“Maybe that’s the point,” Dormé had said. “Maybe you’re supposed to meet new senators and form alliances with them.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense for you to meet established senators?” Versé asked. “I mean, you can’t learn very much from someone who knows more or less the same as you, and presumably all the new senators taken together can’t possibly outweigh the opinions of the experienced ones.”
“It will be over soon,” Cordé had said. Her tone was mollifying, not patronizing, which brought Padmé up short. They were all frustrated. “And then you can sit in the gallery and shout at people to your heart’s content.”
“When I was new to being a queen, I was already holding off a planetwide invasion,” Padmé pointed out. “Now, if pressed, I could give directions to the sewage recycling facility in sublevel nine, and that’s about it.”
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Mariek had said briskly. “You could also tell people where to find the commissary.”
Typho had done his best not to crack a smile while Padmé gave an indelicate snort. Perhaps this was actually some sort of winnowing process for incoming senators and their staffs, as well. Padmé knew far more about the skills, pet peeves, and general preferences of her handmaidens now than she had when they’d all arrived on Coruscant, and at least that was something.
She would never forget standing in the senatorial residence for the first time. It had been completely stripped for her redecoration and felt like a tomb in the sky, high above the Coruscant bustle. She had stood in the vestibule for half a second too long, with her three new companions behind her, waiting. Then, before she could think of anything to say, Versé had stepped in and begun issuing directions on how to unpack, coordinating with her aunt for security. For the first time, her handmaidens had moved as one, and they had continued to do so ever since, with Padmé slowly integrating into their patterns.
NON-3 made the polite chiming noise it made when it thought Padmé had taken too long to give an answer.
“I heard you, Nonnie,” she said. “Where are we supposed to meet the orientation group?”
“There is no orientation group, Senator,” NON-3 said. “This is a private tour.”
Mariek took three steps closer and frowned. It was difficult even now to think of her as “Captain Panaka”—though that was her name and title—except in moments like this, when the lackadaisical woman disappeared and the professional stepped in. Everyone wore a mask when it came to Amidala.
“I don’t like this, Senator,” Mariek said. “Why is this tour different from the others?”
“I don’t know,” Padmé said. She turned to the droid, which was programmed to respond only to senators and certain other officials. “Nonnie, why is this tour different?”
“I am not programmed to give you that answer,” NON-3
said.
“And what is the tour’s exact destination?” Padmé asked.
“The lower levels of the Senate building,” NON-3 replied.
“That’s unhelpful,” Versé said. “Those levels are vast.”
“And you’ve already seen most of them,” Cordé added. “Unless they want you to actually go inside the ventilation ducts.”
“You know what we haven’t tried yet?” Dormé said, with a long look sideways at the protocol droid.
Padmé was tempted. Not to skip the tour entirely, because she would still go in handmaiden robes if it came to it, but to see if they could fool Coruscant the way they’d fooled Naboo. The first time Padmé had come here, she had been Amidala from the time they’d reached the apartment until the time they’d left. It would be interesting to see her new place of residence from a nonsenatorial point of view. She looked at Mariek, who nodded.
“All right,” Padmé said. “We’ll have to make the change quickly. Cordé, it will be you first.”
Cordé was the closest physical match to Amidala in terms of face shape and bone structure. Padmé’s skin was only a shade paler, and once Dormé worked her magic with the makeup brush, strangers had difficulty telling them apart. Cordé could stand the way that Padmé did, though she was a bit taller and had a narrower build, and her voice match could fool the security locks on their Naboo starship. Whether she could fool NON-3 was yet to be tested—they’d had no trouble with battle droids or astromechs—but there was plenty of time for that.
Versé helped Padmé into her spare set of dark blue robes and put her hair into a simple coil so that it would fit under the hood. Then she went to help with Cordé. Dormé had put her in one of Padmé’s favorite gowns, a navy blue undergown with a sea green ruffled tunic over top of it and a wide navy belt to tie all the pieces together. It looked elaborate, but like most of Padmé’s senatorial dresses, it was easy to move in. Padmé laced up her knee-high boots, smiling to think of Sabé as she did it, and Cordé stepped into a pair of flat shoes that looked decorative but were microfitted to her feet so that she could run or even roundhouse kick someone if she had to. Last, Dormé had Padmé sit next to Cordé as a reference for the makeup.
“Two or three more times, and I’ll have it,” she promised. “But I want to make sure it’s perfect first.”
“I understand,” Padmé said, and let the artist do her work.
Padmé had only ever seen Sabé in the queen’s face, and it was slightly unnerving to watch someone re-create her appearance using only normal cosmetics, but that was exactly what Dormé did. Cordé’s face shape even seemed to change as lines of contouring drew attention to the parts of her that looked the most like Padmé did. It wouldn’t fool a scan of cranial features, of course, but to the naked eye, they were now interchangeable.
“And a bit for you,” Dormé said, coming at Padmé with a brush. “In case anyone thinks you look too much like Senator Amidala.”
It took much less time to do Padmé’s face, and then they stood so that Dormé could conduct her final check of their appearance.
“It’s uncanny,” Mariek said to her niece, and Versé nodded.
“Thank you,” Dormé replied with an impish grin.
They went back into the main room of the suite, where NON-3 and Sergeant Typho were glaring at each other.
“Senator,” said NON-3 in that odd, overpatient tone. It looked right at Cordé when it spoke. “I remind you that you are scheduled for a tour of the lower levels of the Senate building today. On this tour—”
“Yes, I know,” Cordé interrupted. Even her impression of Padmé’s irritation was perfect. “I am ready to go now.”
NON-3 looked at her with unblinking photoreceptors instead of eyes and then turned without a word to lead Senator Amidala and her handmaiden to the waiting transport.
“We’ll see you when you get back,” Mariek said. “By which I mean Typho will tail you to the Senate, and you should call him in if you need backup.”
The Senate prided itself on having its own guard, which Padmé could call on if she needed, but she knew that a trustworthy friend was worth even more than that. She looked at Typho, who gave her a small wave of encouragement.
“Good luck, Senator Amidala,” Dormé said.
Versé was already sitting at a console, her fingers typing as fast as they could. Padmé knew that she would be setting up the identity of the fourth handmaiden Amidala had brought with her. They had left the entry empty for weeks, not knowing how best to employ the blank ID, but now Padmé would have to have clearance to enter the Senate, so it was time to fill in the gaps. She knew that by the time they arrived, Versé would have built her a rock-solid profile. It would, after all, mostly contain the truth.
Senator Amidala boarded the open-air transport, and Padmé followed her. NON-3 climbed in and pressed a notification board that signaled the droid driver it was time to go. Neither Mariek nor Typho liked the fact that Amidala’s drivers were provided by the Senate. They would have much preferred to do it themselves, or at least to supply their own driver. Senate protocol was a fortress that Padmé was still lear
ning to lay siege to, but she knew enough already to know that she had to pick her battles. The Senate drivers would do for now, and Padmé would win something else later as a result of her patience—though what, exactly, she could not say.
The transport joined the flow of Coruscant traffic. The wind and the hum of a thousand engines precluded any further conversation, so Padmé looked out over the city’s vista instead. It couldn’t be more different from Naboo. Padmé missed trees and water and birdsong. She hadn’t been down to the lower levels of the city yet, but she’d heard that they were mostly dark, dangerous places. It seemed unfair that a planetwide city meant to serve as a symbol for the rest of the Galactic Republic should have that sort of underbelly, but Padmé didn’t know enough about how Coruscant worked yet to fully puzzle it out.
Padmé turned to look at the Jedi Temple, her hand drifting to her necklace without her mind’s direction. It was a large building that was visible from her apartment. Many of the new senators she’d met had gone to see it as soon as they could after they arrived on the planet. There were parts that were private, of course, but there were also parts of the temple that the Jedi permitted visitors to see. Padmé hadn’t gone. Unlike most of her colleagues, she had met several Jedi already, and she found their manner unsettling. Perhaps if Master Qui-Gon had lived, she would feel differently. She would certainly be pleased to call him a friend, and would have been hopeful to treat with him as an ally. Theirs had been an odd relationship: she hadn’t fooled him for a moment, but he had allowed her to continue fooling everyone else, which she had appreciated, as it helped preserve her own life. She knew she was not the only person on Naboo who lit a stick of incense for him at the yearly memorial for those who had fallen in defense of the planet.
She turned away from the temple and focused on their goal: the Senate building. Cordé was gripping the armrests on her chair a bit harder than was really necessary, a sure sign that she was nervous, but her face remained still and calm. The Amidala-mask was in place. Padmé had only to make sure she didn’t put hers on by accident.
The transport docked at an unfamiliar door, but NON-3 didn’t hesitate before leading them toward it. The droid pressed a button, and the door slid open. Amidala and Padmé scanned their IDs on the way through and passed into the building without an issue.
The issues began as soon as they entered.
“This is not right,” Padmé said.
The hallway was dark, not even lighting up when Amidala’s credentials were recognized. Both senator and handmaiden stayed close to the wall while NON-3 strolled down the middle of the corridor as though nothing were wrong.
“Nonnie,” Cordé said as quietly as she could in her Amidala voice. “Nonnie, come back.”
“Senator, we will be late.” The droid was definitely slurring now. Its speech patterns were almost unrecognizable.
“I don’t like this,” Padmé said. She wished for the royal pistol, but arms were restricted in the Senate building, and so both of them had left their blasters at home.
“There’s someone coming,” Cordé said. She took several deep breaths, and Padmé knew she was preparing for several different outcomes. Padmé slid the beacon that would alert Typho to their whereabouts into her palm.
“What are you doing down here?” The challenge was issued just before the figure who spoke stepped out of the shadows, and it took Padmé a moment to place the voice.
“Senator Organa,” Cordé said, her Amidala-mask still firmly in place. They—rather he and Padmé—had met briefly at one of the welcome dinners. Cordé reacted without missing a beat. “My apologies. I was told by my protocol droid that I was expected here.”
Senator Organa was almost two meters tall with elegantly styled hair. He looked stern now that he had joined them in the dim light of the corridor, but the most dramatic thing about him was the heavy swoop of the cape that hung down from his shoulders.
“Senator Amidala, correct?” Organa asked, and then continued at Cordé’s nod. “The only thing expected here is a team of demolition droids. This section is to be redone. It was in the day’s briefing.”
Cordé was momentarily flustered, though none of it showed enough for Organa to see. Padmé had read the day’s briefing, and no mention of demolition had been made. The droid broke the awkward silence.
“Senator,” said NON-3. “I remind you that you are scheduled for a tour of the lower levels of the Senate building today. On—”
“Enough, Nonnie,” Cordé barked. The droid ceased speaking immediately.
“That droid is malfunctioning,” Organa said.
“I am aware,” Cordé informed him. “I have sent in several requisitions for repair, and they have all been returned to me assuring me the droid is fine.”
“Let me send one.” Organa pulled a datapad from a pocket under his cape and typed something quickly.
“Senator,” NON-3 said, “I have been reported to maintenance. I must check in with them immediately. Can you find your way home from here?”
“I will take the senator out,” Organa said.
Padmé was glad that Cordé was standing in for her. Cordé excelled at staying in character, and with her face covered, Padmé let herself seethe for a moment in the face of Senator Organa’s dismissive manner.
“Thank you, Senator,” Cordé said.
“I’m glad I found you before the implosions started,” Organa said curtly. “You would never have made it out of there alive.”
Cordé said nothing, which Padmé assumed Organa interpreted as grateful acknowledgment. Padmé had several dozen questions but couldn’t ask them in her current position. Instead, she had to content herself with following the two of them back out through the door. Organa watched as Cordé boarded the transport, and then turned away as Padmé settled in beside her. They rode back to the senatorial residence in complete silence, and the droid driver didn’t linger after she dropped them off.
“That didn’t take very long,” Mariek said when she met them on the platform. “Where’s that blasted droid?”
“Inside,” Padmé said. “Now.”
As quickly as she could, Padmé relayed the events to the others. Typho’s face got darker and darker as she talked, but no one else reacted until she was done.
“Why would there be an attempt on your life now?” Versé said. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you haven’t done anything in the Senate yet, and at this stage, Gunray’s prosecution would move forward without you.”
“The death of a senator because of her own perceived foolishness could be used any number of ways,” Padmé said. “To discredit Naboo, perhaps even to discredit the Chancellor, because he was in favor of my appointment.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Versé said. “Even if the Trade Federation is that petty. Your death would call more attention, and you’d think they’d want less.”
“I don’t think anyone really knows what Nute Gunray wants,” Mariek said.
“There’s one upside,” Cordé said. She was in the act of pulling the copper-wire headpiece off.
“Oh?” Dormé said peevishly. She retrieved the headpiece and put it back in its place on the dressing table.
“The droid driver didn’t even look at you,” Cordé said to Padmé. “Organa might as well have been talking to one person.”
“One person he now thinks is a senator incapable of reading her own schedule or controlling her own droid!” Dormé fumed.
“It certainly didn’t win Amidala any points with him,” Padmé said. “And he’s a powerful voice in the Senate.”
“You can try again,” Typho said. “I know you can win him over if you have to.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Padmé said. She furrowed her brow. “There’s one thing I would very much like to know.”
“Who reprogrammed our protocol droid so that it would try to arrange your death?” Versé said. She began to take the pins out of Cordé’s hair, smoothing it down where the headpiece had made i
t stick out in tufts. If there had been any doubts about their loyalty, Padmé dismissed them all now. Each of her new handmaidens was furious, in her own way, and ready for a fight.
“Well, yes, that,” Padmé said. She had a faraway look in her eyes that she knew they all recognized. Amidala was deep into the politics now. “But more importantly: what was Organa doing there, too?”
The fallout of NON-3’s bizarre malfunction struck immediately. By the next morning, there were several holonews articles about how the young, new-to-Coruscant Senator Amidala had almost gotten herself killed due to a failure to read directions. The first report, written up from a respected news source, did mention the faulty droid in the final paragraph of the story, but none of the more sensational holos did. So it was that when Senator Amidala entered the Senate for her first official session, she did so under a cloud of curiosity.
“And apparent incompetence.” Padmé slammed the offending datapad down on her new desk.
“No one is saying that,” Cordé pointed out.
“No one is quite saying that,” Dormé amended. “They’re all getting pretty close.”
Versé had remained at the residence to read all the articles as they were published. She was running a text analysis on them to see if she could identify a single author—amongst other things—but she hadn’t come up with anything
yet.
“At least Senator Organa wasn’t interviewed,” Cordé said. “He’s not even mentioned.”
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