26. Chapter

-Unknown Area in Hutt-

SpaceAs soon as his ship was safely in hyperspeed, Jango Fett walked into each room of his current ship, combing the place for trackers and stowaways. He paused at an odd, black notch in the wall, nearly hidden by a small tapestry. The Mandalorian ran his calloused fingers over it before deciding that, no, it wasn't in fact a camera.

Normally, such checks would take less than a third of that amount of time. However, Jango had had very bad luck with his starships during recent months. One after another, they had been stolen, exploded, imploded, impounded and, one remarkable time, sold without his consent. His new ship, acquired through not-quite-legal means from people who deserved to have it stolen, was quite foreign to him still. It was expected; he had procured it just hours previously. Its turns were not quite as sharp as he wanted, the maximum speed lower than it could be. All things that could be more or less easily fixed.

When Jango went to the cargo bay of his ship to figure out what he could sell and what he could make use of, he had to stop short at what was waiting for him, only inches away from the sliding doors. The bounty hunter felt a twinge of annoyance at how easily Stark had found him, making a note to take apart all of Stark's many 'gifts' to him. Jango had done so when he first received the gadgets, but there was always a chance that a tracker had somehow slipped past his searches.

It was a task for another time, though. Jango glared at the "Iron Man" armor in front of him. Thankfully, instead of the red and gold eyesore that Stark preferred, this one was in dull grays, blacks, and browns. It was, however, topped off with a scarlet ribbon tied in a neat bow.

Jango had to admit to himself in the privacy of his head that it was a gift unlike any other. Though it looked lighter and less menacing than the original Iron Man armor, the metals were no doubt expensive and protective in a way his usual gear wasn't, and there was no doubt that it was made for stealth.

He knew better than to accept it, though.

"Gifts" always came with strings, and Jango would not be beholden to anyone else. Not again. When he took bounties, he did it on his own terms. He could decline if contrary information came up, refuse to carry it out. His fate was his own.

An Iron Man looked like it cost more than several starships put together. He had seen one in action; they more than rivaled the legends of HK-47, the deadliest droid to have ever existed.

If he accepted the Iron Man, he would never be a free man again.

He was almost tempted; with that power, he could do everything he set out to do. His enemies would tremble. The wrongs of the galaxy could be righted under such power. There would only be one man he would be required to bow to: the creator of the Iron Man suit. He had seen good men sell their souls for lessor promises.

But Jango knew he was nothing close to what anyone would call a "good" man.

Hooking his fingers on one of the arm groves, Jango unceremoniously dragged the heavy armor to one of the many escape latches before retreating out. A few pressed buttons later, the ship dropped out of hyperspace and the armor was jettisoned into space.

Normally, Jango would've rather shoot his own arm than allow anyone else a chance to get their hands on such a dangerous weapon, but he trusted Stark to keep track of his own tech. In fact, Jango would bet a good amount of credits that the armor would simply activate itself and fly off.

The Mandalorian returned to the cockpit, quickly reentering hyperspace. He didn't look back. If he did, he knew he would return. He would accept the suit. And that was simply unacceptable.

-In some Random Alderaan Market-

Friday beamed as she walked through a crowded Alderaanian market, arm-in-arm with Bail. A small pendant on a gold chain glittered oddly on Bail's neck. It was an interesting little charm to look at. However, the most interesting thing about it was probably the miniature hologram it was projecting onto Bail's face, making his complexion a bit lighter, his eyes and hair a shade browner, the bridge of his nose sharper. It was enough to throw even native Alderaanians off, but if you knew what to look for, it was obviously Bail. At least, it was obvious to Friday.

As for Friday herself, all she had to do was change her avatar's hair color to black, Stark black, to be specific. She honestly didn't think she had to change her features, as her red hair was her most prominent feature, but her Dad had convinced her to do so, "just in case." It was flattering and reassuring to see how much he cared, even though attacking the hologram wouldn't actually hurt her. It was one thing to know her dad loved her, but seeing it in action never got old.

They looked like an average Alderaanian couple. Galee had chosen Friday's outfit, "Alderaanian enough to pass as a native, not Alderaanian enough to pass as tourist." Whatever that meant. When Friday had arrived at Bail's door with her plans for the day, Bail's two youngest sisters had dragged him into his room to change into his "least pretentious clothes," according to Tia. Her boyfriend's two youngest sisters were endearing.

The couple was currently experiencing Alderaan in the way they couldn't have before, due to the relative fame of their families. They both felt freer and unjudged, two plain faces in an unrelenting sea of people.

"Hey, have you seen the latest starcrafts?" Bail asked, sending a bright smile at Friday.

"I didn't get any notifications that new models were on the market," Friday said. She frowned, quickly searching the different networks for new releases. Stark Industries had to keep a good eye on its competitors.

"No, no. Not like that. You need to see this." The look that Bail sent her was playful, telling her that nothing was wrong.

When she held her hand out, Friday was pleased to see that Bail grasped her hand without hesitation. She knew that she would have to come clean to him soon—Starks and secrets were a toxic mixture, as she very well knew—but every time he did something like this, hope would flow through her, hope that they would make it through to the other side, stronger and better than ever.

Bail led her around a copse of trees that hid a bustling shipyard. Repairs were rapidly being completed by qualified technicians. Friday couldn't help but compare them to her team. The repairs were of a better quality than anything Suffee or the others could whip up, but the creativity was lacking. The young AI could see places where Greer would've put a special patch to make the engines run quietly, or Borr would've preferred to cross some wires. Still, there was virtually no chance of something coming undone in a middle of a flight, so it was a fair trade off (More than fair, a traitorous part of her processor admitted).

It wasn't what Bail brought her out to see though. His eager eyes looked to hers, waiting. Still confused, Friday took another look around, scanning the entire area.

...Oh.

The ships and shuttles they walked past were a sign of her dad's growing influence. There was a Raptor, an Interstellar Hawk, a Serenity Falconer… and at least eight spacecrafts named Millennial Falcon. No doubt that there were more, just beyond her scanners. There were also many variations of course… Million, Millennium… One poor shuttle was named Millipede Fulcrum. Poor thing.

A giggle escaped Friday. Bail grinned back.

-Bail's Office-

"Could you tell me about the color red?" Friday asked later that day, as the light from the evening sun sent streaks of golden and amber light into the room. They were sitting inside of Bail's office. As both a prince of Alderaan, and the son of its viceroy to boot, Bail had many responsibilities. He couldn't take an entire day off to explore with her.

Friday had her own tasks to do, as the sole heir of this galaxy's Stark Industries. She did them perched in a comfortable chair by Bail's side. Every so often, when her sensors would detect a spike of stress or annoyance, Friday would glance over and offer her help. Though running a business and running a planet were different things, they still had many similarities; Friday managed many compromises or at least gave Bail a fresh perspective. It brought back hours of security footage of her father and her accepted mother-figure doing the same thing. Tony Stark and Pepper Potts had built up their relationship on top of paperwork, after all.

"Red?" Bail repeated dumbly. There was a moment of silence as he processed the question and took his eyes off his StarkPad. Friday didn't mind. As an AI, she knew she processed things much faster than the average human. She glanced over at Bail's StarkPad and saw her father's newest line of speeders. There were only four Stark-branded speeder models released at the moment, but they were good ones. Friday greatly approved of Bail's tastes.

Letting out a light hum, Friday explained, "I noticed some looks as we were getting off of the ship. Also, I've noticed a distinct lack of that color around the palace. Does Alderaan disapprove of red and pink?"

"Well, we are a peaceful planet, and most of us here are human. We bleed red," Bail said slowly. Friday could see him struggling to put his feelings into words. She waited.

When it was clear that Bail had much to say, but not much willingness to speak, Friday prompted him forward. "It's okay, Bail. Let me know. This is obviously important to you, and I want to share it with you."

"It's more of a nobility thing," Bail said after thinking. "If you take a walk around Aldera, you'll see a lot more of those colors. Maroon, scarlet, pink… The common people don't mind but… nobles remember. We keep long records of our family trees, and I guess that makes it hard for us to forgive and let live? The Organas… Alderaan… We've been allied with the Jedi for a long, long time."

Friday waited quietly, every sensor on Bail. She recorded everything to look over later, to analyze, reanalyze, and research. She wanted to know everything.

When Bail, continued, his voice was almost prophetic, or maybe like he was reciting something he read and memorized long ago. Friday didn't understand humanity enough to tell, but maybe she would one day.

"Red marked our enemies, the ones that cut us down. We remember invasion, an invasion that killed our royalty, our brothers and sisters. We remember war, a war that tore Alderaan apart. This we cannot forget and will not forgive. Alderaan remembers." Bail's eyes were shut and his voice trembled with emotion. Thousands of years had passed since those events, yet Friday could suddenly see that the wounds were still there. Alderaan's prince had not been alive for those events, had not witnessed the pain, but he still remembered.

"Should I stop wearing pink?" Friday asked cautiously. Pink likely wasn't as bad as red was—Friday had seen some blush-colored flowers in Tia's hair—but there had obviously been something in Queen Mazicia's eyes when she glanced down at Friday's dress upon their first meeting.

"You don't have to," Bail said quickly—too quickly. "We'll deal. We've dealt with Republic armies in their white and reds. We've dealt with Republic emissaries in their diplomatic immunity reds. We're used to it."

"I didn't ask if I have to. Alderaan is home to me now. I want to be a part of Alderaan, and I don't want you—any of you—to have to 'deal' with me. So should I stop wearing pink?"

Bail stared hard at the screen of his StarkPad, though Friday could tell he wasn't looking at the speed stats of the Interceptor StarkSpeeder Generation I. He glanced at her, then back down. That was okay, though. Friday could do other things while she waited. To surprise, the fourth image that popped up in the Alderaan search engines when she looked up "pink" was a photoshopped image of her hologram's head and shoulders, on a background of a pink dawn. It seemed like Friday was now associated with pink, at least on Alderaan.

"I don't speak for Alderaan. I can't tell you what the nobles and the commons will think if you keep wearing pink or if you suddenly stop. All I can say is that pink has become your banner and that I think you look beautiful no matter what you wear," Bail said slightly awkwardly. It was genuine, though. So was the smile that Friday gave him.

Accepting his answer with a nod, Friday continued on to the next thing she was having trouble with. His sister. "Among nobility, is there some sort of rivalry between different Houses?" Among the noblewoman, she added in her processor.

"Oh, for kriff's sake," Bail said in an uncharacteristic moment. Friday suddenly found herself pinned by Bail's stare as he leaned forward. His eyes were focused on her hologram's eyes, nowhere close to the sensors she had, located just below her neck, but it was still intense. "What did Rouge do this time?"

"This time?" Friday repeated, surprised that he had immediately pinpointed the source of her insecurity and feeling marginally better that the princess' hostility was, apparently, not an uncommon event. "Does she normally snipe at all your guests?"

"No, not like that! It's just…" Bail closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We've been under lots of pressure from the other noble houses. Did you know that? They've been mostly targeting Rouge. She's been protecting Celly and Tia by presenting herself as more of a target, but Celly is starting to get some attention from them. I think they would've focused more on me, but Father has been taking me on missions, so we're never in Aldera for too long. It's mostly been Rouge, by herself."

Friday processed that. By what did he mean by 'target?' "But… the Queen?" Surely Queen Mazicia would protect her daughters from such hostility.

"Such blatant favoritism would make Rouge seem weak at best. At worse, it might even disqualify her from being the next Queen," Bail said, jabbing at the screen of his StarkPad moodily. One of the tabs deleted. He widened his eyes and scrambled to bring it back.

Friday remembered the stress and pain of being unable to help her boss, back when she was just a program. She remembered the fight to make herself more, just to be able to help Boss. That sort of hurt… yes, she could see why Rouge lashed out, albeit in a contained manner. Friday herself had acted in very petty ways to some of her father's more slimy business partners. In light of all the ways she made uppity businessmen uncomfortable, she could hardly blame Rouge.

"But… why?" Friday asked, though her servers were quickly compiling data from Alderaan's newsfeeds and coming to a swift conclusion.

Why target Rouge? Surely there were hundreds of noblewomen (or teens) that were also contenders for the throne. There were over seventy noble houses on Aldera. Almost all of them had cadet branches… branches that were technically eligible. So why was Rouge specifically targeted?

Bail lowered his eyes and picked at the sleeve of his tunic. "You know my father is viceroy, and my mother a queen..." he said hesitantly.

"Power imbalance," Friday finished, suspicions confirmed. "You are expected to be viceroy, and your sister the queen. The other families are worried about too much power in Organa hands. It's been this way for two generations, and the Houses allied against you are only getting weaker, while those allied with you are getting stronger."

"So do you think they're right?" Bail asked.

"I think that they have solid principles, but the execution of their ideas, by bullying Rouge… It's reprehensible," Friday said firmly.

Bail groaned and put his head in his hands. "Even my girlfriend agrees," he muttered.

"They might not be right, but they're also not wrong, per say. They're just worried that you won't take into account their worries. You and Rouge, you've both been raised by your parents. You think the same way, prioritize the same things as your parents. Things that are most likely the reason why those Houses are your rivals." Friday tilted her head. "It's not a bad thing to have a fresh set of eyes. Change can be good."

"I know I can make Alderaan a better place. I can make the Republic a better place. I just need a chance to do it," Bail said.

"You don't have to be viceroy to make a difference. Look at my father. Look at me. Not a drop of noble blood—" Friday willfully ignored Maria Carbonell, who was from another time and place, and who was unlikely to be considered a noblewoman to the Republic "—and still making a difference."

Bail was silent, hands in fists. Friday couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"If you really want to continue on this path, maybe have meetings with the rival Houses. Take Rouge with you. See what they want. Come to an understanding. I'll stand by you, whatever you do. Just think about it," Friday said gently. She nudged his hand with hers until he unclenched it and turned his palm up. Slow enough for him to pull away if he wished, Friday slipped her fingers between his, weaving them together. Still loose, still gentle.

Bail stared at them for a moment, long enough that Friday was starting to become scared that he would just ignore their hands or, worse, pull his away. Then, Bail tightened his fingers, curling them around her much-less substantial ones. He held them desperately as he looked into Friday's eyes. Despite the tension of the moment, the raw emotions that filled the room, Friday smiled.

Because come what may—a life wandering the stars with Bail or a life as the viceroy's wife or even a life as a close friend and adviser—Friday would be at Bail's side.

-Wherever Jedi Live-

Obi-Wan stormed into the quarters he shared with his master. He slammed the datapad onto the table so hard it cracked. "Look at this!" he said, pointing an accusing finger at the screen.

Qui-Gon put his warm cup of Nabooian tea down and leaned forward. "You cracked the screen," Qui-Gon Jinn said mildly, tracing the lines that intersected the entire screen and pointedly ignoring the open page.

"We should've stopped them when we still had the chance. They—they're gaining influence!"

"Isn't this the third datapad you've ruined this month?" Qui-Gon mused. It might've been the fourth, now that he thought about it. Young people and all their antics, he thought fondly, shaking his head. "With the recent additions to the Temple, we cannot afford all these—"

"Don't change the subject!" Obi-Wan cried as Qui-Gon took his interruption as a chance to take another sip of his tea. "And that's exactly what I mean!"

The Jedi Master poured himself some more tea. "Tea?" Qui-Gon offered his padawan. Perhaps it would calm him down.

"Don't change the subject! Why are we buying speeders and drones from Stark Industries? They're spreading! Like an infection, or—or something! What next, are we going to buy our lightsabers from them?"

"Don't be ridiculous. The Starks are not Force-sensitive. You should know that. After all, we've met them. Now sit down and join me for some tea.'" He stared at Obi-Wan until the padawan wilted and sank into the chair opposite of him. The Jedi Master granted his padawan an approving nod and poured him some tea into a cup he used the Force to summon from the cupboard. "Drink," Qui-Gon said as Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest the misuse of the Force.

Feeling a tug on their bond, Qui-Gon spent a moment to wrap Obi-Wan in warmth and reassurance. While it was not quite anger and far from hatred, Obi-Wan's emotions were often like a storm. Shifting and almost uncontrollable. Then again, if Qui-Gon didn't secretly enjoy it, he wouldn't have chosen Obi-Wan as his padawan.

Slowly, he felt his padawan relax. It was progress. Sometimes, these things took time. Qui-Gon knew this better than most. It was another full minute until Obi-Wan pressed feelings of apology towards him through their bond, and Qui-Gon was ready with emotions of calm approval and forgiveness.

"Thank you, Master." Obi-Wan stood up and walked to the door. Time for his class already?

Helping himself to some more tea, Qui-Gon said, "Obi-Wan?"

His padawan stopped and turned around. "Master?" A questioning probe.

"You're paying for the datapads," Qui-Gon said, not bothering to shield his amusement as, first, confusion, then dawning realization filled the bond as Obi-Wan realized he would be reimbursing the datapads he broke. He was of the opinion that actions had consequences. His padawan should've found a better way to express his frustration than through the destruction of Jedi property. At Obi-Wan's continued stunned look, the Jedi Master continued, "But from what I hear, buying a new StarkPad instead would be a better investment than repairs on the old datapad. They are more durable, yet much cheaper." He nodded sagely at his own words.

The useless flopping of Obi-Wan's mouth was well worth the scolding he'd get from Yoda for not being able to reign in his padawan.

-Across the Republic-

As more and more satellites came online across the galaxy, FRIDAY found her reach expanding. Sure the StarkSatellites—huh, lots of things beginning with 'Stark' nowadays—weren't technically for exclusive use by the Day-AIs, but it was a close thing. It was lucky she had all the Weekdays to depend on. The HoloNet was huge. There was not a moment where information wasn't flitting through her processors.

A fire, starting in Coruscant—one of Stark Industries' rival companies, in fact.

Slave rebellion in Dantooine, leaving almost fifty slaves dead—was it due to Iron Man and Iron Maiden's presence there mere weeks ago?

Yet another blogger, coming close to making the connection between Tony Stark and Iron Man—Throw some distractions in their direction.

Oooo! Look, a group of university-aged teens had picked up planking from the clips she had spread online! FRIDAY immediately looked into their public search histories to see which sites they had picked up planking from. She tracked the growth of the trend, ready to record how quick it was to spread and how it would eventually end and be lost among newer trends. Once she had programs running to trace it all, she continued to look through every newsfeed.

Two bounty hunters—

—Ninety thousand credits!

Alliance bewtween Stark Industries and—

—Crops failing.

New company—

—race pods exploded—

Stark Industries—

—SI rising.

Stark—

Did you hear? Stark—

The Starks have—

STARKS

—the Starks.

Stark

Then, she ran across something that, had she been human, would've made her blood run cold. She had been flicking through pages faster than a human could comprehend, spending a fraction of a section on each. She nearly dismissed the page before she realized what it was. FRIDAY's programs froze.

Oh…

Then, with a speed that made her processors heat up, the implications hit her. She analyzed it, tried to figure out its purpose, how it got there and who put it there. The page was immediately reopened. She combed over it. It was plain, simple. The information there wasn't incriminating. It wasn't even important. It was simply… a timeline. A general timeline of the galaxy.

There were little things, like elections on planets that FRIDAY only knew because she had the power of the HoloNet at her fingers. There were big things, like economic downturns and disasters. Even major Stark presence on the HoloNews were noted. Actually, there was a whole page on the Starks. That wasn't the alarming part, though—there were lots of pages like that.

FRIDAY wasn't deterred by the generality, though. She started hacking everything to do with the site. Illegal? Yeah, it probably was. But she needed to know everything. The creators weren't listed, so FRIDAY hacked the address from which they sent it from. The trail was hidden well, but FRIDAY was better.

Then, the page deleted itself.

It was sudden, leaving FRIDAY in a void where there was once a HoloPage. She floundered for a moment in the nothingness, torn between excitement and terror. One thing was certain, though. FRIDAY had to tell her creator. He had to know that…

That…

...There was a webpage on the HoloNet written in perfect English.