**Chapter 702: Interlude - The Price of War**
**Coruscant, Senate Apartments**
**Padmé Amidala's Private Residence**
Padmé Amidala was buried in datapads and holographic projections when C-3PO approached, his golden plating catching the soft evening light filtering through the large windows. She had been reviewing budget projections for the past four hours, her eyes aching from the endless columns of figures.
"Madam," the protocol droid said in his prim, slightly anxious voice, "Senators Mon Mothma and Bail Organa have arrived."
Padmé looked up, rubbing her temples. "Invite them in. And bring drinks, please. Something strong."
"It will be done," C-3PO replied, hobbling toward the door while muttering under his breath. Something about how long it had been since the Senator had taken proper rest.
Five minutes later, her two closest allies in the Senate settled onto the long sofa opposite her. Bail Organa looked exhausted, his usual Alderaanian poise cracked by weeks of nonstop crisis management. Mon Mothma, ever composed, carried a quiet intensity in her eyes.
"Finally," Bail said, rubbing his face tiredly. "All this madness will be over soon, and we can get down to actual governance."
"Is the vote still scheduled for tomorrow?" Padmé asked, referring to the controversial bill granting full citizenship and rights to the clone troopers.
"Yes, first thing in the morning," Bail confirmed.
"That's good," Padmé replied. "Perhaps after lunch we can move on to discussing the new budget proposals."
Mon Mothma leaned forward, peering curiously at one of the datapads scattered across the low table. "I assume you're already deep into reviewing the materials?"
"Yes," Padmé said, picking up a datapad and scrolling through the grim figures. "And I can say it will be very difficult for us to defend our position. The Republic simply doesn't have any extra money. Although, truthfully, it never really did — but now it absolutely doesn't."
"Is it that bad?" Mon Mothma asked, her voice tightening.
"Worse," Padmé admitted. "Since the start of the Separatist Crisis, tax losses have reached record levels while expenses continue to skyrocket. We supported the Justice Corps, and some reserve funds exist, but they're drying up fast."
Bail leaned back, sighing. "What will it cost us to raise the Justice Corps back to pre-war levels?"
"No less than fifty trillion credits over the next year," Padmé replied, taking a sip of the wine C-3PO had brought. "Taking a sip of wine, Mon waved her glass emotionally. 'It wouldn't have been easy even five years ago, before the Crisis began. And now, considering that over ten thousand worlds have abandoned the Republic… it will be very difficult.'"
"It's not all that bad," Padmé reassured them. "Yes, in '11 and '12 we lost over thirty-five percent of our revenue because of this. Payments from giants like the Trade Federation and the Commerce Guild were a significant source of income for the Republic budget. Their withdrawal hit us hard. But now, due to the growth in military production, tax revenue is increasing. The agro-worlds of the Salliche Necklace will pay taxes sixteen times more than usual. Kuat — almost twenty times. These are large sums: we're no longer talking tens of billions but tens of trillions."
"So, we're still afloat?" Bail asked hopefully.
"That's true," Padmé said. "But military spending continues to increase at an alarming rate. The total amount of loans spent on the army currently stands at almost two quadrillion credits. Analysts' forecasts for next year — if the war continues — point to nine quadrillion in loans."
Mon Mothma shook her head slowly. "We supported the Justice Corps, and some reserve funds shouldn't be discounted either…"
Padmé set her glass down. "Ha! Forgive me, senators. These are incomparable numbers. For example, the Justice Corps — ships and sentient beings — were mobilized into the GAR. The same thing happened to a number of planetary defense forces. As you can imagine, this has led to a surge in pirate activity, slave traders, and smugglers… The Army and the Jedi are doing their best to combat them, but they have other concerns. The newly created Internal Affairs Corps can essentially do nothing: there are no ships, no personnel. The head of the Corps will likely demand increased funding. And I think I agree with him. It's simply impossible to leave things as they are."
Bail rubbed his chin. "What about the Venators? Kuat alone was paid two hundred and ten and a half trillion credits for the three thousand six hundred and eighty-nine Venator-class Star Destroyers delivered to the GAR. Another one hundred and seventy-five trillion went to equipping them with air wings. An additional fifty trillion went on crews, fuel, astromech droids, and so on. The total is over two hundred and thirty trillion. In less than a year. And that's just a small part of the military's spending… Take bacta, for example: it's currently going for three thousand credits per liter. The Republic purchases up to eight hundred thousand liters per month, spending two hundred and forty billion credits on it."
Padmé nodded. "Exactly. The clone army's training began ten years ago. I assume the Jedi have been spreading out the payments over that period. Besides, they have other sources of income that generate a healthy profit. Besides the two trillion in annual payments from the Republic, the AgroCorps alone brings in at least twenty trillion credits a year…"
"That's all well and good," Organa picked up the first datapad he found, "but dumping all this work on you alone isn't right. You've been sitting around for a while, haven't you? You should get more rest, Padmé."
"Now is not the time to rest, Bail," Padmé replied firmly.
"Then we'll help you," Mon Mothma said decisively. "Let's think together about which spending items we'll defend and what we can sacrifice."
For several minutes, the three senators pored over the figures in silence, occasionally exchanging ideas and counterpoints. The weight of the Republic's financial collapse hung over them like a storm cloud.
Suddenly, everyone looked up.
Through the large windows of Padmé's apartment, a brilliant light bloomed in the distant sky — a distant pocket nova shaped unmistakably like Dagon Marek's Dark Star symbol. The explosion of phantom energy lit up the Coruscant night, turning the endless cityscape into a canvas of shifting shadows and ethereal glow.
Padmé's wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor.
"What… what is that?" Mon Mothma whispered.
Bail Organa stared, his face pale. "Dagon… He's making his move."
Padmé said nothing. She simply watched the burning symbol hanging in the sky like a declaration of war against the galaxy itself.
The war had just entered a new, far more dangerous phase.