Jedi Insurgency 215 (Interlude 23)

After Padmé had spoken, the Senate continued to discuss various minutiae, and Palpatine had retired from the meeting. Mind occupied by the vision he had experienced, it wasn't until he returned to his office within the newly renovated Imperial Palace-the former Jedi Temple-that he began to consider this Amidala problem. 

The doors to the Emperor’s private office sealed with a low, resonant hiss. A dim light shone upon ancient Sith artifacts, and artwork. In previous years, Palpatine had openly displayed these artworks in mockery of the Jedi & their arrogance. Now that countless Sith had emerged one after another, he felt as if the Darkside itself were mocking him. 

Staring out the grand window out at the city, his city, not a single sound from the millions of transports reached his ears. Silence, absolute silence spread around his form like an invisible black hole, sucking away at everything. Waving his hand, a box on his desk opened with a hiss. Cool mists of air pooled into the room, and inside, a dozen leeches-the size of a forearm-wriggled about. 

Holding out his palm, he channeled his power. Faint red-orange swirling energy swept forth. The second this wave collided with the leeches, they screeched in pain as they slowly atrophied into mummified corpses before turning into dust. Palpatine, meanwhile, reverted to his youthful appearance. 

Stromnia leeches from Hoth were beings that could live for tens of thousands of years. To satiate the hunger learnt from Darth Nihilus's holocron, and keep himself from going mad, this was the solution he had sought. Instead of draining the lives of hundreds of short lived sapients to maintain his immortality, it was much more practical-and safer-to drain these worthless worms. Not that Palpatine particularly cared about the lives of his subjects, but grandiose blood sacrifices were for the barbaric, and uneducated. Had Nihilus not gone mad himself due to his own stupidity? No. Palpatine would heed the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise. Power belonged to the Sith, but only Palpatine had the intelligence to wield it. 

The Emperor breathed in his regained youth with a small, satisfied smile. Yet this satisfaction was there, and gone in an instant as he floated the lid back onto the box. 

Clasping his hands behind him, he stared into the reflection of his window, and beheld his two most accomplished, and trusted advisors. 

Mas Amedda stood tall despite his stooped frame. His blue skin catching the dim light, the Chagrian's horns casting thin, curved silhouettes along the polished floor. Dressed in fine bright golden hues, Amedda's expression was carefully composed, and yet his eyes flickered with unease.

Beside him, sat Sate Pestage. His posture was frail, his complexion pallid, his breathing faintly labored. Yet Pestage’s gaze was sharp, and calculating, not a single thing went unnoticed by this former assassin. 

For a time, the room maintained this silence, it was as if the universe had stopped, and only these three men occupied its center. 

Palpatine’s reflection shifted slightly as his head tilted just a fraction, yet he still faced out towards the city. 

“In all my years, I have found that the dead are most cooperative.” Palpatine spoke in a soft rasp, and thought of all he had taken from his Master after his passing. 

Amedda’s bowed his head nervously, whilst Pestage slightly inclined his head knowingly. 

“And yet, today the Senate was graced by a ghost.” His words came out slow, like a viper emerging from its pit. 

Slowly turning around, he took his seat, and the full weight of his gaze fell upon them.

“Speak.”

The command was quiet, yet demanded a response. 

Pestage moved first, he leaned forward with a faint, wheezing breath, and a dangerous glimmer in his eye. 

“Your Majesty, the moment, though regrettable in its interruption, presents with us an opportunity.” Pestage's voice was thin, yet each word was enunciated with meticulous care.

Amedda’s eyes flicked toward him, but he did not interrupt.

Pestage continued, his tone gaining strength, showcasing a strong conviction in what he had to say. 

“To proceed with an execution so publicly declared and now so publicly questioned, would strain the very architecture upon which your Empire rests. For millennia, the Republic-and now, its successor the Empire-has been girded by the pretense of law. Of process. Of legitimacy. To discard such things outright would be to confess that they were never more than decoration. Of course, we three understand who the true power behind this institution is, but the people are foolish, and require a guiding hand to push them along the proper path.” Pestage said with a thin, predatory smile. 

Palpatine said nothing, seemingly closing his eyes deep in thought, yet his silence was permission to continue speaking. Emboldened, Pestage continued to lay out his plan. 

“Old laws are not necessarily bad laws. We need not discard them. We may refine them. If it pleases Your Majesty, I would draft a doctrine-a most elegant one-declaring that the Empire does not abandon tradition, but purifies it. We serve in contrast to the Jedi & the Confederacy as the sole democratic institution to serve the galaxy. We need not bully this Mace Windu with a declaration of slaughter. No, we must go through the proper processes and eliminate this threat with the law. All this talk of a trial? What do we need a trial for, when existing articles already exist condemning said war criminals?” Pestage scoffed, and let out a sickly cough. 

Taking a sip from a flask of water, the thin advisor cleared his throat to continue speaking. 

“Let it be written that the Jedi, by their treason, have removed themselves from the protections of law. That they are not citizens, but insurgents. Not guardians, but heretics. And thus, may be executed at will.” Pestage made a clawing gesture with one of his hands, and proudly put the finishing touches on his plan. 

Eyes closed, Palpatine imagined the scene. Of him approving this documentation on the Senate floor. Acting as if it pained him to change something so sacrosanct as a trial, yet having ‘no choice’ in the face of the brutal Jedi onslaught. It was not a terrible plan, yet he wanted options. 

Moments later, after Pestage had laid down his piece, Amedda exhaled slowly through his nose, and let out a loud yawn. 

“Your Majesty, whilst Lord Pestage’s literary inclinations are, as always, impressive…I must advise a more, mn, visible path.” Amedda began, his voice smooth, practiced, and carrying the cadence of a man who had successfully completed countless negotiations. 

The blue skinned alien clasped his hands gently in his lap, adopting the posture of a noble courtier addressing a throne.

“The Senate has become unsettled, this much is clear. Many of your strongest allies those who have stood with you through the transition from Republic to Empire now find themselves hesitant.” Amedda spoke hesitantly, but knew that no matter how damning the information, his Master demanded the truth. The art of not receiving the Emperor’s displeasure, was choosing exactly what to say. 

He tilted his head slightly as he carefully measured his next words, fearful that he might receive a burst of lightning to the face for his efforts. 

“Since your coronation, it has been six months.” Amedda said slowly. “Now that that woman has made a return, those voices who have oft remained silent now feel emboldened. To so recklessly cast aside this trial would mean fracturing the glue that binds this government together.” 

Palpatine cracked an eyelid open, and Amedda's blue complexion suddenly turned milk white. 

“A trial, Your Majesty, would not weaken your position, it would secure it!” Amedda hurried to say, practically jumping out of his seat in fear. 

Palpatine closed his eye, and silence once more reigned supreme, granting Amedda implicit permission to continue. Clearing his throat several times, Amedda was offered a tissue by the ever sickly Pestage. The Chagrian barely withheld a glare at his contemporary, yet accepted the token as a cover to save face. Straightening out his golden silk robes, Amedda inclined his head towards the Emperor, and began to lay out his plan. 

“Ahem, the Confederacy still lingers in the Outer Rim. Criminal syndicates such as the the Hutts, the cartels, the vermin of the galaxy, are watching for any sign of instability. Lord Vader's most recent ahem, excursion has placed our Empire in a precarious position. Many Senators have privately come to me these last few days, expressing their concern.” Amedda slowly spoke. 

“The price of food & energy has spiked by 12.3% ever since due to a sudden rise in piracy.” Pestage-the genius economist-added his own two creds, sickened by this new and unexpected war. 

For a second, Palpatine himself pursed his lips in displeasure. His apprentice would be returning to Coruscant to spring their little trap, but the day after Windu was executed, Vader would not be returning until the Hutt's were brought to heel. 

Unrecognizing the hidden fury, and near danger that he was in, Amedda continued to lay out his ideas. 

“Imagine it: a public trial. The galaxy watches as the Jedi are exposed in excruciating detail. Manufactured storylines, tampered evidence, false testimony, all the drama in the universe concentrated in one courtroom! This is the kind of entertainment we need to give the masses their bread & circus. Distracted by this grand event, your plan to trap any Jedi who dare rescue Windu shall become a legendary event for the ages!” Amedda exclaimed in excitement. 

Pestage clucked his tongue. He'd appealed to the Emperor’s logical mind, knowing his liege Lord was a man of ruthless efficiency. However, his master also was a lover of the arts, and excelled in drama…why else would the native of Naboo go into politics? 

“You would not be an executioner, Your Majesty, you would be a savior.” Amedda spread his arms, painting a grand picture. 

Pestage let out a faint, dry cough. Although he knew his own plan was doomed to fail, he at least had to give the veneer of protest. If he didn't play the game, or provide a counter point to this blue buffoon, then what need would His Majesty have for him? 

“A performance, hah. How delightfully theatrical.” Pestage said with a roll of the eyes.

Amedda’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone remained composed. “Politics, my dear Pestage, is theater.”

“And law, is the script.” Pestage smirked, inclining his head towards the Emperor. 

Amedda scoffed, yet he too inclined his head. 

At the center of it all, Palpatine said nothing, yet his eyes slowly opened. His gaze passed over them both, and regarded his two most effective political tools. 

Pestage’s choice was the fastest option. Ramming legislation through the Senate would be easy, the story of Windu would be in and out of the news cycle in a week. Padmé's return likewise would be but a footnote. 

Amedda’s idea, meanwhile could still be fast tracked, as executing the man on the anniversary of the Clone Wars had been Palpatine’s own idea. A seven day trial was neither too quick, nor too short. Democracy would be satisfied, and he did so love the idea of Windu losing all face in the eyes of the public. 

At last, he rose from his seat, prompting the two men to hurriedly stand to attention. 

“Senator Amidala…has reminded the Senate of something they had begun to forget.” Palpatine spoke in a contemplative tone. “That they believe themselves to have a voice.”

A faint smile touched Palpatine’s lips. It was thin, and dangerous. 

“Very well, we shall indulge them.” Palpatine nodded to himself, and then gestured towards Amedda. “The trial will proceed.”

Amedda inclined his head immediately, repressed joy & relief coloring his brow. 

Pestage’s eyes flickered with a calculating calculating.

“But understand this…”

Palpatine’s voice dropped, the warmth draining from it entirely.

“This is not a concession, it is a demonstration. They will be given their truth, precisely as I wish them to see it.

Do not disappoint me.” 

Bowing once more, the pair of advisors glanced at one another, and then departed from the office. 

Palpatine, meanwhile, stared at a replica of a sarcophagus, recognizing it as one of the symbols he had foreseen. For he had come across this very thing whilst exploring a tomb on Korriban. A name unconsciously came to mind, of a once great Sith thought long gone. 

“Yes, it seems the ghosts of the past are jealous of my accomplishments. First Revan, and now you, Marka Ragnos.”