should you.”
Mostly reassured, Bail took his leave of Yoda and returned to the Senate. Three floors of the enormous complex were given over to courtesy offices for visiting government officials. That was where he found Padmé, and joined her to compare facts and figures for the pre-vote debate.
“Except I’ll be voting by proxy,” she said, passing him her preliminary assessment and taking his to read in return. “Queen Jamillia’s asked me to mediate a dispute between Naboo’s Artisans’ Guild and the Bonadan Silver Sand Consortium. They’ve raised their prices again, and the glassblowers are about ready to declare war.”
Tapping his fingers on her datapad, Bail frowned. “You know, I’m starting to think belligerence is contagious.”
Padmé gave him a brief, halfhearted smile. “And I’m starting to agree with you.”
She was looking tired. The severity of her midnight-blue gown and sleeked-back hair only accentuated her pallor. Shadows darkened the delicate skin beneath her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks. She was fretting herself to an unhealthy slenderness, and there was nothing he could do to help.
Moments after starting to scroll through his datapad of notes she hesitated, then hit the ’pad’s pause function. “There’s no news?”
“No. I’d have told you if there was.”
“Of course you would,” she said, recoiling. “I’m sorry.”
Instantly contrite, Bail touched his fingers to her arm. “No,
I’m
sorry.”
“They’ll be fine,” she said, all her vulnerability ruthlessly repressed. “They’re gifted, experienced Jedi. They’ll be fine.”
Oh, Padmé. From your lips to the ears of any god or goddess who might be listening. From your lips to their mysterious Force…
Not long after that she left her proxy vote with him and went to wrestle with the artisans and the Silver Sand Consortium. With his own mind made up, Bail snatched a hasty meal in the busy Senatorial dining room—where he was joined by Mon Mothma, the quietly elegant co-representative for the Bormea sector. Beneath her habitual cool poise she seemed almost agitated.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Bail. Do you have a moment?”
He didn’t know her well, but what he did know he liked very much. “Of course, Mon. Please, sit.”
She slid into the other chair at his table and folded her slender hands before her. “Umgul,” she said, keeping her voice low. “A whisper’s just reached me that its ruling council is being wooed by Count Dooku. Now, I realize that strategically the planet has little value, but—”
But as a morale booster for the war-weary? And a potential lightning rod for the increasing unrest over Palpatine’s recent tax hikes? Umgul was way more valuable than he wanted to think about right now.
He pushed his plate aside. “How reliable is your whisper?”
“Reliable enough,” Mon Mothma said somberly. “Look. I don’t mean to tell you your business, Bail. You’re the security expert, not me. Only I’m thinking—”
“What I’m thinking,” he said. “But I can’t see the Chancellor repealing the new taxes. War is expensive, and we need the money. To be honest, I don’t—” A gentle chiming sounded through the dining room: the first of three warnings that the next Senate session was due to begin. “Look—perhaps we can talk about this later? After the vote?”
“I think we should,” Mon Mothma said as she slid out of her chair. “I think if we don’t find a way to keep Umgul from joining the Separatists we’re going to see some very ugly bloodletting.”
Pushing back his own chair, Bail stood. “I agree.”
He and Mon Mothma joined the trickle of colleagues leaving the dining room. “And I’ve got some ideas,” Mon Mothma replied, almost smiling. “But in the meantime, about this ridiculous brawl we’re about to vote on…”
Tired of moping around the Temple getting nowhere trying to read the Force, and even more tired of thinking up believable
Mostly reassured, Bail took his leave of Yoda and returned to the Senate. Three floors of the enormous complex were given over to courtesy offices for visiting government officials. That was where he found Padmé, and joined her to compare facts and figures for the pre-vote debate.
“Except I’ll be voting by proxy,” she said, passing him her preliminary assessment and taking his to read in return. “Queen Jamillia’s asked me to mediate a dispute between Naboo’s Artisans’ Guild and the Bonadan Silver Sand Consortium. They’ve raised their prices again, and the glassblowers are about ready to declare war.”
Tapping his fingers on her datapad, Bail frowned. “You know, I’m starting to think belligerence is contagious.”
Padmé gave him a brief, halfhearted smile. “And I’m starting to agree with you.”
She was looking tired. The severity of her midnight-blue gown and sleeked-back hair only accentuated her pallor. Shadows darkened the delicate skin beneath her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks. She was fretting herself to an unhealthy slenderness, and there was nothing he could do to help.
Moments after starting to scroll through his datapad of notes she hesitated, then hit the ’pad’s pause function. “There’s no news?”
“No. I’d have told you if there was.”
“Of course you would,” she said, recoiling. “I’m sorry.”
Instantly contrite, Bail touched his fingers to her arm. “No,
I’m
sorry.”
“They’ll be fine,” she said, all her vulnerability ruthlessly repressed. “They’re gifted, experienced Jedi. They’ll be fine.”
Oh, Padmé. From your lips to the ears of any god or goddess who might be listening. From your lips to their mysterious Force…
Not long after that she left her proxy vote with him and went to wrestle with the artisans and the Silver Sand Consortium. With his own mind made up, Bail snatched a hasty meal in the busy Senatorial dining room—where he was joined by Mon Mothma, the quietly elegant co-representative for the Bormea sector. Beneath her habitual cool poise she seemed almost agitated.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Bail. Do you have a moment?”
He didn’t know her well, but what he did know he liked very much. “Of course, Mon. Please, sit.”
She slid into the other chair at his table and folded her slender hands before her. “Umgul,” she said, keeping her voice low. “A whisper’s just reached me that its ruling council is being wooed by Count Dooku. Now, I realize that strategically the planet has little value, but—”
But as a morale booster for the war-weary? And a potential lightning rod for the increasing unrest over Palpatine’s recent tax hikes? Umgul was way more valuable than he wanted to think about right now.
He pushed his plate aside. “How reliable is your whisper?”
“Reliable enough,” Mon Mothma said somberly. “Look. I don’t mean to tell you your business, Bail. You’re the security expert, not me. Only I’m thinking—”
“What I’m thinking,” he said. “But I can’t see the Chancellor repealing the new taxes. War is expensive, and we need the money. To be honest, I don’t—” A gentle chiming sounded through the dining room: the first of three warnings that the next Senate session was due to begin. “Look—perhaps we can talk about this later? After the vote?”
“I think we should,” Mon Mothma said as she slid out of her chair. “I think if we don’t find a way to keep Umgul from joining the Separatists we’re going to see some very ugly bloodletting.”
Pushing back his own chair, Bail stood. “I agree.”
He and Mon Mothma joined the trickle of colleagues leaving the dining room. “And I’ve got some ideas,” Mon Mothma replied, almost smiling. “But in the meantime, about this ridiculous brawl we’re about to vote on…”
Tired of moping around the Temple getting nowhere trying to read the Force, and even more tired of thinking up believable
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