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Skywalker, by contrast, looked every bit the HoloNet hero he was supposed to be. He seemed to tower over his companions, as though he had somehow gotten even taller in the months since Mace had seen him last. His hair was tousled, his color was high, and his walk still had the grounded grace of a natural fighter, but there was something new in his physicality: in the way he moved his head, perhaps, or the way the weight of Palpatine’s arm on his shoulder seemed somehow to belong there … or something less definable. Some new ease, new confidence. An aura of inner power.

Presence.

Skywalker was not the same young man the Council had sent off to the Outer Rim five standard months ago.

“Chancellor,” Mace said as he met them. “Are you well? Do you need medical attention?” He gestured over his shoulder at the waiting gunship. “I have a fully equipped field surgery—”

“No, no, no need,” Palpatine said, rather faintly. “Thank you, Master Windu, but I am well. Quite well, thanks to these two.”

Mace nodded. “Master Kenobi? Anakin?”

“Never better,” Skywalker replied, looking as if he meant it, and Kenobi only shrugged, with a slight wince as he touched his scalp wound.

“Only a bump on the head. That field surgery must be needed elsewhere.”

“It is.” Mace looked grim. “We don’t have even a preliminary estimate of civilian casualties.”

He waved off the gunship, and it roared away toward the countless fires that painted red the approach of night.

“A shuttle is on its way. Chancellor, we’ll have you on the Senate floor within the hour. The HoloNet has already been notified that you will want to make a statement.”

“I will. I will, indeed.” Palpatine touched Mace on the arm. “You have always been of great value to me, Master Windu. Thank you.”

“The Jedi are honored to serve the Senate, sir.” There might have been the slightest emphasis on the word Senate. Mace remained expressionless as he subtly moved his arm away from the Chancellor’s hand. He looked at Obi-Wan. “Is there anything else to report, Master Kenobi? What of General Grievous?”

“Count Dooku was there,” Skywalker interjected. He had a look on his face that Mace couldn’t decipher, proud yet wary—even unhappy. “He’s dead now.”

“Dead?” He looked from Anakin to Obi-Wan and back again. “Is this true? You killed Count Dooku?”

“My young friend is too modest; he killed Count Dooku.” Smiling, Kenobi touched the lump on his head. “I was … taking a nap.”

“But …” Mace blinked. Dooku was to the Separatists what Palpatine was to the Republic: the center of gravity binding together a spiral galaxy of special interests. With Dooku gone, the Confederacy of Independent Systems would no longer really be a confederacy at all. They’d fly to pieces within weeks.

Within days.

Mace said again, “But …”

And, in the end, he couldn’t think of a but.

This was all so astonishing that he very nearly—almost, but not quite—cracked a smile.

“That is,” he said, “the best news I’ve heard since …” He shook his head. “Since I can’t remember. Anakin—how did you do it?”

Inexplicably, young Skywalker looked distinctly uncomfortable; that newly confident presence of his collapsed as suddenly as an overloaded deflector, and instead of meeting Mace’s eyes, his gaze flicked to Palpatine. Somehow Mace didn’t think this was modesty. He looked to the Chancellor as well, his elation sinking, becoming puzzlement tinged with suspicion.

“It was … entirely extraordinary,” Palpatine said blandly, oblivious to Mace’s narrowing stare. “I know next to nothing of swordplay, of course; to my amateur’s eye, it seemed that Count Dooku may have been … a trace overconfident. Especially after having disposed of Master Kenobi so neatly.”

Obi-Wan flushed, just a bit—and Anakin flushed considerably more deeply.

“Perhaps young Anakin was simply more … highly motivated,” Palpatine said, turning a fond smile upon him. “After all, Dooku was fighting only to slay an enemy; Anakin was fighting to save—if I may presume