The Weaving Force: Interlude- Year 3 (Patreon)

Interlude 3: Year 3

He was The Master.

The Master of the Dark Side.

The Master of the Galactic Republic.

The Master of his own fate.

It’s what he’d striven to be. What he’d worked, schemed, and murdered for.

He did not reach this power, nor hold onto it, by being stupid or inflexible. Nothing was ever guaranteed in this galaxy.

But, he could admit to himself, the events that had transpired since the death of Maul were less than ideal.

He’d planned for the eventuality of Maul’s death. He had been a tool. A blunt, useful tool, but one unlikely to live long past its usefulness.

His assassin’s death had been expected. But to only have a single Jedi kill to his name… disgusting.

Then another disappointment to his plans; Yan Dooku.

He’d been observing the Count for years, striking up a friendship with him during his tenure as a senator. He had been the ideal follow up, truth be told. Everything he would have needed in an apprentice to lead the brewing Separatist Crisis. Strong in the Force and with a lightsaber, requiring minimal training from his part. Intelligent, politically shrewd, already well-established connections to various Outer Rim worlds, and a strategic, if limited, way of thinking.

In short, perfect for his goals.

But of all the Jedi Maul could have killed, he had to kill the one Jedi in the galaxy that could urge Dooku back into the fold of the Jedi he’d long since grown dissatisfied and disillusioned with.

The odds of such a thing were laughably absurd and yet… here he was.

His lack of immediate replacement for Maul had inconvenienced him further. Without a useful catspaw, Sidious had needed to become more involved. Directly speaking to the foolish Trade Federation, handling his own assassinations and shadowy manipulations.

Doing so while keeping his identity as the Supreme Chancellor a secret was… trying.

More frustrating than that, Dooku was worse than a mere lost asset.

The man’s single-minded doggedness would have made him an easy apprentice to manipulate, but that same single-mindedness now turned the Saber Master into the largest thorn in his side.

Countless hours, dozens of agents and compromised assets, broken contingencies, all lost because of Yan Dooku.

Truly… Maul could not have picked a worse Jedi Master to slay if he’d tried.

His feelers and machinations already had discovered no less than three potential apprentices. The code of the Sith indicated it should only ever be one Master and one Apprentice… Like Maul however, they would be no true apprentices. Tools to be used and later discarded.

He would need to begin to groom them soon enough… but Dooku was still the ideal.

He would try one more time to twist the old Master into serving his purpose.

Otherwise, he would need to end him.

He was getting far too close to the truth now; delaying and misdirection was no longer sufficient.

Then of course there was his old Master’s financials… something Plagueius had invested in had nearly bankrupted the old Munn before his… untimely demise. It left Sideous ill at ease, mired in ignorance. But his departed Master had covered his tracks far too well. Even his resources as the Supreme Chancellor and Darth Sidious working in tandem had not ferreted out that secret yet.

And even beyond that, the constant… heaving within the tides and eddies of the Force, the rumblings of change… clouded even his vision.

It was… irritating.

Plans had been set into motion long ago. He was not so arrogant as to believe they were inevitable – if they were, then he, himself, would be unnecessary, obsolete - but they were so close to fruition that it was almost tangible.

Changes that could cause such tremors in the Force were thus… unwelcome.

Even if they could be turned to his advantage, they were a risk. They were an unnecessary wrinkle in the plan, regardless of any opportunities they may present.

He’d looked into the source within the Jedi of course, but he could hardly seem too eager, lest he tip his hand. But his probings had returned… unclear conclusions.

Upheaval within the Council was certainly occurring. More and more Masters were disagreeing with their vaunted harmony and serenity. Dissenting from their passive, meek following of Yoda’s every word.

Rumors abounded amidst the menials and servants that the restrictions on the Jedi’s age limit for trainees was being debated - if not outright broken, now -  due to Skywalker’s case, and perhaps others.

Other reports suggested secrets being kept amidst even the members of the Jedi Council. Mistrust and… politicking.

He was unsure. Though any unrest within the Jedi was, on its surface, advantageous, he could not help but consider that they knew what the source of these disturbances in the Force were, and he did not.

That rankled.

But, for the time being, the Jedi and their Council of fools needed to be set aside. He had a much more immediate, much more material crisis to navigate.

The Hutts.

Specifically, the Hutts and their feud with Mandalore.

Mandalore.

What was Mandalore, if not a thatched barn barracks, where brigands pissed on the floor and their spawn were given tin buckets for helmets and told to wallow in the filth and ignorance of their “glory days”, for prestige long lost.

Or more laughably, in recent times, a caricature of peace. Ever standing on the cusp of another civil war.

Perhaps he should instigate it. A calamitous firestorm to swallow up the so-called “New Mandalorians” and their recent crusade against slavery.

Tempting.

Very tempting.

But the crisis could not start yet. The Neimodians, spineless wretches that they were, were still years away from ready to openly declare rebellion, and he needed to cement his reputation as the Chancellor who oversaw the “golden age” of peace and prosperity before any significant crisis could break out. It was the best way to secure the Senate behind him once the corporations of the Trade Federation and Techno Union openly declared their joining of the fledgeling Separatist voices now beginning to sprinkle across the Outer Rim.

That meant he needed to work his diplomatic skills.

Mandalore needed to be talked down from this crusade of freeing slaves. More than that, it needed to be stopped from re-militarizing itself to any extent. Many of his plans hinged upon the Separatists and the Republic being the only true militaries once the crisis began.

Despite their inbred ignorance, he was not so stupid as to underestimate the Mandalorian people’s capacity for war when fully mustered to its call.

The Hutts also needed to be brought to heel.

A tall order, and a part of him genuinely felt himself almost… giddy at the first real challenge to come along to his plans, irritating though it was.

With a smile carefully placed upon his face, Sheev stood as his door opened to his secretary, leading in the delegation.

“Chancellor Palpatine, sir,” the young lady said, bowing. “Presenting Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore, her Royal Guard, Captain Cadera, and her political Advisor, Lady Alexandria.”

“Thank you, Bethany,” he replied politely, his eyes passing over the three.

Satine was as he remembered her: calm and poised. Blind. Her loyal lap-dog, ever present at her side, was a non-entity as far as these negotiations were concerned.

But the woman…

Sheev coiled the shroud of the Darkside tightly around himself manipulating its shadows and energies to subtly cloud the minds of those around him;, his every instinct in the Force whispering to him that he must be wary. He must use all his skill at remaining hidden.

This woman, and her icy cold deadness in the Force…

She was dangerous.

The Force trembled around him, and he allowed his smile to grow a tiny bit.

Well…

Challenge accepted.