Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE: SUPERNOVA
19 BBY
The recycled Coruscant air feels sterile as Orson steps out of the Republic transport shuttle. Coruscant’s ‘warm’ season has just begun but the citizens milling about the Senate Plaza appear as buttoned up as ever. He unconsciously straightens out his uniform jacket as he gazes up at the flurry of speeders flying through the city planet. The Republic Senate looms before him, regal and buzzing with the afternoon’s business.
It wasn’t his first time on Coruscant, but it remained a marvel of architecture and design unlike anything he’d ever seen. The skyscrapers towered in curved, fantastical designs—each reaching higher and higher like a never-ending race to the top of the planet’s atmosphere. An elegantly arching set of porticos on a nearby structure catches his attention as he continues towards the Senate.
Orson’s more than earned his spot amongst the best, and yet—to his chagrin—the imposter syndrome lingers unpleasantly. Graduating the top of his class from the Republic Futures Program, promotion through the ranks of the Republic Corp of Engineers, selection for the Republic’s Strategic Advisory Cell—these are no small achievements, but it’s not enough—not yet. He wonders, not for the first time, if anything will ever be. Orson’s eyes fixate on the towering Senate structure before him, a monument to civilization’s achievements.
He never saw her coming.
Orson feels a thump against his chest and catches a flash of crimson-gold in his periphery. His arms reach out instinctively to help stabilize whoever is in front of him. He hears the familiar click of data pads falling against the ground.
“Oh stars, I’m so sorry—I wasn’t even looking where I was going.”
He looks down at the flustered woman whose petite waist he’s now holding. Orson’s not one for cliché, but she really does take his breathe away—literally and figuratively.
Flaming gold hair just brushes the tops of her shoulders. The wide eyes gazing up at him are like clear oasis water. He’s close enough to see a smattering of light brown freckles running across her nose and exposed shoulders. Her presence somehow reminds him of a summer shower under the hot sun.
She’s stunning.
Orson is so struck by the woman, his hands linger on her waist a beat longer than appropriate. He lets go only after noticing the data pads littering the ground.
“No please—it’s my fault, I was distracted.” Orson kneels and begins gathering the pads.
Mon also kneels down, giving him a small, shy smile, “Embarrassingly, this isn’t the first time I’ve run into a stranger in this Plaza—so I’m really the likely culprit here.”
“And here I thought I was special.” Orson teases as he returns her smile.
Mon chuckles as she stands with a few of the pads in hand. “Well, you’re certainly more understanding than that unsuspecting Gungan was…”
Orson feigns a serious tone. “It’s all the military training, makes me used to sneak attacks.” Mon laughs again, the sound makes something warm flicker in Orson’s chest. He suddenly wants to hear it again. “Two laughs in a row, maybe I am special after all?”
“Maybe—but for all you know, I laugh at everything.” Mon teases back. She’s momentarily struck by how quickly and easily she’s fallen into a banter with this handsome Republic officer. His icy-blue eyes flash at her, eager and intelligent.
“No, you don’t seem the type.” Orson asserts confidentially, “But I’d be happy to make you laugh whenever you like.”
Mon blushes in response. Confident, aren’t we?
Orson hands the data pads he’s collected back to her, but not before one catches his attention. “Is this about the new cultural enrichment projects in the Raxus system? I’ve just arrived from the Outer Rim myself.”
Mon’s eyes light up. “You’re familiar with the enrichment projects?”
Orson smirks, he’s hooked her. “Yes, I was with the Corp of Engineers overseeing a few structural engineering projects in the system.”
“You’re no longer with the Corp?”
“I am, but currently assigned to the Strategic Advisory Cell.” Orson unconsciously puffs his chest out. He wants to tell her more, but his assignment to the Special Weapons Group is confidential.
“Well, still, I’d love to hear any personal insights you might have about how the projects have been progressing. We don’t get many soldiers from the Rim back to Coruscant these days, and the committee could always use fresh perspective.” Her voice sounds so young, eager, and idealistic—it reminds Orson of a spring lily opening to the sunlight. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even properly introduced myself—Mon Mothma.” She holds her hand out.
The name triggers an alarm in his mind, like there’s something he should know about it. But he’s suddenly very distracted by the soft skin of Mon’s hand as he wraps it in his own. A high-born woman, no doubt. As if her elegant core-world accent wasn’t a dead give-away. Orson tucks the thought away for later.
As Orson touches her hand, Mon feels the slightest pulse of an indescribable energy. Like your first breath as you break the water after a deep dive. The tightness in your chest unraveling as your starship jumps into hyperdrive. The full feeling of a laugh that bellows deep in your stomach.
Who in the Force is this man…?
“Lieutenant Commander Orson Callan Krennic.”
Mon notices how he states his name with more than a little pride, as if the listener should take care to remember it. She observes how he’s in an active-duty uniform, as opposed to other soldiers in the Plaza in full dress. “I take it you’re returning from off-world. Hopefully, the war hasn’t led you anywhere too dreadful.”
Orson rubs his neck. “Unfortunately, Ms. Mothma, all war is dreadful—no matter where it is. However, some moments call for necessary evils.” He grins playfully. “But, right now, I am pleased to be back among the civilized.”
Ever the politician, Mon ignores his flirting the goes straight for the debate. “An evil, I’ll grant you. But in light of the toll it’s taking, particularly on civilians and basic freedoms in Outer Rim—I wonder if we’ve taken a hammer to a problem that required a scalpel.”
Orson raises an eyebrow, this core-world princess has some fire in her it seems. “And how would you suggest we subdue armored assault droids if not with equal military force?
“For every hundred mindless assault droids in battle, there’s one sentient life-form that can at least listen to diplomacy.” Mon continues, “And, in fact, has probably only resorted to the use of assault droids because they themselves feel there is no other way to be heard by the galaxy’s most powerful.”
“Yes, one sentient life-form that has resorted to the indiscriminate killing of those he disagrees with to make himself heard.” Orson counters, “Should such a being even be given the chance at negotiation?”
Mon feels her pulse speed up, there’s nothing quite like intelligent argument. “Perhaps not, but who stands to lose more in the subsequent results of his conduct? A man with his back against the wall will always lash out because he has nothing left to lose. It is those who he targets that will suffer the most.”
“So is justice to mean nothing then?” Orson questions, “Only those with power should be made to concede because they have too much to protect? What kind of perverse incentive structure would that create in the galaxy.”
“But that’s the crux of it.” Mon’s eyes are shining, “Can war, which destroys the morality of the very civilization it seeks to preserve, ever be a tool of justice? Do we not have whole systems of courts and tribunals and laws that merit out justice? It seems to me that war is simply too strong a response to the current crisis. In its zeal, it has started to consume the rights and freedoms of the very galaxy we conceived it to protect.”
Orson smirks. Not a fire—but a supernova.
“I wonder if the freed sentients after the Battle of Ryloth or the Battle of Umbara would agree with you. It’s easy to admonish moral failing from the relative safety of an ivory tower.” Orson tries to keep the judgment out of his tone, but he’s not sure he succeeds completely.
“You’re right.” Mon concedes. “I’m privileged to come from a relatively prosperous planet removed from any significant conflict. But that doesn’t mean I can’t work to understand those who haven’t been afforded such luxuries.”
Orson is impressed at how easily she admits to her own privilege. Most core-world elites would bristle at the implication that they haven’t earned every iota of what they have. As engaging as this debate has been for Orson, the subject he’s really interested in now, is her.
“And what privileged plant would that be?”
“Chandrila.” She offers with a wistful smile. “And yourself?”
Orson tenses, he didn’t expect her to return the gesture. “Oh, here and there.” He answers evasively. “I’ve heard Chandrila’s mountains are quite beautiful. Do you get to return often?”
“Unfortunately, work keeps me away more than I would like.”
“Well, Ms. Mothma,” Orson teases, “if an assault droid should ever find its way there, I would be pleased to protect you while you engage in diplomacy with it.”
Mon laughs, again, as a slight flush creeps into her cheeks. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander…and, please, call me Mon.”
“Mon.” Her name feels round and sweet on Orson’s tongue. Orson looks down for a moment. He’s nervous about what he wants to do next—but he’s never let that stop him before, “Mon, would you be interested in perhaps—“
Mon’s comlink starts chiming. She looks down, “Oh stars!” Mon lays her free hand on Orson’s arm, the other holding the bundle of data pads. “Lieutenant Commander, I’m late for my next engagement, but I’d still love to hear about your experience with the enrichment projects. Please contact my office if you think you’ll have some time while planet-side.” Mon gives him one last nod, and hurries towards the Senate building.
Her office?
Mon can feel Orson’s eyes following her as she walks away, and she smiles quietly to herself. Her head is buzzing with the warm, pleasant feeling that the attention of a handsome, charming man can give a woman. Mon can’t remember the last time she’s felt it. Especially with Perrin…
But her conversation with Lieutenant Commander Krennic has her walking a little lighter as she scans through Senate security.
Beyond his obvious attraction, there was also something about the chance meeting that has her feeling bright—like the day just started anew. There was as confidence in him that made her feel like anything is possible. What is the feeling? She muses as she enters her office and sets the data pads on her desk. Without too much more thought, her mind settles on the word hope—as she continues about the business of the day.
————————————————-
Orson’s sitting in a large meeting room in the Republic Center for Military Operations with a dozen other officers. The Strategic Advisory Cell’s senior members are meeting to provide updates to Vice Chair Mas Amedda. Orson’s one of the younger officers in the room but not the lowest ranking.
Wilhuff Tarkin is droning on again about some new weapons enhancement to the star-fighters. A basic, boring design fitting for a mindless automaton like Tarkin.
Orson’s mind keeps drifting back to his meeting with Mon in the Senate Plaza. Her lithe form was framed so elegantly by that white dress that left her collarbone and shoulders exposed. He can’t stop thinking about the tantalizing column of her pale neck. And her mind: intelligent and sharp but not pompous—just perfectly charming. He’d made her laugh, and what a laugh it was—genuine and full. Yes, he would take her up on her offer to meet again—even if it was just about politics. His sights were set on her, and he wouldn’t stop till she was his.
But what had she meant by ‘her office’? Would a committee clerk actually have her own office in the Senate? There are so many delegates, some Senators barely get a room as it is.
“Daydreaming, Krennic?” Tarkin’s monotone slices through Orson’s thoughts.
Orson stands to face the senior officers, “Hardly. Just wondering if you were finished with with that engaging report, Adjunct General.”
The Vice Chair nods. “If you’re prepared, Lieutenant Commander, please give us your report on the status of the Project Celestial Power.”
“With pleasure, Vice Chair.” He taps his data pad to project a large schematic of the weapon into the room. “We’re progressing on target with modules 1.37 and 1.38 of the work plan. The engineers should complete the re-design of the main disc reflector within the month. And manufacturing is prepared to produce up to 192,302 keystone pieces of the bulkhead within the next six.”
Orson scans the senior officers in the room, a few are reading through his report on their data pads. “As I noted in my written report, we’re still on track to hit almost all major milestones for the year.”
“Almost all?” Tarkin questions pointedly.
“Yes, Adjunct General.” Orson clenches his jaw. “There are some shortfalls in the funding necessary to procure the exact crystals we need to coat the sunlight engines.”
“Shortfalls?” The Vice Chair narrows his eyes. “The most recent Senate funding was not adequate?”
Orson clears his throat. “No, Vice Chair. Unfortunately, the war has increased the price of several key minerals that are mined in the Outer Rim, which has expended the current funding faster than expected.”
“How many more credits will you need to make up the cost?”
“About 400,000, sir.” Orson can tell the silence that follows is not good for him.
“That does not sound very ‘on track,’ Lieutenant Commander.” Tarkin sneers, raising a grotesque eyebrow.
Orson glares at Tarkin but otherwise ignores him. “I assure you, Vice Chair, the project is progressing at pace—we’ll just need the additional funds—“
“Save it for the Senate, Lieutenant Commander.” The Vice Chair responds, putting down his data pad.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Save your excuses for the Senate Allocations Committee, which you’ll be appearing before to secure your additional funding.”
Orson’s eyes widen. “Vice Chair, surely there’s some discretionary funding available in the military budget—“
“Not with the war as it is.” Colonel Wullf Yularen mumbles under his breath. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant Commander. You won’t need to tell them anything specific or confidential. You’re an engineer, just give them a good song and dance about how you need the funding for some humanitarian project on the Rim.” Yularen’s gruff baritone does not reassure Orson.
“But, sir, surely there are other officers more experienced with providing this sort of testimony—“
Tarkin, of course, is the first to interrupt him. “Actually, Lieutenant Commander, your silver tongue—I believe—makes you a natural fit for this particular assignment.” It takes everything in Orson to not punch the smug grin off Tarkin’s face.
“I agree.” The Vice Chair adds, turning to Orson. “Lieutenant Commander, your office will submit a funding request for the necessary amounts to the Senate Appropriations Committee. Tell them whatever you need to, but make sure the project is adequately provided for.”
Orson nods. “Yes, sir.”
Just what I need, Orson broods, a chance to convince some self-serving narcissists to fund a massively expensive project that I can’t even actually tell them about. Splendid.
“That should conclude today’s meeting.” The Vice Chair stands and moves to exit the room with Tarkin close behind him. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Orson lets out a frustrated sigh as the Vice Chair leaves the room. Colonel Yularen comes up behind Orson and claps his shoulder. “Don’t concern yourself, Krennic. You’ll feed them a few lines about building an intergalactic transportation network for refugees or children or something like that, and they’ll be glad to throw their money at you.”
Orson grinds his teeth. “And what will they do when there’s no refugee transportation network to speak of three years from now?”
“What the Senate does best. Absolutely nothing.” Yularen chuckles, but then seems to consider for a moment. “Well, I guess there’s always Mothma on Appropriations though. Might be a thorn in your side.”
Orson whips his head around to the older man. “What did you say, sir?”
“Senator Mon Mothma, of course. Fiery little thing on the Appropriations Committee and a damned anti-war activist too.” Yularen shrugs. “Admittedly, not bad to look at though. Good luck, Krennic.”
Oh, Orson reconsiders, perhaps this is exactly what I need.