FicWad

The city-planet that is Coruscant - the "Scintillant Orb" and "Jewel of the Core," the labyrinthine and congested heart of the Galactic Republic - spreads off to all sides in a brilliant welter of lustrous metallic and jewel-toned domes, knife-edged crystalline spires and pyramids, and rainbow-hued terraced superstructures climbing to such stupendously stratospheric heights that their lofty uppermost stories reside in spaces more normally reserved for lanes of flight traffic. Several of those taller buildings more closely resemble outsize rockets and old-fashioned starships that have never managed to leave their launch pads than they do practical structures meant for living and working quarters, while some of the more organic looking buildings look as if they have been deliberately fashioned after the manner of wind-eroded lava tors of long-dead volcanoes, fantastic cloud formations captured just as they have finished forming, and enormous waterfalls frozen suddenly midstream. Some of the domes are flattened hemispheres perched on cylindrical bases, while others have the look of vast, shallow hand-thrown ceramic bowls with whimsically finialed lids. And some of those crystalline towers and gem-hued superstructures look like blindly chosen alien artifacts that have been plucked up and plopped down at entirely random locations, often in the midst of a spread of buildings far more obviously fashioned after the manner of structures meant to house human or at least humanoid sentient beings. Still, despite the apparent mishmash of styles and colors and building materials, the welter of differing geometries and often outright sumptuous architectures combines to form an almost staggeringly beautiful, if weirdly patterned, panorama, as of a jumbled up mass of prodigiously oversized gemstones (including both carefully cut and entirely natural and unpolished ones) and treasures, all different hued and shaped and composed, true, but nevertheless all still undeniably precious.

Staggeringly complex striations of magnetically guided sky traffic move swiftly above that complex cityscape, streams of transports, air buses, taxis, and limousines coursing between the tall spires and over the measureless chasms like schools of exotic fish. Rather than feeding, though, they are, in the main, the feeders, the elaborate patterns they weave all necessary for the process of distributing and redirecting the galaxy's wealth among the approximately greedy trillion or so sentient beings who make their homes on Coruscant. As often as Mon Mothma has beheld that view - which she has seen at least once nearly every day of her eight years as the Senator for both her homeworld of Chandrila and the rest of the Bormea Sector - she has yet to grow indifferent to the endlessly intricate spectacle of Coruscant. As planets go, Coruscant is neither large nor especially rugged, but history has transformed it into a uniquely developed and settled world, the structure of which gives an impression to the planet's overall feel that has much more in common with worlds more suited for oceanic rather than atmospheric life. Irregardless of that effect, though, thousands of different sentient species - quite a few of them humanoid and the vast majority of them atmospheric rather than oceanic in nature - have all made a home for themselves on Coruscant, though that home may only consist of a single block of rooms within one of the many kilometer-high or taller section of the more nondescript building meant solely for housing. And nearly all those species have a voice upon Coruscant, though it may be only that of a representative long since corrupted by the diverse pleasures and vices that Coruscant offers. Those manifold voices all have their say (at least theoretically, though far too many of those voices have been stifled or silenced outright during the years leading up to and culminating in the civil war still plaguing the galaxy) in the Galactic Senate, in the Great Rotunda that sprouts like a squat mushroom from the heart of Coruscant's vast governmental district.

In an effort to be near the principal offices of the former Supreme Chancellor without also giving the impression of having taken over those offices, Mon Mothma and those members of the Senate considered to be both trustworthy and principled enough to have been included on the (distressingly short) list of Senators known or thought to be willing to stand against Palpatine and his cohorts in their efforts to solidify Palpatine's strangle-grip upon the galactic government -a list that Bail Organa and Mon Mothma together have secretly (and with increasingly seriousness, of late) been working on consolidating for roughly half the duration of the war - have established a headquarters of sorts for themselves in the lofty perch of a warren of interconnected rooms at the summit of the governmental district's stateliest if not most statuesque edifice (the dome of the building housing the Galactic Senate itself), a set of offices that terminates in a room with walls of transparisteel paneled by structural members into continuous bands of alternating regular and inverted equilateral triangles. Since this group of like-minded Senators and political aides are currently investigating what has already been found of the many records left behind by Palpatine (both in his known name and that of his mysterious alter ego, the Sith Lord Sidious), it is the physical placement of the offices - at the summit of the Senate Rotunda but not near the actual offices and inner sanctum of the former Supreme Chancellor, actually in a set of rooms once used by the previous Supreme Chancellor, Finis Valorum, as an unofficial sanctum - that has dictated its choosing as an appropriate meeting ground and not its vast, panoramic view of the surrounding cityscape. Still, Mon Mothma would likely be the first to admit that the view from that final room is positively breathtaking.

At the moment, though, not even the view is sufficient to distract her or help lighten her mood. Small, pale hands clasped tightly at her back, Mon Mothma stands silently at the bank of transparisteel windows that faces towards the dawn, though daybreak is already hours gone. Southern light, polarized by the transparisteel panels, floods the room with light, catching in the intricate embroidery on her white gown and glimmering softly, liming her slender figure with an aura of almost palpable radiance. The other sole occupant of the room is presently in a seat well out of the light's reach, in a position that is almost directly behind Mon Mothma's back.

"I fear that we face a far more monumental challenge than even our strongest allies among the Senate realize," Bail Organa quietly declares from the shadows behind the Senator from Chandrila. "If the Confederacy of Independent Systems is not willing to see sense and sue for peace, what remains of the Republic proper may well unravel. Even without Grievous and with most of its armies of droids destroyed, the CIS remains a potent threat. And the rottenness at the heart of the Republic does not help matters any. Too many worlds and peoples have lost their ability to trust in us, lost faith in the very idea of a Galactic Republic, because we have done so little do counter that corruption. The news that Palpatine himself, our own Supreme Chancellor, was in fact the Sith Lord Sidious will likely only serve to aggravate this atmosphere of distrust and alienation. Though the reestablishment of order and peace are both sorely needed, to give us time to heal our wounds, an outpouring of new laws and directives will do nothing to endear us to those whose trust we have lost or strained on account of our foolishness and greed and inaction. The Grand Masters speak of the need to established organizations on the many worlds harmed by this war and the machinations of the Sith, organizations that will deal directly with the needs of all of the sentient beings living on those worlds and see to it that the kind of rebuilding and restructuring necessary to encourage peace and prosperity, as well as guaranteeing the inalienable rights and freedom of those beings, occurs in a timely manner. But even this will not be enough. The Jedi Bendu are, as yet, few in number, and though the Force is now wholly free of the taint that has, in recent years, all but crippled the Jedi's ability to use the Force, the Jedi Bendu alone cannot heal all of the wounds that we have helped inflict on the galaxy, with our carelessness and avarice and fear. They will need the support and aid of the Senate, if such organizations are not to be limited only to those worlds with either the worst wounds or the closest ties to Coruscant. And if we truly wish for them to ever have trust in us again, then the sentient beings of the Expansion Region and Mid and Outer Rims as well as the peoples of the Core Worlds and Inner Rim and Colonies will all need to see that the Senate supports the wishes of the Jedi Bendu in this. If the Senate wishes to rebuild the trust that the Clone Wars has all but finished breaking between the Core Worlds and the remainder of the Republic, not to mention the rest of the known galaxy, then we cannot afford to do anything other than support the Jedi Bendu in this. We need not only to repair the balance of power in the galaxy, so that the majority of that power will once again rest in hands of the many citizens of our galactic-wide alliance, but also to repair the trust that the Senate has so badly abused, by allowing someone like Palpatine to gain so much power over us in the first place. We have been slaves of habit, slaves of prejudice, and slaves of fear for far too long a time, Senator. But no more. We cannot afford the luxury of remaining bound and separate from one another, divided along lines of species or class or economic status or the location of our specific homeworlds, because of our fear and our pride. If we are to rebuild a truly just galactic government, then we must be united in more than mere name. We must become united in truth, in our minds and our hearts, and not just in the hollow and ultimately meaningless words of some sweeping governmental edict."

Although such radical opinions have, in the past few days, become the common sentiment among the most loyal members of the Senate, Bail's words pierce Mon Mothma like the strike of a sword. The fact that she knows them to be absolutely true makes them all the more difficult to hear. Sighing, she turns her back on that glorious view and returns to the room's lone desk, where she seats herself in its enormous padded chair, sitting far more heavily than her slight form would seem to necessitate. "You are speaking of the destruction of the Republic, Bail - of building a whole new galactic-wide government. Of making vast changes not just to the overall structure of the Republic and the way in which our galactic government has functioned, but to the typical mode of thinking and general way of life of its many peoples, not to mention the manner in which those different peoples normally view themselves. You are speaking of revolution, Bail, and I am not at all sure that the gentlebeings of the galaxy are ready for anything quite so radical as that."

"I am less concerned with what the gentlebeings of the galaxy may be ready for than what they so patently need, Senator." Bail's voice is oddly remote when he replies, and his eyes remain fixed on a point midway between him and Mon Mothma, as if he were gazing upon a vision of the future visible only to his eyes. "There is a storm coming, Senator. We cannot afford to allow the prejudices and divisions that have kept us apart and weakened the bonds holding us together to continue. If we wish to weather what is coming, we must look beyond our own wants and desires and push past the boundaries of our own narrow comfort zones. We must learn how to look beyond our perceived differences and unite, or we will not survive." His eyes returning somewhat from the distances, then, Bail focuses upon Mon Mothma's face and asks, his tone less like that of some remote Jedi seer forecasting doom and more like that of the man she knows, the kind and generous man who, because of her reputation of integrity and idealism, welcomed her to Coruscant warmly, in spite of her extremely young age, and listened to her ideas and spoke to her as an equal, instead of as if her youth automatically made her a child unworthy of notice. "I don't know why this troubles you so, Mon. We may not have discussed an outcome exactly like this before, but the plans we made apply whether we are being threatened from within, by Palpatine's lust for power, or from without, by forces that would seize upon any weakness we show now as an excuse to invade and conquer. It's time to stop planning, stop simply talking, and start doing. We know whom we can trust - Fang Zar, Giddean Danu, Garm Bel Iblis, Iridik'k-stallu, Sweitt Concorkill, Chi Eekway, Terr Taneel, Nee Alavar, Bana Breemu, Tanner Cadaman, Ivor Drake, Tundra Dowmeia, Grebleips, Malé-Dee, Shea Sadashassa, Streamdrinker, Meena Tills, ourselves, the Jedi Bendu - and though it is a pity we've lost Padmé's potential support, the current Queen of Naboo is very like Padmé Amidala as she once was, so I am certain that we will be able to include whomever she asks to take Padmé's place among our ranks. The others must be tested and brought around, given reasons to rally together, tasks to focus on that have meaning and can be accomplished, to give them purpose. We/ must/ bring in the Senate, Mon. We cannot do this without their support, and we will not survive what is coming if we cannot do even this."

Paling, Mon Mothma beings to ask, "But Bail, how can you be so certain that - "

Before she can finish the question, though, the door to the office opens and a wide-eyed and obviously agitated Senator Giddean Danu of Kuat bursts into the room. "A communication has arrived from the Leadership Council of the Confederacy of Independent Systems! They wish to sue for peace, but they are asking for /High Justice/!"

In the stunned silence that follows that shocked declaration, Mon Mothma would have sworn that she could actually feel the ripples of change that the invocation of those two words, "High Justice," will inevitably bring about already starting to spread out across the galaxy, like the expanding front of a shockwave or the spreading fire of a conflagration of revolution . . .

***

When Obi-Wan Kenobi starts waving his lightsaber at the clone troopers swarming the droid control center on the tenth level of Pau City, he instantly commands their attention. "The General!" he shouts. "Which way?"

In reply, a trooper circles his arm as though throwing a proton grenade back towards the archway where Obi-Wan and Anakin first entered the structure. And speaking of Anakin -

- ah. There. Holding off an entire squadron of destroyer droids by himself, determinedly keeping the droidekas from slaughtering the next wave of clone troopers descending into the sinkhole down their polyplast cables. Too far away for him to be able to wait for Anakin to fight his way back to his side, unfortunately.

Sighing, Obi-Wan follows the gesture and catches, for an instant in the sun-shadow of the Vigilance outside, the back curves of twin bladed rings - ganged together to make a wheel the size of a starfighter - rolling off swiftly along the rim of this level of the sinkhole city.

General Grievous has, over the course of the war, gotten very good at running away.

"Not this time," Obi-Wan mutters, and immediately begins cutting a path through the tangled mob of droids all the way to the arch, so determined that he manages to win through in one single sustained surge, reaching the open air just in time to see the blade-wheeler turn.

It is an open ring with a pilot's chair inside, and in the pilot's chair sits Grievous, who is even then lifting one of his bodyguards' electrostaffs in a sardonic wave as he takes the scooter straight out over the edge. Four claw-footed arms deploy, digging into the rock to carry him down the side of the sinkhole, angling away at a steep slant.

"Blast!" Obi-Wan takes an instant to look around. Still /no air taxis. Of course. Not that he should be surprised. None of his missions have ever been so easy. Not that he has any real interest in flying through the storm of battle that is raging all throughout the interior of the sinkhole, in all honesty, but there's certainly no way he can catch up to Grievous on foot and transportation of some sort /would be helpful . . .

As though in answer to the though, a resonant honking cry, as though a nearby bantha has swallowed an air horn, drifts towards him from around the corner of an interior tunnel.

Smiling widely, Obi-Wan calls, "Boga?"

In reply, the beaked face of the dragonmount slowly extends around the interior angle of the tunnel.

"Boga! Come here, girl! We have a General to catch."

Boga fixes him with a reproachful glare. "Honnnnnk."

"Oh, very well." Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, hands planted firmly on hips. "I was wrong; you were right. Can we please go now?"

The remaining fifteen meters of dragonmount heaves into view and comes trotting out to meet him. The instant she is close enough, Obi-Wan springs swiftly to the saddle, and a moment later Boga is leaping to the rim of the sinkhole, reaching it in a single powerful bound. Her huge head swings low, searching, until Obi-Wan spots Grievous's bladewheeler racing away towards the landing decks below.

"There/, girl - that's him! /Go!"

Boga gathers herself and springs to the rim of the next level down, poising for an instant to get her bearings before leaping again, down into the firestorm that Pau City has become. Obi-Wan spins his blade in a continuous whirl to either side of the dragonmount's back, disintegrating shrapnel and slapping away stray blasterfire, determined to protect his mount. They plummet at breakneck speed down through the sinkhole-city, gaining tens of meters on Grievous with every leap. On one of the landing decks, the canopy is lifting and parting to reveal a small, ultrafast armored shuttle of the type favored by the famously nervous Neimoidian executives of the Trade Federation. Grievous's wheeler is going so fast that it sprays a fan of white-hot sparks as it tears across the landing deck, the bio-droid whipping the wheeler sideways, laying it down for a reckless skidding halt that showers the shuttle with molten durasteel. But despite his haste, before Grievous can clamber up out of the pilot's chair, several metric tons of Jedi-bearing dragonmount has landed on the shuttle's roof, crouched and threatening and hissing venomously down at him.

"I hope you have another vehicle, General!" Obi-Wan waves his lightsaber towards the shuttle's twin rear thrusters. "I believe there's some damage to your sublights!"

"You're insane! There's no - "

Obi-Wan merely shrugs and grins, cutting him off mid-protest. "Show him, Boga."

The dragonmount dutifully points out the damage with two whistling strikes of her massive tail-mace - wham and wham again - which crumple the shuttle's thruster tubes into crimped-shut knots of metal.

With an almost beatific smile, Obi-Wan beckons to Grievous. "Let's settle this, shall we?"

Grievous's answer is a shriek of tortured gyros that wrenches the wheeler upright, followed by a metal-on-metal scream of blades ripping into deck plates that send it shooting straight towards the sinkhole wall - and, with the claw-arms to help, straight up it.

Obi-Wan sighs quietly. "Didn't we just come from there?" he plaintively asks.

Boga just coils herself and springs for the wall, giving chase once more. Again, they race their way through the battle, clawing up walls, shooting through tunnels, skidding and leaping, sprinting where the way is clear and screeching into high-powered serpentines where it is not, whipping around knots of droids and bounding over troopers. At one point, Boga actually runs straight up the side of a clone hovertank and springs from its turret directly between the high-slanting ringwheels of a hailfire, so that a swipe of Obi-Wan's blade can leave the droid crippled behind them. By then, native troops have taken the field: Utapauns riding varactyls and flying dactillion mounts, armed with sparking power lances, charge along the causeways and dive-bomb the encampments, spearing droids on every side. Grievous, of course, callously runs right over anything and everything in his path, the blades of his wheeler shredding droid and trooper and dragonmount alike. Closing swiftly from behind him, Obi-Wan's lightsaber catches and returns blaster bolts in a spray that shatter any droid unwise enough to fire on him. A few stray bolts he bats off into the speeding wheeler ahead, though without visible effect.

"Fine," Obi-Wan finally mutters, exhaling explosively to push his growing frustration away from him, into the Force. "Let's try this from a little closer, then, shall we?"

At his urging, Boga increases the speed of her gallop to a flat-out run, after which her hitherto steady gain of ground increases by rapid leaps and bounds. Grievous's vehicle has the edge in raw speed, but Boga can out-turn it and can make instant leaps at astonishing angles, and at a flat run that edge in speed decreases to only the slenderest of margins. The dragonmount also has an almost uncanny instinct for where the General might be heading, as well as a seemingly infinite knowledge of useful shortcuts through side tunnels, along sheer walls, and over chasms studded with locked-down wind turbines, which helps a great deal. After seeing how swiftly they are gaining on him, Grievous tries, once, to block Obi-Wan's pursuit by screeching out onto a huge pod holding a whole bank of wind turbines and knocking the blade-brakes off of them with quick blows of the stolen electrostaff, letting the razor-edged blades spin freely in the constant gale. But Obi-Wan merely brings Boga alongside the turbines and sticks his lightsaber into their whirl. Sliced-free chunks of carboceramic blade shriek through the air and shatter on the stone on all sides, forcing a cursing Grievous to kick his vehicle back into motion again, so as to avoid the rain of shrapnel.

This time, the wheeler roars off into a tunnel that seems to lead straight into the rock of the plateau. The tunnel is jammed with groundcars and dragonmounts and wheelers and jetsters and all manner of other vehicles and every kind of beast that might bear or draw the vast numbers of Pau'ans and Utai fleeing the battle. Grievous blasts right into them, blade-wheel chewing through groundcars and splashing the tunnel walls with chunks of shredded lizard, while Boga races along the walls above the traffic, sometimes even galloping along on the ceiling, her claws gouging chunks from the rock. With a burst of sustained effort that strangles her belling, honking cries to thin gasps for air, Boga finally pulls alongside Grievous. Obi-Wan leans forward, stretching out with his lightsaber, barely able to reach the wheeler's back curve, and carves away an arc of the wheeler's blade-tread, making the vehicle buck and skid. Grievous answers with a thrust of his electrostaff that crackles lightning against Boga's extended neck, making the great beast jerk sideways, honking fearfully and whipping her head as though the burn were a biting creature she might shake off her flank.

"One more leap, Boga!" Obi-Wan shouts encouragingly, pressing himself along the dragonmount's shoulder. "Bring me even with him!"

The dragonmount complies without hesitation, and when Grievous thrusts again, Obi- Wan's free hand flashes out and seizes the staff below its discharge blade, holding it clear of Boga's vulnerable flesh. Grievous yanks on the staff, nearly pulling Obi-Wan out of the saddle, then jabs it back at him, discharge blade sparking in his face -

- and, with a sigh, Obi-Wan realizes that he is going to need both of his hands for this.

With a resigned mental shrug, Obi-Wan Kenobi drops his lightsaber.

***

Anakin Skywalker is sunk so deep within the Force that it takes him entirely too long a time to realize that he will not be able to catch up to Obi-Wan before his former Master goes tearing off after the fleeing General Grievous.

Alone. Of course. In the middle of a raging war-zone. With nothing but his lightsaber and the Force to protect him. Without even so much as a thought or care for his own safety or well-being. The complete and utter idiot - !

Anakin is not well pleased by this realization, not at all, though he cannot claim that he is entirely surprised by it either, not truly. Obi-Wan always seems to be doing ridiculously stupid and dangerous things like this, rushing pell-mell off into certain danger, trusting to the Force to protect him when he would be better served to simply wait long enough for Anakin to catch up with him and let Anakin guard his back, like he's supposed to do. And then, to rub salt in the wound, after it's all over with and Anakin has finally managed to catch up with his terrifyingly reckless former Master, Obi-Wan usually manages to find some fault in the way that Anakin has come to his rescue, too, either by finding cause to lecture Anakin for his /supposed recklessness or else to scold him for dropping or otherwise losing (through actual loss or destruction) yet /another blasted lightsaber, instead of simply acknowledging that Anakin has helped save him or, Force forbid, actually noticing that if he had just bothered to wait for Anakin in the first place, they might possibly have been able to avoid landing in whatever tangle they managed to find themselves in that Obi-Wan thinks he needs to lecture Anakin about in the first place!

With a furious snarl born of equal parts frustration and thwarted protectiveness, Anakin turns all of his considerable strength and power in the Force to finding the quickest way out of the storage hive, so that he can get on with the process of chasing after Obi-Wan and shielding him from whatever messy situation he thinks he's going to get himself into.

The Force erupts around him in a wave of shattered droid parts, rippling out from him as if from the impact of a proton grenade. Anakin takes advantage of the following momentary lull in the fighting in his immediate vicinity to get his bearings. Obi-Wan's presence - an exploding sunburst of apparently equal parts serene acceptance and fierce joy - blazes like a beacon fire in the Force. With another determined snarl, Anakin turns and bolts for the open archway, not caring how many potentially still functioning droids he is leaving behind at his back, so long as he can get to Obi-Wan in time to save him from whatever folly his former Master is doubtlessly rushing so blithely towards.

***

The vast building that houses the Galactic Senate is located at the heart of Coruscant's governmental district. Surrounded by lesser domes and buttressed buildings whose summits disappear into the busy sky, the Senate Rotunda is fronted by an expansive pedestrian plaza. This elevated plaza lords over a complex sprawl of elaborately spired skyscrapers and is studded with impressionistic statues thirty meters high, dedicated to the Core World founders. Angular and humaniform in design, these long-limbed and genderless sculptures stand on tall duracrete bases and hold slender ceremonial staffs. The iconic motif is continued inside the building, where many of the public corridors that encircle the actual Senate Arena feature statues of similarly spindly design. Proceeding briskly along one of those wide corridors, Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila is not yet quite so distracted as to avoid sparing a stray thought for the rather obviously limited furnishings, marveling once again at the fact that the Senate still has yet to commission (much less display) any such sculptures of obviously nonhumanoid configuration. Where some delegates have been willing to dismiss the lack of nonhuman representation as a simple oversight, others have long viewed it as an outright slight. To still others, the decor of the Rotunda represents a matter of little concern, either way. But with nonhumanoid species dominant in both the Mid and Outer Rims and their delegations now clearly poised to swell the Senate's numbers and tip the balance of power once and for all away from the mostly human and near-human delegates of the Core Worlds, just as soon as the Clone Wars have finally come to an end, it seems obvious to Mon Mothma that the kind of changes that have been put off again and again are certainly well on their way to becoming an urgent priority, if the Senate truly wishes to retain any kind of ability to function without the risk of endless bickering and deadlock between the old power block, traditionally held by the Core, and the rising power of the farthest-flung outposts and frontier settlements of the Republic's former colonies.

Mon Mothma would not be at all surprised to learn that Bail Organa (who is currently strolling along silently at her right elbow, his long stride both shortened and slowed to match her pace and avoid forcing her into an undignified scurrying attempt to keep up with him) is thinking about the same thing, since it will certainly be difficult, if not downright impossible, to build any kind of real rapport or trust between the older worlds of the Inner Rim and Colonies and the more newly settled sectors of the Expansion Region, Mid Rim, Outer Rim, and even the loosely allied space of the Tingel Arm if the traditional Core World power block continues to refuse to even acknowledge the diverse species of the farther reaches of the Republic as worthy of inclusion among the ranks of sculpted symbols of the Republic and the Senate's founders and members . . . Hopefully, though, there will be enough time to see to that before it can become an issue. After all, they first need to be sure that they have indeed ended the war before they can truly welcome the delegations of those far more distance systems and sectors within the Galactic Senate and the galactic-wide alliance of their government . . . With a slight shake of her head, Mon Mothma at last decides to let the thought go for the moment, in favor of more pressing issues. Time enough to see to the commissioning of new statues and the building of trust between the scions of the old ways and the representatives of the new after they actually have a working galactic government in place that can safely handle the needs and guarantee the rights and freedom of those myriad sentient beings, both human and near-human and nonhumanoid. Filing the issue away in the back of her mind for later perusal, the young Senator allows her thoughts to turn towards other considerations.

With its multilevel walkways, wide corridors, and complex network of both vertical and horizontal turbolifts, the hemispherical building of the Great Rotunda is easily as labyrinthine as the inner workings of the Senate itself, and its obviously biased emblematic statuary is not the only object within it that is worthy of her attention. Courtesy of the now long-standing special session, which has been ongoing now for just over a week, the corridors are even more jammed than usual; still, Mon Mothma is heartened at this proof that the remaining delegates (over half the population of the Senate has either resigned, been arrested, or else vanished outright since the news broke that Palpatine was also Sidious) are evidently still so dedicated to their jobs that they are remaining motivated enough to continue to set aside personal affairs for matters of broader import. Mon Mothma therefore smiles pleasantly (and with not a little relief) as she threads her way on towards the actual Senate Arena, flanked not only by her good friend Bail Organa but also by the obviously still badly rattled Senator Giddean Danu of Kuat. She is still smiling when she finally eases her way past the blue-robed Senate Guard (the Red Robes, loyal to Palpatine, have been removed from duty and are undergoing serious investigation, to gauge just has deeply that loyalty runs) stationed at the Arena's doorway and steps down into Chandrila's balcony platform in the vast amphitheater.

One of what is meant to be 1,024 identical balconies lining the inner wall of the spacious dome (this number is still somewhat short, given the ravages wrecked on the chamber during the recent battle between Jedi Masters Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker and the Sith Lord and Master Sidious), the platform is circular and spacious enough to easily accommodate half a dozen or more humans. Each such balcony is actually the apex of a wedge-shaped slice of the building - stretching from the center of the Arena clear to the outer rim of the hemisphere - in which the separate delegations are quartered, where most of the Senate's more mundane affairs as well as the illicit business of its various members are often transacted. Automatically adjusting the fall of the train of her elaborate gown, Mon Mothma steps to the podiumlike console at the front lip of the platform. Given Chandrila's elevated position in the rotunda, the view to the floor is frankly vertiginous - something that she normally would not notice, if not for the fact that it has been so difficult for her to banish the memory of the outcome of that momentous battle between the Jedi and the Sith Lord: Sidious' plummeting fall down from one of the platforms, with Obi-Wan and Anakin purposefully diving down after. Shuddering slightly, she swiftly turns her thoughts away from that memory, her eyes roaming up across the walls and the other near-thousand balconies to distract herself.

The whole of the amphitheater is purposely sealed off from natural light, as well as from Coruscant's somewhat dubious atmosphere, to maximize the overall comfort of and minimize the effects of passing time on the delegates; that is, to encourage everyone to remain focused on the matters at hand, despite the possibility that some sessions that begin early enough will continue on late into the evening. More and more, though, the citizens have come to view the building's unnatural circumstances as symbolic of the Senate's own insularity and growing separation from reality, and Mon Mothma cannot help but wonder if perhaps it might not be better for the Senate to seize the damage to the building as an excuse to shift their proceedings to another, more open and less publically tainted structure. Continuing a trend that began far before the outbreak of the war, the Senate as a whole has been steadily losing not only its will to act in the best interests of all, but also the respect of the beings it is supposed to serve. The coming infusion of new blood may well be the only thing capable of saving the Senate from its slide down into total inefficiency and an eventual dismantling by beings grown certain of the fact that having no Senate at all will be preferable to the wholly corrupt and defective system currently in place. For far too long a time, the Senate has been thought to exist entirely apart from the rest of the galaxy, bothering to debate issues of only minor or occult concern, save for those touching directly on the illegal enrichment of its membership - another reason that she doubtlessly needs to take Bail's words regarding broken trust to heart, despite their still shocking flavor of revolution. Perhaps it would be a good idea to follow up the all too necessary purging of their ranks and the influx of new blood and even newer members from the outermost known systems and sectors of settled space with a relocation to another building, one more accessible to the general public and not connected to the inefficiency and graft and greed of the old Senate . . .

Already, there is a feeling of renewed intensity in the recycled air. Perhaps it will not be quite so difficult as all that, to convince the rest of the Senate to understand just how necessary and inexorable the coming changes are going to be, not just for the survival of the Senate itself but for the preservation of the greatest common galactic good, if so many of its members are already as inclined towards change as their excited murmurings would seem to indicate . . . Mon Mothma can tell from the tone of the room that gossip has already alerted practically everyone in the vast chamber to the topic that they so urgently need to discuss, and thankfully most of those gentlebeings seem as eager to hear it being formally declared as they appear hungry to respond to the shocking news. Her own sense of urgency takes her by surprise; the buzz in the Arena is that infectious, so much so that the atmosphere is already starting to lean towards agitated. By the time Bail Organa (who has been switching off with Mon Mothma in the aftermath of the first hastily called emergency session, taking turns acting as the Senate's mediator and spokesperson in the absence of a Supreme Chancellor to chair the sessions) reaches his perch, a thirty-meter-tall dais rising from the center of the floor like the stalk of a flower, conveyed to the bud of that flower by turbolift, the Senate's sergeant-at-arms, parliamentarian, journal clerk, and official reporter are already in their seats below him, in the round dish that cradles the bud. In his rich dark blue garb, Bail stands out against the predominantly light color scheme of the amphitheater like a proverbial sore thumb. Many of the chattering and gossiping Senators and senatorial aides fall silent upon catching sight of him, eager to get the session started, even before he can raise his hands in a gesture asking for silence. Mon Mothma takes that as a favorable sign, even as she notices that the lofty position of the Supreme Chancellor's perch, in which Bail is standing, makes him as much a center of attention as a target of opportunity and takes a moment to remember to ask the Senate Guards one more time about the safety precautions be taken, so that no one can smuggle in any dangerous weapons.

Bail, apparently, has decided to go for the most direct approach possible. Even though she knows what is coming, Mon Mothma feels as though Bail's passionately delivered words have carved the world out from underneath her. "If I could have your attention, please, gentlebeings. We have had news of a most momentous nature, and it is my duty and my pleasure to inform the delegates of the Galactic Senate of this news, so that a decision may be reached. The Leadership Council of the Confederacy of Independent Systems has issued an invitation to us to enter into peace talks. They wish to sue not only for peace but also for personal freedom from prosecution for possible war crimes and other crimes against civilization under the provision of High Justice. It is the Senate's responsibility to respond to this invitation in as timely a manner as possible, so that civil war will end and we can begin to work towards healing the many wounds brought about by the fighting."

There is a long moment of silence then, as though the delegates cannot quite bring themselves to believe what it is that they are being told. And then hundreds of separate conversations, in as many different tongues, all break out at once, in a cacophony of noise.

It is, unsurprisingly, a human representative from a Core World - a former senatorial aide from Alsakan: a slight, nondescript man with lank brown hair, a pleasant-looking enough round face, and watery blue eyes, memorable only for his surprisingly (and frankly rather suspiciously so, given the average wages of a senatorial aide) elaborate and expensive-looking robes, who has been standing in for his Senator, given that man's mysterious (and not a little suspicious) absence in the wake of the breaking news about Palpatine, to be exact. Mon Mothma believes the man's name is Venik, though she is frankly unsure of his surname - who is the first to give voice to a protest both loud enough and coherent enough to rise above the general din, leaping to his feet, hands clenched into obvious fists at his sides, to cry out in objection.

"This is preposterous! High Justice? Are they insane? The Separatists can't honestly expect us to accept such terms! The members of the CIS Leadership Council are, by definition of the very role they have played in the rebelling Separatist's mock-government, all guilty of crimes against civilization, and it is only right that they now be held accountable for their crimes!"

"In what manner does High Justice strike you as an abeyance of accountability, Aide Bindalin?" Bail Organa merely asks back, his voice so calm and quiet that many of the other still exclaiming or grumbling Senators and aides fall silent in an effort to hear him. "High Justice is a very serious and dangerous rite. The Jedi have used it only in the most desperate of straits, as a measure of last recourse, for nearly seven thousand years now."

The small man sputters for several long minutes, red in the face and apparently incoherent with rage, before he finally shouts, "In the manner that it is a myth! High Justice no more exists than the legendary lost homeworld of humanity! We demand real justice be done, that the galaxy will know that Galactic Republic is not a body to be trifled with or rebelled against lightly!"

In the same deceptively low, tranquil voice, Bail Organa quietly declares, "The last time High Justice was brought to bear against a sentient being who was not also a member of the Jedi Order was six thousand nine hundred and thirty-nine standard years ago, when a member of the then ruling house of Alderaan - whose name was then renounced by all other members of that house, out of shame for their kinsman's actions - poisoned all of his five elder siblings and their spouses and children in an attempt to seize control of the planet, so that Alderaan might be given over to the rule of the Dark Jedi, in the very midst of the Hundred-Year Darkness. Alderaan and her people remember the war of the Second Great Schism. The records of that time are well-kept and their contents are meticulously passed on, from generation to generation, so that neither the seriousness of treachery nor the shape of true justice can be forgotten by the people of Alderaan. The poisoner and would-be tyrant thought to escape punishment by throwing himself upon the mercy of the Jedi, in claiming High Justice. He was not strong enough to truly survive learning the smallness of his own soul and the truth of his crimes, by being made to live the consequences of his actions through the deaths and the sufferings of every sentient being affected by his crimes. For thirteen standard years, he stared in horror upon his soul and experienced the enormity of his crimes as if he were each and every one of the beings who had suffered because of his actions, and in all that time he screamed and wept and spoke not a word that did not involve begging for forgiveness or from release from the ritual. And at the end of those thirteen years, his mind and his life broken, he existed for a mere handful of quiet days, staring drooling into space, hearing and seeing and responding to nothing, before his heart gave out and he died. I can request a copy of the relevant records for you, from the Alderaanian royal archives, if you wish. But I assure you that High Justice is no more a device of storytellers than is the existence of the Force itself. In truth, Aide Bindalin, attempting to deny the existence and effectiveness of the High Justice ritual would be tantamount to trying to deny the existence of the Force itself, for it is the Jedi who have most often had to invoke this ritual and it is the Jedi who have kept extensive records detailing the myriad other instances in which the ritual of High Justice was called upon to properly instruct and weigh those accused of similarly heinous crimes. There is no justice more real than that of High Justice, and no possible combination of retribution and reparation that you can suggest to enact against and demand of the Separatists and their allies as a whole, to chastise them, that will better serve to punish or to rehabilitate (if such is still possible) the individual members of the CIS Leadership Council, who are most responsible for the horrors of this war. And if your wish is for a judgment that will serve as a cautionary tale to ward off other possible acts of treachery, you cannot hope for a more memorable example of purely equitable punishment than High Justice."

Most rational sentient beings, when faced with such an unshakeably calm and convinced argument, would begin to doubt their own assumptions and gratefully seize upon the chance to put some distance between themselves and their own passionately declared but apparently faulty opinions, as a graceful way to back down from an untenable position - at least until such at time as more evidence could be gathered and verified, one way or another, regarding the disagreement.

Aide Venik Bindalin is, unfortunately, evidently not an overly rational sentient being.

His round, bland face so red that it is almost purple, the small man all but screams, "No! It's impossible! Preposterous and ridiculous! Surely you jest! It is an insult to our intelligence - !"

Mon Mothma decides, as the spittle is all but visibly flying from the nearly apoplectic Alsakanian and even those of the Senate whose earlier exclamations of incredulity would have seemed to place them squarely on Venik's side begin to shrink away from the man, that this shameful spectacle has been allowed to go on more than long enough to have driven home Bail's point. Taking a deep supportive breath, she raises her voice and carefully pitches it so that her words will cut across the now mostly inchoate sputterings of Aide Bindalin and declares, "Unless you wish to call into question the honesty and integrity of both the royal archives of Alderaan and the much more extensive archives of the Jedi Order, Aide Bindalin, I suggest that you sit down and yield the floor to those Senators who wish to respond promptly, calmly, and rationally to the issue of a possible binding peace treaty between the remains of the Galactic Republic and the remnants of the Confederacy of Independent Systems!"

At that, over half of the Senate erupts into a spontaneous round of cheering and applause and other such signs of approbation, silencing Vinek Bindalin and causing him to retake his seat with such a thoroughly cowed expression and attitude of embarrassed shame that Mon Mothma can almost feel sorry for the little man. With a grave and courteous nod in her direction - and a small curve to his lips that most would fail to recognize as the smile that it is - Bail once again raises his hands in a pleading gesture, asking for and gaining silence from the now thoroughly primed and attentive Senate. "The Senator from Chandrila is right to ask for a chance to respond to this matter with the seriousness and care that it deserves. When we speak of the possibility of a treaty that can end the galactic civil war, we are speaking of a matter with galactic-wide consequences, gentlebeings. Make no mistake about it: this is a matter of gravest import. And it is a matter that must be debated, openly, thoroughly, and logically, before it can be brought to a proper vote. It is right and proper that an open debate should be called upon a matter of such momentous import. The communication from the Leadership Council of the Confederacy of Independent Systems indicated that an answer to their proposal would be required within a standard week, so we have time enough to do this properly, gentlebeings. So it is with a calm and resolute mind that I, Bail Organa of Alderaan, declare that this debate regarding the issue of the peace proposal presented by the Leadership Council of Independent Systems open and invite the measured and considered thoughts and opinions of the Senate from any being present who so wishes to take the floor."

With a satisfied smile, Mon Mothma inclines her head in a small, approving nod to Bail, and leans back to see who will be the first to take up the offer of debate, mind already whirling busily with arguments and possible counterpoints to present to anyone who might try to present a more rational case against accepting the peace proposal than Aide Bindalin's wholly emotional and irrational argument . . .

***

As Obi-Wan's deactivated handgrip skitters and bounces along the tunnel behind him, he reflects that it's just as well that he couldn't wait for Anakin to catch up with him earlier, after all. If Anakin were with him now, he would surely never hear the end of it.

He gets his other hand on the staff just as Grievous jerks the wheeler sideways, laying it half down to angle for a small side tunnel just ahead. Obi-Wan hangs on grimly. Through the Force, he can feel Boga's exhaustion, the buildup of anaerobic breakdown products reducing the dragonmount's mighty legs to the consistency of wet noodles, and knows that the chase is going to end soon, one way or another. Up ahead, an open archway shows daylight. Boga barely makes the turn, and they race side by side along the empty darkened way, joined by the spark-spitting rod of the electrostaff. As they clear the archway to a small, concealed landing deck deep in a private sinkhole, Obi-Wan gathers himself and springs out the saddle, yanking on the staff to swing both of his boots hard into the side of Grievous's duranium skull. The wheeler's internal gyros scream at the sudden impact and shift of balance. Their protesting shrieks cycle up to bursts of smoke and fragments of metal as their catastrophic failure sends the wheeler tumbling in a white-hot cascade of sparks. Dropping the staff, Obi-Wan leaps again, the Force lifting him safely free of the crash. Grievous' electronic reflexes send him out of the pilot's chair in the opposite direction. The wheeler flips over the edge of the landing deck and into the shadowy abyss of the sinkhole, trailing smoke and spitting sparks all the way down to a distant, delayed, and very final crash. By that time, the electrostaff has rolled away, coming to rest against the landing jack of a small Techno Union starfighter that stands on the deck a few meters behind Obi-Wan. Behind Grievous, the archway back into the tunnel system is filled with a panting, exhausted, but still dangerously angry dragonmount.

Obi-Wan looks at Grievous.

Grievous stares back at Obi-Wan.

There is no longer any need for words between them. Obi-Wan simply stands, centered in the Force, waiting for Grievous to make his move.

After a few moments of silent impasse, a concealed compartment in the General's right thigh springs open, and a mechanical arm delivers a slim hold-out blaster to his hand. He brings it up and fires so fast that his arm blurs to invisibility.

And Obi-Wan, in turn, reaches.

The electrostaff flips into the air between them, one discharge blade catching the bolt. The impact sends the staff whirling -

- right into Obi-Wan's open right hand.

There comes another instant's pause, then, while they look into each other's eyes and share the intimate understanding that their relationship has at long last reached its end. And then Obi-Wan charges. Grievous backs away, unleashing a stream of blaster bolts as fast as his half a forefinger can pull the trigger. Obi-Wan spins the electrostaff as though he were born with one of them in his hands, catching every bolt easily, not slowing down even once, and when he reaches Grievous he slaps the blaster out of his hand with a crack of the staff that sends blue lightning scaling up the General's arm. His following strike is a stiff stab into Grievous' jointed stomach armor that sends the General staggering back. Obi-Wan hits him again in the same place, denting the armorplast plate, cracking the joint where it meets the larger, thicker plates of his chest while Grievous flails for balance. When Obi-Wan spins the staff for his next strike, though, the General's flailing arm flings itself against the middle of the staff and his other hand finds it as well and he seizes it, yanking himself upright against Obi-Wan's grip, his metal skull-face coming within a centimeter of the Jedi Master's nose.

He snarls into Obi-Wan's face, so close that they are practically touching foreheads, "Do you think I am foolish enough to arm my bodyguards with weapons that can actually hurt me?"

Instead of waiting for an answer, Grievous spins, heaving Obi-Wan right up off of the deck with effortless strength, whipping up him over his head to slam him to the deck with killing power. Obi-Wan can only let go of the staff and allow the Force to angle his fall into a stumbling roll. Grievous springs after him with lethal swiftness, swinging the electrostaff and slamming it across Obi-Wan's flank before the Jedi Master can recover his balance. The impact sends Obi-Wan tumbling sideways and the electroburst discharge sets his robe on fire (something that will later make Obi-Wan quite glad, when he has enough time to process everything, that he decided to keep that outermost, almost cloak-like garment on, despite the risk that it could possibly hamper his movements at some inopportune time). Grievous stays right with him, attacking before Obi-Wan can even realize exactly what is happening, attacking faster than thought -

- but then, Obi-Wan doesn't need to think. The Force is with him, and he knows.

So when Grievous spins the staff overhand again, discharge blade sizzling down at Obi-Wan's head for the killing blow, Obi-Wan goes to the inside.

He meets Grievous chest-to-chest, his upraised right hand blocking the General's wrist. Grievous snarls something incoherent and bears down on the Jedi Master's block with all of his weight and not inconsiderable strength, driving the blade closer and closer to Obi-Wan's face -

- but Obi-Wan's arm has the Force to give it strength, and the General's arm only has the innate crystalline intermolecular structure of duranium alloy.

Grievous' forearm ripples and then warps and bends like a cheap spoon.

While the General is staring in disbelief down at his mangled arm, Obi-Wan begins to work the fingers of his free hand around the lower edge of Grievous' dented, joint-loose stomach plate. Eventually, realizing that Obi-Wan is doing something to him, Grievous looks down, snarling another demanding, "What?"

By then, though, it's already too late. Obi-Wan slams the elbow of his blocking arm into the General's clavicle while he yanks as hard as he can, the full power of the Force behind his pull, upon the stomach plate, which promptly rips free in his hand. Behind it hangs a translucent sac of synthskin containing a tangle of green and gray organs - most of the pitiful remains of the true body of the alien, hidden away inside its droid-like armor casing. Grievous immediately howls in inchoate fear and rage and drops the staff to seize Obi-Wan with his three remaining arms. He lifts the Jedi Master high over his head again - this time with three mechanical hands grasping with punishing, almost crushing intensity at Obi-Wan's head and lower back and ankles - and then hurls him tumbling over the landing deck towards the precipice above the gloom-shrouded drop.

The knot of Obi-Wan's plaited hair loosens and unwinds, though thankfully it does not catch on those claw-like mechanical fingers, or else he might have been in serious danger of having his neck inadvertently snapped. Instead, he is only at risk of being hurled over the rim of the sinkhole. By reaching into the Force, though, Obi-Wan is able to connect with the stone itself as if he were anchored to it with a cable tether, so that, instead of hurtling over the edge, he merely slams down onto the rock hard enough to crush all breath violently from his lungs. Grievous immediately picks up the staff again and charges, driven on by a berserker fury. Obi-Wan still can't breathe. He has no hope of rising to meet the General's attack. All he can do is extend a hand. As the bio-droid looms over him, electrostaff raised for the kill, the small hold-out blaster flips up from the deck into Obi-Wan's palm and, with no hesitation, no second thoughts, not even the faintest pause to savor his victory, he pulls the trigger. The bolt rips mercilessly into the synthskin sac. Grievous's guts explode in a foul-smelling shower the color of a dead swamp. Energy surges in lightning chains up the cyborg's spine, causing a mist of vaporized brain to burst out both sides of his skull, sending his faceplate spinning off the precipice. The electrostaff hits the deck with a hollow, clanging sound, followed shortly by the General's knees and then by little what is left of his head.

Obi-Wan merely lays on his back, staring at the circle of cloudless sky above the sinkhole, while he gasps air back into his now painfully spasming lungs. He barely manages to roll over far enough to smother the flames still licking along the edges of his robe before the fire can actually penetrate the cloth and put his skin at risk of burns before collapsing back against the cool stone. For a few moments, then, he allows himself some time to recover and simply enjoy being alive - a sensation that increases as he realizes that the source of power he can feel blazing in the Force somewhere nearby means that Anakin is not only still alive, too, but apparently also still trying to catch up with him, as the sense of him that Obi-Wan receives seems to indicate that Anakin is traveling in his general direction at a fast clip through the depths of Pau City. Much too short a time later - long before he is actually ready to get back to his feet - a long shadow falls across him, accompanied by the smell of overheated lizard and an admonitory honnnk.

"Yes, Boga, you're right," Obi-Wan agrees reluctantly. Slowly, painfully, he pushes himself upright. He picks up the electrostaff, using it to help lever himself up and steady his stance so that he will not sway overly much, and pauses for one last glance at the remains of the bio-droid General. "So . . . " Obi-Wan pauses for a long, thoughtful moment, reaching deep down within to summon forth a condemnation among the most offensive in his vocabulary. " . . . /uncivilized/."

Then, triggering his comlink, he directs Cody to report to Jedi Command on Coruscant that Grievous has been destroyed. "Will do, General," the tiny holoscan of the clone commander replies, nodding. "And congratulations. I knew you could do it."

Apparently everyone did, Obi-Wan ruefully acknowledges, silently nodding his head in answer to Cody's declaration, except for Grievous, and me . . .

"General? We /do still have a little bit of a problem out here. About another thirty to forty thousand or so heavily armed little problems, actually. The Hero's been carving them up fairly quickly - a bit upset about being left behind, from what I gather - but he's only half the team, General. We could use your help."/

Wincing inwardly at the thought (and probable manifestation) of Anakin's upset, Obi-Wan sighs and promises, "I'm on my way. Kenobi out." After turning the comm back off, he takes a moment to sigh again and stretch, trying to unlimber his stiff and aching body, before he clambers painfully back onto the dragonmount's saddle. "All right, girl," he tells Boga, stroking a hand soothingly along her neck. "Let's go win that battle, too."

***