The Children of the Stars

The Broadcast

It had been such a long time since Nellith had dined in a fancy establishment like the one she was in right now. It was the exact place a politician frequented, with tables set far enough apart that one could not listen in to other conversations— at least, not without the Force or some dedicated spyware.

While occasionally Thea's events as she rose in the ranks of reclaiming her Alderaanian throne meant that they did go to nice places and learn the etiquette, Nellith never favored that side of her heritage.

She was Rey Skywalker's daughter, and Han Solo's granddaughter.

Messy eating habits, boots up on the dash or the table were her thing. Not the dresses and the slippery silver words.

But she didn't need to worry about her eating skills being up to scratch. She had much bigger problems than what spoon to use.

She couldn't eat. Her stomach felt as if it were tied into knots, every nerve on fire. The Force was screaming, it felt like. But Nellith couldn't figure out why.

"The problem is, the galaxy has been at war for the majority of the people's lives," Chancellor Kaydel Ko Connix explained once the first appetizer round of soups were delivered. "They will do anything to negotiate or to try and find a non-violent solution. The people want nothing to do with war anymore, and will not stand for it."

"The Remnant can't be reasoned with," Sam cried. "We saw them, the Sith—"

"He's right," Allana added, articulate as ever. "My sister, while she is using the Alderaanian tradition of pacifism to her advantage, she is not going to maintain that policy for very long. She wants power— that's what all Sith want. And she'll do anything to get her hands on it."

Allana and Thea had always sounded alike, with their princess-y destinies and interests in politics.

But the royal vocabulary and speech sent chills down Allana's spine. Made her want to bolt from her chair, made her blood run cold.

A vague sensation of a gloved hand stroking her cheek, just to prove it could, against her will, without any affection or emotion washed over Nellith.

She forced herself to drink some of the wine. It wasn't Corellian whiskey— Jacen and Jaina dared her to drink it the day they turned sixteen— but it would do. Nellith wistfully wondered if Dialaman Blue would enhance the flavor.

It was some bottle from Naboo or some other sufficiently rich planet.

How boring, Nellith couldn't help but think.

"We know that," Connix assured them. "But the Senate does not. We need to make a plan— how to prove to them that this is worth going to war over."

"I'd think the Jedi would be enough," Sam muttered. "It's genocide."

"Against an old religion?" Poe Dameron asked. For all he'd known Rey, he really didn't understand her, or the Force, or the Jedi at all. Even though the very history of the Jedi had been in his backyard as a child.

It was baffling to Nellith.

"Against a people," Allana explained. "Force-sensitives. In many places in the galaxy, those who can manipulate the Force are discriminated against. Shunned, or worse, for their abilities. While some backwater savage places always had these attitudes, the Jedi became persecuted and oppressed after Order 66. They never bounced back."

"To be fair, with all the dark-siders, they don't really help their reputation." Poe laughed.

Nellith gripped the bottom of her chair. She understood perfectly now why she never saw "Uncle Poe" all that often.