| abstract | - A figure in armor stands beside an ancient relic that is poised in a display case. A helmet rests firmly in his grasp, held tight by a pair of pale fingers. A bit of light passes over his features and reveals him as Haquien Maut before the shadows return, obscuring him once more. A tall, black droid moves toward Haquien from the shadows and says, “Oh, sir! Did you travel far? Are you here to see Master Palpatine? You were barely announced! My, my, I am so inquisitive! It must be my programming. Cursed programming!” Haquien smiles under the shadows and nods to the approaching droid. “Not far. From across the planet, on a magtrain.” He grips his helmet a little tighter before adding, “To see your master, yes. Is he here? I apologize for being unannounced. I will wait in the foyer if he is not on the premises.” The droid teeters off (twitching?) and moves towards a black curtain. There it pulls a draw chord to reveal an old man seated in a chair. His eyes are closed and he appears to be in a state of deep concentration. Haquien follows the droid and pauses in front of the curtain. He frowns as it is pulled back, then straightens and comes to attention. He regards the seated old man quietly for a moment, then tilts his head up. “Sir,” he says, by way of greeting. Palpatine's eyes open very slowly. For a moment he does not speak. Then, very softly, he murmurs: "Haquien Maut. A hero. A gentleman--of sorts. A Jedi, I am told. This old man is honored by your visit." "The honor is mine," Haquien replies. He bows gently, then straightens, resuming his straight posture. He is silent for a moment. "Sir, it has only been a week since your resignation, but already you are missed. I've come to ask you to return, not as a Lieutenant or Jedi. Just as a man, and loyal servant of the Republic." Palpatine sighs softly, closing his eyes. Then his mouth sets--wrinkled, but firm. "I am honored again, young man, loyal servant of the Republic," he says, scrupulously courteous. "However, I do not wish to undermine our sacred Republic by growing too prominent. Have you heard the parable of the weeds?" "No, Sir, I haven't," Haquien replies. He shifts his posture, ardently remaining firm and upright. His attention remains on the old man, his helmet held firmly in his grasp. "There was once," Palpatine says, "a primitive republic on a backwater planet. All the other cities on that planet were also republics, at first; but as time passed, they were seized by tyrants." His face falls into shadow. His fingers softly tap the armrest. "The council asked a wise man, 'How can we protect ourselves?' The wise man took them to a field choked with weeds. Some were like grass; others were like saplings. He took a sharp stick and swung it, trimming the weeds all to the same height. 'Like so,' he said. 'See that no one is too tall to threaten the stability of the republic.'" The old man is smiling a faint, pessimistic smile. "He was right. It is too dangerous, in a republic, for the precedent of one man growing too powerful." "And how do you suggest the Republic take a sword to Euphemia Bellamy who has finally triumphed and become the leader of the Black Empire?" Haquien asks, frowning. "Sir, I am no great military leader, but even I can see that we have the Blacks on their knees. We have them on the run with the superior Navy. All we need are a few more months and supplies to finish them off. But with you leaving, giving Bellamy time to plot, those months will extend back to years." He sighs. "Can you not tolerate criticism for the few months it will take to finally achieve peace?" Palpatine raises both eyebrows. "It is not a question of tolerating criticisms," he says. "It is a question of whether our Republic will survive, young Jedi. Whether it will remain a Republic at all. If the Senate and the Jedi lack confidence that I am a loyal servant, I must not stand in their way. Moff Tarkin /is/ a great military leader. Surely the reports of success from Kashyyyk, the success from Merr Sonn, and the growing rumors that we will soon be able to strike back at even Alderaan -- surely all of this bodes well for us, and there is no need for Doraman Stelruin Palpatine. "You misunderstood the metaphor," the old man concludes. "We are the weed field. Under these circumstances, should I become the over-tall weed that overshadows our Republican field? I think not. I will not return without the permission of the Senate and the approval of the Jedi, lest my example should destroy all for which we fight." He remains motionless and quiet for some time, letting the shadows darken between them. "I understand," Haquien reports, at last. "I understand your reason for leaving, but I think the Republic will suffer for it. Perhaps we would suffer under either choice, but I, and thousands of others in the Unified Command, would much rather have you with us than in retirement." He pauses and clears his throat, then removes an oddly shaped box from his belt and steps forward. "Letters from the troops, when time allows you to read them, Sir." He hands Palpatine a datapad. Palpatine accepts the datapad, his expression becoming grimmer, and perhaps sadder. Quietly, the old man says, "The soldiers of the Republic will always have my heartiest support and my utmost imagination. I would not have your reputation and your sacrifice sullied by any slander of tyranny. I pray that you will win this war in the coming weeks and months, restoring order to the galaxy." The datapad contains possibly thousands of letters, some long, others short, but each from a solider. Haquien nods twice and comes back to attention, then crosses his arms behind his back. He clears his throat and looks down towards the old man. "There is one final thing, Sir, if I may." Palpatine gazes at the datapad, unable to refrain from thumbing through the list, scanning the letters with dark, haunted eyes. His jaw remains set, but he seems moved. His eyes flutter closed and he settles back in the dark chair with a sigh. "Please do, Sir Jedi." Haquien tips his head and swallows briefly, then looks back towards Palpatine. "It has been an honor and a privilege to serve under your command, Sir. I know that I have not been the best of soldiers, and never able to reap the full glory of success or admiration from my commanding officers. But I have always done what I thought was best, Sir." He pauses, perhaps considering how to conclude. "And I wanted to thank you for your dedication and years spent serving the Republic. I look forward to serving under you again, if the time comes." The old man's pale, wrinkled skin seems somehow translucent of a sudden, very delicate, as if the mask of his face were stretched with great care and restraint over emotion that threatens to break out. He says in a thick, quiet voice, "Commander, it is I who am honored. May the Force be with all of us, and may the Republic prove worthy of the soldiers who defend her." "As you say, Sir," Haquien replies with a brief nod, while clenching his jaw to hide his own emotion. He comes to attention with a swift gesture, then says, "I will show myself out, Sir. Have a pleasant evening." And the old man sits in his dark room, brooding over the messages of thousands of soldiers.
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