Chapter Text
“I need your help. I—” Bail Organa cuts himself off with a curse which would earn Ben a lecture and a thorough rinsing of his mouth, even as old as he is now. “You look like shit.”
Ben can’t help but laugh. It starts in his belly and rises up until his entire body shakes with it. “There’s the smooth-talking politician I’ve come to know.” He wipes the tears from his eyes, and the moisture wets the dirt on his hands.
Ben is filthy and, given what he was doing before his summons, he’s entirely certain there is actual shit clinging to his pants right now. He looks at the holo-projection of his friend and decides to take pity on him and not share that fact.
“Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan reached out to the AgriCorps with an urgent request to speak with me,” Ben says. “Which means you get me fresh off the transport. Be glad you can only see me and not smell me.”
Bail wrinkles his nose, and Ben smiles even wider. Bail is a consummate politician. It’s a sign of their friendship that he shows Ben his true reactions, rather than tucking them behind endless diplomacy.
“Was your mission successful?” Bail asks.
“It was,” Ben answers. He was on a routine tour of settlements the AgriCorp has aided in the past five years. There is a complicated schedule of when planets are visited to make sure development is still proceeding smoothly. Ben’s last stop was Banukah, and he arrived in time to assist with the planting season, hence the mess of his clothes.
“Are you between assignments?” Bail asks.
The Force sings to Ben, of opportunity as much as warning. Bail has something up his sleeve and whatever it is, it’s big enough for the Force to poke Ben and say pay attention. There is a queue full of aid requests, and Ben’s first order of business when he returns to his AgriCorp base is to peruse the list and pick his next assignment.
The only reason he doesn’t technically have an assignment right now is because he was shuffled from his transport straight to this call with Bail. “I don’t have an active assignment,” Ben answers truthfully. As a Specialist, he’s allowed a four-day standard rest between assignments, but he rarely takes more than one. He prefers to stay busy.
“Good,” Bail says. “I’ll be in orbit in three standard days. This is a conversation I’d like to have in person.”
The Force is almost deafening in his head, as if Ben doesn’t have perfectly functioning eyes and ears which tell him this is A Moment.
“I’ll keep my schedule clear,” Ben says.
#
Specialist Ben Lars, age thirty-six, is the most successful member of the AgriCrops in his age group. He is accomplished across disciplines, and he’s excelled ever since war clutched the galaxy in its unforgiving grasp. He specializes in refugees, in resettlement and repopulation. He helps people reclaim what the war tried to strip away.
He’s certain Bail’s project involves Ben’s particular intersection of skills, but he’s curious why Bail approaches Ben directly, rather than the AgriCorps leadership.
Well, at the moment, Bail approaches the AgriCorps leadership, Ben’s superiors who all flock to the spaceport to greet their esteemed visitor. Ben swaggers into the room in clean, but worn trousers, and a mis-matched tunic.
Bail, in the day-to-day finery he enjoys as both a senator of Alderaan and consort to the Queen, is like a crate of water amongst the rubble of a supply depot. Ben, impatiently, bounces on his toes as he waits for Bail to finish greeting each of the stuffy AgriCorps Jedi who no doubt wish Ben was still out in deep space and not here to embarrass them.
When it’s Ben’s turn, he and Bail clasp forearms and touch their foreheads together in a traditional greeting. “Thank you for giving me advance notice of your arrival,” Ben says in crisp, polished Galactic-standard. “I made sure to be clean this time.”
He winks as his supervisors titter. Like everywhere in the galaxy, the AgriCorps is filled with people who care for their work in the bottom ranks and those who only care for their reputations at the top. Ben is far more popular with middle management, the ones who give out assignments but still remember the feel of dirt in their hands.
“Would you accompany me onto my ship?” Bail asks. His expression hasn’t changed, but Ben can detect the amusement Bail fights to keep down. “I’ve prepared a meal for us.”
“Fifty-percent alcohol, then?” Ben asks.
The Jedi near him puff up, offended on Bail’s behalf. Bail waves off their apologies and ushers Ben onto his ship. As soon as the landing ramp closes behind him, Bail drops all pretense. “You’re in a mood today. You haven’t been home long enough for this.”
Ben shrugs, and he loses his insolence but also his smile. “This isn’t home. The more difficult I am, the more eager they are to send me away. The war may be over, but our work will continue for years.”
When the Separatists and the Republic began their war, Ben knew there would be far reaching consequences. Even as the Inner Rim planets saw few changes to their lives, the Mid Rim, and especially Outer Rim, suffered. Casualties were low, the battles fought between droids and clone troopers, but the collateral damage was mind-boggling.
Also, if you are someone like Ben who believes in the sentience of all beings, the causalities were still too high. He stopped reading opinions on the war after he cracked one too many screens, furious at the casual dismissal of the clone troopers’ lives.
With a war fought between droids and clones on the outskirts of the galaxy, most of the people in charge of funding and continuing the war felt no pressure to bring it to an end. He knows Bail and his contingent, including Padmé Amidala of Naboo and Mon Mothma of Chandrila, fought hard, both to end the war and grant citizenship to the clone army.
Ben doesn’t understand how the Jedi Order became the generals and military arm of the Republic, and, if he’s honest, he isn’t entirely sure why the war ended. Like everyone, he heard about Count Dooku’s kidnapping of Chancellor Palpatine. He didn’t mourn when the assassination attempt succeeded or when the effort claimed Count Dooku’s life as well.
The ship Dooku held Palpatine on exploded, ending both their lives. The war concluded quickly afterward, as if losing the Republic’s leader and the Separatist’s most influential general was enough.
Ben doesn’t look for answers. He focuses on dealing with the aftermath. Because while the war is over, it went on too long. His specialization is in refugee situations, especially those displaced and traumatized by violence. He has spent the war jumping from crisis to crisis, doing all he can to help.
With the war finally over, perhaps there will stop being new planets in crisis, and they may finally make progress in restoring the health and happiness of the galaxy’s inhabitants.
Bail leads Ben into the small receiving room which opens into his personal quarters. Ben’s surprised, and then intrigued, when Bail’s attendants close the door and stay on the other side of it. He and Bail are alone.
The table in front of them is laden with food, and Bail’s bed is in Ben’s line of sight. If Bail didn’t feel so troubled in the Force, Ben would suspect he was being seduced.
Bail twists the ring on his middle finger. There’s a low buzz, the kind Ben associates with anti-eavesdropping technology. Ben sits in the chair Bail offers him and then waits, without quip or question, for Bail to explain.
“Did you know Anakin Skywalker was supposed to rescue Chancellor Palpatine from Count Dooku?” Bail asks.
Ben covers his flinch at the name. He’s struggled to be informed of the galaxy while at the same time protecting himself against old wounds. Skywalker threatens his shields and his control, every time. But yes, he does know about the prodigy turned general. More recently, his name has been in the news, because he eloped with Senator Amidala.
Ben hums, intrigued by Bail’s choice of words. “Supposed to?”
Bail’s smile is grim, even as he nods. “It was a ploy. Palpatine arranged the kidnapping himself. We’re still unsure whether he intended for Anakin to strike Dooku down in the rescue or only to strengthen his relationship with Anakin, but it was deliberate.”
“Palpatine was working with Dooku?” Ben asks. He’s fairly certain the two men were on opposite sides of the war.
Bail hesitates. “What I’m telling you here could cost me my senate seat, and Alderaan could face serious repercussions.”
Ben swallows thickly as the Force presses heavy against him. “I will guard your confidence as closely as I guard my own,” he promises.
“The Jedi Council uncovered proof that Palpatine was the Sith Master behind the war.”
Palpatine? A Sith? Force, no wonder the war was such a disaster. With Palpatine controlling both sides, he could maximize chaos and suffering. Ben drags a hand down his face and feels decades older. “He could have—” Ben can’t even voice the worst of this thoughts.
“He had plans,” Bail says quietly. “Plans and schemes, each worse than the last. He wanted Anakin as his next apprentice. His writings were full of a vision of a galaxy brought beneath their heel. It was ugly, Ben, and I only saw the sanitized version. The best part?” Bail laughs, but it’s an ugly, jagged sound. “It was luck which saved us. Or, Anakin’s dick, depending on who you ask. He was supposed to rescue Palpatine, but he was off planet, marrying Padmé. The Council sent Qui-Gon Jinn instead.”
Ben keeps his face impassive. If Bail was Force sensitive, he may have detected a ripple at the mention of the man’s name. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Ben’s had over two decades to shield his reaction to this particular man.
“He was Dooku’s padawan,” Bail explains, because he doesn’t know Ben Lars has a connection to Jinn. “There was enough of a lingering bond between them for Qui-Gon to pick up on Dooku’s thoughts and realize what was happening. He didn’t ask questions or wait for orders. He rigged the ship to explode and then took his shuttle to a safe distance to watch. The official story is that when the ransom wasn’t met, Dooku assassinated the Chancellor but was too stupid to escape. Everyone’s too grateful to examine the details closely.
“Qui-Gon Jinn, unsung hero of the galaxy?” Ben asks.
Some of his bitterness must leak through, because Bail gives him a sympathetic look. “I apologize, I don’t normally linger on the Jedi, but in this case, I thought it prudent to give you some background. The clone troopers were commissioned by Dooku, as you told me. You still haven’t told me where you picked up that piece of information.”
Ben keeps his expression serene. “I work on the ground with refugees, Bail. I hear things no one else does. If they’re important, I make sure they make it to the right ears.” He promised Bail that he could keep Bail’s secrets, as he keeps his own. There are some things Ben hasn’t told even his most trusted friend.
“There were obviously questions as to why Dooku would lead the Separatists against an army he commissioned.” Bail fidgets with his sleeves. “It was Palpatine, of course. What better way for a Sith to seed hate and doubt than a deadlocked war? By pulling strings on both sides, he could have drawn the war out as long as he wanted.”
“Gods,” Ben breathes.
“It gets worse,” Bail says. His darker skin loses color as if he’s sick. “Palpatine had fail safes. One of them was a command chip installed in every trooper. They were never activated, but each man was coded to obey his orders with a simple phrase.” Bail holds up a hand before Ben can say anything. “We are removing them as quickly and safely as we can. And this brings me to why I’m here. There are millions of soldiers without a war to fight. Men who were created and trained for a single purpose and now lack that purpose.”
“And a galaxy which sees them as no more than sentient droids.” Ben leans back in his chair. He understands cloning a liver or heart or lung for medical procedures. But to clone entire sentients in order to have fodder for a war? No.
“With Palpatine’s direct influence gone and the relief of the war ending, Padmé, Mon Mothma, and I were able to finally push through the citizenship bill. It passed but we realized too late we’d been outmaneuvered.”
Ben raises his eyebrows. It isn’t often when Bail is caught with his metaphorical pants down.
“As independent citizens, the Senate can claim the troopers are responsible for their own wellbeing,” Bail explains.
“Fuck.” Trained for war, fed and house while in the army, they’ll now be adrift. No home planet, no family, nothing to ground them and support them.
“That about sums it up.” Bail’s expression is grim. “We managed to secure the war funds for the rest of the year as an emergency solution, but it’s only temporary. No planet wants an influx of troopers, because they’re a painful reminder of the war. And, understandably, the troopers don’t want to be split up. The refer to each other as brother. But we’re talking a population in the millions. No planet could take that number, even if they wanted to.”
“It’s a large population to settle,” Ben says, his mind already working the problem. “And there’s no home planet for them to claim, unless you’re giving them Kamino as reparation for this pile of bantha-shit.”
“Not Kamino,” Bail says. “But there is Hasiera. It was a Separatist supply planet. It’s unoccupied by other sentients. The Post-War Recovery Committee purchased it.”
Ben itches to grab one of the tumblers on the table and glug its contents. “Did you just stay you bought a planet?”
“The war budget was quite inflated.” For a moment, as Bail’s eyes dance in amusement, he looks like his regular self. And then he sobers. “We have a planet and the funds to invest in it, but this would be the largest resettlement project in galactic history. We need an expert at the helm.”
Which brings Bail here, to the expert in refugee resettlement. It’s a huge undertaking, daunting in its complexity. Millions of men with combat training and possibly nothing else. Logistically, it will be a nightmare. Either the entire galaxy will watch to see if it fails, or they’ll turn their backs because they’re happier in their ignorance.
Well, that seals Ben’s decision. He knows this galaxy. Relief at the war ending will turn into moving on. There will be no parades or remembrance days for the clone troopers. They will not receive the care and respect they deserve from the galaxy.
If Ben can even be a small part in giving these men what they deserve, he will.
“I wanted to speak to you before I present our proposal to the AgriCorps,” Bail says. “There is no one I would rather at the helm of this project, but I won’t put forward your name without your permission.”
“I’ll do it,” Ben says. “I am the logical choice, and my superiors will be happy to bury me on Hasiera for the rest of my life. This kind of undertaking, it may not end for several lifetimes.”
“It will be a joint effort,” Bail says. “The Post-War Recovery Committee and the AgriCorps working together. I promised Padmé the finest wine Alderaan has to offer and a week of arguing with you to kick off negotiations.”
“Kinky,” Ben says. His smile returns and then fades again. “Bail, this project must succeed. And it must all be completely above-board. As soon as I accept this assignment, we’ll have to cease our extracurriculars.”
Bail lifts his eyebrows, either at Ben’s choice of word to refer to sex or because he doesn’t believe it’s necessary.
“There can be no accusations of favoritism,” Ben says. “There can be no hint of impropriety. This project will be obscenely expensive, and any number of planets will search for any reason to cut funding from the troopers and redistribute it to their own planets or pet projects. I will not be—I cannot be their excuse.”
“I understand,” Bail says. “I am disappointed, of course, but we knew it would end sometime.”
“My partners always complain I put work before them,” Ben says, flippant, as if Bail is a casual lover and not the longest lasting and most serious relationship he’s ever had. He will miss the sex, but he’s comforted knowing the friendship will remain.