand can move in small circles in the small of his back and the other arm lying across his back and shoulder so that another hand can stroke idly through his hair. His apparently extremely long hair.

Memory returns with full awareness, before the understanding of how long his hair is can do anything more than begin to prod a faint, unfocused puzzlement, and rather than freezing in place with shock or disbelief, as he otherwise might have, Obi-Wan tightens his own hold upon Anakin and smiles, purely content, murmuring a loving, "Good morning, Anakin," and raising his head for a kiss even before he bothers to open his eyes.

Anakin's kiss is lazily thorough, and several more long moments pass before he can murmur his response of, "I suppose it qualifies as morning, though it's probably predawn, still, on Utapau. It's good to be here with you, though, regardless."

"Flatterer. Are we almost to Utapau, then?"

"Honest praise is not flattery, Obi-Wan," Anakin merely replies with a slight shrug, his voice calm and mild and utterly content in a way that Obi-Wan has rarely heard it be since the beginning of the war. "And yes, we're nearly there. I'd guess we have just over an hour, before the cruiser exists hyperspace."

Raising an eyebrow suggestively, Obi-Wan grins down at Anakin's calm countenance and asks, "And I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that I might like to put that time to good use?"

Raising a startled eyebrow back, Anakin begins to say, "Well, I would hate to presume - "

But before he can get any further than that, Obi-Wan moves his body purposefully over Anakin's supine form and tells him, with a gleam in his eye that is close to demand, "But I want you to presume."

"Oh." Anakin's voice is half strangled, his left hand stilling against Obi-Wan's back, his right hand tightening upon his hair. "Well. Then I suppose we should make the most of it!" he laughs before turning, tackling a suddenly fiercely laughing and rejoicing Obi-Wan down into the thankfully not too terribly narrow mattress.

When the call comes over the room's comm unit, warning them that the cruiser will be exiting hyperspace in approximately five more minutes, Obi-Wan and Anakin are dressed and freshly scrubbed, their hair wet with the recency of their morning ablutions, Obi-Wan's long mane in the process of being bound back in a hasty but serviceable single plait by Anakin's quick, clever hands. "We will be up directly, Commander Cody," Obi-Wan promises. And less than a minute after he keys off the comm unit, they are on their way out the door.

It takes less than half an hour for them to get the entire attack planned out. They are well aware of the fact that Utapau has been made a stronghold of the CIS and their forces are limited, so it is easy enough to conclude that the best course of action will be for Anakin and Obi-Wan to go in alone while Commander Cody and three battalions of troopers wait in rapid-deployment vehicles - including both Jadthu-class landers (heavy troop transports that are essentially flying, armored bunkers) and the lighter, deadly Low Altitude Assault Transport gunships known as LATT/i's (which are little more than specialized infantry transport and mobile gun platforms) - just over the planet's horizon. That way, the Jedi will be able to pinpoint Grievous's location and then keep the bio-droid general busy until the clones are in the best position to attack. After all, Anakin and Obi-Wan can much more easily act as a two-man diversionary force, capturing and keeping the attention of what would doubtlessly be tens of thousands (if not a couple hundred thousand) of combat droids directed inward toward them and Grievous, to cover the approach of the clones, than they can afford to needlessly risk the lives of their troopers in a more obvious full-out frontal attack. So they would go in first, alone, and, after securing Grievous' position and marking it through their attack, two battalions of troopers would strike full force with the third remaining in reserve, both to provide reinforcements as needed and to cover all possible escape routes. This time, there would be no reprieve, no last minute escape, for General Grievous.

"Anakin and I can safely keep them distracted for quite some time," Obi-Wan quietly but firmly promises Cody as they make their way down to the flight deck of Vigilance. "Just try not to take too long to get there: you know how Anakin gets, when there's nothing to fight except droids," he adds, slanting a look at Anakin, who merely smiles fiercely and nods, mouthing the words Target practice! at him with what can only be described as a look of eager glee, "so if you don't hurry, there won't be many left for you and your men to engage."

"Come on, boss," Cody only grins back, Jango Fett's face somehow both oddly softened (if someone trusted were to ask, Cody would reply that any softening in his expression is due to the fact that he is standing with the two men he trusts and reveres most, in all the galaxy, and the privilege of that, of being accepted as their brother-in-arms and allowed the closeness represented by such small shared jokes, fills him with an oddly buoyant, almost giddy lightness of being) and sharpened (and if someone trusted were to ask, this time Cody would reply that any sharpening in his expression is due to the simple fact that he is looking forward to the battle, anticipating seeing an end to Grievous and to finding out just how Obi-Wan and Anakin will manage to accomplish that miracle) by the smile, "have I ever let you down?"

"Well . . . " Obi-Wan begins, brows furrowing in a show of deep consideration as his right hand curls mock-thoughtfully around his chin, his answering smile small enough that many, not knowing him as well Cody has grown to know him over the recent months of shared battle, would have missed it altogether and assumed that he was serious, "there is the small matter of Cato Neimoidia, for starters . . . "

Cody's smile turns into a laugh as he replies, "That was entirely Anakin's fault: he was the one who was late."

"Hey!" Anakin's startled yelp makes Obi-Wan chuckle, and a few moments later they are all laughing, though Anakin insists, in a mock-wounded tone, "Just for that, I won't rescue either one of you from weird, random, floating spores if you blunder into any, this time around."

"I think I'll take my chances. I'm looking forward to droids, not spores, on this planet," Cody only grins unrepentantly back.

"Oh? And then who will you blame it on this time, if you're late?" Obi-Wan asks, still chuckling as he climbs up into his freshly repainted starfighter's cockpit and straps himself in.

Cody merely makes a slight dismissive gesture and shrugs, saying, "Oh, I'm sure there will be plenty of droids to go around, even with the both of you there." Then, turning more towards Anakin, he adds, "Although things would be much easier, all around, if you could just remember to wait for backup this time. You don't think maybe you could get him to wait for a bit, after you take care of Grievous, before you go charging in after the droids, could you?"

Grinning, Anakin shrugs and shakes his head. "I'm the one who needs the target practice, Cody, not you. Remember? You just said that I was late, on Cato Neimoidia. Force forfend I should hold back here and risk being late again!" he sweetly explains, eyes wide and innocent.

Cody has barely turned towards Obi-Wan before Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, shaking his head slightly, and promises, "Oh, very well, then. I'll try not to let him destroy all the droids before you get there."

"I'm counting on you, boss. Don't let me down."

Obi-Wan raises an inquiring eyebrow as he looks down at Cody's upturned and openly trusting face. For some reason, he seems to be sitting higher or straighter or /something/, because he cannot quite recall looking down at Cody quite so much from this position, but then, it is a new starfighter, after all . . . With a mental shrug, Obi-Wan finally simply asks, "Have I ever?"

"Well," Cody begins with a broad grin, "there was Cato Neimoidia . . . "

Anakin is still thoroughly amused - his good humor all out of proportion with the actual cleverness of that rejoinder, their bond humming and snapping with his delight - over an hour later, when they send their new starfighters spiraling in towards a broad landing deck protruding out of the sheer sandstone wall of Pau City, the largest of Utapau's sinkhole-cities. Shaking his head, Obi-Wan allows Anakin's mirth to fade into the background as he focuses his mind upon what he knows of Utapau, reviewing both what he knows of the planet and its inhabitants, from the data files he has read, and what he remembers about the planet from his Force-assisted far-visions. He knows that Utapau is roughly 51,000 light years from the Core, that it orbits a single sun, and is itself orbited by nine moons, but these are the least important aspects of Utapau that he knows, seeing as how getting to the planet won't an issue in the upcoming confrontation, the world's climate and atmosphere is well within the range of what is tolerable for even baseline human norms, and the lone inhabited moon of Utapau (Utapau 7) is so sparsely populated that the Separatists (including Grievous) didn't feel the need to bother to exert the effort to conquer it. The fact that Utapau is not, in spite of its outward appearance, a true desert planet - its once extensive surface oceans of having long since leaked away into a vast subterranean oceanic system through the planet's readily eroded calcareous crust, filling the vast underground caverns that were once giant magma chambers, so that now surface water makes up less than one percent of the planet's surface area - is far more significant, for that extensive and erosive underground sea has contributed to the formation of the gigantic sinkholes (easily as vast as inverted mountains) scattered all throughout the habitable areas of the planet.

Although much of the inhabitable lands of Utapau are covered with windswept fields of wild grasses, the majority of the world's sentient beings reside in cities carved into the plunging walls of the planet's enormous sinkholes - which is precisely why they are setting down in the largest of those sinkhole cities, rather than out upon the open plains. For even though the erosive action of Utapau's buried ocean has undermined vast areas of its surface, to such a great extent that the planet's frequent groundquakes has collapsed many of those areas into sinkholes large enough to land a /Victory/-class Star Destroyer, civilization can and indeed does thrive below reach of the relentless scouring hyperwinds on the planet's surface. It is in the largest of such cradles of civilization that Grievous and his droid armies will be encamped, and so it is there that they will land their starfighters. Although Obi-Wan also knows that the planet has little in the way of high technology (the global energy economy of Utapau is actually based almost solely on the wind power used to drive most of the world's limited technology, the planet's limited interstellar trade having begun only a few decades previously, when offworld water-mining companies first discovered that the waters of Utapau's subsurface world-ocean are extremely rich in dissolved trace elements), he is not dismayed by that lack of technology.

Obi-Wan is not discouraged because he happens to be well aware of the fact that the relatively near-human inhabitants of Utapau - actually two distinct species: the tall, lordly, slow-moving Pau'ans, nicknamed Ancients for their astonishing longevity, who, despite comprising only roughly one-third of the planetary population, serve as the port masters, bureaucrats, and patricians of the planet; and the stubby Utai, often called Shorts, both for their stature and for their relatively brief but busy lives, the majority of which are spent maintaining the windmills of their sinkhole cities and serving as handlers for the native dactillion and varactyl dragonmounts - though peaceful and inclined towards neutrality because of the remoteness of their world, out on the edges of known space, and the insular nature of its sinkhole cities, have no desire to exist under the rule of the Separatists and have only refrained from reaching out to the Republic for help since the CIS conquest of the planet due to Grievous' threat to destroy all of Pau City, should such an attempt to seek aid occur. The Utapauns will do everything in their power to help Obi-Wan and Anakin locate Grievous, and many of them will also join in the fight against the droid armies, once the battle begins: thanks to his far-sight visions, Obi-Wan has not even the slightest of doubts, concerning these things. He is also completely sure that Grievous will finally meet his end on this planet.

Within seconds of the Vigilance's realspace reversion, it had been possible for both him and Anakin to sense the presence of the cyborg General, through the ripples his hatred and rage made in the Force. (In fact, they'd been able to feel a great deal more than just Grievous. Anakin had been stunned so badly that he had stumbled and nearly fallen, while Obi-Wan himself had swayed with shock, faced with the sudden reality of thousands upon thousands of minds pressing in upon their open senses, each broadcasting its own mixture of loves and hates, hopes and fears, hesitations and aspirations . . . normal, unexceptional thoughts and emotions swirling together in a vast whirlpool of sentient consciousness. They can still feel the pressure from that cacophony of minds, though it is muted, now, by their shared focus on the mind they know to be Grievous' and the shields that Obi-Wan instinctively slammed up around them, protecting them and their newly awakened and newly strengthened Force-amplified senses behind sheltering walls able to dim that din of white noise to a distant rhythmic roar, as of the noise of some vast sea, rising and falling somewhere far in the background. Here and there, one particular spark or another still sputters brightly, as specific, inordinately strong or focused or Force-amplified minds briefly rise up above the others in forcefulness or volume, making of themselves plainly discernable targets of determination or concentration or simple power within the Force. But such atypically powerful or focused minds largely remain the exception, though the disturbance caused by Grievous' unnaturally sustained and constant outpourings of rage and hatred - and perhaps just the barest bit of fear, to help fuel that unreasoning anger - is a steady, unfaltering throb of concentrated and sometimes rapidly spiking /wrongness/, like a lone voice howling stridently and out-of-tune, shrieking away in the midst of a soft chorus of rising and falling murmurs.)

Thus, Obi-Wan's certainty that this would definitely be it. One way or another, Utapau would be the place where the hunt for General Grievous would come to a close. Even if he were unable to feel Grievous' presence through the Force, Obi-Wan is certain he would be sure of the hunt's end, here. He can feel it in his bones: Utapau is a planet for endings.

Thus, Obi-Wan is almost eerily calm, even as his small fighter bucks its way through coils of turbulence, the rim of the sinkhole catching enough of the hyperwinds above that the first few levels of city reside in the swirling vortex of a semipermanent hurricane. His gaze roams almost idly, entirely unsurprised, over the whirling blades of wind-power turbines sticking out from the sinkhole's sides on generator pods, their casings so scoured by the fierce winds that they almost appear as if they have been molded out of liquid sandstone. Though he has to fight the controls of the Eta-2 Actis Interceptor Jedi starfighter to bring it down level after level, at least until the small craft has descended deep enough for the wind to have subsided to a mere gale, Obi-Wan shows none of his customary dislike for flying. He is much too busy basking in the tranquil glow of the sheer rightness of being here, in this place at this exact moment in time on the mission that he is on, with Anakin's presence a sunburst of radiance and eager joy shining steadily upon him from just a little above and to the side of him. Utapau may very well be a planet for endings, but it is the end of Grievous' tyranny and bloodlust, the end of the oppression of Utapau by the droid armies of the Separatists, and the end of the threat of continued widespread galactic civil war posed by the remaining organized and mobile and dedicated forces of the CIS that they will be accomplishing here, not the end that had, once upon a time, been planned for Obi-Wan by Darth Sidious. He is as certain of it as he is sure of his own name. With Anakin here, by his side, he will find a way to turn this certainty into reality, however impossible the actual progression of events leading up to those three ends might seem, to others.

They are /Anakin and Obi-Wan/: the impossible is their speciality.

So even though, after finally reaching the landing deck in the far depths of the sinkhole, R4-G9 has to extend the starfighter's docking claws to keep it from being blown, skidding, right off of the surface and airborne again, Obi-Wan is not perturbed by this sign of the small craft's fragility and relative lightness. A ribbed semitransparent canopy swings out to enfold the landing deck as soon as Anakin has touched down behind him, anyway; once that has settled securely into place around them, the howl of winds drops abruptly away into silence. The click and slight hiss as Obi-Wan pops the cockpit is surprisingly loud in his ears, in the midst of that sudden silence, doubly loud because Anakin has hit his cockpit release at the same time. As he pulls him up and out of the cockpit, Obi-Wan notices that a pack of Utai is already scampering towards the two starfighters (which, unsurprisingly, given Utapau's remoteness and the occupancy of the world by the remaining droid armies of the CIS, stand alone on the deck), carrying a variety of tools and dragging equipment behind them, obviously some sort of ground crew intent on seeing to the needs of their visitors' ships. Behind the Utai glides the stately form of a tall, attenuated Pau'an in a heavy, deck-length, long-sleeved, close-fitting robe of deep scarlet and a matching waist-length vest-like garment over that robe with a lapel collar so tall that it effectively conceals his vestigial ear-disks. The Pau'an's glabrous scalp glistens with a sheen of moisture, and his long glide is aided with a staff that reminds Obi-Wan vaguely of Yoda's beloved gimer stick.

That was quick, Obi-Wan notes, pleased with their swift response. Almost as if they've been expecting us. I wonder if one of the two races of Utapau might be sensitive to the Force?

"Greetings, young Jedi," the Utapaun announces gravely in accented Basic, bowing his head in turn to Obi-Wan and Anakin, as Anakin comes up from behind Obi-Wan to quietly take his place at his former Master's left side. "I am Tion Medon, master of port administration for this place of peace. What business could bring two such illustrious Jedi to our remote sanctuary?"

Obi-Wan is unsurprised to sense no malice in this being, though the Pau'an quite understandably radiates a palpable aura of fear. Entirely truthfully, Obi-Wan quietly but firmly and truthfully declares, "Unfortunately, our business is the war."

"There is no war here, unless you have brought it with you," Medon replies, a mask of serenity concealing what the Force plainly tells Obi-Wan is anxiety verging on panic.

"Very well, then." Feeling the presence of some of Grievous' bodyguards, hidden from sight on a ledge above the landing platform but plainly discernable through the ripples in the Force surrounding their near-sentient levels of programmed rage and hatred, Obi-Wan inclines his head slightly, playing along. "If you will be so kind as to permit us, we will refuel here and use your city as a base to search the surrounding systems."

"For what do you search?"

"Even in the Outer Rim, you must have heard of General Grievous. It is he we seek, and his remaining army of droids."

Tion Medon's response is to take another long step closer and lean down to bring his face near the space between Obi-Wan's left ear and Anakin's right. "He is here/!" Medon whispers urgently, his words the barest breath of sound. "He is here, with the remnants of a vast fleet of warships! Almost all of the ships have already departed, saving those too damaged to go, but their /crews - !" Medon shakes his head once, a motion rapid and jerky with fear. "There are many droid fighters here, many more even than General Grievous brought with him when he first claimed control of our world. We are being held hostage: even now, we are being watched!"

Anakin tilts his head ever so slightly in response, his answering, "I understand," even softer than Medon's whisper of warning.

Obi-Wan merely nods matter-of-factly. "Thank you, Master Medon," he replies in a thoroughly ordinary voice. "I am grateful for your hospitality, and will depart as soon as your crew refuels our starfighters."

"Listen to me, young Jedi!" Medon's whisper becomes even more intense then. "You must depart in truth! I was ordered to reveal their presence here: this is a trap, for you!"

"Of course it is," Obi-Wan simply nods equably, his slight smile noticed only by Anakin, who grins widely, almost hungrily, in response.

"The tenth level - thousands /of war droids - /tens of thousands, easily! Perhaps hundreds of thousands, by now. We are not allowed to watch or to aid in the offloading of their ships!"

"Have your people seek shelter." Obi-Wan turns casually and scans upward, counting the levels. On the tenth, his gaze finds a spiny spheroid of metal: a Dreadnaught-sized structure that clearly has not been there for long, as its gleaming surface has not yet been scoured to matte by the sand in the constant stream and howl of winds. He nods again, then, absently, and speaks softly, as though to himself. "Geenine, take my starfighter back to the /Vigilance. /Instruct Commander Cody to inform Jedi Command on Coruscant that we have made contact with General Grievous. We will be engaging now. Cody is to attack in full force, as planned." The astromech beeps acknowledgment from its forward socket, and Obi-Wan turns once more to Tion Medon, only half listening as Anakin relays much the same order to a waiting Artoo. "Tell them we promised to file a report with Republic Intelligence. Tell them we really only wanted fuel enough to leave immediately."

"But - but what will you /do/?"

"If you have warriors," Obi-Wan tells him, his voice grave but calm, "now is the time."

***