The spark be lit
THEED, VERY EARLY MORNING
Six men sat in the dim space. Two had served alongside Adon during his years at the military academy. Another was the younger son of a prominent Naboo house whose vast estates spanned three districts. The remaining members were scholars and high-level administrators, men long accustomed to having their opinions received with deference and their errors cushioned by privilege.
Their dispute centered less on what the Republic had currently become and more on what system ought to rise in its place.
"We are forever waiting," Pellan Vyres said, breaking the silence. "Waiting for another crisis. Another vote. Another committee to determine whether action is even permissible. How many worlds must burn before we finally accept that liberty without order is merely permission for the strong to prey upon the weak?"
No one rose to contradict him, and that collective silence was precisely what troubled Adon. It showed a lack of intellectual rigour. An unwillingness to challenge their own presuppositions.
Leaning forward, Pellan gained confidence from the rapt attention of his audience. "The Republic was built upon principles that belong to a far gentler age. What we require now is authority. Discipline. We need a government capable of acting before catastrophe arrives, rather than one that merely apologizes after the fact."
"Careful," someone murmured from the shadows.
"Why?" Pellan challenged, his gaze sweeping the room. "Because someone might hear us?"
His eyes eventually settled upon Adon.
The lieutenant remained silent. Having spent years learning to distinguish between true courage and mere appetite, he knew the two often wore the exact same face.
Pellan finally leaned back, his tone shifting. "You disagree."
Adon regarded the man for several long seconds before offering a brief response. "We must tread cautiously."
He said nothing more. While the words seemed almost insignificant against the heavy atmosphere of the room, the silence that followed them stretched much longer than it should have.
Later, after the assembly had broken apart into smaller, fragmented conversations, a single datapad slid quietly into place beside Adon's hand. "Read this," said Vyres. "You might find it interesting."
The title on its screen was enough. Baros Sal-Soren. Adon did not touch the datapad immediately.
Sal-Soren had died a terrorist. Not merely a dissident, not merely an extremist, but a man whose name had become something respectable people avoided saying too loudly. His writings were not formally forbidden. The Republic still possessed the habit of permitting people to think terrible thoughts. But admitting to reading them was another matter entirely. The datapad disappeared beneath Adon's coat.
By half past two, the temple was dark behind him. He entered the gardens alone. Cloud covered the moon and stars alike.
Adon walked without hurry, taking the long way home through winding paths and sleeping courtyards. If anyone asked, he had been out running.
A lieutenant taking exercise after midnight was unremarkable. A lieutenant leaving a secret meeting beneath an ancient temple was something else entirely.
