Count Dooku stood at the center of the Separatist Senate chamber and seriously considered murder.
Not the political kind—the literal kind. Violence. Bloodshed. The application of Force lightning to the various idiots screaming at each other across the circular amphitheater. It would be satisfying. Brief. Effective.
Also counterproductive. Probably.
"We attack again!" A Quarren senator's tentacles quivered with agitation. "Immediately! Before they can reinforce—"
"Are you insane?" A Gossam representative shot to her feet. "After Jabiim and Kamino both failed? We barely escaped with our fleet intact!"
"I still can't believe we survived at all," someone muttered from the upper tiers.
"We should sue for peace!" Mina Bonteri's voice cut through the chaos—measured, reasonable, doomed to be ignored.
"The Republic will never negotiate with us!" The Umbaran delegate's pale face twisted with contempt. "They deny our fundamental right to self-governance. They see us as traitors, not a sovereign alliance."
"So we launch another premature assault on a critical Republic world?" Wat Tambor's mechanical voice grated like metal on metal. "The Techno Union's projections indicate—"
"Projections?" The Umbaran interrupted. "Our technology proved itself on Kamino. Our weapons systems inflicted severe casualties. The Republic's victory came at tremendous cost. We simply need to deploy our full arsenal next time—"
"ENOUGH."
Dooku didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. The word carried weight beyond volume—a command laced with just enough dark side presence to make every being in the chamber feel it in their bones.
Silence fell like a hammer.
Dooku looked across the faces of the Separatist Parliament—politicians and corporate leaders who'd pledged themselves to independence from the Republic. Some were true believers in autonomy. Some were opportunists seeking profit. Some were simply too far in to turn back now.
All of them were currently useless.
"Here we stand," Dooku said quietly, "arguing instead of acting. Finger-pointing instead of planning." His gaze swept the chamber. "I claim full responsibility for the disaster at Kamino. The strategy was mine. The intelligence was inadequate. The execution flawed. But we cannot afford to dwell on failure."
He let that sink in for three seconds. Precise. Calculated.
"The bulk of our fleet survived," Dooku continued. "We should be grateful the Republic hasn't launched a counteroffensive. They won Kamino, yes. But victory came at a price. Their casualties were significant. Their infrastructure damaged. And most importantly—" He nodded toward the Umbaran delegation. "—our technology proved its worth. The Umbarans' weapons systems performed exactly as promised."
"We still lost," Wat Tambor stated flatly.
"Why haven't they retaliated?" A nervous Neimoidian senator asked. "If we were weakened, wouldn't now be the perfect time for them to strike?"
"What have you contributed to this alliance besides endless complaining?" Dooku's gaze locked onto the green-skinned senator. "Perhaps you'd like to volunteer your personal forces for the next assault?"
The Neimoidian wisely chose silence.
"We are not the Republic's puppets," Dooku said, his voice carrying quiet fury. "We will never again be appendages of that corrupt, bloated system. But if this parliament degenerates into pointless bickering every time we face setback, I will reconsider my position as your military leader."
The threat hung in the air. Several senators shifted uncomfortably. Dooku was many things—manipulative, ruthless, pragmatic—but he was also the only reason the Confederacy had survived this long against the Republic's superior numbers.
"We will not repeat the mistakes of failed governments," Dooku continued. "But we also cannot be so foolish as to deny our errors. The assault on Kamino was approved by majority vote of this body. Nevertheless, as your military commander, I accept full responsibility for its failure."
Stunned silence. Dooku accepting blame wasn't in anyone's playbook.
"Remember," Dooku said, his eyes finding each delegate in turn, "I am still your leader. Democracy or not, our military actions reflect my command. I failed at Kamino. What we do now is ensure we don't fail again."
"But Count Dooku—"
"Now is not the time." Dooku cut off the objection with a gesture. "We have immediate concerns. We've lost significant ground forces. Our fleet is intact but damaged. If the Republic does counterattack, we must be prepared. I want defensive assessments from each corporate delegation within two standard days. And I want intelligence on why the Republic hasn't already struck back. Dismissed."
"What about peace negotiations?" Mina Bonteri hadn't moved from her seat. Her voice was calm, but insistent. "Surely we can't simply prepare for the next battle without at least attempting dialogue."
Dooku looked at the Onderon senator—one of the few genuine idealists left in the Confederacy. "I can only pray," he said, and meant it, "that there are still people in the Republic who value peace as much as you do, Senator Bonteri."
The words landed like stones.
After the session adjourned, Mina Bonteri remained in her seat, staring at the empty chamber.
She'd left the Republic because it had become everything it swore to fight against—corrupt, inefficient, indifferent to the suffering of its outer territories. The Separatist cause had been just. Noble, even. The right to self-governance. The freedom to reject a broken system.
But somewhere along the way, justice had become warfare. And warfare had become this—endless cycles of attack and retaliation with no clear end in sight.
Ultron's attack had briefly forced both sides into an uneasy ceasefire. A common enemy, however temporary, had created space for something like diplomacy. But that window had closed the moment the Separatists attacked Kamino.
Mina wasn't naive. She understood strategy. Kamino was the Republic's cloning facility—its source of military power. Destroying it would've crippled the Grand Army. From a tactical standpoint, the attack made sense.
But tactics weren't the same as wisdom.
Now the Republic had been attacked. Their soldiers had died. Their facilities had been threatened. Even if they'd won the battle, the price in blood and infrastructure had been steep. And blood demanded blood in return. That was how wars worked—escalation feeding escalation until no one remembered why they'd started fighting in the first place.
Mina wondered how the Republic would respond. A proportional counterattack seemed inevitable. But where? When? And how many more would die before someone, anyone, found the courage to say "enough"?
She'd built her career on pragmatism. Left the Republic when it became clear reform was impossible. Joined the Confederacy when it represented genuine change. But pragmatism meant seeing reality clearly, and the reality was this:
Neither side could win. Not really. The Republic had numbers and resources. The Separatists had corporate wealth and innovative technology. They could fight each other to exhaustion, bleed each other dry, turn the galaxy into a graveyard of broken ships and shattered worlds.
But they couldn't achieve victory. Only destruction.
The war would escalate now. Kamino guaranteed it. The only question was how far the escalation would go before something—someone—broke the cycle.
Mina closed her eyes, leaned back in her seat, and allowed herself one moment of genuine fear. Not for herself. For everyone caught in this machinery of violence. For the soldiers on both sides, following orders they didn't make. For the civilians trapped between armies. For her own daughter, growing up in a galaxy that seemed determined to tear itself apart.
Somewhere, a fuse was burning. How long was it? How much time remained before it reached the powder keg and everything exploded?
Mina didn't know.
She only knew that if peace had any chance—any chance at all—someone would have to find that fuse and cut it before the end.
The question was: would anyone try?
Or would they all just keep arguing in empty chambers while the galaxy burned?
Mina stood, straightened her robes, and walked toward the exit. She had work to do. Letters to write. Contacts to make. Diplomatic channels to explore, no matter how unlikely success seemed.
Because the alternative—accepting that war was inevitable, that escalation was unstoppable, that peace was impossible—was something Mina Bonteri refused to believe.
Even if she was the only one left who did.
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