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Riyo can explain Senate politics. Fox can understand orbital warfare. Somehow, the first is proving more dangerous.
Fox’s office contains one desk, two chairs, four filing cabinets, and exactly enough floor space for regret.
Riyo sits across from him with her knees nearly touching the desk. She took off her overcoat and folded it over the back of the spare chair, leaving her in a fitted dark-blue dress embroidered with silver thread around the collar and sleeves.
The pattern resembles frost beneath moonlight.
Totally unrelated to the military regulations in front of him, Senator Chuchi looks especially beautiful today.
Fox lowers his eyes to the datapad before that thought can become visible on his face.
“So,” Riyo says, “what part is confusing you?”
“All of it.”
“That narrows things down considerably.”
Fox gestures toward the collection of Senate procedural guides spread across his desk. “The Chief of Defense is a military position.”
“Yes.”
“The regulations say I have strategic authority over the Grand Army.”
“Yes.”
“They also say I’m expected to submit legislative proposals, address appropriations committees, negotiate with planetary delegations, and maintain support for defense policy.”
“Yes.”
“That’s politics.”
Riyo folds her hands in her lap. “It is.”
“I wasn’t trained for politics.”
“No one is properly trained for politics. We’re simply placed in formal clothing and released into government buildings until we develop survival instincts.”
Fox stares at her.
Riyo’s lips curve.
“That was mostly a joke.”
“Mostly?”
“My predecessor died before he could train me. The Assembly sent me prepared speeches and hoped I wouldn’t embarrass them.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did occasionally.”
“I’ve reviewed the recordings.”
“You reviewed recordings of my speeches?”
Fox looks back at the regulations.
“They were relevant.”
“To military strategy?”
“Pantoran voting patterns affect Outer Rim defense budgets.”
Riyo’s smile grows warmer.
Fox’s ears start heating.
He ignores that too.
Government makes sense. Government is regulations, departments, chains of authority, and paperwork. Paperwork can be categorized. It can be signed, filed, rejected, or returned with corrections highlighted in increasingly hostile shades of red.
Politics is different.
Politics is saying one thing while meaning another, offering support without promising anything, and pretending not to notice when someone has insulted you across 12 generations of ancestors.
Fox understands deception. He is an ARC. He knows infiltration, counterintelligence, interrogation, and how to create a false identity convincing enough to survive three military audits.
Somehow, none of that helps him understand why Senator Mottee voted against a defense appropriation he personally requested.
Fox pushes another datapad across the desk.
“This.”
Riyo picks it up.
“Senator Mottee requested additional planetary shielding for his sector,” Fox says. “My office included the request in the emergency defense package. He voted against it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Senator Mottee belongs to the Core Sovereignty Bloc.”
“So?”
“The bill was introduced by Senator Organa.”
Fox waits for the rest of the explanation.
Riyo waits for him to understand.
He doesn’t.
“What does Organa have to do with the shields?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did Mottee vote against them?”
“Because voting for Organa’s proposal would strengthen Organa’s faction.”
Fox leans back as far as the wall permits.
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard today.”
“It’s still early.”
“His own system needs those shields.”
“Yes.”
“If the Separatists attack, his people may die.”
“Yes.”
“He voted against protecting them because he dislikes the senator who submitted the proposal.”
Riyo tilts her head. “He would say he disagrees with Senator Organa’s broader approach to executive oversight.”
“He would be lying.”
“He would be speaking politically.”
“That’s lying with more steps.”
Riyo laughs.
The sound fills the tiny office and makes the space feel less like a storage unit someone accidentally assigned a door code.
Fox likes her laugh.
He doesn’t examine that thought.
He has enough problems.
“The Guard converted part of the recreation room into a war room,” he says. “I can coordinate 12 fleet groups from there. I can track supply lines across six sectors. I can review casualty projections while managing Coruscant’s planetary defense grid.”
“That sounds useful.”
“I understand it.”
“And you don’t understand Senator Mottee?”
“No.”
“Neither does Senator Mottee.”
Fox studies her face for signs that she is joking again.
She appears completely serious.
“Politics is rarely about the item being discussed,” Riyo explains. “It’s about who introduced it, who supports it, who gains influence, and what supporting it will cost during the next negotiation.”
“That’s inefficient.”
“Extremely.”
“I could order the shields deployed.”
Riyo’s expression changes.
Not fear. Concern.
Fox notices anyway.
The regulations say he can do exactly that. As Chief of Defense, he can override civilian objections when a clear strategic threat exists. He can redirect military resources, supersede generals, and, under certain emergency conditions, countermand the Chancellor.
He spent his entire life waiting for natborn approval.
Now a bureaucratic upheaval gave him authority over nearly all of them.
Using it feels like stepping onto ice without knowing how deep the water runs beneath.
“I’m not going to,” Fox says.
Riyo relaxes slightly. “I know.”
“You looked concerned.”
“I’m concerned that you’re afraid to use powers you legally hold.”
Fox’s temple remains mercifully quiet.
“That is not what I expected you to say.”
“You thought I was worried you’d become a dictator?”
“The Senate is.”
“The Senate worries about anything it can’t control.”
“I’m a clone.”
“Yes.”
“A clone with executive military authority.”
“Yes.”
“Clones aren’t legally sentient.”
Riyo’s eyes sharpen. “I’m aware.”
Fox looks away.
The office feels smaller when they discuss that.
His promotion hasn’t changed what he is under Republic law. He can command admirals, overrule Jedi generals, and redirect entire fleets, but he still cannot legally address the Senate Chamber.
He can write a report.
He can submit it.
He cannot stand before the senators affected by it and explain his own conclusions because the law considers his voice equivalent to military property producing noise.
“The position requires Senate presentations,” Fox says. “The regulations contradict themselves.”
“They assume the Chief of Defense is a citizen.”
“I’m not.”
Riyo’s mouth tightens.
“Legally,” Fox adds.
“I understood you the first time.”
There is anger in her voice, but none of it is directed at him.
Fox learned that about Riyo. When she gets quiet around clone law, it means someone else is going to have a miserable committee session later.
He returns to the procedural guide.
“There are 32 standing committees that may request testimony from my office.”
“34.”
“The guide says 32.”
“They created two more last week.”
“Why?”
“One investigates whether existing committees are using funds efficiently.”
Fox stares at her.
Riyo winces. “The other oversees the first.”
He closes the guide.
“I’m going back to the war room.”
“You can’t hide in there forever.”
“I can try.”
“Thorn will find you.”
“Thorn is still learning how to be Marshal Commander. He has his own paperwork.”
“You gave him your old position and immediately began using it against him.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very political of you.”
Fox narrows his eyes.
Riyo smiles again.
He wants to keep her here.
The realization appears without warning. It has nothing to do with regulations or committee structures. He simply wants her to remain in the cramped office, explaining irrational senators and laughing whenever he describes politics accurately enough to offend half the Republic.
Fox reaches for another file before she can stand.
“What about this committee?”
Riyo accepts it.
“The Defense Appropriations Subcommittee.”
“They denied medical funding, then approved decorative renovations to the Senate landing platforms.”
“Senator Burtoni chairs it.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains more than it should.”
For the next hour, Riyo walks him through voting blocs, coalition agreements, committee leverage, and the difference between a public ally and a reliable vote.
Fox takes notes.
He understands half of them.
By the time they reach lobbying restrictions, the office’s ventilation system has begun making a grinding noise. Riyo shifted her chair sideways to keep her legs from hitting the desk, and Fox’s headache has settled firmly behind both eyes.
He looks at the pages of notes.
“This is impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“I would rather plan another planetary liberation.”
“You’ve done that before.”
“Exactly.”
Riyo rests her elbow carefully on the only clear corner of his desk.
“You don’t need to learn everything at once.”
“The position became effective immediately.”
“That doesn’t mean competence becomes effective immediately.”
Fox gives her a flat look.
Riyo’s cheeks darken slightly.
“I didn’t mean you’re incompetent.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing that thing with your face.”
“What thing?”
“The one where you look offended so I’ll keep talking.”
Fox hadn’t known he had such a thing.
He files the information away for later.
Riyo glances around the office, at the stacked datapads, the legislative guides, and the unopened requests threatening to escape the filing cabinets.
“You need help.”
“I have commanders.”
“Military commanders.”
“Thorn understands logistics.”
“Thorn sent me a requisition request with a drawing of himself being crushed beneath paperwork.”
“It conveyed the problem efficiently.”
“You need someone who understands the Senate.”
Fox pauses.
“A senator?”
“No. You need an aide.”
“I don’t require someone to arrange my schedule.”
“Not that kind of aide. A senior political aide who works directly for your office. Someone who can translate your reports into Senate language, track committees, brief you on factions, and speak in the chamber when you legally can’t.”
Fox looks at the procedural guides again.
A designated representative.
A voice the Senate is required to recognize, even if it refuses to recognize his.
“They would answer to me?”
“Only to you.”
“Not the Chancellor?”
“Not unless you choose someone foolish enough to accept divided loyalty.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
Fox studies Riyo.
She already thought this through. Possibly before entering the office.
“You have a candidate,” he says.
Her smile returns, quiet and pleased.
“I may have several.”