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Marshal Commander Thorn is halfway through the Senate’s eastern concourse when his comm chirps with the particular tone reserved for situations that are already stupid and actively getting worse.
He’s wearing his dress whites because he spent the morning standing behind a defense committee while twelve senators debated whether battlefield medics really needed portable blood synthesizers. The Guard-red piping along his uniform is crisp, his two command ropes are sitting exactly where regulations demand, and the brim of his cap casts enough shadow over his eyes to maintain the illusion that he has no opinions.
This is fortunate because Thorn currently has enough opinions to get court-martialed, reconditioned, and possibly elected.
Ghost and Relay walk behind him, both technically off duty and therefore dressed in the closest thing clones have to casual clothing, which is still military-issued and uncomfortable enough to qualify as a minor punishment. Thorn had recruited them because they were nearby, armed, and less likely than regular patrol troopers to freeze when a Jedi started throwing furniture.
The comm message repeats in his ear.
“Physical altercation outside Senator Amidala’s office. General Skywalker and Chairman Clovis involved. Security intervention requested.”
Thorn’s pace quickens.
Of course it’s Rush Clovis.
Of course it’s General Skywalker.
Why would Thorn ever receive a call about two calm, reasonable adults discussing their differences over tea? That would require the galaxy to respect him, and the galaxy has spent the last two years making its position on that subject painfully clear.
Rush Clovis is now head of the InterGalactic Banking Clan because Chancellor Sheev Palpatine has apparently suffered a catastrophic head injury that nobody else has noticed.
This is the same Rush Clovis who had been arrested for corruption. The same Rush Clovis whose financial charges had taken Commander Stone’s people three days to catalogue and another week to organize into something the courts could process without the judicial archives catching fire. His list of offenses had stretched from petty embezzlement to wartime fraud, bribery, conspiracy, market manipulation, falsified relief accounts, and enough felonies to fill a Venator’s main hangar.
Thorn remembers the intake report.
He remembers Stone looking at the charges, looking at Clovis, then asking whether throwing stones at prisoners was technically prohibited if the stones were very small.
Thorn had said yes.
Stone had looked genuinely disappointed.
Now Clovis is in charge of the Banking Clan.
The Chancellor’s decision-making process seems to involve locating the worst possible candidate, checking whether he has a criminal record, then treating the record as a list of qualifications.
Thorn is a clone bred for war. He knows battlefield logistics, orbital defenses, civil evacuation, riot control, supply chains, intelligence coordination, and sixteen ways to kill someone using objects commonly found in a senatorial dining room.
Even he knows appointing a financial criminal to run the banks is monumentally stupid.
Fox had inherited enough administrative wreckage after his promotion to prove the Chancellor couldn’t organize a war if someone handed him the armies, the maps, and a color-coded instruction guide. Thorn had watched his ori’vod spend months untangling contradictory orders, duplicated supply requests, missing casualty reports, and emergency regulations that had apparently been written by intoxicated tookas walking across keyboards.
One of those regulations had accidentally made Fox the most powerful military officer in the Republic.
The Chancellor still hadn’t noticed.
That should’ve been funny.
It was mostly terrifying.
Thorn turns the final corner and hears the argument before he sees it.
“You don’t get to walk into her life whenever you want!” Skywalker snarls.
“This has nothing to do with you!”
“It has everything to do with me.”
“That’s not your decision.”
A crash follows, then the unmistakable sound of a body striking a decorative Senate column.
Thorn closes his eyes for half a second beneath the brim of his cap.
“Ten credits says Clovis hit the wall,” Relay murmurs.
“We don’t get paid,” Ghost says.
“Ten ration bars.”
“You don’t have ten ration bars.”
“I’ll steal them from Fours.”
“That’s acceptable.”
Thorn doesn’t turn around. “Both of you are officially volunteered for Representative Binks’s protection detail.”
The SpecOps troopers fall silent.
There are threats, and then there are war crimes.
Thorn reaches the junction outside Senator Amidala’s office and finds exactly the kind of scene he expected, which somehow makes it worse.
Rush Clovis is backed against a column with blood running from his nose. His expensive coat is torn near the collar, and one side of his face is already beginning to swell. General Skywalker stands several paces away with his fists clenched, shoulders rigid, and expression balanced on the thin line between enraged Jedi and incoming homicide investigation.
Two Senate guards stand near the office doors. Neither has intervened.
Naturally.
The civilian guards are very good at checking identification cards, redirecting tourists, and becoming decorative furniture whenever someone dangerous appears.
Thorn steps between the two men.
Ghost moves beside Clovis while Relay positions himself near Skywalker. Neither SpecOps trooper draws a weapon, but both shift into the loose, balanced posture that means they can become an immediate problem for everyone in the corridor.
“General Skywalker,” Thorn says. “Step back.”
Skywalker’s eyes flick toward him. “This is a private matter.”
“You’re having it in a public hallway.”
“Clovis attacked me.”
Clovis makes an outraged noise. “He broke into Senator Amidala’s apartment and assaulted me.”
“That’s a lie,” Skywalker snaps.
“You threw me through a table.”
“You deserved worse.”
Thorn feels his jaw trying to tighten and forces it loose.
The inhibitor chip is gone now. Scalper had cut the little control device out of his brain a month ago, leaving behind a scar, several nights of migraines, and the deeply inconvenient realization that half his emotional restraint had never belonged to him.
The constant pressure is gone. No artificial calm crawls through his skull when a natborn raises his voice. No invisible command forces his thoughts back into obedient lines. His body is his own for the first time since Kamino.
Unfortunately, his face is also his own, and only the brim of his cap is hiding his eyes.
The rest of his expression is exposed to the Senate’s security cameras.
Thorn carefully arranges his features into the blank, attentive neutrality expected from a flesh droid with a serial number. It’s much harder now that he knows exactly how much of the old emptiness had been manufactured.
“Chairman Clovis,” he says, because using the man’s current title without choking deserves its own medal, “did you strike General Skywalker?”
“I defended myself.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Clovis glares at him. “I don’t have to answer to a clone.”
There it is.
Ghost’s posture doesn’t change, but Thorn knows her well enough to recognize the exact second she begins considering where to hide the body.
Relay looks at the ceiling. He’s probably praying for patience, although the Guard’s experience with divine intervention suggests he’d have better luck requesting artillery.
Thorn keeps his voice level.
“You’re correct, Chairman. You don’t answer to a clone.”
Clovis’s shoulders loosen with smug satisfaction.
“You answer to the Marshal Commander responsible for security within the Senate District and the acting military authority on Coruscant in the Chief of Defense’s absence.”
The satisfaction dies.
Thorn continues before Clovis can assemble a response.
“The distinction is largely cosmetic, but I understand appearances matter to you.”
Ghost coughs into one fist.
Skywalker’s mouth twitches, which is rich coming from the reason they’re all standing here.
Clovis wipes blood from his lip. “I want Skywalker arrested.”
“On what charge?”
“Assault.”
“I’ll require a formal statement, medical documentation, security footage, testimony from all witnesses, and access to the apartment where the alleged incident began.”
Clovis hesitates. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Then you don’t want him arrested. You want him inconvenienced.”
“He attacked the head of the Banking Clan.”
Thorn had once watched a senator bite a Guard medic because she wouldn’t prescribe him military stimulants. The senator had later claimed the clone’s arm assaulted his teeth.
Government service broadens the mind.
“Your office doesn’t grant you immunity from an investigation,” Thorn says.
“It grants me the right to demand an audience with the Chief of Defense.”
“The Chief of Defense is currently aboard the Sentinel in planetary orbit.”
“Then contact him.”
“No.”
Clovis stares at him.
Thorn stares back from beneath the shadow of his cap, grateful the man can’t see how close he is to laughing.
Fox is in orbit reviewing fleet deployments, planetary defense updates, and the next phase of the Outer Rim offensives. He’s probably surrounded by thirty holomaps, six officers, three untouched meals, and at least one medic threatening to sedate him.
He is, more importantly, far beyond Clovis’s reach.
Lucky bastard.
“The Chief of Defense doesn’t handle personal disputes,” Thorn says. “He’s managing a war.”
“This concerns General Skywalker’s fitness for duty.”
That gets Skywalker moving.
Relay catches him across the chest before he can reach Clovis. Ghost steps in from the other side, and between the two of them they manage to hold the Jedi in place without making the situation look too much like an attempted arrest.
“Watch yourself,” Skywalker says.
Clovis points at him. “You see? He’s unstable.”
“Chairman Clovis,” Thorn says, “lower your hand.”
“He threatened me.”
“You’re currently pointing at an angry Jedi from a distance of less than two meters. I’m trying to preserve what remains of your dental structure.”
Clovis lowers his hand.
Thorn turns toward Skywalker. “General, stand down.”
“He’s using his position to get close to Padmé.”
The name lands naked in the corridor.
Not Senator Amidala.
Padmé.
Thorn glances toward the security cameras.
Wonderful. Scope and Twitch are going to enjoy deleting this footage before an HNN intern builds a twelve-part investigative series out of it.
Clovis sneers. “Your obsession with Senator Amidala is inappropriate.”
Skywalker surges again.
Relay’s boots slide several centimeters across the polished floor.
Ghost grabs Skywalker’s arm and twists just enough to redirect his momentum. Skywalker could throw both of them across the concourse with the Force if he wanted, but doing so would mean assaulting officers under the direct command of the Chief of Defense.
Even Skywalker hasn’t descended far enough into stupidity to try that.
Probably.
Thorn steps closer until he’s directly in the general’s line of sight.
“General Skywalker, you are ordered to disengage.”
Skywalker’s breathing is heavy. “This isn’t military business.”
“You made it military business when Senate security requested armed intervention.”
“He started it.”
“You are a Jedi General in the Grand Army of the Republic.”
“And?”
“And you’re currently using the defense employed by cadets caught fighting in the mess hall.”
Ghost’s mouth tightens.
Thorn knows she’s trying not to smile.
Skywalker looks past him toward Clovis. “He shouldn’t be here.”
Thorn almost agrees.
Clovis shouldn’t be in the Senate District. He shouldn’t be running the Banking Clan. He shouldn’t be permitted within fifty meters of a financial account, a government office, or any object capable of signing a contract.
Unfortunately, Thorn has to enforce the law as written, not the law as it might exist in a galaxy governed by people with functioning brains.
“The Chairman has authorization to enter the building,” Thorn says. “You don’t have authorization to assault him.”
Skywalker’s expression darkens. “You don’t know what happened.”
“You’re right. That’s why we investigate things before throwing people into walls.”
“He was in her apartment.”
“And breaking into private residences is also illegal, so I strongly recommend you stop adding details until you’ve spoken to counsel.”
Skywalker finally looks at him rather than through him.
The anger hasn’t vanished, but something more cautious enters his face. Thorn has seen that look on generals before, usually when Fox brings up casualty projections and asks them to explain why a frontal assault seemed like a good idea.
Thorn lowers his voice.
“The Chief already has concerns about your current deployment status.”
That isn’t entirely true.
Fox has many concerns about Skywalker. Deployment status is merely the one that produces the fewest headaches.
“What concerns?” Skywalker asks.
“The Chief believes your talents may be better utilized away from Coruscant.”
Clovis looks pleased.
Thorn turns his head slightly. “This conversation doesn’t involve you.”
Clovis stops looking pleased.
Skywalker’s shoulders remain rigid. “Where?”
“The Outer Rim.”
“For how long?”
“The Chief is reviewing a sequence of campaigns targeting Separatist supply lines, shipyards, and production routes.”
Thorn doesn’t mention that Fox had described the plan as strategically necessary, operationally efficient, and a convenient method of keeping Skywalker at least twenty thousand light-years away from the Senate.
Fox understands the importance of secondary benefits.
Skywalker’s anger shifts. It doesn’t disappear, but the prospect of a battlefield gives it somewhere else to go. For all the general’s faults, he makes far more sense with a lightsaber in one hand and an impossible objective in front of him.
Some people thrive under pressure.
Skywalker seems to require active warfare to remain house-trained.
“When do I leave?” he asks.
“The orders aren’t finalized.”
“Tell Fox I’ll go.”
Thorn resists the urge to sigh.
The Chief has a title. Skywalker knows this. Skywalker simply treats military decorum like an optional side quest.
“I’ll inform the Chief of Defense.”
Clovis steps forward. “You can’t let him avoid consequences by sending him on another campaign.”
Thorn turns toward him.
“Chairman Clovis, you will report to Senate Medical for treatment. Afterward, Commander Hound will take your statement.”
“I want the Chief of Defense.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“I’m entitled to speak with him.”
“You’re entitled to submit a request.”
Clovis’s face reddens. “Do you know who I am?”
Thorn remembers a prison intake photograph, forty-seven boxes of evidence, and Commander Stone asking whether fiscal criminals bounce if dropped from sufficient height.
“Yes,” Thorn says. “That’s the problem.”
The doors to Senator Amidala’s office open.
Padmé Amidala steps into the corridor, takes in Clovis’s bleeding face, Skywalker’s clenched fists, the two SpecOps troopers physically separating them, and Thorn standing at the center of the disaster in spotless dress whites.
Her expression becomes very still.
Anakin looks at her.
“Padmé, I can explain.”
Thorn feels a sudden, profound sympathy for every trooper who has ever heard Fox say those same words to Senator Chuchi after discovering she’d quietly rearranged half his schedule and then smiled like it was a favor.
Senator Amidala folds her arms.
“Can you?”
Skywalker’s confidence dies faster than a shiny sent to Umbara.
Thorn steps aside.
The Guard knows the two of them are married. Half the security division knows where they keep the marriage certificate, the other half has seen enough restricted surveillance footage to deserve lifelong therapy, and Scope still refuses to enter Senator Amidala’s office without knocking for at least thirty seconds.
Amidala really needs to get control of her husband.
Preferably before Thorn has to arrest him, because the paperwork for detaining a Jedi General married to a senator might finally kill Commander Thire.
Thorn looks toward Ghost and Relay.
“Escort Chairman Clovis to medical.”
Clovis opens his mouth.
Ghost smiles at him.
Whatever he sees in her face changes his mind.
Relay releases Skywalker and moves to Clovis’s other side. “This way, Chairman.”
“I’m filing a complaint.”
“Of course,” Thorn says.
“You’ll be named in it.”
“That’ll save the clerk time.”
Clovis stalks down the corridor between the SpecOps troopers, still bleeding and still complaining. Ghost glances back once, taps two fingers against her temple in a mock salute, and mouths something that looks suspiciously like Representative Binks.
Thorn makes a mental note to assign her two shifts.
He turns back toward Skywalker and Amidala.
The senator’s composure is perfect, but Thorn can see anger burning beneath it. Skywalker looks like he’d rather fight another battle on Geonosis than continue this conversation.
Excellent.
Thorn adjusts one of his command ropes.
“General Skywalker, you’re confined to military quarters pending a review of the incident. You’ll have no contact with Chairman Clovis unless authorized by the Guard.”
Skywalker looks at Amidala. “But—”
“That’s an order,” Thorn says.
The general’s gaze snaps back to him.
For one dangerous second, Thorn wonders whether Skywalker will challenge him.
Thorn almost hopes he does.
The chip is gone. Fox is in orbit. The cameras are recording, the chain of command is clear, and Thorn has spent two years smiling politely while senators treated his brothers and sisters like equipment that occasionally bled on the carpet.
He can’t punch the Chancellor for appointing Clovis.
He can’t throw Clovis back into Stone’s prison.
He can’t even file a formal complaint against the receptionist who let the man through without authorization, because a clone’s testimony against a civilian employee is considered a personnel observation rather than a legal grievance.
However, he can order General Anakin Skywalker to his room.
Some victories are smaller than others.
Skywalker’s jaw clenches.
“Yes, Marshal Commander.”
Thorn inclines his head. “Senator Amidala, I’ll need your statement when you’re available.”
“You’ll have it within the hour.”
“Thank you, Senator.”
She turns to Skywalker.
“We need to talk.”
Anakin follows her into the office with the posture of a man walking willingly toward an execution platform.
The doors close behind them.
Thorn stands alone in the corridor for several seconds, listening to the silence and feeling the first throb of an incoming headache behind his eyes.
His comm chirps.
Ghost’s voice comes through. “Chairman Clovis wants to know whether the Chief will be returning to the surface today.”
Thorn starts walking.
“No.”
“He wants an estimated arrival time.”
“Tell him the Chief of Defense is conducting classified military operations.”
“He says that’s unacceptable.”
Thorn looks out through the concourse windows at the distant shape of the Sentinel hanging above Coruscant, safely beyond the reach of financial criminals, unstable generals, and Senate receptionists.
“Tell him he’s welcome to complain to the Chancellor.”
There’s a brief pause over the comm.
Relay speaks in the background. “Isn’t the Chancellor the reason Clovis has this job?”
“That’s what makes it funny,” Thorn says.