Work Text:
Thorn showered for this.
That fact sits at the center of his anger like a thermal detonator with the pin already removed.
Not a quick rinse in the sonic after patrol. Not the medically approved wipe-down he has been using whenever possible since the burns healed enough for Scalper to stop threatening him with a hose.
A full shower.
Water. Steam. Soap. Every miserable second of it.
Thire had stood outside the refresher with Thorn’s dress uniform and refused to leave until he heard the water running.
Fox had called this “reasonable hygiene enforcement.”
Thorn calls it betrayal at the highest level of command.
Now he stands beneath the Senate Dome in immaculate dress whites, two Guard-red command ropes draped over his shoulder, his Silver Star polished, his ARC bar straight, and the burn scar along his neck feeling unpleasantly tight beneath the collar.
All because twelve newly elected senators require an official security orientation.
There should be twelve.
Thorn currently has eleven.
He counts again.
Still eleven.
“Where is Senator Yonn?” he asks.
The group stops moving.
Half of them look around as though they have only just realized other people exist.
The senator from Vardos checks behind a decorative pillar.
“She was with us at the lift.”
“No,” says the senator from Malastare. “She left when Senator Pell insulted her district.”
“I didn’t insult her district,” Pell says. “I said its primary export was decorative mud.”
“It is medicinal clay.”
“It’s sold in souvenir jars.”
Thorn closes his eyes.
He has been responsible for planetary evacuations that required less supervision.
“Remain here,” he orders.
Three senators immediately wander toward a nearby committee chamber.
Thorn opens his eyes.
“Remain here means do not move.”
“We’re only looking,” one says.
“The room is classified.”
“The door is open.”
“That does not make the room unclassified.”
The senator pauses halfway through the doorway.
“Why is the door open?”
“Because someone ignored the instruction to keep it closed.”
The senator slowly steps back.
Thorn contacts Senate Security.
“Locate Senator Yonn.”
A controller answers, “We believe she entered the public gallery.”
“Why?”
“She asked where the gift shop was.”
“There is no gift shop.”
“That's what the attendant told her.”
Thorn waits.
The controller continues, “She did not believe him.”
Of course she didn’t.
Newly elected senators arrive on Coruscant with two dangerous beliefs. First, that winning one planetary election makes them experts on galactic government. Second, that doors are suggestions.
Thorn turns toward the remaining eleven.
“We are proceeding to the Senate chamber. You will stay together, follow the marked path, and avoid entering any unmarked lifts.”
Senator Pell raises a hand.
“This lift has no mark.”
“That's why we are not entering it.”
“Where does it go?”
“Somewhere you are not authorized to be.”
“That seems unnecessarily secretive.”
“You are standing inside the legislative center of a government currently fighting a galactic war.”
Pell considers that.
“So military offices?”
Thorn starts walking before the senator can find another question.
The group follows for twelve meters.
Then the arguing resumes.
“I was told my delegation would have a pod closer to the central platform.”
“Your system joined the Republic last month.”
“My constituents expect appropriate visibility.”
“My constituents expect me not to sit beside you.”
“Your constituents elected someone wearing that hat.”
Thorn looks back.
One senator is wearing a hat wide enough to interfere with local air traffic.
He looks forward again.
Not his problem.
Behind him, someone says, “Where did Senator Bel go?”
Thorn stops.
He counts.
Ten.
The burn scar along his neck begins itching.
“Which one is Bel?”
“The one with the cape.”
“You are all wearing capes.”
A maintenance droid rolls out of a side corridor carrying a bundle of deep purple fabric. Two boots protrude from beneath it.
“Stop,” Thorn orders.
The droid stops.
Senator Bel emerges from behind the fabric, still holding one side of the maintenance cart.
“I was helping.”
“You left the group.”
“The droid looked overburdened.”
“It is rated to carry six hundred kilograms.”
“Then why was it moving so slowly?”
“Because you were holding it.”
Bel releases the cart.
The maintenance droid immediately accelerates away.
Thorn points toward the others.
“Return to the group.”
Bel rejoins them with the wounded dignity of someone being denied a medal for fighting laundry.
Senate Security calls.
“We found Senator Yonn.”
“Location?”
“Chancellor’s reception office.”
Thorn’s eye twitches.
“How did she get there?”
“She told the receptionist she was expected.”
“Was she?”
“No.”
“Then why did the receptionist let her in?”
“She's newly hired.”
That answer explains nothing and, somehow, everything.
Thorn redirects the entire group toward the Chancellor’s corridor.
They make it halfway before Senator Pell notices the seating chart displayed outside the central chamber.
“This is incorrect.”
Thorn keeps walking.
“My pod is three levels above Senator Yonn’s.”
“Good.”
“No, Marshal Commander, it is not good. Her system has fewer citizens.”
“Then there will be more room in her pod.”
Several senators laugh. Pell does not.
“I demand a formal review.”
“You may file one after orientation.”
“With whom?”
“Senate Administration.”
“Where are they?”
Thorn points toward a distant office without slowing.
Pell immediately turns toward it.
Thorn catches the back of his cape.
“No.”
“You just indicated the office.”
“I indicated where you may go after orientation.”
“You are restricting an elected representative!”
“I am preventing an elected representative from wandering into traffic.”
“This corridor has no traffic.”
A repulsor cart loaded with six crates races past close enough to lift Pell’s cape over his head.
Thorn releases him.
Pell removes the fabric from his face.
“Your point is noted.”
They find Senator Yonn sitting in the Chancellor’s reception area with a cup of tea and three commemorative datapad cases stacked beside her.
Thorn stops in the doorway.
“There is no gift shop,” he says.
Yonn smiles.
“The receptionist found a cabinet.”
The receptionist looks deeply ashamed.
Thorn points toward the corridor.
“Group. Now.”
Yonn collects the cases.
“Are these complimentary?”
“No.”
The receptionist says, “They were.”
Thorn looks at her.
She shrinks behind her desk.
Yonn joins the others.
Twelve senators.
Thorn counts twice.
He begins the return journey to the Senate chamber.
“Stay together.”
Senator Bel raises his hand.
“Yes?”
“May we ask questions?”
“You have done nothing else.”
“Is it true clones memorize every corridor in the Dome?”
“No.”
“How do you navigate?”
“Signs.”
Several senators look toward the large directional sign above them as though encountering written language for the first time.
Senator Pell points toward Thorn’s shoulder.
“What do the ropes mean?”
“Rank.”
“And the metal bar?”
“ARC qualification.”
“What does ARC mean?”
“Advanced Recon Commando.”
“You do reconnaissance?”
“When necessary.”
“What are you doing now?”
Thorn looks at the twelve adults he's spent forty minutes preventing from disappearing into government infrastructure.
“Reconnaissance.”
They reach the main chamber at last.
The senators immediately begin arguing over who enters first.
“Planetary population determines precedence.”
“No, accession date determines precedence.”
“My planet founded one of the original trade routes.”
“My planet has a larger navy.”
“My planet has moons older than your entire civilization.”
Thorn steps between them and opens the chamber doors.
“Alphabetical order.”
The arguing stops.
Senator Yonn frowns. “By system or surname?”
Thorn stares at her. She takes one careful step backward.
“Surname,” he says.
They organize themselves.
Badly.
Two senators discover they share the same first letter and begin debating whether apostrophes count before or after vowels. Someone’s cape becomes trapped in the door. Senator Bel attempts to help and traps his own cape too.
Thorn frees both without speaking.
A junior Senate aide approaches, takes in the scene, and looks at Thorn with open sympathy.
“Difficult morning?”
“I showered for this.”
The aide’s expression becomes grave.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
The last senator finally enters the chamber.
Thorn counts them.
Twelve.
He checks the corridor behind him for abandoned elected officials, stolen souvenirs, or constitutional emergencies.
Nothing.
His comm activates.
Fox’s voice emerges.
“Status?”
“Alive.”
“The senators?”
“Unfortunately.”
A pause.
“Any security incidents?”
“Four attempted unauthorized access, two separations, one theft from the Chancellor’s reception cabinet, and an argument over punctuation.”
“Standard orientation, then.”
Thorn looks through the chamber doors as Senator Pell begins shouting that his pod has an inferior angle.
“Next time, send a massiff.”
“Massiffs follow instructions.”
The channel closes.
Thorn stands alone in the corridor, freshly showered, professionally dressed, and reconsidering every choice that led him into command.
Inside the chamber, someone yells, “Marshal Commander, Senator Bel is stuck beneath the pod!”
Thorn closes his eyes and prays to whatever entity is out there for his sanity.