Archive of Our Own ^beta

Past the point of no return,

No backward glances.

The games we've played till now are at an end.

                --The Point of No Return, Andrew Lloyd Webber

Pale morning sunlight was starting to glow behind the drapes, but he could smell the coming rain in the filtered air, which clearly meant something was not functioning in the state-of-the-art climate control system.  With all the staff dedicated to keeping the embassy running and the cost of high-end air filtration to keep the foul smog of Coruscant out of his quarters, he was quite irritated that the problem had become so bad as to be noticed by smell.  Who knew what sort of odorless poisons and particulates were making themselves at home?  He wrote a terse note to his butler and resisted the urge to put on a rebreather.  Even at his so-called advanced age he could tolerate Coruscant’s pollution, and such fussing would be interpreted as weakness. 

Count Dooku stood in front of his dressing mirror, checking over his appearance.  Today was his first foray on Coruscant as a diplomat of Serreno and as a private citizen, not a Jedi.  He was keenly aware of how his role and expectations of him had changed. 

The clothes at least felt familiar.  In some ways his transition had been gradual, as he spent less and less time with the Jedi who had raised and educated him and more with the people he had been born to.  The cut was classic, understated, but the materials were rich and fine.  Pleasant to look at, pleasant to touch, but in no way inhibited free movement. 

It would not be wise to sacrifice agility for appearance, particularly where he was going. 

He drew his cape off the valet and fastened it over his shoulders, trying not to think of the similarities to a Jedi robe.  No, this was the costume of a nobleman, the fine metal chain and clasps having no place among modest Jedi buckles and ties.  But it was a large, long garment that covered a great deal of the body, masking small movements and intent, very much like the voluminous robes he had worn for decades. 

And it was in shades of brown.  Darker than Jedi cream, but unobtrusive.  It allowed him to be unremarkable and unnoticed unless he chose to be remarkable and noticeable.  On Serrano, as on many human-dominated worlds, they believed the clothes made the man.  He didn’t believe it was the clothes themselves, fashion did not make up for incompetence, but he did agree that how one dressed sent a message. 

He looked back at his reflection.  He did not add any more finery, quiet sophistication spoke for itself.  He could have perhaps worn a family ring, that would be subtle and complete the look, but he had been a swordsman too long to do so.  His hands were the finest tools in his arsenal, after his brain of course. 

At the thought of tools, he glanced down at his lightsaber.  Because he had left the Order under amicable, if strained terms, he had been permitted to keep it.  He was well known in diplomatic circles as a Jedi who had left the Order.  People were often surprised to see him carrying his lightsaber even though it was technically allowed.  (And if one more drunken ambassador asked him if he was worried if The Wraith was coming after him, they were going to get a personal demonstration of exactly why he was not). 

Frankly, he had been hesitating to take it out and about on his person lately, not because he was afraid that he might need it, but because using it would be showing his hand.  With the new crystal and the resultant color change, any display of his lit saber would be a calling card announcing his status as a Sith, and it would be best to keep that under wraps for now. 

He attached it to his belt.  It was essential for his meeting today and if he had to use it unexpectedly, he would just have to ensure there were no witnesses. 

With a final glance at his reflection, he headed toward the shuttle dock, pleased when his pilot was waiting for him, the craft sparkling and freshly polished.  He settled into a plush seat in the passenger compartment and mentally centered himself as the pilot sped them off through the Senate District.  It wasn’t long before the Chancellor’s Official Residence came into view. 

The residence was opulent and ostentatious, reflecting the wealth of a planet as developed as Coruscant, and Dooku privately thought it was a bit tacky for a building specifically for housing a civil servant.  Of course, one wasn’t elected Chancellor if one wasn’t already born to the elite, but it was in poor taste to flaunt these things under the thin veneer of false democracy. 

There were no surprises or delays, one of the perks of being a diplomat were certain allowances in airlane access and parking, and he had arrived early enough to seem punctual, but not so early as to be rude.  He was carefully screened by security, who clearly made note of his lightsaber, but allowed him to keep it, likely at the instruction of their superiors.  He did notice that several of the guards did have mild Force sensitivity, not enough to have been selected by the Jedi, but they likely had sufficient ability to be quite insightful, and with proper training could sense other, stronger Force users should they not take care to shield themselves properly. 

He was led into a waiting area and assured that the Chancellor would be with him soon and directed to a refresher if he needed it.  He was quite early, so he took advantage of the facilities, well aware that he should not risk the distraction of a full bladder at this meeting.  When he returned to the waiting area, he opted to sit with his eyes closed, feigning meditation to camouflage his surreptitious surveillance.  Silently, he took in his surroundings.  He could sense many beings in the compound, most human or near human, but not all.  There were guards all through the residence, some posted, some on patrol, some monitoring through cameras.  The Chancellor also kept bureaucratic staff offices at both the Senate Hall and the residence, and some were quite clearly busy at work. 

After just enough of a wait that would make the average diplomat wonder if they were being toyed with, an aide came in, greeted him and led him to a small lounge near the Chancellor’s private home office.  The aide directed him to a seat while another servant arrived with a tray of light refreshment. 

Dooku glanced at the walls, examining the décor.  It had changed slightly in the years since Finis Valorum had been the chancellor.  Valorum had rather banal taste in art and interior design, at least in the public spaces, which given how harassed he had been from all sides was rather prudent.  The designers likely selected boring art to avoid offending anyone with a controversial choice. 

The Palpatine Administration had repainted the room and reupholstered the furniture in slightly bolder colors, but the art still looked fairly neutral on the surface, the colors matching the décor.  However, the subject matter was clearly carefully chosen, depicting historical battles, including from the Jedi-Sith War.  The Jedi illustrated were shown desperately fighting, were clearly on Coruscant, and to a person not well-versed in Jedi history, it would not be clear which side was which.  The artists were not Jedi themselves, and contemporary.  The Count wondered if the works were specifically commissioned. 

The drink he had been provided with was perfectly safe, spring water bottled on a planet with an intact ecosystem, a dash of citrus, and a shot of carbon dioxide to give it effervescence.  Classy due to the proper crystal glass and the expensive water, but in reality, not much different from complimentary water in a middle-class diner.  It wasn’t meant to impress him, and it did not. 

After another calculated wait, the main doors opened and a guard entered the room, followed by the Chancellor, and the servant with another drink identical to Dooku’s.  The count stood immediately and bowed his head, as was proper when meeting the supreme leader of the Galactic Republic. 

“Ah, hello Count Dooku of Serrano, so good to see you again, even if you have chosen a path separate from your Jedi brothers and sister.” 

Dooku pressed his lips together, neither smiling nor frowning.  “It is good to see you, Your Excellency.  I do appreciate that you are a very busy man but have still made the time to hear my subject’s concerns.” 

“Of course, I’m willing to hear their concerns,” the Chancellor gave him a politician’s grin.  “And I do apologize for keeping you waiting.  I was meeting with representatives from the Trade Federation.  As you can no doubt surmise, they are still quite displeased with the sanctions the Senate has imposed on them since the Naboo Conflict.  I fear that for the foreseeable future they may be quite unsupportive of the Republic’s interests.  I am not unaware that Serreno has had grievances with the Republic and the Senate as well, and I do hope they won’t feel similarly.” 

“You are quite insightful, Your Excellency.  There are factions among my people that view the Senate and the Republic as antagonists.  The Senate should carefully consider how to move forward if they don’t want these factions to gain stronger influence, not only on Serrano, but on other worlds with a history of similar grievances.” 

“As a planetary leader, surely you have some influence over this faction,” Chancellor Palpatine chided as he sipped at his water, nodding at the servant who bowed and left them alone. 

“My role is new,” Dooku shrugged.  “They don’t all see me as a native son as yet.” 

“I see,” Palpatine nodded.  “I will advise the various committees that we should take care to consider the smaller and less influential systems and how our decisions affect them, not just the wealthy Core Worlds, but as you know the vote of the people rules the government, not the voice of the Chancellor.” 

Dooku raised an eyebrow.  “Surely you are underestimating your considerable influence, Your Excellency.” 

“I am a voice with a power to make the Senate listen, but I can only do so much to get them to agree and I needn’t tell you that as loud as I speak, money speaks louder.” 

A chime sounded over the building’s intercom, signaling the end of the workday.  Dooku could hear footsteps out in the hall as the day staff left the residence.  A new guard came to relieve the one stationed with the Chancellor. 

Palpatine gave the count a knowing look.  “Come, let’s go talk more in my office.  There is some sensitive information I have to share with you.”  He stood.

Dooku followed suit.  “Of course, Your Excellency.” 

The guard walked ahead of them and led them through the door and into the Chancellor’s office.  After checking to ensure no one was inside, the guard allowed the two leaders in, then closed the door and stood at attention. 

Palpatine offered Dooku a seat then dismissed his guard to wait outside.  The guard was clearly conflicted about this. 

“Your Excellency, Sir,” the guard protested in a whisper, cautious as guards so rarely spoke when on duty.  “It is my responsibility to protect you and this gentleman is armed.”  He pointed out Dooku’s lightsaber. 

“He is, isn’t he?” Palpatine gave Dooku a sly grin out of the guard’s view.  “Yes, I am well aware that Count Dooku of Serrano is armed, he was trained as a Jedi.  Still, we have known each other for several years and I assure you I will be perfectly safe, even if he retains his weapon.” 

The guard’s face was not visible, but he was clearly conflicted, obvious from both his posture and through the Force. 

“I’ll be in the hall, Your Excellency,” he relented, still uneasy.

Palpatine gave him a reassuring smile until the door closed.  “He’s new.”

“Good help is hard to find.” 

“He is loyal, I suppose,” Palpatine shrugged as he stood up, removed his outer robe, and hung it on a coatrack.  He then walked to the back wall to tap at a disguised control panel.  A hidden closet door opened and at another tap the panels in the floor moved to reveal a hidden staircase.  Palpatine set a voice simulator program to play, and soon a facsimile of his own and Dooku’s voices began playing should anyone be listening. 

Dooku resisted the urge to roll his eyes at this rather hokey subterfuge.  He was a diplomat.  It wasn’t as if the Chancellor couldn’t just turn the constantly running transcription programs off. 

Apparently modern Sith still had a weakness for theatrics and drama. 

He followed the Chancellor down the narrow stairs to a different office, a more private one, windowless but well-lit.  There was different art on the walls, a little less subtle.  The fine, ornate details, the molding, the hand-stenciled walls, the small niches and sconces were classic Naboo in style, but if one looked closer and knew what they were looking for, it should set off a few alarm bells.  The delicate stencils did use motifs common to Naboo but mixed in were shapes vaguely reminiscent of Sith symbols, not quite enough to say it outright, but to a well-educated Jedi it would raise eyebrows.

And there was the rub of course: education.  The Jedi had grown stale and set in their ways, too one-sided in their study of the Force and too timid to educate themselves properly in their historical adversaries.  He recognized the symbols, but very few of his former comrades would.  He suspected Master Yoda might, maybe even Master Tholme.  Monti Barro would certainly have seen it in a book or on a dig somewhere, not that he’d ever have the opportunity to visit this room. 

The Jedi would pay for their short-sighted, close-minded ways.  One had to cut out the deadwood to allow something new to grow.

Palpatine indicated he should sit and offered him some hard liquor from a bottle that screamed decadence and expense.  A good year, well-aged, and outside even his buying power.  It was likely an extraordinarily expensive bribe or the spoils of some raid or other.  Probably both.

Dooku silently declined, not wanting to risk even the slightest vulnerability. 

Palpatine gave him another knowing look, although it wasn’t clear if he felt the count was less of a man for not drinking or respected his prudence in dealing with a Sith Master. 

“Perhaps you’d prefer some Gongowan caviar?  Or credlythe cheese?  I do have a bit of Vespoidian truffle to shave over it.” 

Dooku kept his face neutral.  Not only were such delicacies ridiculously expensive, in the current political climate they were considered morally questionable to consume.  The fish that supplied the caviar, the beast that produced the cheese, even the fungus that grew the truffles, were so expensive because previous generations had hunted them to near extinction.  Absurdly, Dooku was reminded of his former padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn, and how he lived in the moment, sometimes to the detriment of the future, though rarely quite so hedonistically. 

The count held up his own glass of water, still half-full. 

“No, thank you.  I am a simple man with simple tastes.”

“Of course you are.”  It was impossible to tell if Palpatine was displeased, indifferent, or amused.  “I used to have talks here with a young protégé of mine.  He had quite the appetite.” 

“Appetites, like many things, are best indulged in moderation.”

Palpatine laughed, a short hard sound.  “You haven’t shed all of your Jedi robes yet.” 

“Being a Jedi is part of who I am.  I’m simply choosing not to be merely a Jedi.  Just because I fundamentally disagree with many of the Order’s positions doesn’t mean there is no wisdom in their teachings.  You yourself use the Light Side of the Force in addition to the Dark Side.” 

“That’s very true,” Sheev nodded, not seeming at all offended by the observation.  “The Light Side of the Force does have its uses and is far less noticeable when one doesn’t want to be identified as a Force wielder.” 

“The Light Side of the Force has many uses.  I’ve mastered those.” 

“You have.”  Sheev slathered a cracker in soft cheese, sprinkled it with the caviar and topped it all with fresh ground truffle.  “Now let’s see if you’ve done your homework before we move on to more lessons.” 

“Of course, I have done as you asked.  I’ve checked in with our contractors on Kamino.  They have the first batch of product being refined and educated and have already made adjustments to the next batch.  They can’t run all the tests you had requested, though they understand your concerns.  The neural tissue is integrating the command chips well, but they can’t be tested until the first batch passes out of adolescence as their brains are remodeling too quickly and if the chips are activated too early the brain may reject them and wall them off or may form bad circuits which can lead to seizures.  The chips do emit testing sequences during their training which I’m told they can’t differentiate from their own thoughts.  One clone exhibited mild negative activity and it was traced to a neural growth factor regulator.  The gene was further modified in the next batch.”

“What was the negative activity?” Sheev asked as he prepared another cracker. 

“The chip was poorly integrated.  This did not result in full blown seizures but did result in facial tics and could have progressed to seizures if the clone had continued into adulthood.” 

“But they are otherwise viable?”

“Yes.  The yield is low on the initial batch, but this is expected.  One died in the fetal incubator, one died from a training accident, but the rest that passed were removed from this cohort for quality control testing.  They have been otherwise viable.  One did get a nasty infection when they were training their immune systems.  I had the contractors adjust the template to further limit that expected complication, and the developers were impressed by the clone’s resilience.  The lungs were unfortunately scarred, but for now they are keeping the specimen alive to test and troubleshoot organ transplantation and possible rejection in different classes of clones.  Theoretically, the slight variations from batch to batch should have interchangeable tissues once the immune system is optimized, but they want to ensure there are no surprises.” 

Sheev sniffed dismissively.  “Do you really think it will be necessary to perform such heroic measures on clone soldiers?” 

“It’s actually quite cost effective if their parts are mostly interchangeable.  I’m certainly not suggesting we keep clones alive that are suffering organ failure through defect or chronic conditions, but if one is shot through the heart and another is shot through the liver, it’s better to change a few parts and get one clone returned to service quickly rather than lose both.  And it’s terribly useful for more minor injuries.  Skin grafts, corneal transplants, blood transfusions, muscles, tendons, bones.  We could keep spare parts frozen in the med bays until the clones could be replaced.  While I appreciate your need for secrecy, Kamino is a long journey from everywhere important, and the battle droids are getting terribly efficient.  It would be a shame if the war were over too quickly because you drained the Republic coffers while simultaneously antagonizing the Banking Clan.” 

“Yes, that is coming along well.”  Sheev folded his hands, looking satisfied.  “You’re surprisingly fiendish for a former Jedi.” 

“We’re not all mindlessly meditating on our daydreams or unable to see the big picture.”

“No,” Palpatine’s smile played around his lips.  “You’re not.  We should continue to take care to maintain our stealth.” 

“Oh, I’ve quite thoroughly covered my tracks.  As of last week, the Jedi officially are no longer aware of the existence of Kamino, which was more trouble than it should have been since they were initially discovered by the Exploration Corps.  Fortunately, no one from that team is still alive, the planet was not otherwise noteworthy, and it was never visited again, which is another reason I selected them in the first place.”

“You’re sure you’ve completely erased it?” 

“I can’t guarantee no one will hear of it from outside sources and go looking for it, but the entry had not been accessed for half a century, other than by me, and not only are the Exploration Corp Jedi who first encountered the planet long dead, so is everyone else who has ever accessed the file.”

“What of your late colleague?” 

“Syfo-Dias?” Dooku willed himself to remain emotionless.  “He had great gifts of foresight but had incredibly poor logistical skill.  I helped him by researching possible cloners and copied the information from the Archives for him.  He was not attached to the now missing files at all, he kept those files and plans on protected data processors, and I took possession of them after his death.  The Jedi won’t find them unless and until we want them to.”

“It’s good to hear that everything is going to plan.”  He indulged in a particularly loaded cracker, the oil from the caviar glistening on his lips.  “How have relations with the Geonosians been going?”

“They were professionally quite embarrassed to have their mechanical army defeated by two children, one droid and a lucky shot, never mind the primitive amphibians.  They have stepped up design development in response.” 

“Good.  It will be best if things are not over too quickly.”

“I think I’ve shown sympathy to their misfortune while spurring them on to do better.  I have implied that Serreno and several other worlds would be interested in purchasing mechanical infantry in the future.  If the Trade Federation is willing to bring troops over a minor dispute, one can’t be too cautious or too prepared in this political climate.” 

“Indeed.”  Sheev finished his repast, cleaned his hands, and gave Dooku one more look of invitation before putting a lid on the refreshment tray and standing.  “It’s good to hear you can be depended upon to carry out your part in the plans.  Since gourmet delicacies are not to your taste, perhaps I can reward you with something more valuable.  Knowledge.” 

Against his will, Dooku felt his eyes light up.  “Oh?” 

“Come.  There is more to see.”  Palpatine stepped out of the soft, ornate slippers he wore for a variety of diplomatic functions and put on some hardier shoes, dark, solid and thick-soled.  The count wondered exactly what the Sith had in mind.  He stepped over to the wall, removed the fine overtunic he wore under his senatorial robes, and hung it up on a hook, then tapped a control panel to open yet another hidden door, this one to an elevator.

“Where are we going?” Dooku asked, a bit apprehensive. 

“It’s far too risky to keep my most important resources in government facilities.  We’re going to the lower levels, away from prying eyes and sticky fingers.” 

Dooku entered the lift, hiding his reluctance, his Force sense making him wary of following this man into places more difficult to escape from.  “How were you able to have a lift installed in the Chancellor’s Residence without anyone noticing?” he asked. 

Palpatine’s chuckle was eerie as the lights flickered slightly and they began to descend.  He looked unnaturally pale in the stark, artificial light. 

“I didn’t have to.  An elevator has been here for far longer than you or I have been alive.  It’s here in the event that the Chancellor has need to evacuate the residence without going through the upper levels.  The government owns the residence and the lift, but not much more than the escape route and a small bunker.” 

“You’ve been using the bunker?” Dooku guessed.

“Don’t be dense.  A Sith Master purchased the units surrounding the bunker centuries ago.  Being close to the Chancellor has had many uses over the years.”

The count tried not to shudder as the lift came to a halt and the doors opened. 

The Sith stepped out into a dark hall.  To one side was a reinforced door, clearly the bunker.  To the other side was another door and a dark robe.  He slipped on the robe, cloaking his face in shadows, consciously letting his own Dark presence out to play.  Without a word, he stepped up to the retinal scan and after a moment the door opened, and he passed through.

“Come on,” he ordered, his voice harsher, more demanding.  “We can enter you into the system later.” 

Dooku felt his skin prickle in alarm, hairs rising on his arms and legs, but followed him, nonetheless. 

It was too late to turn back now. 

The room lights turned on as they entered, and it looked as if it were a perfectly normal, if windowless reception area on Coruscant, but it felt . . . cold.  Dooku felt the prickle of the Dark Side, like a banked fire, but detectable all the same, feeling its chill on his body. 

The Sith symbols were not hidden in plain sight, they were prominently displayed here.  It was the waiting room of the Dark Side. 

Palpatine casually gestured at the door and the bolt on the inside slid home, ensuring they would not be disturbed.  Dooku realized he had never seen this man use telekinesis before.  He was skilled, but he was clearly no Breggle player.  The move was effective, but neither efficient nor elegant.  He wondered if the lack of finesse was a consequence of centuries of the Rule of Two.  With only one’s master as an example, some unknown quality seemed to have been lost. 

The Sith walked to a control panel, tapped in a personal code, then turned down the lights and called up a holographic star chart of the galaxy, scaled and annotated to make the systems easily identifiable. 

“I’ve been pushing the Trade Federation to work against the interests of the Republic.  You have been building a power base at Serreno and have been courting the Geonosians.  What other systems and factions should we be pushing one way or the other?” 

Dooku tilted his head, considering the slowly rotating star map before him.  “Most of the Outer Rim systems are easier to alienate from the Republic; they are so far out they don’t get the same benefits of Republic membership the more central systems enjoy.  Those that have special resources which benefit the Republic and with economies dependent on Republic credits will be more difficult to persuade.” 

“You don’t want to persuade all of them,” the Sith explained.  “You want to surround them in their enemies, leaving them with no good choices.  Let the Republic burn resources trying to cherry pick the worlds they want to keep.  Those that want to leave will find their loyal neighbors a threat and an irritant, driving further conflict.” 

Dooku nodded.  “We don’t want it over too quickly,” he agreed begrudgingly. 

“It’s a manufactured war played out between droids and clones.  It will weaken the power of the Senate, weaken unity, splinter alliances, and wear down the ability to suppress dissent.  When the war is over, they will welcome order, discipline and efficient rule.”  He gestured at the star map.  “What other worlds and systems need a push to further our plans?” 

Dooku reached out to the map, highlighting different worlds, turning over the question in his mind.  “Ukio,” he said at last.  “Push them to secede.” 

“Hmm, clever choice my apprentice.”

The title seemed to slither over Dooku’s ears, leaving a psychological slime trail, like a slug.  “Cut out the bread-basket.  Even a clone army must march on its stomach, while a droid army doesn’t have such needs.  And starving the Republic will intensify desperation on both sides.”  The Sith sounded almost gleeful at the thought. 

Dooku raised an eyebrow.  “I think you are placing too much importance of Ukio.  Yes, Ukio is the breadbasket of the Core Worlds, but you’re underestimating the food production capacity of the Core Worlds and the Republic in general.  Even if Ukio were suddenly destroyed, it would not lead to famine, merely scarcity.  The Agri Corps intentionally manages food resources by producing below maximum capacity on most worlds.  This extra capacity is built into the system so should it be needed, production can be expanded, but production isn’t so high that prices fall and collapse the local market.  Many Core Worlds do have the resources to produce enough food to feed their citizens, if not enough to feed them comfortably.  Coruscant of course cannot, and thus would result in more extreme scarcity here, but not starvation.”

“Hunger, not starvation,” the Sith nodded.  “Unrest may indeed serve our purposes better than true suffering.” 

Dooku felt an unwanted smile pulling at his lips.  “We don’t want this over too quickly.” 

“Yes,” the Sith almost hissed, delighted.  “Yes, you should go charm the Ukians.  Our backers will feel more secure if they leave the Republic with their meal ticket in their pocket.  Excellent suggestion.”  He snapped off the projection, then flicked on the lights, the abrupt, rapid changes between light and dark giving him a sharp pallor, his eyes shining eerily in fiendish joy. 

“Keep thinking.  See where the Dark Side of the Force leads you.  Perhaps your Jedi teachings about balance and moderation are indeed of value.  Scarcity is more motivating than famine and death, it angers the rich and poor.  It’s a grievance they can agree on.  In the meantime, come.  There is more to see.”  He turned and slipped farther into the labyrinth of rooms. 

Dooku followed him down a dark hall where the shadows seemed to slither.  Even he could sense there were strange, dark artifacts behind closed doors.  He half-expected the doorknobs to rattle or to hear footsteps of ghosts, so much power was locked up and stored away here. 

They reached the end of the hall and entered what was clearly a Sith training salle.  There was no feeling of serenity and tempered emotion here.  Rather than the faint smell of fresh sweat and disinfectant there was a noticeably rank odor of blood, exertion and fear.  Dark splashes and scorch marks marred the walls.  Generations of Sith Apprentices were forged here.  Many of them did not survive the tempering. 

Adept at sensing the Living Force, but not accustomed to its Dark complement, the count tasted bile making itself known at the back of his throat.  The Sith Master stopped and turned, an amused glint in his eye. 

“You need to lose that Jedi softness.  You’re no innocent and you need to stop thinking like one.” 

Dooku visible swallowed, grateful he had only had water, but maintained control of his body.  “I have only rarely been so thoroughly surrounded by Darkness before.  I have been trained to be very aware of it, conditioned to defend myself against it.”

“You’ll learn to embrace the Darkness more fully in time as you come to understand what gifts both sides of the Force truly provide.”  He sighed.  “My master created amazing little miracles marrying the power of Light and Dark, life and death, by embracing both sides of the Force.”  He glanced at Dooku’s hand, unconsciously hovering near the curved hilt of his saber.  “The Jedi have trained you well enough with the lightsaber.  You are not in danger of falling under the hand of an arrogant man-child.  I don’t fear you have shortcomings in that arena.”  He gestured to indicate the room.  “Not that you aren’t welcome to practice of course.  I hear the modern Jedi is too restrained to practice Juyo for example.”  He turned away and began walking across the polished floor to another locked room that opened with his palm print.  “I’m much more interested in seeing if you can comprehend how the Light and the Dark can be made to work synergistically.” 

The door opened and he stepped into a brightly lit room, his dark robe like a saber slash against a wall of living green. 

“What is this place?” the count gasped as the Light flowed all around him, dazzling his Force sense after their long journey through the Dark.  He blinked stupidly at the vines and flower-covered walls for several seconds before he could feel the death and decay intertwined with the Light, Life and growth. 

“This is the Garden of Darth Plagueis the Wise.”  The Sith gestured like a tour guide welcoming a visitor, urging them to take it all in.  The beauty.  The ugliness.  The Force.

This was not a normal garden. 

“There’s too much death here, too much Darkness in the Light,” Dooku protested, gooseflesh rising as his senses were thrilled and repulsed simultaneously. 

“You’re still thinking like a Jedi,” the Sith chided.  “Trying to find your precious balance, not embracing a new dynamic equilibrium different from your own, not perturbing the system to use it to its utmost potential.  Of course, there is Dark and Death here; this is a Sith garden.  You need to sacrifice Light to the Dark to achieve everlasting power.”

The count retreated behind a supercilious façade.  “I seem to recall I’m only in this position because your master’s power proved to be far from everlasting.” 

The Sith cackled, like an ice sheet cracking underfoot.  “It is true, Darth Plagueis did not enjoy the everlasting life he dabbled in, but his creations,” he gestured toward a well-lit table at the center of the room, covered in vaguely gruesome terrariums.  “His children have lived far past his lifetime.” 

Unwilling, but morbidly curious, the count leaned down to examine what appeared to be a twisted, stunted tree in a glass box.  There was something pale pink in color entwined in its branches, cradled by green needles so dark they were nearly black. 

“Is that a finger?” Dooku gasped, revolted. 

“Yes!”  The Sith clasped his hands, as if recalling a fond memory.  “Darth Plagueis and Darth Tenebrous used to take trophies from those they sought to influence and control.  Not as a memento to excite them, but to force a bond between the host victim and the parasitic plant.  The Dark Bond leeches away Light to nurture the tree.  Not that one needs anything near as large as a finger, that was just a Force-blessed accident.” 

Dooku felt the bile trying to rise again.  It was brilliant and vile.  Fascinating and revolting.  Sickeningly beautiful. 

“Whose finger is that?”

“Oh, that finger once belonged to a very trusted senior aide to Chancellor Valorum.  He was in a horrific speeder accident, that alone could have ended his career, but other than the finger, a few broken bones and some whiplash, he was miraculously unhurt.  They never did find it in the wreckage, and Darth Plagueis couldn’t just let it die.  It’s been quite useful in years past, siphoning off energy and life force during particularly crucial times, and had helped make Valorum a drastically less effective leader.  Such a fine specimen, but the gentleman in question is slated to retire soon, so we will likely have to let this little tree go.  It has outlived its usefulness, just like its host.” 

“What happens to the host?” 

“It depends on what I have planned, and foreseen.  If they are no longer useful, I can simply enhance the plant until the host is sucked dry and succumbs.  To outsiders is appears to be from unexpected but natural causes.  If I want to stop draining the host, perhaps they are more useful alive, I break the bond by removing the tissue or talisman from the parasite, or I can put the plant in hibernation or nurture it independently, so it simply sustains the host-graft instead of using it as a drainage conduit.”

“Can the host ever escape?”  Dooku resisted the urge to check each terrarium, despite wanting to assure himself there wasn’t a parasite ready and waiting for him.

“Well,” he gave a chilling smile.  “None have in my lifetime.” 

“Because you’re more powerful than your master was?” Dooku asked.

The Sith laughed harshly.  “Of course I’m more powerful than he was, he shared his knowledge with me, like his master before him, but no, I don’t actually have a particularly green thumb and so never made a similar creation, at least not with plants.  I simply meant Darth Plagueis was particularly talented in this very special gardening, much more so than his predecessor.  While some of Darth Tenebrous’s early victims were able to escape, none of my master’s have.  Either we let them go, or they died, trying or not.”

Slightly queasy, Dooku carefully made his way around the table, examining each one.  There was a small, bushy plant with a piece of ear grafted onto a branch, a flowering tree with a chunk of horn or montral in its roots, and a weeping cherry tree, sickly, almost bare, with a fleshy tendril growing from the branches, clearly a whisker or tentacle but the species it came from was unclear.  Not all of the plants contained body parts.  A small tree’s branches were growing through a gold wedding band, the metal cutting into the bark.  An orchid-like plant had a military identification tag on a chain tangled in its roots, the years in the humid box giving the metal a strange patina, like old blood. 

The next plant seemed odd, feeling strange in the Force.  The transparent case for this one was made of real glass, and it had been in this terrarium for so long the roots had grown through the drainage grate at the base, hopelessly and permanently tangled in it.  Unlike the others, it had dead leaves amongst the healthy ones, and sections of the roots were crumbling to dust, while other parts remained robust, as if the plant had nearly died at some point but rallied.  Small tendrils grew, reaching out to grasp for a support frame the gardener had never provided, but a few of them clutched at what was clearly a tooth, a broken root still attached, still clinging to a chip of jawbone. 

Dooku paused, examining it more closely.  This one was different.  The plant was actively feeding, trying to draw energy from its host through the tooth, but unlike the others, this plant seemed to struggle more, as if the host was too far away or too weak to sustain it. 

Or resisting.

Cautiously feeling it with the Force, Dooku felt old scars in the plant, not all of them visible, and realized this was a war that had been fought for a very long time, and the plant was very often on the losing end. 

This one was still trying to escape. 

“This one is different,” Dooku nodded at the terrarium, then backed away, shielding himself when the plant reached out to him in the Force. 

“You have a very good eye,” the Sith Lord came close, gently touching a finger to the glass, giving the plant a bit of energy.  “That is a unique specimen, the oldest in the collection, and was passed down to me from my master who in turn inherited it from his master.  It’s the only one left from Darth Tenebrous, and is quite the antique.  Frankly, I’m amazed the host is still alive.”

“Who is sustaining the plant?” Dooku asked, disturbed by the Dark Energies swirling in the terrarium.  A crumb of Light came through the tooth and it was quickly swallowed in Darkness, but no more.  Whoever it was still resisted.  For years.

For decades. 

“I am the one sustaining the plant.  This host is particularly stubborn and would have outlasted the parasite without the intervention of three generations of Sith Lords, which is why it’s such a prize.  But you are really asking who the host is who is working so hard to starve this needy plant.  I had been told that long ago it was much larger, with elegant fronds and vines spreading all across the table.  But that was before either of us were born.” 

“The host is elderly then?” 

“Quite old, but as I said, stubborn.  He was a Jedi I’m told, and even now he resists the pull.”  The plant quieted, giving up its attack for now, biding its time. 

“A Jedi?”  Dooku tried not to let the knee jerk horror show on his face.  Siphoning off the Living Force from a living being was cruel, but arguably effective and stealthy.  Even expedient.  But a Jedi had a much deeper well of power to draw from than a non-Force sensitive and could resist, but at what cost and for how long?  The corrosion on the metal frame and the etching clouding the glass of the terrarium indicated that could be a very, very long time. 

He glanced at the tooth again.  It was definitely not Master Yoda’s but something felt familiar in the Force. 

“Is this person still a Jedi?” the count asked. 

“Hmm, so far as I know.  I don’t have many of the details, Darth Tenebrous was a bit cryptic in his notes, and Darth Plagueis was never entirely certain of his identity.  I know that when he was still a young man, Darth Tenebrous considered taking him as an apprentice, though he didn’t quite spell it out in so many words, not wanting to show his hand too quickly, and the Jedi refused.  Darth Tenebrous retaliated by tying him to the plant, and kept nurturing it, long past when it had served its purpose.  He was rather insulted by the refusal you see.  And after him, Darth Plagueis kept it as well, made a study of it to refine his own creations, but also because he felt that such a rival should be kept suppressed.”

“You thought this Jedi would seek vengeance?” 

“No.  You’ll note the plant siphoned Light Force energy but it’s not a picky eater.  He didn’t turn.  Darth Tenebrous feared he would realize we were Sith and destroy our line.”

“But you yourself said you can draw on the Dark Side of the Force.  A Jedi would have to stay to the Light.” 

“Yes,” Sidious agreed.  “I’ve been told that Darth Tenebrous was quite powerful, but this Jedi was also, both talented and intelligent.  Smart enough to figure it out, dangerous enough to take out one or both if he had.  Darth Plagueis was quite powerful, more so than Darth Tenebrous, but still young then and not strong enough.  If the Jedi could not be turned, he would have to be removed from the board.”

“Why not simply kill him?  Jedi die all the time.” 

Sidious gave a vicious snort.  “He tried.  And failed.  He was a protégé of your master and that decrepit lizard was apparently able to keep him alive, but fortunately for the health of the Sith line of succession, missed the tooth.  If he could not kill him, the Sith Lord would just have to clip his wings.  Permanently.” 

Dooku took a deep breath, wondering how far back the Sith had been corrupting the Jedi from the inside out.  “What did he do?” he asked at last. 

A cold smile could be heard in the Sith’s chilling whisper, right against his ear, like a lover might, but oozing Darkness. 

“He broke him.”

Dooku drew back and stared at him, trying to see his eyes beneath the hood.  All he could make out was the evil grin. 

“I remember the story well.  Killing him didn’t work, but he was maimed; he would never be the same again, physically.  But that was not enough, as I said he was clever.  Darth Tenebrous had to attack his mind, his connection to the Force, his precious Jedi balance.  He grafted this tooth to a particularly persistent plant, hand-picked from his garden and began to suck him dry while he was weak.  He took away his body, sabotaged his healing, used the bond with the plant to send Dark energy his way.  And when the fool still clung to the Light, he corrupted his lover, though that apparently didn’t take much of a push.  His lover was merely a pawn in the game but was much more manipulable, and already planning to leave him, but a little Dark influence made him particularly cruel.  Darth Tenebrous said it was quite thrilling when his will was finally broken, and he gave in to despair.  Furthermore, your master was very distressed and distracted by the whole thing.  So much for his vow of no attachment.” 

“Master Yoda can be quite devoted to his students.”  Dooku forced himself to look away from both the Sith and the vile plant.  The next terrarium contained what looked like a dense patch of crabgrass slowly drying out.  There was no obvious flesh grafted to it. 

“This one is dying,” Dooku nodded at the paling blades. 

“Yes, it is.  I removed the conduit.  I don’t need to directly influence the Viceroy of the Trade Federation anymore.  I have you for that.  It served its purpose, but he’s had a taste of unchained greed now and is being sanctioned by the Senate.  You shall have no trouble securing his support.” 

“You were making him ill? During an invasion?”  It had never been clear to him whether the Sith had intended the Naboo Invasion to succeed or fail or if in fact it had mattered at all. 

“Oh no, I wasn’t using the plant to drain him.”  The Sith looked down at the sickly plant, almost fondly.  “I used it to boost his confidence, to encourage his loyalty.  He was greedy, but weak.  He never would have followed through with the invasion on his own, even with his considerable fear of me.”  The plant reached out to him and was rebuffed.  “Besides, he was under Jedi scrutiny.  They’ve never noticed our siphoning, but I was concerned they might sense augmentation, particularly in someone so utterly Force-blind.  Darth Maul could certainly sense it.  So, it was time to let it go.  No sense in tipping our hand.” 

“Yes.”  Dooku looked down at the moldering plant, then back at the older one, which had resumed trying to feed.  There was a trembling in the Force, as the plant struggled to draw another morsel and then a harsh snap as it was thwarted.  The plant squalled like an angry toddler in the Force and another leaf began to wilt. 

“And still he resists,” the Sith sighed.  “No matter the cost.”  He touched a cold finger to the glass and the plant went silent, nursing its wounds.

“What does it cost him?” 

“I don’t know,” Sidious admitted.  “From what I’ve been told, he likely suffers from depression.  It was something Darth Tenebrous said he was predisposed to, he had made a thorough study of his genes to try to understand why he was so strong in the Force.  He seemed destined to be one of the great Jedi of his generation.  After Darth Tenebrous was done with him, apparently he went from being a Jedi to just teaching them.” 

Dooku felt a cold lump settle into his stomach.  He glanced back at the plant, concerned. 

“Can he sense us through the plant?” he asked, shielding himself. 

Sidious frowned, flummoxed by the question.  “He shouldn’t be able to, but then again, he shouldn’t still be alive.”

Dooku raised his shields further, concerned.  “How exactly was he maimed?  If he was as brilliant as you say, I should be able to identify him.” 

The Sith shrugged, as if the matter was of no real consequence.  “Darth Tenebrous involved himself in a skirmish after negotiations had failed, taking the opportunity to enact his revenge.  When the locals began bombing the area, he redirected an uprooted tree and tried to take his head off.  He was sure it would have snapped his neck, but he lived.” 

“Clothesline injury,” Dooku almost whispered, the sick feeling in his stomach spreading through his body as a numbing cold.  He glanced back at the plant warily, raising his shields higher. 

“You know him?” Sidious asked, keenly aware of the count’s shielding. 

Dooku raised an eyebrow.  “Being maimed by a tree is rather unique, even among Jedi.  Yes, I know him, and yes, the healers were amazed he didn’t break his neck.  His larynx was crushed.  He spent years unable to speak and feeding through a tube.  He was grounded to the Temple and ended up teaching.  And yes, he is one of the most stubborn fools I’ve ever had the misfortune to know.” 

“Darth Tenebrous called him a waste of midichlorians trapped by a mind with no vision.” 

Dooku glanced at the plant again.  “You are correct, he lacked the vision to see his own potential and spent his time in frivolous pursuits but trying to mold him into a Sith would have been a hopeless endeavor from the start.” 

“Why?” Sidious asked, genuinely curious.  “Despite how you Jedi try to deny it, there is Darkness in everyone.” 

“He has as much Darkness as the next Jedi, and he was certainly talented physically and strong in the Force, but he is shallow, vapid, and spent his life foolishly.  He lacked the drive for power and was too lazy to truly develop himself.  But most importantly, there is nothing a Sith could offer him that would inspire him to betray Yoda.  While I don’t share that trait myself, and I generally despise him, I do respect that.” 

“Do not underestimate my powers,” Sidious hissed, insulted. 

“I don’t,” Dooku replied, seemingly unperturbed, though it was something of a façade.  Part of him seemed relieved to know he could find a weakness in the Sith.  “We’re talking about a man who, by your own admission, had his body, mind and soul broken by the machinations of a Sith Lord, and even now, in his twilight years, is still resisting your attacks.  And to my knowledge, he has never turned to the Dark Side of the Force, despite considerable talents.  It would be so easy, and a lesser man would have decades ago.” 

Sidious glanced back at the plant and the tooth with grudging respect.  “I see your point.”  He reached out again to tap on the glass, helping the plant heal.  “Did he ever do anything besides teach Jedi children?” 

Dooku shrugged, not bothering to correct the Sith.  “A few things.  You might be more familiar with his work as The Wraith.” 

The Sith looked down at the plant, with vague disgust.  “He was in a holofilm?”

Dooku chuckled, half-nervous, half-amused at the other’s expression. 

“I told you he was vapid; he probably was in more than one holofilm.  He had artsy friends, but no, I meant he was the actual Jedi who went by that codename, and either killed Dark Jedi or returned them to the Temple to face the Council’s judgement.” 

“Really?”  The Sith sounded incredulous.  “He was the Wraith?” 

“I said he was foolish, not weak.” 

“He still tracked Dark Jedi after his injuries?” Sidious asked, stunned. 

“Actually, he didn’t start chasing down rogues until after he was hurt.” 

The Sith scowled at the plant as if it had personally disappointed him.  “Is he still a threat?” 

Dooku took a moment to consider his answer.  He’s still not someone to be underestimated.  He plays the fool but is not someone to cross.  He opened his mouth to speak, but could feel a warning in the Force, and almost reflexively he submitted to it, far too experienced to ignore that call, especially when facing a Sith. 

“No,” he heard himself say.  “He’s very old, disabled and living in the retirement home.  So far as I know he hasn’t left the Temple in a decade or more.” 

The Sith stared at him from beneath his dark hood, then slowly turned his gaze back toward the plant.  “Disabled?” 

“Yes.  He can’t care for himself anymore.” 

The Sith’s eyes narrowed.  “Does your former master still fuss over him?” 

Dooku closed his eyes to hide their roll.  “Constantly.  He remains Master Yoda’s closest companion, and Master Yoda worries about him in particular when he gets depressed.”  He frowned at the plant again.  “I see now that worry was not misplaced.” 

“It certainly was not,” the Sith agreed.  “Perhaps we should keep this fine specimen around for now, then.  This so-called Wraith may no longer be a threat, but it’s worth having a means to undermine Yoda.” 

“Indeed,” Dooku conceded.  “Yoda remains a formidable opponent.” 

“The Sith have been observing him for a long time.  His power has diminished as we have foreseen.  We should take care to help the process along.” 

“I agree.”  Dooku gave the plant one last glance as he checked his shields again.  “Is there anyone else you have your eye on to join this Accursed Garden?” 

“No,” the Sith grinned, an evil glee in his eye.  “Unlike my master, I’ve learned how to manipulate my victims without the plants.”   

“Have you?”  The count felt his blood run cold. 

“Yes.  It’s a matter of having the right talisman and the right victim.” 

* * *

He was trembling when he finally reached the upper levels and called for his driver, his trek through the maze of disorienting passages, stairwells, shafts and lifts finally spitting him out on the slightly more respectable edge of the G-Red, a place where no one would think to look for the Chancellor should the government come under attack.  It wasn’t expensive enough to appeal to a man like Palpatine and it wasn’t sleazy enough to be a good story.  Still, he stepped onto a moving walkway to carry him over a vast chasm to the neighboring Senate District to meet up with his driver.  The afternoon sun was not able to penetrate the bone deep chill that left his teeth chattering whenever he wasn’t paying attention to it. 

He settled into his seat in the rear compartment, cranked up the heat, and then tried to use his well-honed Jedi skills to release his . . . his fear?  His exhilaration?  He wasn’t sure what exactly he was feeling. 

Giddiness at getting out alive?  Revulsion at what he had seen?  Desire to wield that kind of power and influence, though not with that level of blatant cruelty?  He couldn’t tell, which meant he needed more meditation.  But he had emerged alive, if changed.  Whether he was unscathed was the next question. 

He could no longer smell the rain, neither outside the Embassy nor inside.  The storm clouds had dissipated while he had been drinking in knowledge in the lower levels, and apparently whatever was wrong with the filtration system had been repaired and the system flushed in his absence. 

He hurried inside with barely a nod at the security staff, going straight to his personal quarters, where he stripped himself naked and studied his reflection, checking and double-checking himself for wounds, both fresh and healed.  That whole garden had been unnerving, and if the Sith had been trying to convert Yoda’s lineage as far back as Simet, there was a distinct possibility he too had a little herbaceous parasite he didn’t know about. 

He turned this way and that.  There was nothing new. 

He certainly hadn’t lost a finger. 

He ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking over his long career, wondering if he had ever lost a significant chunk of himself and not noticed it with the subsequent bacta treatments. 

He did still have his teeth.  Some of them had crowns, but none had been pulled or replaced.  His preferred style of saberwork didn’t tend to lend itself to lost or damaged teeth, and he did recall Master Yoda telling him Simet had had to get an implant to replace the tooth knocked out during his injury.  As a prissy teen he had thought it was vain to get a pricey implant over a more humble partial but as an older man he could appreciate not wanting to spend the next seventy-five years with a gap in one’s teeth. 

Not that Simet didn’t reveal his vanity in other ways. 

He finished his inspection, then carefully looked over his clothes.  Nothing was missing or otherwise tampered with.  He doubted he had left any stray parts of himself around.  He had undergone a biopsy some years ago, but the entire tissue sample had been used in the diagnostic tests, and it had not been cultured, so for now he felt reasonably safe.  Unless Darth Plagueis had scraped up his road rash, or followed after him when he had a bloody nose, he cold not think of any time when he might have inadvertently made a suitable tissue donation. 

However, . . . Darth Sidious did say he no longer needed the plants as the middleman; he just needed an object the intended victim had imprinted on.  His decades living with an oath of poverty must have made him particularly frustrating.  Though he lived a more luxurious life now, possessions were merely things, not something to grow attached to.  In fact, the only possession he took great care not to lose was his lightsaber. 

Another chill ran up his spine as he watched himself shiver in the mirror. 

The Sith had given him blood red stones for his lightsaber.  Where were the original stones?

Wordlessly, he dug through his clothes until he found his lightsaber and examined the outside shell carefully before he opened the curved cylinder.  The stones lay nestled in the hilt, Dark energies coiling around them, but no hand had touched them since his own.  They were clean, well-polished, and fairly well harmonized, though he was quite sure Moosie Kanu would have winced at the sound.  The first time he had turned it on it had set his teeth on edge, but he was getting used to it. 

He remembered when his new master had given him these stones, and he felt he finally understood why he had made himself a hilt with the room and structure to accommodate increased power capacity all those years ago.  Kanu Harmonics were still the pinnacle of Jedi weapon-smithing, even though Kanu’s pyre had long grown cold, and in the subsequent decades that knowledge had gradually become more obscure, more lost.  The Jedi were excellent recordkeepers, but the Sith and their holocrons put the Order to shame.  He himself didn’t need an ideally harmonized lightsaber, his skills served him well without bells and whistles (unlike Simet for example), but he couldn’t help but be impressed by the Sith designs.  So much power, held within his hands.  So much Force to carry out his will. 

His master had also gifted him with a small book of Sith techniques to help him develop himself when he returned to Serreno, far from the prying eyes of the Temple.  Sidious had told him he expected him to have mastered Force Lightning by their next meeting, that he should learn to channel his anger and emotions into physical action. 

He was quite sure Simet had never done that. 

He had worked on his saber here at the Embassy, in his private office, where the servants did not enter.  His old saber stones should still be there, in the safe where he had left them. 

He stood up straight, still stark naked and slipped into the office, kneeling in front of the safe, letting it scan his fingerprints and retina before putting in the codes.  The door opened with a cold clang and he reached inside. 

There were several black, velvet-lined boxes.  Most contained jewels of the House of Serreno, stored here for his convenience.  He would have to remember to bring them when he left, along with the other treasures in private spaces, knowing Serreno would soon be cutting ties to the Republic.  He hoped the Embassy would survive the war to come, but for now at least these were the sacrifices one had to make.  Perhaps the Trade Federation or another of their backers would be willing to preserve the space until he could take it back. 

Still, Sheev Palpatine was a man of vision.  Regardless of what was destroyed, there would be new construction when the coming war was over, and plenty of spoils to choose from.  Or he might prefer to live on Serrano permanently then. 

He found the crystals in the last box, still untouched by any hand but his own and he had worn gloves.  He tumbled them into his bare hand, and they hummed weakly, still able to harmonize together, but it almost felt as if they had known they had been replaced and were no longer willing to sing for him. 

He pulled a jeweler’s loupe from the safe and examined each one for signs of recent chipping or polishing but found nothing.  He had carried these crystals for decades, and they were his most vulnerable target for Force manipulation.  They were strongly connected to him in the Force but having been replaced he would normally be unlikely to check them regularly or miss them if they were taken.  Clearly, he would have to take care to ensure they were not carelessly misplaced. 

He closed the lid of the last jewel case and put them into the safe, then ducked back into his dressing room to retrieve the Sith book to store it in the safe until he left for Serreno.  When he reached in to put it in the safe, he heard an odd sound, as if the something had shifted in the jewel boxes.  He paused, withdrew his arm, and when nothing happened, tried again.  The same thing happened but this time he saw the movement.  When he brought the Sith book close to the box with his saber crystals, the box shifted.  When he put his hand on the box, he could feel his old saber crystals vibrating inside. 

As if they were trying to warn him. 

He looked at the little, black, leather-bound book in his hands.  Darth Sidious expected him to pour over this volume.  To study it.  To make its knowledge and power his own. 

It would make a rather fine talisman over time, particularly if it was returned. 

Not that Sidious had been clear whether he retained the talismans, or his victims did. 

He felt a shiver run up his spine. 

He had heard that last thought in Simet’s voice. 

For all that the ridiculous, insufferable man would never turn away from the Light and embrace the Darkness, he had a keen mind and a deeper understanding of the Dark Side than many would have given him credit for.  Despite their years of mutual disdain, Dooku could admit that to a Sith, a young Knight Silvanus would have been a bitter prize to lose, particularly in light of his resistance to a leeching Dark parasite for nearly eight decades.  He knew Simet was talented, intelligent, strong in the Force and not to be trifled with, and that was with three generations of Sith draining him at their whim.  What had he been like before?

The count didn’t know.  He hadn’t even been born until after the man had been injured, much less known him then, only hearing about his younger years from their master’s stories.  He had grown to resent those tales, and the man who stole away his master’s love, care and worry, jealous of sharing Yoda’s attentions, particularly with someone who was not only grown, but who had utterly failed to live up to the potential Yoda had seen.  Somehow, that infuriating imbecile had been loved and adored despite his shortcomings and was cosseted and checked on whenever he indulged in yet another depressive episode because he couldn’t deal with his own emotions, and never remotely lived up to the expectations placed upon Yoda’s padawans.  He alone was left to shoulder that burden, and he had excelled at it.  Even now, his old master still molly-coddled the ill-bred bastard. 

Their relationship looked very different now, after his enlightening visit to the garden. 

For the first time, Dooku found himself trying to imagine what the man had been like before a Sith tried to snuff out his life and Light. 

He had always dismissed Yoda’s stories as nostalgia tinged by rose-colored glasses.  Now he was starting to realize there were deeper reasons, more painful truths behind why his predecessor passed himself off as weaker than he really was and retreated to gloomy isolation. 

Force, he must have been magnificent.  A creature strong enough to hold off the Dark even though it ruined him through injury and disease, if not corruption and temptation.  He had always assumed Simet lacked vision, that he could not see the potential the Dark Side of the Force offered.  Now he wondered what that young man had seen that made him refuse, no matter the cost. 

He wondered if Simet was aware of the Sith’s continued efforts, or just assumed his hardships were just his own to bear.  He wondered if Yoda could sense the Dark machinations, even subconsciously, and if this is what drove his protectiveness, even now.  He always assumed his master had been haunted by the accident itself, from seeing his former padawan struck down before his eyes, from trying to hold him together like a broken doll while his lifeblood covered them both.  Yoda had still had nightmares when Dooku had been a boy, and he had seen a fractured image or two through their bond.  Was it the trauma that stalked his dreams, or was it the Dark forces at work behind the scenes?

Was Simet just a talisman to get to Yoda?

Was that the real reason the Sith had never tried again?

He came back to the present, thanks to his knees reminding him he was still kneeling in front of his safe, naked.  He locked the crystals inside but held onto the book.  He had the distinct feeling he should not keep them together. 

He stood and walked across the room to another cabinet, hiding the book amongst his expensive liquor, locking it in for safekeeping.  He returned to his dressing room, then the refresher to thoroughly scrub himself clean, feeling tainted as much by the garden as by his trek through the lower levels.  The water was hot, the pressure was high, but he wasn’t satisfied until he had scrubbed his skin and hair three times and his skin was red, nearly raw. 

Finally feeling more like himself, he dressed in fine satin pajamas and headed into his bedroom.  His butler had turned down his sheets while he was in the refresher and had left a note on his pillow. 

Sir,

The maintenance personnel did a full check of the home environment and air filtration systems after you left for the day and found everything was working within established guidelines.  Further investigations found that ‘the scent of rain’ you noticed was likely due to the gardeners tending the plants in the arboretum, which were thoroughly watered today in order to simulate the spring rains on Serreno to induce the bulbs to exit dormancy and grow.  I apologize for not notifying you of the potential air quality issues.  I had not realized you were not in residence during previous dousings.  Please do let us know if you wish us to continue as the bulbs will need thrice weekly waterings for the rest of the month in order to bloom.  It takes diligent effort to convince them it is springtime on Serreno.  They sense much more than we realize.

--G.

His butler had no idea.

He knelt on the rug to meditate before bed.  He couldn’t achieve balance, his mind still too full of new ideas and insights to completely relax, but he was able to release enough anxiety to let him sleep.  He did a brief, stretching kata, also good for preparing to sleep, then got into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin.

He left the lights on. 

He knew in his heart that he was definitely not a Jedi anymore.  He couldn’t be after today.  He had seen too much, had done too much, had taken a deep drink of the Fountain of Forbidden Knowledge and had paid the barkeep in blood, though not his own. 

Sometimes he still missed Sifo-Dyas.  He did wonder why he could foresee the need for an army when even Yoda remained ignorant.  His old friend had been a fairly powerful Jedi but couldn’t hold a candle to Yoda.  Perhaps the Sith had simply made Simet particularly depressed when engaging in their most crucial machinations that would send ripples through the Unifying Force.

He supposed he would miss Yoda someday.  Qui-Gon needed a bit of convincing, but he was likely to come around to leaving the Order, if not joining the Sith, before things got dire.  It wasn’t as if he had strong ties to his latest padawan, if he even still had one.  The last time they had discussed the boy, his former apprentice had not been very confident in his prospects.  How long ago was that?  Five years?  Ten?  He was surprised the boy had lasted that long, weak as he was in the Force. 

Finally settled in for the night, he went over his own actions and choices again.  Sidious had shown more of himself in this visit than he had before and Dooku found himself tantalized and repulsed in turn.  The Sith’s casual virtuosity in both sides of the Force, as well as his ability to hide his talents was very impressive, not that he had ever felt the need to cultivate the latter himself.

He was already well known as a powerful, Jedi-trained Force user, to the Jedi, to the Sith, to the Republic at large.

Was that why Simet hid his talents?  Did he mask himself so he would never attract another Dark Master?

What brutal scars and painful truths hid behind that vapid smile, shallow personality, and low-class lifestyle?

Despite their long antagonistic history, Dooku found the act of making Simet the target of the Sith’s decades-long manipulations rather repugnant.  Not that Sith shouldn’t be objectively evil of course, but it was, for lack of a better term, in poor taste.  Dishonorable.  When he was the master, he would deal with his adversaries cleanly, killing them outright.  Tormenting a man for longer than he had even been alive, not to mention harming Yoda by proxy, was just . . . unnecessarily cruel.  Evil for the sake of being evil.  Cruelty meted out to serve the Dark Side of the Force, rather than in service of accomplishing objectives.  It felt like an indulgence of Dark Side urges, rather than mastery of them. 

Was this a last vestige of his Jedi self, or merely a reflection of his own goals and ambitions, a vision of himself as a master of both sides of the Force?  Sidious used both sides of the Force, but he was clearly no Master of the Light. 

The Light still spoke to Dooku.

Through his stones.

Through his feelings.

Through his intuition. 

He still trusted the Light Side of the Force more than he trusted the Sith.  The lie he had told his new master was proof of this.  The question was why the Force had prompted him to do so.  What benefit was there to telling Sidious that a disabled, depressed centenarian posed no threat?  He had seen Simet mere days ago, in the flesh.  He was shallow and crass, but still sharp as a vibroblade, keen intelligence sparkling in his clear gaze.  If he could be convinced to focus on the new Sith presence, he could pose quite a significant threat, intellectually and strategically, if not physically.  Was this why he held back?  Was Simet an ace up his sleeve?

He was living by the Rule of Two: the master and the apprentice.  When the apprentice surpassed the master, he struck him down. 

Sidious was particularly powerful.  If the Dark Master proved too formidable to strike down, he might have to recruit more Jedi to his cause.  He wasn’t a fool, no Sith truly stuck to the Rule of Two.  And he was admittedly old to be a Sith apprentice.  He would need an apprentice of his own to rule with him. 

Power and corruption tempted Sidious too much.  It could well be his downfall. 

But to carry that out . . .  if he couldn’t muster enough power to do it by himself . . .

Simet was a brilliant tactician, with Force skills he himself clearly lacked, sitting on a wellspring of Force power he was wasting fighting off a damned plant. 

Politics made for strange bedfellows, indeed. 

Just because Simet would never turn from the Light didn’t mean he wouldn’t join Forces with him to be rid of Sidious if that’s what it took to eliminate an evil. 

Not that it was likely to matter. 

The Jedi were living on borrowed time.  But the wheels of Sith manipulations turned slowly.  Best to keep Simet under the radar, just in case he was needed.  And he both distracted and comforted Yoda.  

His former master’s last years would be painful and full of strife.  He would not begrudge an old man his comforts in the dark days to come.  For all his anger at the Jedi, the Council, and his former master, he would not be petty, cruel, or dishonorable. 

One did not gain power by trading the Light for Darkness.  He would find his new balance.

He closed his eyes, released his jealousy, and looked inward, feeling the bonds in his mind. 

Qui-Gon.

Yoda.

Jocasta.

Sidious.

But there was nothing else and no one else.  Vegetable or otherwise. 

He would meet his destiny, but he would lose them all.  Except maybe Qui-Gon.  It was the Sith way. 

He remembered Monti Barro telling him many years ago that much of what they knew of the Sith was from copies of their writings painstakingly transcribed by Jedi monks and nuns who wrote out the texts to separate the words and information from the Force-cursed source materials, providing a distance from the evil to allow scholarly work to continue.  He decided he would do the same, copy the little black book rather than study it directly, not allowing it to become another vulnerable chink in his armor. 

If he was going to be a Sith, it would be on his own terms, with his eyes wide open, not as a puppet for his master’s power plays. 

There was no going back now.

There was only going forward. 

Carefully guarding his mind and inner thoughts, he fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

“You have a sample you need me to collect, Your Excellency?” 

Sheev Palpatine looked up from where he was sitting at his desk and smiled at the slight biomedical technician peering at him from behind the half-open door. 

“Hello, I am so sorry.  I forgot to comm the laboratory.  Your services are not needed tonight.  It turns out we won’t be needing to culture that samples after all, so you didn’t have to come by so late.” 

The technician ducked her head, nervous.  “I hope that the culture and tests were no longer necessary for a good reason.”  She frowned, not really knowing why the Supreme Chancellor would want her to harvest live cells from a trace sample from an anonymous citizen and culture them in the lab, but it was not her place to question her superiors.  “My supervisor said you might also need us to take samples for DNA analysis.  It’s less time-sensitive, but I can take it now if you have it ready.” 

Sheev’s smile widened the slightest bit.  “Initiative.  I like that.  Yes, the sample is ready.”  He gestured toward an empty water glass in a sealed plastic bag on the edge of his desk.  “Thank you.” 

The technician frowned as she stepped in, examining the sample through the bag without touching it.  “Do you want samples from anyone who drank from the glass or everyone who touched it?”  She still sounded nervous, and it was clear she didn’t know why this request had been made. 

Sheev considered this carefully, listening to the Force.  “My staff were instructed to sterilize the glass ahead of time.” 

“What was in it?” the technician asked. 

“Carbonated water with citrus.” 

“Artificial flavoring, extracts or real fruit?” 

“Does it matter?” Sheev asked.  He would be annoyed by now, but he could see the technician was genuinely concerned. 

“Plants also have DNA,” she explained.  “It could contaminate the sample, and as I don’t know what you plan on using it for, that could be an issue.  Also, were the subject’s hands clean?  Had there been handshaking going on?” 

Sheev blinked at her.  Scientists were much more exact than Sith alchemists. 

“Hmm, handshaking is a clear possibility, and it is very likely fresh fruit was used for juice for this particular subject.” 

“Huh.”  The technician put her hands on her hips and looked back at the sample.  “Okay, here’s my suggestion.  I can either take samples here or take the glass back to the lab.  I can take epithelial samples from both the rim of the glass and the sides of the glass.  That may be redundant, but if the fruit DNA contaminates the one or someone else touching the glass contaminates the other, you have a second chance either way.”  She frowned.  “Can you give me any idea what you plan on doing with your samples, because if the preliminary analyses show they are from the same subject, they could probably be pooled later.” 

Sheev debated how much to tell her, but she did seem to be genuinely trying to help him.

“I’m interested in obtaining a genetic analysis and full DNA sequence of this individual.” 

She nodded.  “Do you need to use it to identify him?” 

“No,” Sheev answered so quickly, the technician startled.  “I would specifically prefer that you don’t identify him, nor attach his identity to the profile.  I know who it is.” 

“Okay.  Are you planning on getting anything else from the sample after the full DNA analysis?” 

“I might.”

“I’m sorry,” the technician blushed.  “I just want to make sure we don’t treat the sample in such a way that we can’t get done what you need done because we chose the wrong harvest or preparation method, particularly from a sample that is difficult to obtain.” 

Sheev raised his eyebrow.  “Difficult?”  It hadn’t felt all that difficult to convince Count Dooku to drink a glass of water.

The tech shrugged.  “Usually when we get trace samples from a glass or a death stick or a toothbrush, it’s for reference samples or to identify a subject, usually by comparing their sequence to a database, or against an unknown sample, such as a crime scene, or a known sample such as for a paternity test.  If the sample comes out clean and abundant enough, we can certainly try to do a full sequence on it, but when we’re taking samples for that purpose, we typically take fresh swabs and store them in specific ways, so we don’t risk running out of sample and the sample doesn’t degrade.” 

“Oh.”  This DNA stuff was more logistically complicated than he imagined.  “What can you do with this sample, as it is now?” 

“Hmm,” she frowned at it again.  “If it’s a good sample, with good yield, and good quality, we can check it for markers.  There should be enough for several different panels, depending on what you are looking for.  Ethnicity, disease susceptibility, that sort of thing.  There might be enough for a rough draft of a full genome sequence but skin epithelials are not the best place to sample for that, so it depends on what you ultimately want to use the sequence for.  We could also probably get organelle sequences too.”

“Organelle sequences?”  Sheev was starting to feel out of his depth, wishing for once that Sith tradition didn’t require killing one’s predecessors, or that Darth Tenebrous had at least had the foresight to leave behind a damn holocron sophisticated enough to deal with all of this science crap.

“DNA sequences from the subcellular organelles.  Mitochondria.  Midichlorians.  That sort of thing.” 

“That’s not included in the full DNA sequence?” Sheev asked. 

“Um, no.  It’s not unless you request it.  In fact, we take pains to filter it out, so it doesn’t contaminate the genomic DNA, unless we are specifically looking for it.” 

“I would be interested in both the mitochondria and the midichlorian sequences, yes,” Sheev nodded, relieved the technician had bothered to explain.  “Would we be able to use the sequence to produce organs or tissues for the subject, should that be necessary?” 

The technician gave him a sharp look.  “From a glass?  No.  You need a fresh, living sample, directly from the source, and not from the skin.  You can certainly use the rough draft to screen for major mutations and disease, particularly for whatever organ you are trying to grow, but no, there is too high an error rate due to the condition of the cells, surface skin cells are dead, the type of cells, skin cells get a lot of environmental exposure, so variations are common in these samples, and there is the low yield.  You need a much larger, cleaner sample, in living cells, and for cloning we’d also need to do a methylation procedure to alter the totipotency of the sample.” 

“Of course.”  Sheev had lost all comprehension of what she had been talking about a few sentences in beyond drinking glass samples were unsuitable for cloning. 

“Best we could do is most of the preliminary screens to see if this person is suitable for basic organ cloning.” 

“Ah,” he grinned.  That sounded much better. 

“I can have my supervisor call to discuss the different testing panels with you,” she offered.  “But I don’t know enough about your end goals to advise you further than that.” 

“I understand, but you’ve been very helpful, young lady.  Thank you.” 

She nodded, looking slightly miffed at being called a young lady, but was either too timid or prudent to call out the Supreme Chancellor on the slight.  “There’s one more question: do you happen to know if the subject has a high midichlorian count?  Previous samples you’ve sent us have and it can complicate the tests.”

“Oh.  Well, yes, I do happen to know this subject does.”  He frowned.  “Why does that complicate your tests?” 

“It’s a complicating factor if we don’t know about it going in, because we have to clean the samples twice to separate out the genomic strands if there is a higher concentration of midichlorial DNA in the sample.  It also might mean the ratio of mito to midi DNA is low.  That changes how we have to do the tests, because we can’t separate them from each other in a dead sample.  Also, please be aware that midichlorial DNA can be very heterogeneous in a single individual, so we won’t necessarily be able to sequence all of it, just the most prominent strains.” 

“Could different midichlorians be cultured from a live sample?” Sheev asked, his mind racing. 

“Yes,” the tech replied cautiously.  “But they would have to be grown in the cells of their host species or a similar one and they are notoriously difficult to maintain.  They would change over time, both in sequence and in relative quantities of the strains.” 

Sheev resisted the urge to sigh.  He was starting to wonder if his dear master had been too hasty in murdering his predecessor. 

“If you had the DNA sequence on your data processers, couldn’t you just make the DNA in the lab to clone the organs?”  One had to wonder how the Kaminoans were doing it.

She blinked at him.  He couldn’t tell if she was impressed at how well he was following along or disappointed at how much he was missing. 

“Theoretically, yes.  Realistically, no.” 

“Why not?” he asked.  “Surely you make DNA in the lab.”

“Chromosomes are big,” she said slowly, as if to impress the importance on him.  “Really, really big.  We can cut and paste pieces and change mutations, but making whole chromosomes, no.  And there’s a lot of them.  It’s much easier to get source DNA from a live sample, culture it, and double check it against the original, then change the methylation to grow the right organ, but growing an organ from fully synthesized DNA?  Too expensive, too time consuming, and too error prone.” 

“Error prone?” Sheev asked, very curious. 

“Yes.  Chromosomes in the living cell are more than just DNA, there’s other proteins that help hold it together and regulate expression.  When you don’t have a good living sample to start off with, things get weird quick.” 

“Weird?” he asked.

“Weird,” she confirmed.  “There were some ambitious doctors on Corellia who tried to clone some organs for a teenager who was a childhood cancer survivor.  He was in remission but deteriorating.  Unfortunately, between the cancer and treatments, they couldn’t get a clean sample without various mutations, no matter where they sampled from.  They opted to just do it the hard way and synthesize each chromosome and stick them in a denucleated ova to try to clone enough cells to grow the needed organs.  It went bad.  Really bad.  It looked fine at first, but the cells burned out too quickly and the cloned organs aged faster than the originals had.  There was also a midichlorian mismatch, and then the body started rejecting the cloned organs, even though they were made with a copy of the patient’s own DNA.  There were just too many errors and problems with the expression.”  She glanced at him to gauge his interest, surprised to find he was listening with rapt attention.  “The Core Worlds Bioethics Foundation also reported on a wealthy couple on Chandrila who tried to clone their late child with hair samples from his childhood, because the body was so badly burned, they couldn’t get a clean sample from the corpse.  Again, the sequences were accurate enough for identification purposes, but not high quality enough for an accurate clone.  The resultant child had considerable birth defects and afflictions and remained in poor health his whole life.” 

“How . . . tragic.”  This new information certainly put his own projects in a new light.  Darth Tenebrous and Darth Plagueis had certainly made great strides in manipulating the biology of midichlorians, but their work had fallen far short of his own ambitions.  Unfortunately, his ambitions were falling short of his talents.  Science wasn’t one of them. 

“Well, I trust your judgement for taking the sample for screening and the ‘rough draft’ as you put it.  I will contact your supervisor directly in regards to what tests I want and if there is a need for further samples, we will obtain them at a later date.  I do very much thank you for your assistance and explanations.”

She smiled shyly.  “You’re welcome, Your Excellency.”  She carefully picked up the glass in the bag, taking care not to rub the plastic on the surface, then slid it into a tote bag. 

“I’m sorry to ask one more thing,” she winced.  “Would we expect the data we obtain to be needed for criminal investigations or lawsuits?  And do you want the glass returned?” 

“No,” Sheev blinked.  “No, this isn’t a criminal sort of thing.”  Other than the unauthorized cloning of course. 

“I was just asking for chain of custody purposes, Sir.  We don’t want a future case to fall apart or not be able to produce the glass in court.” 

“Ah,” he nodded.  “No, this is part of . . . an initiative.  I’d prefer you not attach my name to the project at all.”  He looked amused.  “You are welcome to keep the glass.  It does have the seal of the Chancellor on it.” 

She grinned.  “Oh!  Thank you.”  She bobbed her head.  “I’ll go get this processed and will report to my supervisor when we get the initial yields and quality of the sample.  I’m sorry I had so many questions, Your Excellency.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry my discretion left you in the dark.  I look forward to your report.  And you were very informative.  Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, Sir.”  She bowed awkwardly as she walked backward out the door, already planning out the best sampling strategy as she shut the door. 

Sheev stared at the closed door for several minutes. 

Error prone?

Weird? 

He remembered Count Dooku saying something about the cloners needing access to live samples for the best results, but he hadn’t considered exactly what sub-optimal results would be.  He knew his predecessors had carried out a variety of experiments on midichlorians, and now he wondered if that was the real reason they had both kept that one plant growing for so long, not just to torment that Jedi, but to harvest that living tooth and bone for fresh samples.  Surely that specimen had come from a rich pool of midichlorians and genes, even if Darth Tenebrous thought he was of flawed stock.  It must have served as a fine starting point. 

He put a note in his calendar to check in on his own personal project later, and to specifically ask about midichlorians.  He hadn’t realized they were considered ‘separate’ and wouldn’t just automatically be copied during the cloning process.  He was quite grateful he decided to use the count as a high midichlorian guinea pig before he started having his own samples collected.  Still, it sounded as if he should start doing that sooner, not later, if illness or injury could compromise quality. 

It was strange that the Force had not prompted him to do so by now.  He would have to check through his master’s notes again.  It was very possible a sample had already been taken when he was young and was preserved somehow, frozen or hidden in one of the test plants that were used to keep specimens alive but could not parasitize the source material.  His predecessors really had built a garden of wonders. 

With that pleasant thought he got up and secured his office door before returning to his lair in the lower levels.  When he was certain he was alone (and that the Count had not tried to sneak back in), he took a little light exercise in the salle, letting the Dark Side flow through him while he exercised with his lightsaber, then feeling invigorated and attuned to the Dark Side, he returned to the plants. 

He tended to each of them, doling out morsels of Force energy, each a mix of Light and Dark, nourishing the plant but also enabling each one to slowly poison its host.  He picked up an empty terrarium he had placed under the table, no longer needing to house a new parasite.  He was confident he would not need to manipulate the count by such means, which is why he had cancelled the request to culture live cells from the man. 

Darth Tenebrous had waited eagerly for the Force to drop fortuitous body parts into his lap.  Darth Plagueis had been somewhat more practical, obtaining such as needed, through theft (of medical samples) or assault. 

Sidious was both more prudent and efficient.  People left parts of themselves everywhere they went, shedding their DNA, their identity like so much dandruff.  A bit of flesh here, a splash of blood there, get a technician to culture it and grow a clump of cells and then the technician could coax the cells into a scaffold to mold them into a form that made for a simple conduit to the host, not quite as strong as a fresh, direct body part, but still quite effective, particularly for more subtle manipulations.  It was also much less likely to be noticed by strong Force users. 

But alas, no, it would not be necessary.  The count was following his own ambitions, willing to make the necessary sacrifices, and doing a fine job of deluding himself.  He truly believed he was an apprentice and not a backup, and placeholder to do his bidding until a better candidate came into flower. 

The Jedi were so sure their Chosen One would bring balance to the Force.  The galaxy had lived under their influence for a millennium.  Exterminating them to usher in a thousand years of Sith rule almost made balance sound appealing. 

He gave each of the children a drink, checking them over for wounds and blemishes before they could fester.  One needed a dead leaf removed.  Another’s roots were tangling and needed guidance to find water and nutrients.  Most just needed a little attention, a pat or a tap to remind them who was boss. 

Finally, he turned his attention to the plant that had so fascinated and disturbed the count.  Darth Tenebrous had referred to it as His Darling, doting on it and sharpening his powers by carrying out a decades-long petty revenge, allowing its long tendrils to sprawl all over the potting bench, coddled and indulged.  Darth Plagueis was more practical, confining the plant to the terrarium to keep its growth in check and to protect the conduit.  Darth Plagueis was less delighted with it, it represented a rival that could pose a threat, so he had continued the slow, draining torment, but otherwise hadn’t singled it out, unless he was studying the resistance of the host (which Sheev had to admit he himself was impressed with).  It was good to hear that this very willful and stubborn Jedi was nearing the end of his days, because if neither of his predecessors had managed to kill him with the plant, he doubted he would be able to either. 

The plant brightened in the Force as he drew near, basking in his attentions, still smarting from the most recent retaliation from the host.  They must have caught the bastard meditating for him to not only defend himself, but to attack so effectively.  Of course, he had nearly eighty years to figure it out. 

The leaf that had been damaged in the scuffle had died and was withering.  The plant almost whimpered in the Force and when Sidious looked closer, he could see the plant was dripping fluid from the wound, bleeding.  He clicked his tongue, not having witnessed such an attack before, though Darth Plagueis had said it did happen from time to time.  He gently plucked the leaf and was startled by the feel of it in the Force.  For all that the blow had maimed the plant, he felt no Dark Side energy in the debris, as if the attack had driven the Darkness from the leaf, and the plant, accustomed to living on the Dark Side energies for so long, no longer knew how to keep itself alive without it. 

He was both impressed and annoyed and it took him several moments to calm himself enough to draw on the Light Side of the Force to heal the wound.  He could have let the plant heal itself, it certainly wasn’t a mortal wound, not even on the main trunk, but it was disturbingly close to the conduit.  Had the attack been made on one of the branches grafted to the still-living tooth, it could compromise the plant’s hold on it.  If the conduit died, so would the bond and the decrepit old Jedi would at last be free of it.  Of course, after so long, his own mind had likely grown around the bond, so he would likely never be truly free.  However, Sheev would have been disappointed in himself if he allowed that to happen.  The damn plant was older than he was after all, grown from a cutting of the strangler fig that had killed the tree Darth Tenebrous had driven at that wretched Jedi’s face.  It was a pity he hadn’t managed to take out the lizard while he was at it. 

The whimpers in the Force had stopped and the plant was opening to him, still hungry, still eager to sip at its host, cutting off life and Light as its kin had done to trees for millions of years.  Darth Tenebrous always thought plants that were naturally parasitic were best for this purpose; they were already agents for destruction and had evolved to be the Dark Energy every ecosystem required, killing the tallest trees to open up the canopy and allow something else to grow.

He contemplated the tooth, the only part of this elderly Jedi’s body he had ever seen.  It looked healthy and well-formed as far as teeth went.  Not for the first time, Sidious wondered why Darth Tenebrous considered the Jedi’s breeding to be sub-optimal, beyond the predisposition to depression.  Perhaps his midichlorian quality was better.  After speaking to the technician, it was clear genetics was more complicated than he had realized.  Fortunately, he had people to take care of these things for him. 

He looked back down at the plant, which was now trilling in the Force, delighting in his continued attentions.  Such a steadfast little soldier it was, still fighting after seven decades to take down this stubborn Jedi like its mother plant had taken down the tree that had maimed him. 

He gave the eager plant another morsel of Force energy, which it absorbed eagerly, then placed his hands on the terrarium glass and felt for the Dark bond as he had seen his master do many times before.  The plant was devoting much of its energy to the bond, still maintaining its grip, but for all the strength of the connection it was surprising how little he could feel of the Jedi himself, as if his mind had tried to wall off the invader when it couldn’t be removed.  It was little wonder Darth Plagueis had been tending to the plant, helping direct its efforts.  Not only did this Jedi continue to resist, his defenses had also grown more effective over the years.  They could certainly depress him, but these days the hole was not as deep. 

Perhaps he should have simply asked the count to kill him directly.  It had not gone unnoticed that Dooku had very mixed feelings about the host, even if he had not identified him by name.  Sidious was well aware that jealousy of Yoda’s power and for rivals for that master’s attentions were a very effective sore point in driving Dooku to the Dark Side.  This plant continued to have its uses, even now.  He followed along the bond, then sent a measured dose of Dark Energy through the tooth and into the host.  He could immediately feel a jerking pull on the bond as if the host had been startled, as if he had felt it happen in real time. 

He had had to restrain himself from laughing at the count when he had expressed fear of being recognized, but now, deep in the night, he wondered how much this old Jedi could sense through the bond.  It was clear the wretch had been blocking and strangling the bond from his end over the years, but the alert response indicated he was paying attention.  The Jedi was still very aware of the bond, though it wasn’t clear if he knew what it was, if he realized it came from outside himself.

It was indeed a pity he hadn’t been turned.  He would have been quite the asset and a challenge to be rid of now that Sheev’s time to be the master had come.  But if he lacked vision as both Darth Tenebrous and the count had noted he would merely be a tool, like Maul and the count.  Useful for carrying out the master’s bidding, but ultimately limited by their lack of insight and influence.  Besides, the Jedi were cultivating finer fruits, and their harvest would come in time. 

The risks posed by not killing this Jedi were minimal and the benefits of maintaining the bond were myriad: intimidating the count, an emotional strain on Yoda, perhaps a future reward for Dooku to indulge his Dark jealousies when his corruption was more fully developed, and he stopped fussing over honor and morals.  It might even serve as a fine distraction during the purge to come.  Darkness thrived on chaos and despair. 

He stroked his hand over the wound on the trunk, pleased to feel that a new branch was already forming to grow a new leaf.  The war would continue, hidden in the shadows, but it would soon be time to step out into the open.  Like the plant, he had already begun to influence his next apprentice.  It was only a matter of time now.  Generations of Sith had learned to be patient.  He could wait. 

* * *

“What is it?” Bes gasped before he was quite awake, startled out of a deep sleep.  He wasn’t sure if Simet had been moving or if it was just something in the Force. 

“It’s okay, you can go back to sleep,” Simet’s voice had gone from its usual rough to half-strangled, as if he had been walking through a desert for days.  He got up and out of bed, then shuffled to the refresher, splashing cold water on his face before struggling to drink from his cupped hands.  They were shaking much harder than they usually did. 

Bes peered at him from the bed, worried.  “What happened?”

“Bad dream,” Simet rasped, frowning as he managed to get more water on his nightshirt than into his mouth.  “I’ll be okay.” 

Bes raised an eyebrow, not trusting that SI was being completely honest with either of them, then slipped off the side of the bed onto his walking caps and made his way across the room to join Simet in the ‘fresher.  “How bad?” 

Simet shrugged.  “I’ve had worse.” 

Bes used the Force to retrieve a drinking cup in the cabinet that he could normally reach when he was wearing his prosthetic lower legs, then filled it with water while Simet meekly sat on the commode lid.  He then held the cup up to Simet’s lips so he could actually get some water in.  When Bes grazed his skin, it was shockingly cold. 

“Thank you,” Simet managed to almost sound normal after a few sips and he waved away the cup.  “I’m sorry I woke you up.” 

Bes gave him a mild glare.  “Stop apologizing.  We all need a little help sometimes.”  He kissed him on the forehead, amused they were of a similar height given the circumstances, but concerned that Simet was slumping, looking almost deflated. 

Depleted. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, knowing something was not right with Simet, more certain now that something had happened in the Force, and Simet’s greater sensitivity might be making him more vulnerable.  They both had their share of bad dreams, but Simet had never reacted like this before. 

Simet sighed deeply.  “I can feel another depressive cycle coming.  I’m trying to minimize it and prevent it from getting bad.” 

“Ah.”  Bes wasn’t exactly surprised.  Simet had been a bit off since after lunch yesterday, now that he thought about it.  “What can I do to help?” 

Simet looked at the floor.  “You can not take it personally when I am very frustrating to be around.” 

Bes took the shaking hands in his own.  “I won’t.  I promise.”  He wondered, not for the first time, if Simet’s long habit of non-monogamy was to make his periods of self-isolation less stressful for his partners, committing to none so no one felt his absence too keenly.  “What can I do to help you now?”  He had witnessed a few of Simet’s depressive episodes since he had moved into the rest home and one since they had become lovers, but he wasn’t aware Simet could sense them before they happened. 

Simet frowned, clearly swallowing his pride to ask anything, but also not wanting to make Bes suffer along with him later.  “There are some supplements in the cabinet.  I’d get them out myself, but,” he held up his shaking hands. 

“Okay.”  Bes turned back to the medicine cabinet, finding a small basket of pill bottles.  “The clergy don’t bring these with your regular meds?” 

Simet shook his head, looking at the floor.  “No.  I only take these when I need them, but Sister Nellise has sometimes reminded me to take them if I am less self-aware.” 

Bes rooted through the box, holding up each bottle and taking out the proper number for Si, then holding them up to his partner’s lips to so Simet didn’t have to keep steadying his hands multiple times.  None of them were prescriptions, just supplements: vitamins, minerals, general brain health formulations. 

“Will you need an antidepressant?” Bes asked. 

“I don’t think so,” Si replied.  “And I hope not.  They can make it harder to steady my hands, so I try to keep doses low and for short durations if I need them and rely more on exercise and brain nutrients.  Antidepressants are less helpful when they interfere with physical function, but I took them when I was younger.” 

“Before the tremor?” Bes asked as he put the pills away.

“Yes.  A short course rather than a long-term regimen tended to work better for me.”   He looked over at the bed.  “I need to lay down and meditate, calm myself down so I don’t go careening off balance.  I can go do that on the couch.  I don’t want to depress you by association.” 

“You won’t depress me,” Bes assured him.  “But I can go lay down on the couch if you want to be alone.” 

“I don’t want to be alone,” Simet sighed.  “I’m more concerned that your psychometry may prove detrimental if you stay.” 

“Oh,” Bes frowned.  He hadn’t thought of that.  “Is that why you used to sometimes touch me with training sticks to correct my position in katas?”

“Sometimes,” Si admitted.  “If I wasn’t trying to stand back to let others see your form, it was probably because I was in an emotional hole and didn’t want you students to know.  Other times it was just because it was cold and flu season.”

Cautiously, Bes reached out and squeezed his shoulder.  “It’s okay for me through clothes.” 

Simet nodded.  “I’m going to go lie down under my heating blanket.  I need to warm up.  If you are okay and not uncomfortable, you can join me in bed, or I can go lay down on the couch, or one of us can move to the couch if that changes, or you can go home if you need the distance.  That’s okay.  I’m going to trust you to take care of yourself first.  I’ll be okay, and I’ll get better faster if I’m not dragging you down with me.  Do you understand?” 

“Yes, I understand.  I promise, I will give what I can, but I won’t let myself be hurt.  Let’s go back to bed.” 

Si nodded, then stood up slowly and walked back to the bedroom, exhaustion evident in his frame.  He did a simple cleansing ritual to clear the room and the bed, then reached underneath for his heating blanket, arranged it on his side of the bed, then gave it a few minutes to warm up before getting in.  Bes shuffled over to his side of the bed, using a footstool to boost himself high enough to get in, then lay down beside him. 

Si had curled up on his side, his back facing Bes, and was trying to release his tension into the Force.  Bes didn’t know what the dream had been about, but Si felt like he had had quite the scare (and adrenaline dump) and was trying to regain his calm, knowing he was safe at home while his primitive brain and body were fully convinced otherwise. 

Bes ran a hand down his back.  “Is this okay?” 

“It’s good,” Si’s voice was quiet but clear.  “But if you have to stop, it’s okay.” 

Bes turned on his side, not quite spooning, just facing the same way so he could keep rubbing Si’s back under the blanket.  He could sense Si was quieting his mind, but his shields were quite high.  Bes wasn’t sure if it was to spare him from sensing bleeding emotions or just general anxiety. 

“I’m going to start meditating now,” Si whispered in the mostly dark room, the nightlight near the floor enough if one needed to navigate the room but dim enough for sleeping.  “It’s okay if you fall asleep.  Your presence is still a comfort, and I’ll know if you have to leave.  You don’t have to wait for me to come out of it, and I’ll hopefully fall asleep at some point.” 

“Okayyy.”  Bes’s answer ended in a yawn and Simet snorted weakly. 

“Thank you for your support, Bes.  I hope you sleep well.” 

“I hope you do too.”  He could feel the heated blanket against his arm.  It felt strongly of Yoda, but it reminded him of his own master.  The grandmaster had imprinted his love and comfort into the fabric, a warm hug Si could wrap himself in when he desperately needed it to chase away the Darkness.  Bes felt no jealousy over it. 

When his own master had passed into the Force, his padawans had worked together the stitch together a quilt made from her old, comfortable robes and tunics.  He still wrapped himself up in it or put it over what remained of his legs when he just didn’t want to see them for a while or was feeling cold or aching.  The quilt felt like both his late master and his former padawans.  It was a great comfort when times were hard.  Yoda was no doubt more experienced at comforting Si during his dark episodes.  Getting assistance in helping Simet feel better was also a comfort to Bes. 

Bes closed his eyes when he felt Si slip into a meditation and reached out into the Force, trying to sense what had initially disturbed Simet.   He couldn’t sense anyone or anything abnormal, no stray Force currents, or odd feelings.  He sensed no danger or intrusion, but Simet had done a cleansing ritual, so that wasn’t that surprising. 

When he was satisfied that the room was clear and felt safe and secure, he turned his attention to Simet.  His lover seemed to be going over his own defenses, checking his shields, but it was unclear if this was because he was emotionally vulnerable or because he expected an attack of some kind.  Of course, if he truly expected an attack, he would have warned Bes. 

When Simet finished checking his safeguards, he turned his focus inward.  Bes could sense little of what he was doing, but assumed he was trying to self-soothe, or taking other measures to keep whatever had happened from becoming a bigger problem. 

There were soft footsteps in the hallway outside and a warm soothing presence in the Force that Bes recognized as one of the clergy making the overnight rounds.  He felt a gentle inquiry, and after a quick check to make sure all and sundry were decent, he sent back permission for whoever it was to enter.  All of the staff eventually saw all of the residents in various states of undress, but Si was always wary of being rude to their chaste brothers and sisters.  However, they had only been co-sleeping tonight (another sign Si had been a bit off since earlier in the day) so he didn’t think Si would mind and wouldn’t want their caregivers to worry.

Whoever turned out to be Sister Gabby, who normally patrolled the halls silently unless she sensed something was amiss and altered her steps to announce her presence.

“Master Si had a bad dream,” Bes explained as the nun approached.  “He’s meditating to calm down.” 

Gabby nodded as if this was something she had seen before.  “Master Yoda called earlier asking us to check on Master Si tonight, and Sister Drish just told me Master Clearing said the same thing about fifteen minutes ago.”  She reached out her hand and lay it on Si’s brow, and Bes could sense a warm, healing pulse in the Force before she drew away. 

“It’s not as bad as I would have expected,” she whispered to Bes.  “Did he take his supplements?”

“Yes,” Bes nodded in the dim.  “I opened the bottles for him and helped him take them.” 

“Good.”  Gabby’s smile was heard more than seen.  “If you can, try to get him to take them in the morning too.  He forgets when he’s like this.  If he can get dosed twice a day for the next few days, he will get better faster.” 

“Does this happen often?”

Gabby shrugged.  “The attacks used to be quite regular but have been getting less frequent and severe over time, but every once in a while, he has a bad one.  You took good care of him, and this one seems more moderate.  And you’re with him.  I’ll let his healer know, they may want him to come in tomorrow.  For now, he needs rest.  Tomorrow, get him to drink water and take his regular pills and supplements if you can. He doesn’t tend to take as good care of himself when he feels bad.”

“Do they know why it happens?” Bes asked.

“He sustained a lot of trauma when he was injured as a knight.”  She gestured to her own throat.  “He might have suffered a mild stroke or had an undetected concussion and when it healed the nerves could have mis-wired and resulted in partial seizures.” 

Bes frowned.  He had never seen Si do anything that indicated he suffered from seizures, though he was hardly an expert.  Of course, he hadn’t been awake for what Si referred to as his bad dream.  “Is that what you think is happening?” 

Gabby sighed, clearly having dealt with this for a while.  “His disease progression initially followed the pattern for that, though he didn’t display the classic symptoms, and believe me, they checked.  If that were the case, we would also expect them to get more frequent and severe over the decades since, even with anti-seizure medication, but he reacts poorly to those meds and the pattern hasn’t continued in that direction.”  She caught Bes’s eyes in the dark.  “Master Barro used to tell us he thought Master Silvanus had been cursed when he was injured.  He and Master Yoda had been tracking a Dark Force user and were attacked.  Master Barro always used it as an example of methods of Force attack the Jedi don’t engage in but must learn to defend against, particularly for the kind of work I used to do.”

“What do you think?” 

Gabby was silent for a long moment.  “I don’t know.  Everyone I knew who had been similarly cursed either recovered or died young.  But Monti Barro’s master knew Master Simet when he was young.  Master Si is not a Dark Jedi, but the Dark Side does seem to stalk him more than the rest of you.  Of course, he is far more powerful that he lets on, so he might be a more appealing target.” 

“That’s a lot to think about,” Bes said at last. 

Gabby shrugged again.  “Meditate on it in the morning, but don’t drive yourself crazy.  It could just be related to his tremor.” 

“Maybe,” Bes replied, but none of those explanations felt quite right.  “Do you think he’ll be okay?” 

“Yes.”  Gabby patted Bes’s sleeve gently.  “Just remind him to take care of himself and don’t let him brood for more than a day or two.  This one wasn’t bad, but he’ll be vulnerable for a while.” 

“Thank you, Sister Gabby.” 

“Thank you, Master Bes.”  She gave Simet another dose of healing energy, then slipped out of the room on silent feet once more, Bes only hearing the door close behind her before she was gone.

Bes huddled closer, cautiously touching Simet’s skin.  His lover was not as cold as he had been but was still cooler than he normally was, despite the heated blanket.  He couldn’t sense anything foreign or Dark, or any feeling of neurological disorder beyond the baseline tremor that was typical for Simet.  He did feel profoundly exhausted, a bone-deep weariness that was not limited to his mind.  Just as he had thought when he had looked at Simet, he felt depleted.  But he did not feel like a recovering epileptic.  Field Jedi were all required to have first responder training, people looked to then in a crisis after all, so Bes was familiar with the distinctive feel of a person post-seizure, but that was for a grand mal seizure.  Gabby seemed to be describing something milder, so he really couldn’t be sure. 

As for a Dark Side curse, well, he would best discuss that with Monti directly.  He hadn’t realized Monti would know about such things, but with his expertise in historic Sith it wasn’t all that surprising. 

Through the Force he could feel Simet slip out of his meditation and into sleep, a bit more restless than usual, but unconscious.  Bes resumed rubbing his back, pleased when his lover finally began to relax beneath his hands.  He made a mental note to remind Simet about his supplements (and offer to set up pre-made pill packs for him) in the morning, and to also consult with Master Yoda and Monti.  He did not know how best to help his lover, but Simet wasn’t hiding his condition from him, which was a bit step forward. 

They would get through this together. 

* * *

Simet tried to quell the trembling, both physical and mental, and sunk into his own mind, analyzing what he had felt.  The attack was very obvious, but the Force still spoke quietly if one took the time and effort to listen.

He could feel The Other that had been tethered to his mind, had learned to recognize it and identify its influence over the decades.  He had analyzed it over the years, had realized it was not a sentient being on its own, and was fairly sure it was not just a manifestation of his own mind housed in his damaged neurons.  He could feel The Other in the Force, though he was well aware that could just be self-delusion at work, a diseased brain coming up with fantastical explanations rather than admit defective processing. 

He didn’t think this was the case.  However, it would be irresponsible to not entertain the possibility.  Perhaps it was just how he coped with his own limitations.

I sense you. 

He had struck back this afternoon when The Other tried to draw life from him before.  He had not expected another attack so soon and had been caught off guard in his sleep.  This was a change in the pattern. 

Who drives you?

The Other wasn’t sentient, but there was another intelligent force driving it. 

He didn’t think that other force was from himself.  If he were subconsciously trying to sabotage himself, he frankly thought he’d have done a better job of it.  Especially after this long. 

This one is not the same. 

The intelligence behind The Other had changed again, and these changes did not correspond to changes in his own life, again suggesting The Other was not from his own mind. 

This one is strong but lacked finesse.

Whoever was driving The Other now had great strength in the Force, but only rudimentary skills in this particular kind of manipulation.  The first and the second driver behind The Other were Dark, cold and calculating, learning nuance over time.  He was quite sure the First had trained the Second, and to a lesser extent the Third had trained under the Second.  The Third was powerful, and patient, but in this particular arena they were less skilled, perhaps preferring or more talented in other means of manipulation.  He could feel curiosity from the Third, but less than the previous two, as if he were merely interesting, as opposed to under intense study.

Who was with the Third?

It wasn’t the same as the previous, the one he had expected to become the Fourth if he even lived that long.  That one had stopped coming around more than two years ago.  This one was new.  This one was better at shielding their presence, but not their vague horror.  This one would not be the Fourth.  They didn’t have the stomach for it.

It sounded rather pompous when he thought it all out, that he would be such a focus of generations of study. 

There was no fool like an old fool. 

Maybe it all was just in his mind, a figment of his depressed imagination.

But if he wasn’t just fooling himself . . .

He was still separating himself from The Other, cutting it off.  Year by year.  Month by month.  Day by day.

If this one, the Third wasn’t paying as close attention . . .

Maybe this was one he would escape. 

Past the point of no return,

The final threshold.

The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn.

We've passed the point of no return.

                --The Point of No Return, Andrew Lloyd Webber