NABC (C96) The Chariot's Epilogue
(C96) The Chariot's Epilogue
Excerpt from the DECLARATION OF A NEW ORDER
“Senators of the Republic, loyal citizens of our great democracy–”
“It is with a heavy heart that I convene this Extraordinary Session of the Senate tonight. The long war that has torn our galaxy asunder for the past three years should have ended yesterday. Our brave soldiers, the Grand Army of this Republic, had brought the Separatist threat to its knees. The final battle was upon us. Our forces had surrounded the traitorous Count Dooku and his closest circle. One final push, one last sacrifice, and this long night would have ended in peace and victory...”
“But that victory had been stolen from us. By those we had trusted most!”
The Jedi Order–those who once swore to be the guardians of our Republic–have betrayed us all!”
“At the crucial hour, as our legions closed in on the cowering enemy, the Jedi turned their blades against the Republic. Against you. They conspired with the Separatists at Serenno, the very enemy they swore to fight! The so-called defenders of justice revealed their true nature: self-serving warlords, intent not on peace, but on power. They did not seek to end the war; they sought to seize control of our Republic itself!”
“Even here, in the seat of our democracy, their treachery ran deep. As our brave soldiers gave their lives to victory on the front, the Jedi launched a cowardly attempt to dismantle this Senate, to overthrow the government you have elected, and to assassinate me; to bring anarchy to the Republic from which they would impose their rule by force!”
“They thought they could invite the Separatist menace to our homes and destroy us at our most vulnerable–but I am pleased to say I survived only by the will of our people and the courage of our soldiers, and that is our greatest proof to these traitors that not even their strange magics and mystics could destroy our resolve! The Jedi were repelled, and their Order has been dismantled. Their conspiracy has been exposed, their treason undeniable!”
“But their treachery has come at great cost, I fear. With their betrayal, the Separatists were handed victory. Instead of peace, the war rages on! Instead of unity, our Republic has been fractured!”
“Look around you! See those empty seats and empty chairs! They are traitors, I say to you, one and all, and they have taken the hateful Separatist ideology to bed! And so I ask you, citizens of this Republic: what must be done?”
“Shall we allow this treason to stand? Shall we allow the Jedi, now scattered like vermin, to strike from the shadows, to plot their return? Shall we permit these radical Secessionists to dictate the future of the Republic with their lies and violence? Shall we allow the Separatists, emboldened by their treacherous new allies, to continue their campaign of terror against our people? Shall we allow them to undo all we have fought, bled, and suffered for?”
“NO!”
“The time has come to ensure that such treachery never threatens us again! The time has come to forge a new path. A stronger path. A united path upon which we can all walk and share with pride!”
“And so I come to you, senators, the architects of our society! And so I come to you, citizens, the stones upon which our great civilisation is built! Help me forge our new path, together as one! Tonight, help see through this new law concerning the New Order of our Republic, and I promise to you all; all remaining traitors will be hunted down, rooted out wherever they may hide, and brought to justice, dead or alive! All collaborators will suffer the same fate. Those who protect the enemy are the enemy!”
“No longer will our Republic be weakened by disloyalty, by the corruption of partisan squabbling, by the inefficiency of bureaucracy. No longer will the ambitions of a few outweigh the needs of the many. If we are to survive–if we are to triumph–we must be stronger. We must rise over these vices that have stagnated us for far too long!”
“This will be our salvation! Under this New Order, we shall root out treason, and the will of the people shall once more be absolute. This I pledge to you; that the Jedi traitors will be hunted to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. That the Separatists, emboldened by their false victory, will be met with the full might of our restored Republic. Our enemies, whoever they may be, near or far, will be wiped from the stars!”
“Ever since I donned this coat that is sacred and dear to me, my whole life has been nothing but one long struggle for our people, for our restoration, and for our Republic. Indeed tonight I pledge to you; I will only take it off after our final victory, or I will not live to see that end.”
“And just as I myself am ready at any time to stake my life, I ask the same of all of you. If we are to survive this turbulent time, we must be faithful to the old principle that brought us this far; that It is quite unimportant whether we ourselves live, but it is essential that our people shall live, that the Republic shall live!”
“The sacrifice that is demanded of us now is not greater than the sacrifice that many generations before us have made! If we form a society built upon each other, resolved never to surrender, then we will master every hardship and difficulty!”
“Because if there is one truth we must all carve into our hearts; it is that if our will is so strong that no defeat and suffering can subdue it, then our will and our great Republic must and shall ultimately... prevail.” ℟ANՕbËs
⁂
Phindar Orbit, Phindar System
Demetras Sector
What will become of us now? Jedi Master Luminara Unduli could only question as she watched the remnants of the Jedi Expeditionary Fleet trickle towards Phindar Station like driftwood washing up on a beach after an ocean storm.
As if reading her mind, Jedi Master Rahm Kota spoke next to her, in his gruff way; “I’ve hammered out an agreement with the Phindian government. They’ve signed the Gallian Manifesto and agreed to a ceasefire with the Separatist Alliance–or rather the Confederacy.”
A small, wry smile emerged from Luminara’s tattooed lips, “Suddenly acknowledging the Confederacy, Master Kota?”
Master Rahm Kota crossed his arms and shrugged, “I would rather only one half of the galaxy despise us, rather than the whole of it. The Separatists are our benefactors now–better start kissing up to them.”
The esteemed Jedi Order, forced to kiss the feet of the Outer Rim to survive. Would you imagine that? Master Luminara’s gaze was fixed beyond the viewports, docking tubes were extending between Republic warships and massive prison hulks tugged out to the open berths. She could only imagine the legions of cloned troopers being transferred between them, and thought of her own 41st Elite Corps, held in captivity upon her flagship Garland–for their safety, and for hers too.
Rahm Kota followed her gaze, and snorted, “Appears that I was right in the end. The clones were never to be trusted.”
The Mirialan Jedi shook her head slowly, “Their behavior doesn’t match up. We’ll find out what’s wrong with them.”
“They’re only loyalty is to whomever their Kaminoan breeders made them,” Rahm told her brusquely, “Just as a droid’s only loyalty is whomever programmed them. You cannot compare them to a man’s loyalty, uniquely molded by decades of life and experiences. It is not that I blame the clones for being who they are; both clones and droids have nothing to believe in, and nothing to fight for. Naturally, they can fight for who made them.”
“It can’t be that simple,” Luminara insisted, “We would have sensed that.”@@@@
“I sensed that,” Rahm looked her in the eye, his eyes bright and alive, “I sensed that and I warned you all. It is not as if a Jedi’s senses are infallible in the first place, otherwise we wouldn’t be in predicament would we?”
Luminara Unduli released an aggrieved sigh, “I concur.”
“...Look alive, Master Unduli,” Rahm tried to comfort her, “If there was one thing you were right about, and I was wrong about, it is that the Battle Hydra would keep his word.”
He gestured to the hangar bays and loading docks, where shuttles and tenders were now landing with the hiss of compressing hydraulics. The boarding ramps lowered, jets of white atmosphere spraying over them. Then, from the mist, the first figures emerged.
They came in twos and threes at first–shadowed silhouettes stepping into the light, draped in robes that had once been white and brown but were now blackened and frayed at the edges. The first to step forth was a Mon Cal Jedi, one of his webbed hands clutching a crude splint across his ribs, the other gripping the shoulder of a Nautolan Knight whose every step wavered with exhaustion. Behind them, a Mirialan limped forth, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch. Then a trio of Padawans, gaunt and weary-eyed, their tunics in tatters and supporting each other down.
More shuttles touched down in staggered intervals, and with each descending ramp, more Jedi spilled onto the deck. A Rodian Knight with one arm in a sling, a Twi-Lek with his lekku wrapped in stained bandages. A Togruta Master, her once-immaculate headdress marred with soot and dried blood, walking with deliberate dignity despite the pain in her gait. Some even had their arms thrown over the shoulders of Separatist soldiers, carried down the ramps. Others lay flat on hover-stretchers, unconscious, pale, kept breathing only by the med-droids that accompanied them.
But what mattered most was that they were free. There were no binders. No chains. And there were no noticeable signs of coercion. The Separatist soldiers that guided them were more escorts than captors, shepherding the wounded rather than transporting prisoners-of-war. Super battle droids clanked behind them in orderly columns, their wrist-cannons pointed upwards rather than forwards. As soon as they touched the station’s deck, Rahm’s militiamen rushed forward to take the injured off their hands.
Master Luminara exhaled.
Rain Bonteri had kept his word, that was true. But she could only fear–that all the Jedi standing before her now were truly what’s left of the ancient order that once spanned the length and breadth of the entire galaxy. The Jedi Temple had been destroyed–that, the Supreme Chancellor made abundantly clear in his address to the Extraordinary Session of the Senate–and most Jedi in the galaxy hadn’t the convenient protection of the Perlemian Coalition nearby.
How many were left?
Could it truly be just this meagre number before her remaining?
“–I believe that’s them,” Rahm Kota’s voice shook her from that reverie of worry.
He waved towards an armoured shuttle, setting down with a loud thud. It was large, large enough that it drew the attention of the gathered crowd in the hangar bay, Phindians, militiamen, and Jedi alike. The huge boarding ramp descended with slow, deliberate weight, like the unfurling of a great curtain. The first form to emerge was an unmistakable one; the six-armed massiveness of Admiral Trench.
As the crowd instinctively parted before him, the Old Spider glanced at them, gestured his greetings, and continued onwards.
Right behind him was his escort of battle droids, their formation surrounding a monolithic, hovering metal slab large enough to house a grown man inside. Master Luminara soon identified the device to be a containment sarcophagus, specifically designed to hold Force-users.
The Mandalorians used similar devices in their long history of fighting Jedi. The sarcophagus was more or less a giant block of metal with a hollow recess perfectly molded to the shape of the prisoner, thus forcing zero room for movement. In addition to a rigid gag, soundproofing both-ways, the prisoner was also under constant sedation by dozens of surgical needles inside.
Count Dooku must be inlaid within, she realised, bound and sedated and gagged, but alive nonetheless.
Phindar would be the final stop before Raxus Secundus, where he would meet whatever fate the Pantoran would have in store for him.
She envisioned herself shot to death half a hundred times before she even set a single foot off the boarding ramp. She smiled, even as her security detail surrounded her, as she sensed the troopers hidden behind thick trunks, the sharpshooters buried in the treeline, and the targeting systems locked onto her the moment she stepped into view.
Then there was the bunker, nestled in the no man’s land, duracrete walls half-swallowed by creeping vines and craters borne from shell impacts. It was alive, however, lighting its dark halls with harsh glowpanels and filling its corridors with shadows that seemed to track her as she moved across them..
Inside, the Republic delegation stood waiting beneath flickering lights. Officers in stark uniforms, intelligence operatives with blank stares, staffers with fidgeting hands. At their center, draped in the red and gold of his station, was the Vice Chair of the Republic–Mas Amedda, the Chagrian Speaker of the Republic Senate.
Sev’rance Tann let her eyes settle on him, slow and deliberate. Then she laughed.
“They sent you?” she all but purred, striding forward with lazy confidence, “I must say, that is either an insult to me... or to you.”
Mas Amedda’s crimson eyes did not waver, but she saw his fingers tighten ever so slightly against the sleeves of his robe.
“I come as the Supreme Chancellor’s voice,” he replied, his tone even, “The Republic is prepared to make an offer.”
Sev’rance allowed amusement to play at the edge of her lips, “Certainly. And yet, one must wonder–if the Supreme Chancellor truly valued this meeting, would he not have sent someone... less disposable?”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Amedda’s features, brief but perceptible.
“You mistake caution for disrespect,” he replied coolly, “It would not do for our leader to walk into a warlord’s den without assurances.”
Sev’rance’s smile widened, “Warlord? Ah, now that is interesting. I wonder why it is then that your invitation was extended to me, and not the Confederate Parliament?”
Mas Amedda gestured to a table, at which Sev’rance gladly took a seat, “We were under the impression that the Confederate Parliament had been suspended, and it is your personage that controls true power in the Confederacy.”
“...I do, don’t I?” the Supreme Commander sighed, leaning back as a staffer placed two identical tablets on the table, “So I presume this will be a treaty? We tried this before, on Onderon.”
But Sev’rance did suppose the whole Onderon affair had been somewhat of a farce, attended by politicians and bureaucrats and delegates and press and media... and not who actually controlled power behind the two parties. She supposed this was the Supreme Chancellor’s method of rectifying that issue. Another jungle world, but this time a simple affair, attended by two people, one room, and one small desk.
Ah, I wish it was the Chancellor himself opposing me, Sev’rance picked up the tablet, and not this insipid creature. I would love to see his expression.
“Indeed, and we are hopeful there wouldn’t be any undue disturbances found here,” the Vice-Chair of the Republic said pointedly.
“So do I,” she murmured in return, opaque red eyes scanning the document in her hand.
The tablet was heavy in her hand, though not from its physical weight. It bore the full weight of a war, of fleets and armies, of countless lives spent and ruined. The tablet was heavy indeed... heavy in the Force. She tapped a sharp fingertip idly against the screen as she read, the small sound echoing in the dim chamber.
“Article One,” Mas Amedda stared intently at her, “The cessation of hostilities in the galactic north–Entralla Route, Celanon Spur and Hydian Way; galactic east–Perlemian Trade Route, Trellen Trade Route, and Nanth’ri Route; and galactic south–Corellian Run, Hydian Way, and Rimma Trade Route. The specifications of the proposed administrative borders are details inside.”
“...If the Circapous Sector is to be ceded to the Republic,” the Supreme Commander of the CAF said, “Then the Confederacy must receive reparations in return.”
“What do you suggest?”
“The Manda Merchant Route and all the sectors south of it.”
The Chagrian raised a hairless eyebrow, “Including Kamino?”
“Does your Republic value Mimban or Kamino more?”
“...The exact details can be adjusted later.”
“Wonderful,” Sev’rance grinned, showing all teeth, “Secondly, the Confederacy cannot guarantee a ceasefire in the galactic north. The New Territories is currently occupied by insurgents; Serennian and corporate forces. Just as your Republic cannot guarantee a ceasefire on the Corellian Run–”
“The Republic,” Mas Amedda corrected sharply, his voice edged with irritation, “That being said, your point brings us to Article Two.”
“Non-interference?” Sev’rance Tann leaned back, tapping a finger against the table, “A curious demand. Why would we agree to that?”
“Because these insurgents are our common enemy,” Amedda replied, his fist striking the table surface with a dull thud, “Each uprising inspires the next, eroding the very foundation of our governments. They are a plague, and neither of us should harbor them, aid them, or treat with them in any form.”
An uneven bargain. Sev’rance narrowed her crimson eyes. A fractured Core, wracked by infighting, was to the Confederacy’s advantage–it kept the Galactic Interior bleeding, distracted, vulnerable. Meanwhile, the remnants of Dooku’s forces in the New Territories were little more than exiles, disorganized and scattered to the farthest fringes of the Outer Rim.
Yet she had more immediate concerns. To secure the Confederacy’s sovereignty, a peace must be forged–at least for now. She negotiated from a position of strength, but her grasp was finite. Every moment spent juggling Raxus politics and waging war across the stars chipped away at her authority. A reprieve, even a fragile one, would give her time to solidify the state.
“I am open to further discussion on the specifics,” she conceded smoothly. “But in principle, I can accommodate this agreement.”
Amedda’s posture eased slightly.
“Good,” He pressed forward, “Article Three: the exchange of war prisoners.”
“Agree,” Sev’rance waved the topic aside with a flick of her hand,”There is no need for further deliberation–your terms are reasonable. However, the Confederacy will not be surrendering any of its officers, nor shall we expect the Republic to do so in turn.”
Amedda hesitated for only a fraction of a second before dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Very well.”
And so it continued like that for hours, the two figures sat across from one another in the dim-lit bunker, voices measured yet sharp, sparring and parrying each new condition and agreement. Supply routes, economic reparations, the status of disputed systems along the Mid Rim border. Each concession was weighed against another, an unseen scale sat between, each silence stretched with strategic calculations.
Finally, they reached the last point.
"Article Ten," Amedda announced, his deep voice reverberating against the bunker walls, "The establishment of a direct transmission line between the Coruscant and Raxus Secundus–a direct channel for diplomatic correspondence and potential future collaboration."
Sev’rance Tann raised an eyebrow, “You mean to circumvent the official diplomatic protocols?”
“War is costly, Supreme Commander,” Mas Amedda elaborated, “And looking towards the future, there may come a time when both our governments see greater value in coordination than conflict. Let us speak plainly; between our two governments lies two-thirds of the galaxy. Direct communication between our two leaders will go far in easing tension in moments of misunderstanding and crises.”
“I was under the impression your Chancellor seeked to reunify the galaxy,” she leaned back, “At least, he said as such in his address to the Senate.”
Mas Amedda’s lips curled into something that was not quite a smirk, but not far from it.
“There is a difference between rhetoric and pragmatism, Supreme Commander,” he said, his voice smooth, measured, “A leader does not always speak his mind in public. The Chancellor says what he must to maintain the people’s faith. That does not mean he intends every word.”
Sev’rance Tann studied him for a moment, tilting her head slightly. “Then tell me, Vice Chair; what does your Chancellor actually intend for his Republic?”
“A safe and secure society. One unplagued by internal and external conflict,” Amedda exhaled through his nostrils, the barest flicker of amusement crossing his face, “I might ask the same of you, Supreme Commander. What do you intend for your Confederacy?”
The room fell into a brief, tense silence.
Then, slowly, Sev’rance Tann leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. The dim bunker lights cast sharp shadows across her face, and her crimson ruby eyes seemed aflame like molten steel then.
“I suppose the Confederacy...” she mused curiously, as if she hadn’t quite made up her mind,, “...will become whatever I want it to be.”